The Choice That Wasn’t One

Malik stood in front of the rundown apartment, gripping the note tighter. The address had led him here.

The street was empty. No guards. No sound. Just the flickering glow of a distant streetlamp and the rusted door in front of him.

He knocked once.

For a moment, nothing. Then, slow footsteps.

The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room. One man sat inside.

Older. Sharp eyes. A deep scar along his chin. He didn't look surprised.

Malik stepped in cautiously. The air smelled of damp wood and old smoke.

"You came," the man said, voice calm. "That means you understand."

Malik remained silent, scanning the room. No weapons in sight. No one else.

The man gestured to a chair. "Sit."

Malik didn't.

A small smirk crossed the man's face. "Good. You don't trust easily." He leaned forward. "That'll keep you alive in Kasab."

Malik met his gaze, steady. He had been pulled in too deep to turn back now.

The man studied him. Then, after a long pause, he nodded.

"This city is changing," he said. "The only question is—will you shape it, or will it shape you?"

Malik knew the truth. This wasn't a choice. It never had been.

Kasab had already decided for him.

And now, he was part of something far bigger than he had ever imagined.