The diesel truck's engine growled steadily as Zughaib maneuvered through the dimly lit streets, his mind still reeling from the events at the Pararity Stalls lot. The decorative business card in his pocket felt like a ticking bomb, its cryptic symbols and strange allure weighing on his thoughts. As he drove, the truck's interior seemed to shrink around him, the smell of stale cigarettes and diesel fuel only adding to the claustrophobia of his situation.
His PDA buzzed on the dashboard, pulling him back into the present. Zughaib glanced at the screen, seeing a new message from Orwen. He picked up the device, his brow furrowing as he read the contents.
"The meet at the flea market wasn't what we thought," Orwen's message began, his tone dripping with unease even through text. "Something bigger is at play. The people you saw, they aren't just petty criminals. There's a pattern—disjointed, terrifying. Like pieces of a puzzle that don't fit."
Zughaib sighed, his grip tightening on the wheel. He was in deeper than he had anticipated, and Orwen's ominous hint about a "terrifying analogy" only made things worse. Zughaib knew Orwen wasn't easily rattled, and if he was concerned, that meant something far darker was unfolding beneath the surface.
Pulling the truck into an empty spot near a flickering streetlight, Zughaib turned off the engine and stepped out, making his way to a grimy public call phone on the corner. He fished a handful of nickels from his pocket and dropped them into the coin slot, dialing Zaid's number. It was the only connection to his old life that he still held onto, a thin thread of familiarity in an increasingly chaotic world.
The phone rang twice, unanswered. Zughaib's pulse quickened, a mix of nerves and impatience settling in his chest. On the third try, the call was picked up, but it wasn't Zaid's voice on the other end.
"Hello?" came an elegant, lilting voice—soft, refined, and unmistakably feminine.
Zughaib froze. He hadn't expected this. Mute as he was, he had no way to respond, and panic flickered in his eyes. His breathing hitched, and for a moment, he considered hanging up. But before he could act, the woman spoke again, her tone curious yet calm.
"Is anyone there?" she asked gently, her voice tinged with an accent that Zughaib couldn't quite place.
Zughaib felt his pulse race, unable to speak. In desperation, he began tapping the receiver against the phone box, sending a series of Morse code beeps—a simple rhythm that Zughaib had by hearted.
The line was silent for a beat before the woman spoke again, a hint of recognition in her voice. "Zaid, I think it's for you," she said, her voice drifting away from the receiver.
A moment later, Zaid's voice came through, slightly groggy but unmistakably familiar. "Who is this?" he asked, his tone a mix of confusion and suspicion.
Zughaib continued tapping Morse code, hoping Zaid would understand, but his brother's voice remained uncertain. "What is this? I don't—"
The woman cut in, her voice confident and clear. "It's Morse code," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's Zughaib.", she translated the morse code meaning.
There was a pause, and Zaid's tone shifted, a mix of relief and frustration. "Zughaib? Is that you? Where the hell have you been?" His voice was urgent, tinged with the worry of someone who had been kept in the dark for too long. "Look, just come to The Suite. We need to talk. You can't keep doing this."
Zughaib didn't respond. He simply listened to his brother's voice, letting it wash over him like a balm against the chaos. Then, with a sharp click, he hung up the phone, severing the connection. He knew what he had to do.
---
The truck roared back to life as Zughaib left Wither Street behind, heading toward The Suite, a luxury high-rise at the edge of the International Mall. The skyscraper loomed over the city like a sentinel, its glass exterior reflecting the bright lights of the urban sprawl. Zughaib parked the truck a few blocks away, blending in with the usual lineup of delivery vehicles and nondescript cars.
He approached the building cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest as he stepped inside the grand marble lobby. The air was thick with the scent of polished stone and faint traces of expensive cologne. The doorman, a tall, imposing figure in a crisp uniform, glanced at Zughaib's eccentric outfit but didn't comment. Instead, he simply nodded and gestured toward the elevator.
"Penthouse level," the doorman said curtly, pressing the button and holding the door open for Zughaib. The elevator ride was smooth, the soft hum of the machinery filling the silence as Zughaib ascended to the top floor. His mind raced with questions, but he kept his expression calm, his face a blank mask.
When the elevator doors slid open, Zughaib stepped out into a lavish corridor lined with artwork and plush carpets. At the far end, an elegant wooden door stood slightly ajar, and as he approached, Zaid's voice floated through the gap, accompanied by the light clinking of glassware.
"Zughaib," Zaid greeted warmly, though there was a hint of tension in his smile. He looked thinner than before, his usual bravado muted by a subtle weariness. He wore a tailored shirt and slacks, a far cry from his usual laid-back attire. "I'm glad you came."
Zaid gestured for Zughaib to enter, and as he stepped inside, Zughaib's eyes were immediately drawn to the woman from the call—a young, elegant lady seated at the dining table, dressed in a sleek indigo dress that accentuated her graceful presence. Her dark hair was styled in loose waves, and her sharp eyes studied Zughaib with a mix of curiosity and something else, something guarded.
"This is Leandrá," Zaid said, introducing the woman with a slight smile. "We've been seeing each other for a while now. She's… well, she's been helping me keep things together."
Leandrá stood and extended her hand, her movements fluid and composed. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Zughaib," she said, her voice warm but measured. "I've heard a lot about you."
Zughaib shook her hand, his own grip firm but uncharacteristically cautious. Leandrá's touch was light, and her smile seemed genuine, but there was an edge to her that Zughaib couldn't quite place. He nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes briefly meeting hers before turning back to Zaid.
"Lunch is ready," Zaid announced, trying to inject some normalcy into the moment. The dining table was elegantly set, with dishes of roasted meat, sautéed vegetables, and fine wine arranged neatly in the center. Zaid and Leandrá took their seats, and Zughaib followed, sitting across from his brother.
As they began eating, Zaid and Leandrá chatted animatedly, exchanging light-hearted stories and inside jokes that made Zughaib feel like an outsider. Zaid's demeanor had softened, and it was clear that Leandrá had been a steadying influence on him. But Zughaib remained silent, his mind elsewhere, his senses on high alert.
"So, Zughaib," Leandrá said suddenly, turning her attention to him. "What brings you back? Zaid's been worried sick, you know. You're like a ghost."
Zughaib met her gaze, his expression neutral. He couldn't answer, but his eyes conveyed a thousand unspoken words. Leandrá's smile didn't waver, but her eyes held a flicker of something—an understanding, perhaps, of the storm that raged inside him.
Zaid leaned forward, his voice lowering as the conversation took a more serious turn. "You don't have to keep running, Zughaib. I know things have been... rough, but you're not alone. We can figure this out. Whatever you're caught up in, we can find a way through it."
Zughaib looked at his brother, the concern in Zaid's eyes stark and genuine. For a moment, he felt the pull of familiarity, the bond that had always connected them. But the shadows of the past lingered, and Zughaib knew that whatever path he was on, it was one he had to walk alone.
Leandrá reached across the table, placing a gentle hand on Zaid's arm. "We're here for you, Zughaib," she said softly. "Both of us. Just don't shut us out."
Zughaib nodded slightly, acknowledging their words but saying nothing. His silence spoke volumes, and as lunch continued, the atmosphere shifted—still warm, but tinged with an undercurrent of unresolved tension. Leandrá and Zaid resumed their conversation, laughing and sharing stories, while Zughaib sat quietly, lost in his own thoughts.
When the meal was over, Zaid poured himself another glass of wine and leaned back, a content smile on his face. "This was good. It's been a while since we've done something like this."
Leandrá glanced at Zughaib, her expression softening. "You're always welcome here, Zughaib. Whenever you need."
Zughaib nodded again, though his mind was already drifting back to the dangerous world outside this penthouse—a world filled with unanswered questions, hidden enemies, and the ever-looming presence of Orwen's plans. As he stood to leave, Zaid walked him to the door, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Don't be a stranger," Zaid said, his voice filled with brotherly warmth. "And stay safe. I mean it."
Zughaib gave a faint smile, a rare gesture that felt both foreign and familiar. He stepped out of the suite and into the elevator, the doors closing behind him with a soft hiss. The descent was smooth, but Zughaib's thoughts were anything but. The visit had been a brief respite, a flicker of normalcy in an otherwise chaotic life.
But as the elevator doors opened to the lobby, Zughaib knew that the calm wouldn't last. The city was waiting, and the game was far from over.