Unwritten Rules

Kasab had rules—unspoken, unwritten, but understood by everyone.

One of those rules? Don't ask questions.

The next day, the mechanic's shop stayed closed. Jaggu didn't show up. Raju paced outside for a while, then gave up and left. Malik didn't wait. He had learned not to linger when things didn't feel right.

By afternoon, rumors had spread. Jaggu was gone.

Some said he ran. Others said he was taken. No one knew for sure, and no one asked. That was how Kasab worked.

Malik didn't react. He wasn't here to get involved.

That evening, as he played football, a familiar face appeared—the slim man from the shop. He stood near the field, watching. He didn't speak, didn't call Malik over. Just stood there, smoking.

Malik ignored him. Kept playing.

But the man didn't leave.

When the game ended, Malik wiped the sweat from his face and walked past him. The man flicked his cigarette to the ground.

"Need work?" he asked casually.

Malik paused. A test.

He met the man's gaze, unreadable. "I have work."

The man smirked. "Not anymore."

Malik didn't respond. Didn't stop walking.

Behind him, the man chuckled. "Kasab doesn't forget its people, Malik."

Malik kept his pace steady. His hands stayed loose.

Kasab had its rules. And one of them was knowing when to walk away.