The following days passed in a haze for Ayman. After Murad dropped him off,
he retreated to the confines of his small room, his sanctuary from the outside
world. The conversation with Murad played on an endless loop in his mind, each
word digging deeper into his conscience.
He lay on his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, feeling the weight of a world
he never knew existed pressing down on him—the hidden, shadowy realm of
hitmen. It was a brutal reality, one that came with promises of escape but no way
back. The realization shook him to his core.
When his mother knocked on his door later that evening, her voice soft but
insistent, he barely stirred.
"Ayman, why don't you go out and get something to eat? A sandwich, anything?"
she urged.
"I'm not hungry," he replied, his voice flat. "I just want to stay home."
His mother lingered at the door for a moment before sighing and walking away.
Ayman wasn't just refusing food—he was withdrawing from the world. He felt
too overwhelmed to face it. For the next three days, he stayed mostly in his room,
emerging only when absolutely necessary.
He kept to himself, pretending to be normal around his family, though it was
clear to anyone paying attention that something had changed.
His usual routines were abandoned. He no longer spent evenings with his
friends or wandered the streets aimlessly to pass the time. His interactions with
his mother and sister-in-law were minimal.
When his mother asked him to fetch groceries, he would comply silently walking to the shop with his head down and returning without delay. His room
became his refuge, a place where he could think, or rather, try to stop thinking,
about what lay ahead if he chose this dark path.
He didn't cry, nor did he talk about what was eating away at him. The absence of
his brother Karim, the suffocating responsibilities of being the man of the house,
and the morally ambiguous crossroads he found himself at—all of it churned
within him like a storm. His mother noticed the change, of course.
She watched him closely during meals, her worry growing with each passing
day.
On the third evening, she finally sat him down in the small living room. Her
voice was firm, though her eyes betrayed her concern. "Ayman, I know the loss of
your brother is difficult for all of us. But you are the man of this house now. You
have to pull yourself together. Life goes on. You need to focus on finding work
—any work—and building a future. We'll manage together, but you need to lead
us."
Ayman nodded, forcing a faint smile. "I will, Mama. I promise."
His mother softened, a faint glimmer of pride breaking through her worry. "I'm
happy you're staying on the right path. You've changed. You're not like before. I
can see it. And I pray for you every day, that God keeps you safe and guides you to
a better life."
Her words struck Ayman deeply, though he couldn't let her see the conflict
raging within him. She thought he had chosen a path of righteousness, that he
was turning his life around for the better. If only she knew the truth—the dark
secret he now carried and the decisions he was grappling with.
He returned to his room that night, more burdened than ever. His mother's
faith in him felt like a cruel irony. He was no longer the same Ayman, and he
knew that if he stepped into the world Murad had revealed to him, there would
be no turning back. But the promise of escape, of providing for his family and
surviving in a world that had been nothing but unkind to him, was tempting. It
was a gamble, but one he might have no choice but to take.
As the house fell silent and the streets outside grew still, Ayman sat by the small
window in his room, staring into the darkness. He didn't sleep that night. There
was too much to think about and far too much to fear.
Three days after shutting himself away, Ayman's phone buzzed, breaking the
uneasy stillness that had consumed him. It was Murad. His voice was calm but
carried an unmistakable undertone of purpose.
"Are you ready?" Murad asked without preamble. "We need to meet. I want to talk
to you, maybe even take you on a training trip. Get you familiar with the work."
Ayman hesitated for a moment but pushed the knot of unease in his chest aside.
"Yes, sure. When and where?"
Within an hour, Murad picked him up. They drove in silence, the hum of the car
engine the only sound breaking the stillness between them. As the city's chaotic
rhythm faded behind, the scenery began to change. Concrete and steel gave way
to the green embrace of the countryside. Fields stretched endlessly on either
side, dotted with the occasional farmhouse or grazing livestock.
The road twisted and turned as the car ascended a winding hill. On either
side, a sparse forest emerged, its tall, slender trees reaching skyward like
silent sentinels. The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, casting
fragmented patches of golden light onto the forest floor, which was littered with
dry leaves and the occasional moss-covered rock.
A cool breeze slipped through the open window, carrying with it the faint, earthy
scent of pine and damp soil.
The higher they climbed, the quieter the world seemed. The distant hum of
the city faded into nothingness, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and
the sporadic call of a bird hidden among the branches. Shadows stretched long
across the road, shifting and swaying with the movement of the trees.
When they finally reached a clearing, Murad pulled the car to a stop. The hill
offered a panoramic view of the forest below, an endless sea of green that seemed
to ripple in the breeze. The place was secluded, untouched by the passage of time,
as if it had been waiting just for them.
"This is it," Murad said, stepping out of the car. His voice was calm, but his eyes
scanned the surroundings with practiced precision. "Quiet. Private. Perfect for
what we need."
Murad stepped out of the car, motioning for Ayman to follow. In the trunk,
Murad retrieved a small duffel bag, unzipping it to reveal a handgun and several
empty bottles.
"This," Murad said, holding up the gun, "is where it all starts. Basic training. No
frills, no formalities. Just you and your aim." He walked a short distance ahead,
placing the bottles on a makeshift wooden ledge formed by a fallen tree.
Ayman watched, his heart pounding. He had never held a gun before, let alone
fired one. Murad handed him the weapon, his expression serious. "Relax. It's just
target practice. Focus on those bottles and hit them. Aim, breathe, shoot."
Ayman gripped the gun tightly, his hands trembling at first. He raised it, taking a
moment to steady himself. His breathing slowed as he focused on the first bottle.
With a sharp crack, the bottle shattered.
Murad's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Not bad. Try another."
Ayman adjusted his stance and fired again, the second bottle meeting the same
fate as the first. One by one, the bottles fell, each shot clean and precise.
When the last bottle shattered, Murad let out a low whistle. "Well, well. Natural
talent, huh? How long have you been hiding this?"
Ayman shrugged, lowering the gun. "I'm just focused, that's all."
Murad clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. That's what we need. Precision and
focus. But this," he gestured to the now-empty ledge, "is just a small part of the
job. Shooting is easy. The hard part is everything else."
As they packed up the bottles and moved back toward the car, the sun dipped
lower, casting golden streaks through the trees. Murad stopped at a clearing and
motioned for Ayman to sit on a fallen log.
The trees swayed gently in the breeze, their movement oddly hypnotic. "Murad,
do you ever think about… what it means? Taking a life, I mean."
Murad was silent for a moment, the smirk fading from his face. "Every job has its
price, Ayman. For some, it's time. For others, it's dignity. For us… it's a piece of
our soul. The trick is learning to live with what's left."
Ayman didn't respond, his thoughts racing. The forest around them suddenly
felt suffocating, the quiet pressing down on him like a weight.
Murad stood, his voice breaking the silence. "Come on. Let's talk about the real
work."
He leaned against the car, his tone shifting to something darker and more
calculated. "In this line of work, there's no real manual, no training program.
You'll learn as you go. The key is planning—always planning. The hit," he
said, using the term coldly, "is simple. It's everything leading up to it that's
complicated."
Murad lit a cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "The best way to take
someone out? Make it look like an accident. Ninety percent of the time, that's the
easiest route. No suspicion, no loose ends. But to do that, you need to observe,
analyze, and plan every move. Timing is everything.
You have to study your target—their habits, their vulnerabilities. And when the
moment comes, you act. No hesitation, no second-guessing."
Ayman listened intently, absorbing every word. The weight of what he was
stepping into began to sink in. This wasn't just about pulling a trigger—it was a
mental game, a test of wit, patience, and resolve.
"Remember," Murad continued, his gaze sharp, "once you start, there's no
turning back. This life is not for everyone. It takes grit, mental strength, and a
stomach for the unthinkable. Think you're up for it?"
Ayman nodded slowly, his face unreadable. "I'll try. I'll do what it takes."
Murad smirked, flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his
boot. "Good. That's the attitude. We'll see what you're made of soon enough."
As they packed up and drove back down the hill, Ayman stared out the window,
his thoughts swirling. The forest receded, replaced by the familiarity of the city.
But he knew that he was no longer the same person. With every step he took into this new world, he was leaving his old life behind, one bottle at a time.
After the training session, Murad suggested they relax. He drove them to a
secluded spot overlooking the city lights, pulling out a bottle of wine from his
bag. "Now," he said with a smirk, "let's drink something delicious. A little reward
for a hard day's work."
Ayman hesitated but eventually nodded. "Sure, no problem."
They sat on the hood of the car, the cool night air brushing past them. Murad
poured the wine into two plastic cups and handed one to Ayman.
"To new beginnings." Murad toasted, raising his cup.
Ayman clinked his cup against Murad's but remained distracted, staring out into
the darkness. "I can't stop thinking about that night," he finally admitted. "The
night my brother died. The men in black. Nadir. It's like shadows keep following
me, even in my dreams. I barely sleep. It's like… I'm haunted."
Murad sighed, taking a sip of his wine. "That's normal, Ayman. Trust me. When
I lost my brother, I had those dreams too—visions, nightmares. It's trauma, man.
Your mind's still trying to process everything."
"But these dreams…" Ayman paused, swirling the wine in his cup. "They're
not just about my brother. They're about me. It's like I'm someone else, or I'm
becoming something else. I can't explain it."
Murad chuckled softly. "Look, I'm not a psychotherapist, alright? I don't have
answers for visions or whatever. But you've been through hell, so your mind's
playing tricks on you. That's all it is."
Ayman frowned. "What about the men in black? The agents? Nadir? I keep
thinking about them too. What if they're connected? What if they're part of
some secret organization? Like the one you work with."
Murad's expression darkened, his usually relaxed demeanor replaced by a steely
seriousness. He leaned slightly forward, his voice lowering to a near growl as
though afraid someone else might hear.
"Maybe they are," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Maybe they're some government
agents or worse. I can't be sure about the two men in black you saw in that
damned house. Maybe there's a hideout there and those two men took Nadir
there and that is how the police couldn't find him. Maybe, they're part of the agents who came for you later that night.
Maybe that's why they denied their existence, just like that mysterious wealthy
man in the house. It could be all of them working together. By sheer bad luck, you
walked straight into their den—and that might explain everything."
Murad paused, his gaze intense, as though searching Ayman's face for
understanding. Ayman sat rigidly, his hands gripping the edge of his seat. His
breathing quickened as the words sank in, each one carving deeper into the knot
of fear that had coiled in his chest since that fateful night.
He felt a cold sweat bead on his forehead, his mouth opening slightly to speak,
but no words came. He could feel the weight of Murad's words pressing on him, a
suffocating realization of how far he might be in over his head.
Murad leaned back slightly, exhaling sharply as if trying to distance himself from
the weight of his own conjecture. "But it doesn't matter, Ayman," he continued,
his tone softening but losing none of its gravity. "Whoever they are, they're
dangerous. Forget about them and move on."
Ayman's gaze dropped to the floor. His fists clenched as he tried to process
the command, but his mind raced with questions. Forget? How could he? The
shadows of that night haunted his every waking moment. "Move on…" he
murmured, almost to himself, his voice carrying a tremor of defiance.
Murad shook his head, his expression hardening again. "You're not Superman,"
he said, his voice firm and unyielding. "You're human. Even as a hitman, you're
just a man. You can die, Ayman, and you will if you keep poking around in things
you don't understand."
Ayman flinched as the words hit him like a blow. His jaw tightened, and he forced
himself to meet Murad's eyes. "I'm not afraid to die," he said, his voice low but
steady, though his trembling hands betrayed him.
Murad smirked faintly, but it wasn't a smile of approval—it was one of pity.
"That's what all the dead men thought too," he replied, the harsh truth in his
voice cutting through the fragile bravado.
"But what if there's a hideout in that house?" Ayman pressed. "What if Nadir's
still there? I need to go back. I need to know."
Murad shook his head firmly. "No. That house is a death trap. If those agents are
still there, and you go back, they'll kill you. Or worse. And Nadir…" He hesitated,
his voice softening. "Nadir's probably dead by now. You need to accept that."
Ayman clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. "But what if he's not?"
"Listen to me," Murad said, his voice rising. "You can't save everyone. You're not a
hero in some movie. You go back to that house, you'll end up just like your friend
—or worse. Do you really want to throw your life away for a chance so slim it's
almost nonexistent?"
Ayman looked away, his chest heaving with frustration. The thought of
abandoning Nadir, of leaving questions unanswered, gnawed at him. But Murad's
words lingered in his mind.
"You have a choice," Murad said, his tone softening again. "You can move
forward, focus on what's ahead, or you can keep chasing shadows and get
yourself killed. Just think about it."
The rest of the evening passed in silence, the weight of their conversation
hanging in the air. For Ayman, the path ahead was murkier than ever.
As they sipped their wine, the conversation took another turn. Ayman, still
restless, asked, "Murad, have you heard anything about Black Caesar? That name
—it keeps coming back to me. Feels important somehow."
Murad leaned back, his face thoughtful. "Funny you mention that. I did some
asking around and even talked to an old contact. He is ancient, been around
forever in the hitman circles. He said there was someone by that name—Dark
Caesar—a long time ago. But according to him, the guy's dead. Probably part of
the older generation of hitmen. Could've been killed or retired."
Ayman frowned. "Retired? Or maybe someone's taken up the name?"
"Maybe," Murad replied with a shrug. "It's not unheard of for names and titles to
get recycled. If there's a new Black Caesar, we'll find out eventually. But for now,
don't lose sleep over it. These things have a way of revealing themselves when
the time's right."
Ayman sighed, the answer leaving him both frustrated and intrigued. "I hope
you're right."
Murad patted him on the back, grinning. "Trust me, kid. I've been in this
business long enough to know. Now, let's talk about something less grim."
Murad shifted the conversation, diving into stories of his youth. He spoke of the
mischievous adventures he and his brother used to have, tales of sneaking out
late at night, stealing fruit from orchards, and pulling harmless pranks on their
neighbors.
"And your brother," Murad added, his tone softening, "he was a good man,
Ayman. Kind and thoughtful. He reminded me a lot of my own brother."
Ayman listened intently, a faint smile forming on his lips as Murad painted vivid
pictures of their shared past. For a moment, the weight of the present lifted,
replaced by the warmth of nostalgia and camaraderie.
As the night deepened, they drank and laughed, the bond between them growing
stronger. Yet, even in the lighter moments, Ayman couldn't shake the feeling
that his journey was just beginning—and that the shadow of Black Caesar was
still out there, waiting.