The tension in the safehouse was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Haqim leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his piercing gaze shifting between Idris and Farah. The air crackled with unspoken words, distrust hanging in the space between them.
Idris stood stiff, his eyes flickering with barely contained frustration. He had done everything to prove his loyalty, yet every passing hour seemed to dig him deeper into a pit of suspicion. Haqim's silence gnawed at him, each second stretching longer than the last.
It had been this way for weeks—since the night Haqim first learned of Faizan's network reaching dangerously close to the resistance. That night, when Farah appeared bleeding and broken, warning of a mole, and then Idris arrived, claiming to be one of Farah's men. The memory lingered like a bruise, throbbing at the edges of Haqim's mind.
Finally, Haqim spoke, his voice low, measured. "We've walked into traps before, but this time feels different. Faizan's men are circling us, and I can't afford to make mistakes." He paused, eyes narrowing on Idris. "You've been working with us for months, yet there are things about you that don't add up."
Idris tensed, opening his mouth to protest, but Haqim raised a hand to stop him. "I know you've been loyal... so far. But trust in this game is a fickle thing, Idris. You showed up under strange circumstances, and ever since, Faizan's shadow has darkened our doorsteps more than ever."
Farah, sitting on the makeshift cot, her wounded arm wrapped in fresh bandages, intervened. "Haqim, we don't have time to tear ourselves apart. Idris has proven his loyalty more times than we can count. If we keep doubting each other, Faizan wins without lifting a finger."
Haqim's eyes flickered, a hint of conflict flashing across his usually stoic face. "Loyalty is built over time, Farah. And I've known Idris for less time than it takes to plant a seed and see it grow." His voice grew cold again, his suspicion unwavering.
Farah sighed, her voice softer. "Maybe it's time to explain, Idris. Tell him."
Idris's jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening as if bracing himself for a blow. He cast a glance at Haqim, then exhaled. "Fine. But know this, Haqim—I didn't want to be here, in this situation. I didn't want to have to prove my loyalty at every turn, but I will."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice, almost as if revealing a secret he had kept buried for too long. "You don't know me well, but we've crossed paths before. Back in Lasim, two years ago, you were working with a small resistance cell. You may not remember, but I was there—working for Faizan back then."
Haqim's expression darkened, his body stiffening. Idris raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I was one of his enforcers, yes. But I was never loyal to him. I was forced into his service, blackmailed into carrying out his orders."
Farah nodded quietly, confirming Idris' story. "Faizan has ways of trapping people. Blackmail, leverage—he's an expert in manipulation. Idris was caught up in it, just like many others. But he broke free, and he's been working against Faizan ever since."
Haqim studied Idris for a long moment, the silence heavy with the weight of unspoken judgments. Memories of Lasim flooded back—chaotic streets, bloodshed, and faces he hadn't had the time to remember. Could Idris have been one of them? The idea tugged at the corners of his mind.
"Why didn't you say anything before?" Haqim finally asked, his voice calmer, but still sharp.
Idris' face hardened. "Because I knew what it would look like. Someone who used to work for Faizan, now claiming to fight against him? It's the perfect cover for a mole, isn't it?"
Haqim's lips pressed into a thin line. "You're right about that. But now, it makes a bit more sense."
Farah, sensing the tension ease slightly, spoke up. "We don't have time for any more doubts. We have to move on Malik."
At the mention of Malik, Haqim turned, his gaze sharpening. "Why him? Why is he so important?"
Farah leaned forward, her eyes intense. "Malik used to be close to the Syndicate. Not in their inner circle, but close enough to know who moves the pieces on the board. He can get us access to their plans—maybe even to Faizan's mole."
Haqim's brow furrowed, the name unfamiliar but intriguing. "And you trust him?"
Farah hesitated. "Trust is a luxury we can't afford. But Malik hates Faizan as much as we do. He's got no love for the Syndicate. If anyone can point us toward the next step, it's him."
Haqim considered her words. The Syndicate had been a looming shadow, a faceless entity whose tendrils reached everywhere—from the highest halls of power to the darkest corners of the underworld. The idea that Malik, someone with ties to them, could provide useful intel was tempting, but dangerous.
Idris cut in, his voice quiet but firm. "He's our best chance. We're running out of time, Haqim."
Haqim nodded, the decision made. "Alright. We meet Malik, but we stay cautious. Faizan and the Wolf are still out there. We can't afford to let them keep pulling strings while we chase after shadows."
At the mention of the Wolf, the room seemed to darken. Even Idris shifted uncomfortably, the name alone enough to bring back the memory of their last encounter. The Wolf had played them all, turned Haqim's plans inside out and left them scrambling. But the Wolf wasn't done, and Haqim knew it.
"He's waiting for us to make a mistake," Haqim muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "The Wolf isn't just after Faizan's goals. He wants to crush us—one by one."
Farah frowned. "What makes you say that?"
Haqim's gaze grew distant, recalling the encounter with the Wolf at the docks, the malicious grin that haunted him. "Because I can feel it. The way he plays the game—it's personal. He's not just a hired hand for Faizan. He's got his own motives."
Idris nodded slowly. "The Wolf has always been unpredictable. Even when I worked for Faizan, there were whispers that the Wolf had his own agenda. He thrives on chaos."
Haqim's jaw tightened. "Then we need to stay ahead of him."
Farah stood, wincing slightly from her injuries but pushing through. "Then we go to Malik. He's the key to the next phase. Whatever the Wolf and Faizan have planned, Malik might give us enough leverage to turn it around."
Haqim glanced at Idris, who gave a silent nod of agreement. For now, the suspicions were set aside, the larger threat taking precedence.
As they prepared to leave, Haqim's thoughts wandered to the Wolf. The man was more than just a threat—he was an enigma, a wild card that could disrupt any plan. Haqim couldn't shake the feeling that their next move would lead them straight into the Wolf's jaws. But for now, they had to focus on Malik.
As they exited the safehouse and slipped into the night, Haqim's mind buzzed with possibilities. The Wolf had laid a trap for them once before. This time, it was Haqim's turn to set the bait.
But as always, in this deadly game, there was no guarantee that the prey wouldn't turn predator.
.............................................
The night was heavy with tension as they made their way through the rain-slick streets of Krafta, every shadow a potential threat. Haqim led the way, his mind already running through every possible scenario, every way Malik could betray them, every move the Wolf might make in the background.
They reached the meeting point—an old, decrepit factory on the edge of the industrial district. Malik was waiting for them inside, his face hidden beneath a hood. The moment Haqim laid eyes on him, he felt the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders.
This was it. The next step in their war against Faizan. But as Haqim stepped inside, he couldn't shake the feeling that the Wolf was watching. Waiting.