Chapter 129 : "Allow me to demonstrate the capabilities of this 'injured person.'"

Violence Ahead. Read at your own risk.

Ibrahim cleared his throat, his voice low and dangerous. "This house," he began, "was built by my late father-in-law. It holds precious memories for my wife. I am requesting, for the last time, that you reconsider our offer. Any price, anything you desire, it's yours." 

Baran burst into a humorless laugh. "Give her another house, gold, anything! Women are easily appeased, greedy creatures! Give your wife jewels, a new car, anything shiny. A shiny trinket here and there, and they'll be content. Trust me, she'll warm your bed at night with even more fervor. She will be grateful for your generosity - forget this house."

Baran's words were like acid, eroding the last vestiges of Ibrahim's control. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, the muscles in his face taut with barely contained fury. Each mocking syllable resonated in his chest, a drumbeat of rage.

"How dare you," he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Baran's spine. "How dare you speak of my wife with such disrespect? Bloody Bitch!"

Baran, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, wilted. His bravado evaporated, replaced by a flicker of fear. "I apologize, Mr. Rahman," he stammered, his voice cracking. "You're forcing me, and I spoke out of turn."

But the apology rang hollow. The damage was done. The seed of anger had been planted, and it was already blossoming into something dark and consuming.

"You will sell this house," Ibrahim said, his voice laced with steel. "And I will make sure of it."

His gaze flickered to Samir, a silent communication passing between them. Samir, in turn, understood the unspoken command. He vanished into the cramped kitchen of Baran's apartment, returning moments later with a glint of silver in his hand - a long, wicked-looking knife.

The sight of the blade sent a fresh wave of fear crashing over Baran. He already knew the Rahman brothers, knew the depths of their ruthlessness. He had signed his life away the moment he disparaged Ava.

Ibrahim slowly removed the sling from his injured left hand. He rose from his chair, his movements deliberate. He took the knife from Samir, his fingers wrapping around the hilt. 

With practiced ease, Ibrahim began to twirl the knife, the blade blurring into a mesmerizing dance of silver light. Baran's bravado had vanished entirely. He watched, frozen in terror, as Ibrahim began to twirl the knife. It wasn't a clumsy display; his movements were fluid, almost hypnotic. Each twirl seemed to tighten the invisible noose around Baran's neck, a chilling reminder of the power Ibrahim held right now, the power to end his life with a flick of his wrist.

"Your neighbors," Ibrahim spoke, his voice eerily calm, "they're at a party tonight. And the other one went out for dinner. Isn't that convenient? No one to hear your screams, Mr. Ali. I don't know why but I feel it so cool..... Peaceful."

The casual mention of his isolation, the knowledge that no scream would reach an ear, sent a wave of terror crashing through him. Baran stood up. He scrambled to his feet, his voice thick with fear. "Hey!" he pleaded, but Faisal pushed him back into his chair. And Samir grasped Baran's right hand, pinning it to the tea table. Their combined grip were like iron bands around the old man's struggling form.

"Hey! What are you doing? What are you going to do with it?" Baran's voice cracked with fear, but his pleas were met with stony silence.

Ibrahim ignored him, his movements precise and cold as he knelt before the trembling man. The knife gleamed under the dim light as he raised it, its edge catching the reflection of Baran's widening eyes.

With a swift, brutal motion, Ibrahim brought the knife down, slicing through Baran's thumb in one clean cut. A gasp escaped his lips as the blade flashed down, the sickening crunch of bone echoing in the small apartment. Baran's raw scream filled the air, a sound of pain and fear. Blood spurted like a crimson fountain, blossoming across the tabletop, staining the wood a grotesque red. The severed thumb lay abandoned, a grotesque testament to the violence.

The metallic tang of blood filled the air, thick and cloying. Baran writhed in agony, his screams turning into whimpers, tears streaming down his wrinkled face. Samir and Faisal were not holding Baran anymore. 

Ibrahim watched, his face an emotionless mask. He felt no flinch, no remorse, only a chilling emptiness where empathy should have been. He picked up the severed thumb, his touch as detached as if handling a discarded object.

"Faisal" Ibrahim called, "put the thumbprint where needed."

Taking the thumb from Ibrahim's hand, Faisal went to the another study table which was there nearby. The papers of the documents were already there. Opening the document, Faisal started to do his work. 

Baran's cries erupted anew, a mixture of pain and despair. But to Ibrahim, they were a testament to his dominance. He dipped his fingers into the blood pooling on the blade, tracing the crimson stain with a detached curiosity. This was his victory, a chilling reminder that disrespecting Ibrahim Rahman's wife came at a heavy price.

Samir returned to the couch. "Don't worry, old man," he said, his voice laced with a cruel amusement. "Your thumb can be reattached if you get to a hospital within twelve hours. But why waste all that noise?"

Baran's eyes, clouded with pain and fear, locked onto Ibrahim. "You'll pay for this, Rahman. God will make you pay," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "Innocent lives will bear the brunt of your actions."

Ibrahim's brow arched, "Then perhaps those innocent lives need reminding of what I'm capable of."

He tossed the knife onto the table, the clatter echoing in the tense silence. "Samir, bring the documents to the office. And clean this mess. Make sure Baran gets medical attention. After all, he's an old man. Who knows how long he has left? And..... Who knows how much longer he has to suffer the consequences of his choices."

With those words, Ibrahim left. He needed to change before facing Ava. The bloodstains on his shirt was telling a story he didn't want her to read. Ava couldn't see him like this. And Ibrahim couldn't bear the flicker of fear or accusation in her eyes again.

One hour later - Present time.

Ava, still holding the document, looked at Ibrahim with a question in her eyes. "Ibrahim," she started, her voice soft, "what were you thinking?"

Ibrahim blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He forced a smile, "Nothing, Baby Girl. Just... lost in thought for a moment. Did you say something?"

Ava hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, I was wondering… how much did it cost? To get the house back."

Ibrahim took her hand, "Don't you worry about money. I'm fortunate enough to be able to shower you with gifts, to buy you a house, a hundred houses if you so desired. After all, who else am I making this money for?" 

He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb tracing circles on her palm, a calming rhythm meant to dispel any lingering unease. "Consider it an early birthday gift. An advanced 'Happy Birthday, baby girl.'"

Ava frowned, a faint crease marring her usually smooth brow. Tomorrow was her birthday, December 4th, a date she always considered ordinary, almost insignificant. Birthdays, in her eyes, were overrated, mere markers of time's relentless march. A glance at the wall clock confirmed it - 10:00 p.m. 

Ava's hand trembled slightly as Ibrahim intermingled his fingers with hers. "I'm wishing you two hours early....." he murmured, his voice a husky caress against her ear. "Because I know your disdain for grand celebrations. And you know I couldn't wait until the official hour to shower you with my appreciation." 

He paused for a second, "Besides, who says we have to wait for a specific date to celebrate the incredible woman you are? Every day with you is a gift, deserving of its own little celebration."

His voice softened, taking on a deeper tone. "But December 4th holds a special place in my heart, It's the day you were born, the day the world was blessed with your light, your kindness, your strength. How could I not mark such a momentous occasion?"

Ava's heart overflowed with warmth. His words, so simple yet profound, resonated within her like a song, "Thank You. For.... gifting me my parents house. I'll be grateful for that."

Ibrahim chuckled, "Just 'thank you,' baby girl? Mrs. Ava Lim Rahman, may I have the honor of taking my wife to a dinner tomorrow?"

Ava's laugh, light and melodic, filled the study room, "Will Mr. Rahman be able to escort his wife to dinner tomorrow with that sling?"

Ibrahim feigned a sigh, a playful glint in his gaze. "Challenge accepted," he declared, removing the sling with a swift motion. "Allow me to demonstrate the capabilities of this 'injured person.'"