***
{Outside The Projection}
No one said a word.
No one dared to move.
Not even the 'main characters.'
The projection didn't stop. It didn't slow down, didn't give anyone time to breathe or think as it usually did.
It just kept rolling, hammering them with every brutal second like it wanted them to drown in it.
And in that crushing silence, one thought hung heavy in everyone's mind:
'What kind of person comes back from something like this... and doesn't break?'
Nobody. That was who.
Nobody could walk out of something like this still whole.
Malik wasn't just broken—his mind, his body, his soul—it was all shattered.
Not the kind of hurt one could fix with time or whatever hopeful crap people tell themselves.
This was the kind of broken that gutted you, hollowed you out, and left behind... what, exactly?
Nobody knew.
Nobody even wanted to know.
But one thing was painfully clear:
When the pieces finally hit the ground, whatever was left wouldn't be him anymore.
It'd be something else.
Something twisted, forged out of nothing but pain and spite.
And if they were being real for a second?
That scared them.
They knew that it was coming but still... they didn't want to see it happen.
It was too cruel, even for a world like theirs.
***
{Inside The Projection}
Like the people outside, the man in pink robes didn't move, didn't speak—just stood there, staring.
His presence was as abrupt as a slap to the face, and Malik couldn't process it.
Not with the weight of the kids' bodies in his arms.
All he could feel was an unbearable ache.
But apparently, the world wasn't done with him yet.
Hadn't taken enough.
The dove had cried for the loss of its chick to an owl...
But its cries had only invited another of its kind to supper.
And well... this owl, he looked... wrong.
Not wrong in the sense of monstrous or alien—nothing so blatant.
No, this wrongness was subtler, in a way that made the hairs on the back of Malik's neck stand up.
There was something about him, like he was more than a man.
Divine almost. Like he stood a step closer to God than anyone had a right to.
But that wasn't what left Malik reacting the way that he did.
It was the man's hair.
That same deep crimson.
The color of Sinbad's.
The color of Huda's.
"Who are you?"
"..."
Receiving no reply, Malik laid down the kids.
Then he pushed himself up to his knees and aimed the shamshir forward.
"Tell me. Who are you?"
"..."
The man didn't answer, again.
He simply stood there, towering over Malik with this almost bored look on his face.
"...Can you tell me who you are?"
The phrasing of that question seemed to finally hit the right note for him to answer.
"Cyrus. And I'm here because everything has reached its conclusion."
Malik didn't understand at first.
He just stared at Cyrus, trying to piece together what was happening.
But then, like a punch to the gut, it hit him, making him drop the blade.
'This man.'
Clang...
THIS man!
The image of the kids lying limp in the alleyway flashed in his mind.
Covered by sand and dust, lying on death's door.
It was him.
HE was the one who had dumped them there.
Left them to die... to rot.
Rage exploded inside him, a fire of all-consuming gold.
It begged him to act, to lunge at Cyrus with every ounce of strength he had left.
But somehow, somehow, he held back, he held it in.
Logic whispered its cold truths, keeping him rooted in place, even as his blood screamed for vengeance.
Because there was one fact that was impossible to deny.
Malik lacked the power to be angry at Cyrus.
So instead... he begged:
"Please. Please, you have to save Sinbad."
Malik lowered his head.
"...He's your family, isn't he? You can bring him back. You can do something!"
Cyrus didn't blink. As if not a single word had entered his mind.
He looked through Malik like he wasn't even there.
And then, to make it worse, the bastard stepped back.
Not cautiously, not hesitantly—no, it was deliberate, like the boy was some mangy, diseased animal he wanted no part of.
That kind of dismissal would've crushed most people.
Would've made them back off, retreat into whatever scraps of pride they had left.
But Malik? He didn't have any pride left.
It was nonexistent when it came to them.
He simply did not care for how he was seen.
"Please..."
His hands clawed at the ground as he dragged himself closer.
"Please, you have to—"
The words barely left his mouth before Cyrus kicked his chest, sending him crashing into the wall.
Thud!
Malik hit the wall so hard it felt like his ribs had been turned to powder.
His whole body screamed in pain as he lay there for a long second, coughing, gasping, feeling like his whole damn body was falling apart, struggling to stay conscious.
Every time he thought the pain had hit its peak, that it couldn't possibly get any worse, fate smacked him down again just to prove him wrong.
And yet, it still wasn't enough to stop him.
Because that fire in his chest—the frustration, the rage, the need—was stronger than any pain.
"Sir..."
Gritting his teeth, Malik dragged himself back up, one shaky movement at a time.
"...Please."
Cyrus just stood there, staring down at him like he wasn't even human. Like all his suffering was just a show.
And judging by the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, this show was one that he really enjoyed.
***
{Outside The Projection}
The air in the hall felt suffocating.
Like many times before, nobody said a word.
Yet what differed was that every eye was turned to one woman.
Huda.
The one who had gone on and on about her uncle, the Former Sultan, the man she'd called kind, wise, noble—every damn title under the Shams.
And now this.
They all wanted to ask the same question.
"…Where the Hell was the kindness?"
But... again, no one dared to say it out loud. Not even Azeem.
Not only for her sake but for the Former Sultan's as well.
They didn't need to anyway.
It was written all over their faces.
And maybe, on another day, Huda would've cared.
Might've looked them in the eye, fought back, defended herself, and thrown their judgment right back in their faces.
But now?
She couldn't even bear to look at the projection.
Her eyes darted to the edges of the hall, searching, desperate for an escape.
She wanted out.
Out of this place.
Out of this nightmare.
Out of this suffocating guilt pressing down on her chest like a mountain.
If she opened her mouth, if she tried to explain herself—what could she even say?
What words could possibly make this right?
To justify what they'd just seen?
The memory—the truth—was laid bare in front of them, undeniable.
And there was no hiding from it.
Huda and her brother had caused it all.
Without them in the picture, Malik wouldn't have suffered as he did.
The world wouldn't have spiraled into chaos.
That realization hit her like a dagger to the heart, twisting, twisting, and twisting.
What remained of her composure shattered.
She began to weep—not quietly, not with even a shred of dignity.
It wasn't the kind of crying one could choke back.
It was raw, ugly, the sound of a person unraveling at the seams.
Like a lost child searching for their parents, she broke apart right then and there.
Tears fell freely, her sobs filling the suffocating silence.
This was a scene that would've tugged at anyone's heartstrings.
But no one moved.
Not Layla.
Not Safira.
Not Roya.
Not Noor.
Not Azeem.
Not even Zafar, the supposed hero.
Her own camp—family members, people she had trusted, fought alongside—they just… stood there.
In shock, in discomfort, in judgment.
Not a single person stepped forward to console her, to offer even a whisper of comfort.
And that, more than anything, crushed her completely.
For she, like Malik, felt alone.
***
{Inside The Projection}
"I didn't come here to this pathetic ass, kid."
Cyrus finally spoke.
"Sinbad's dead. Can't fix it. And she's—"
He gestured to Huda, still lying there, sleeping.
"—the one who won the right to succession. Not him."
Malik's blood went cold.
"What the fuck are you talking about? Succession? If it's about proving who's fit to lead your fucked-up family, then Sinbad's the one who deserves it! He deserved it more than anyone!"
Cyrus just shrugged, looking completely uninterested.
"Doesn't matter. It's the way of the world...."
While listening to his words, Malik felt his vision go blurry, his world sinking.
'NO!'
But then, with a scream that shook his mind, he forced himself to stay upright, to stay angry.
"...Luck failed Sinbad, and now he's dead. Huda's the one who gets it all."
He snapped his head towards the bastard.
"Why?... Why do this to your own family?! To your own flesh and blood?!"
Cyrus clicked his tongue.
"As. I. Have. Already. Saaaaaaid. It's the way things are~. It's the way they've always been. Besides, Sinbad was too much of a dreamer, too much of a fool, and now look where it's gotten him."
The coldness of Cyrus's words shook off the fog clouding Malik's mind more than anything he tried.
This monster of a man had the nerve to call Sinbad, his flesh and blood, a fool?
To brush his life aside like it was nothing?
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"
Malik forced himself up and got closer, clinging to the wall for support.
Cyrus, seemingly unbothered by his struggle, went past and halted just before Huda.
"STOP!"
Much to Malik's dismay, Cyrus wasn't much too keen on listening to him.
He bent down, picked her up, and took a step toward the cave's exit.
"Noooooo~? Going to scream that next? Don't bother."
Cyrus didn't stop moving.
"You're nothing but a speck of dust... Buuuuut~. Not all is lost."
He stepped over Sinbad and passed Malik again, still not giving him face.
"You still can be something... something real interesting."
Slowing a little, he added:
"It's to the point that I would've chosen you over the both of them."
Malik's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Heard me right, kid. I'd choose you if I could."