The buzz of Ayman's phone snapped him out of his restless thoughts. He glanced at the screen. Farid's name blinked back at him. With a sigh, he answered.
"Come to the old factory," Farid's voice was cold, businesslike. "We need to talk."
Before Ayman could respond, the line went dead.
Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Ayman's chest tightened. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to face the weight of his decisions, the dark corridors of his thoughts. But there was no choice. He had nowhere else to turn.
As he stepped outside, the air of the poor neighborhood hit him—thick, suffocating, and filled with a silence that spoke louder than words. The uneven streets, littered with remnants of forgotten dreams, mocked him at every step. Images of his nephew's laughter mingled with an overwhelming fear: What if he grows up to feel the same hopelessness?
That thought cut deep. It twisted inside him, dragging out every ounce of anger he had buried within. His fists clenched involuntarily, his pace quickening. Each step filled up with his rage, his despair, and his darkness.
The streets weren't kind to anyone here. Ayman knew that better than most. The people who lived in these crumbling homes were hardened, not by choice, but by necessity. Life here didn't give second chances. It was a battlefield, and Ayman had been losing for far too long. Not anymore.
Determination burned in his eyes as he neared the abandoned factory. The building loomed like a shadow over his thoughts, a symbol of what his life had become. But tonight, he told himself, he would take control. He would walk into that hideout and seize whatever opportunity came his way. No matter the cost.
Ayman walked toward the old factory, his footsteps echoing faintly on the cracked pavement. The building loomed in front of him, a massive, decaying structure with broken windows and rusted doors. The walls were streaked with years of grime, graffiti sprawled across them like an unspoken language of rebellion. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of alcohol, sweat, and faint traces of smoke. The dim light from a few dangling bulbs created flickering shadows that danced across the abandoned machinery scattered around.
The gangsters lounged carelessly on old crates and rusted metal beams, bottles in hand, their laughter and jeers bouncing off the hollow walls. Farid sat in the center, an old, oil-stained workbench acting as his makeshift throne. His sharp eyes immediately locked onto Ayman as he entered, and the chatter in the room died down.
Ayman nodded a general greeting. "Hey, how are you guys?"
The gangsters stared at him, their gazes cold and assessing, as though he were a stranger. Farid motioned him over with a crooked finger, his lips curling into a sly smile. "Come here, Ayman."
Ayman approached, weaving through the group, their watchful eyes making him uneasy. He stopped in front of Farid, who leaned back casually, his presence commanding the room.
"What's going on?" Ayman asked, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.
Farid gestured for him to sit on a crate nearby, leaning forward slightly. "You did good three days ago," he began, his tone measured. "When you stayed behind with your friend—he was injured, yeah?"
Ayman nodded quickly. "Yeah, how's he doing now?"
Farid smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "He's fine. Recovering. Thanks to you."
Relief washed over Ayman. "That's good to hear."
Farid's expression turned serious as he leaned closer, his voice dropping. "But listen to me, Ayman. Next time, don't let yourself be captured so easily. When we run, you run. No exceptions."
Ayman blinked, caught off guard. "But he needed help. I couldn't just leave him there—"
Farid raised a hand to cut him off. "This isn't about what you could or couldn't do. This is about survival." He tapped a finger against the table, each tap ringing out in the stillness. "Out there, you can't protect everyone. Sometimes, you have to make a choice—save yourself or die trying to save someone else. And if you're dead, you're no good to anyone."
The words hit Ayman like a punch to the gut. He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. "But that's not right," he said quietly. "Leaving someone behind…"
Farid leaned back again, shrugging. "Maybe it's not right, but it's the way it is. You think the world cares about what's right? It doesn't. You need to be smarter, faster, and stronger. And you can't let your emotions weigh you down. Got it?"
Ayman nodded slowly, the weight of Farid's words settling heavily on him. He glanced around the room at the others, who were watching him with silent approval, as if Farid's lesson were one they'd all learned the hard way.
Farid clapped him on the shoulder, breaking the tension. "Good. Now grab a drink and relax. You'll need your head clear for what's coming next."
Ayman hesitated before stepping away, the lesson still churning in his mind. The laughter and jeers resumed, but he barely heard them. As he picked up a bottle and sat on the edge of a rusted conveyor belt, he couldn't shake the feeling that something inside him was shifting—a growing understanding of the world he was now part of and the sacrifices it demanded.
The factory grew quieter as Farid stood, his presence commanding everyone's attention. He paced slowly, his boots crunching against the debris-littered floor. "The real problem," he began, his voice calm but laced with tension, "isn't that the cops came after us. It's how they knew. How did they know about our operation?"
The room fell silent, a heavy stillness hanging over the group. Farid's gaze swept over each face, his sharp eyes searching for any hint of guilt or nervousness. "This wasn't just bad luck," he continued. "Even the other crews didn't know about this job. Yet the cops did. That's not a coincidence."
Ayman stood near the back, leaning against a rusted pillar, but he could feel the weight of their stares. One by one, the gang members turned to look at him. At first, it was subtle—a quick glance, a side-eye. But soon, the suspicion became palpable.
"What the hell is this?" Ayman said, pushing himself off the pillar. "Why are you all looking at me like that?"
Farid held up a hand, silencing the murmurs before they could grow. "Relax, Ayman. No one's blaming you. Not yet."
"Not yet?" Ayman shot back, his voice rising. "What's that supposed to mean? You think I called my brother? Is that it?"
Farid sighed, stepping closer to Ayman. "Listen, I've known you for a while now. You've worked with us; you've been reliable. I know your brother's a cop; he is a decent cop, unlike the other bastards in blue, if I may add. Besides, I also know you're not stupid enough to sell us out during the same job where you got caught and beaten. That doesn't make sense."
Ayman crossed his arms, his anger simmering beneath the surface. "Exactly. So why are we even having this conversation?"
Farid turned to address the group, his voice steady but firm. "Because it's weird. It's too weird. The cops showed up like they knew exactly where we'd be. They were ready. But here's the thing—your brother wasn't with them. He will not allow them to harm you like that. He pointed at Ayman. "That's what makes me think it wasn't you. If you'd tipped them off, your brother would've been leading the charge. But he wasn't."
Ayman exhaled sharply, trying to calm his racing thoughts. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Farid said, pacing again, "that we've got a problem. Either someone's talking, or we've got a leak somewhere we didn't see coming. But until we know for sure, everyone needs to stay sharp. And next time, Ayman…" He stopped and locked eyes with him. "You need to be more cautious about who knows what. Your connection to your brother puts you in a tricky spot, whether you like it or not."
One of the gang members, a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek, scoffed. "I still think it's too much of a coincidence. His brother's a cop, and now this happens?"
Ayman stepped forward, his fists clenched. "Say that again."
"Easy," Farid said, stepping between them. He turned to the scarred man. "We're not here to start pointing fingers without proof. Got it?"
The man grumbled something under his breath but nodded, retreating to his corner.
Farid looked back at Ayman. "I trust you, but trust only goes so far. Watch your step, Ayman. If anything else happens, you'll be the first person everyone looks at. Understand?"
Ayman nodded stiffly, his jaw tight. "Yeah. I understand."
"Good," Farid said, his tone softening slightly. He gestured for everyone to gather closer. "Now, let's talk about how this happened and how we're going to make sure it doesn't happen again. We've got work to do."
As the group huddled to discuss strategies and possibilities, Ayman stood on the edge, his mind racing. The accusations, the mistrust—it all weighed heavily on him. He wasn't sure what hurt more: the suspicion of his so-called allies or the nagging thought in the back of his mind that his brother might somehow be involved, even indirectly.
Farid's words stayed in his head: You need to be more cautious. Ayman didn't just need to watch his step—he needed to figure out who was pulling the strings before it was too late.
Farid leaned back on his chair, the dim light casting sharp shadows across his face. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and stared at Ayman, his expression calm but laced with urgency. "Listen, Ayman," he began, his voice low and steady. "I know things have been tense lately, but I need you on this. You're one of the best we have when it comes to scouting. Your eye for detail, your ability to blend in—you're perfect for this job."
Ayman nodded, his curiosity piqued. "What's the mission?"
Farid exhaled a cloud of smoke, then stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of the table. "There's a new guy in town. Wealthy. Drives an expensive car. The kind that doesn't belong in our alleys. He rented—or maybe even bought—a house in one of the poorer neighborhoods. It's suspicious, to say the least."
"Who is he?" Ayman asked.
"That's the thing—we don't know much," Farid admitted, his tone sharp. "No one does. He's keeping a low profile, but his presence doesn't make sense. He only shows up occasionally, and when he does, people notice. A man like that doesn't settle in a place like this without a reason. We think he might be hiding something—money, valuables, maybe even something more dangerous. We need to know who he is, why he's here, and how we can get into his house without being noticed."
Ayman leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "You want me to scout his place?"
"Exactly," Farid said. "I need you to find us a way in. Study the area, the routines, and the layout of the house. Find out where the weak spots are—windows, doors, any blind spots. And keep an eye on him. Where he goes, when he's there, who he's with."
Ayman accepted this mission, then Farid added to that by saying
"You know, we've all got our talents. Some fight. Some plan. But you? You see things most of us can't."
Ayman raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"I mean it," Farid continued, his voice firm. "Remember that time with the weeds? You spotted their pattern before any of us even noticed it."
A flicker of memory stirred in Ayman's mind. It was an old job, months ago, when they were trying to take control of a turf from a rival gang. The weeds were the gang's symbol, scattered across their claimed territory. Everyone else saw chaos, random scrawls on walls, and hastily marked spots. But Ayman had seen the connections—how the distribution formed a grid, leading directly to the gang's hidden stash.
"You didn't just see weeds," Farid said, smirking. "You saw a map. And when you broke it down for us, we had the whole place figured out. Hell, if it wasn't for you, we'd still be stumbling around in circles."
Ayman shifted uncomfortably, but he couldn't help feeling a small swell of pride. Back then, he hadn't thought much of it—just another task, another day trying to survive. But hearing it now, framed as brilliance, made him pause.
Farid stopped pacing and leaned closer, his voice low but intense. "That's why I know you're the best at scouting. You don't just look—you see. And we need that, Ayman. I need that."
The words lingered in the air, heavy with expectation. Ayman felt the weight of them, the silent challenge hidden behind Farid's praise. He wasn't just being complimented—he was being called to action, reminded of his worth in their twisted world.
For a moment, Ayman let himself believe it. Believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be more than the anger and hopelessness gnawing at his soul.
But then Farid's tone grew serious, and he leaned closer. "But be careful. Don't let anyone follow you. Don't let anyone see you. This guy could be dangerous. He could have connections, people watching his back. If you get caught snooping around, it won't just be the cops you'll have to worry about."
Ayman nodded slowly, taking in the weight of the mission. "When do I start?"
"Tonight," Farid said. "The sooner, the better. But don't rush it. Take your time, stay out of sight, and get us the information we need. I'm trusting you with this, Ayman. Don't let me down."
Ayman stood, his mind already racing with possibilities and strategies. "I'll do it. You'll have your answers."
Farid smirked, leaning back in his chair. "I knew I could count on you. Now go talk to Samir; he will tell you where this house is. And remember—don't get caught."
After talking to Samir and finding out the location of this house, Ayman left the factory; the night air hit his face, cool and sharp. The streets were quiet, but his mind buzzed with the challenge ahead.
A new target, a new mystery. And the weight of Farid's trust resting squarely on his shoulders. This wasn't just a mission—it was a test. And Ayman wasn't planning to fail.