The Dog Man Has Arrived

It was 1 a.m. The rest of the world was asleep, but Hasib Jackson was wide awake.

A warm amber glow from a single table lamp bathed the room in a soft, flickering light. Its beam illuminated a cluttered reading table, where a sleek black laptop hummed faintly, its screen casting a faint bluish glow. Beside it sat a ceramic coffee cup, its surface painted in deep navy blue with flecks of white that resembled stars in a night sky. Thin wisps of steam curled lazily from the coffee, their ghostly tendrils dissipating into the still air.

Hasib sat in the chair, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped under his chin. He was wearing a black hoodie, and the hood pulled up to cast shadows over his face. The shadows danced and shifted as the lamp's light flickered, accentuating the furrow of his brows and the intensity in his dark eyes.

The room felt alive in its stillness. The occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath the table, the faint hum of the laptop's fan, and the muted ticking of the clock all blended into the background, creating an almost hypnotic rhythm.

But Hasib wasn't focused on any of it. His mind was elsewhere, trapped in a loop of questions and possibilities.

"But there's something unnatural about her."

Kavin's words reverberated in his mind, playing over and over like a broken record. The phrase clawed at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to let go.

Who was she?

Hasib stared at the blank document on his laptop screen, his fingers twitching slightly as if itching to type something—anything—that might help him make sense of the chaos in his mind. He didn't move.

"A ghost?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the ticking clock. The idea felt absurd even as he said it. No, she wasn't a ghost.

He shook his head slowly, his gaze distant. "No… not a ghost."

His thoughts shifted, his mind racing through possibilities like a gambler flipping cards. "A witch?" he whispered, his voice tinged with doubt but also intrigue. The word hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Witch.

The idea sent a chill down his spine, but it wasn't fear—it was something else, something more primal. A witch. Someone who practiced black magic. Someone who could manipulate the world in ways that defied logic.

"Black magic," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. "A black magician?"

The phrase felt foreign yet oddly fitting, as though it was the missing piece to a puzzle he hadn't realized he was solving.

The lamp flickered slightly, its bulb buzzing faintly. Hasib's eyes snapped toward it, his breath hitching for just a moment before he exhaled, his jaw tightening.

The room felt heavier now as if the air had thickened. Shadows danced along the walls, twisting and curling like they had minds of their own. The soft hum of the laptop grew louder in his ears, merging with the ticking clock to create a cacophony of whispers that only he could hear.

Hasib's hand reached out toward the coffee cup, his fingers brushing against the ceramic. The warmth seeped into his skin, grounding him briefly before his mind spiraled again.

Who was she? The question lingered like an itch he couldn't scratch, gnawing at his sanity.

A soft sound broke through the tension—a faint, almost apologetic Burk.

Hasib's eyes darted downward, the shadow of his hood hiding the faint smile that tugged at his lips.

There, at his feet, sat Tommy, his loyal dog. Tommy's head tilted slightly to the side, his ears perked up, his large, intelligent eyes watching Hasib with a curiosity that seemed almost human. Hasib leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on his lap as he stared down at Tommy. A mysterious smile spread across his face, slow and deliberate, as if Tommy had confirmed something Hasib wasn't yet ready to say aloud.

A room was suffocatingly small, its walls stained with years of neglect. Faint streaks of mildew crept down from the corners, their greenish-brown hues a testament to the damp, oppressive air that filled the space. The only light came from a single, flickering bulb hanging from a frayed wire, its feeble glow casting jagged shadows across the cracked concrete floor.

The smell of sweat, blood, and something metallic filled the room, clinging to every surface like an unwelcome guest.

In the middle of the room sat a man, bound to a rusted chair. Thick ropes coiled around his arms and legs like angry serpents, and heavy chains secured him further, their iron links biting into his skin. His head hung low, his chin resting against his bruised chest.

Blood streaked his forehead, dried and crusted where it had dripped and pooled, some of it frozen into jagged patterns as if the room itself had grown cold enough to preserve his suffering. The side of his lips bore similar marks of frozen blood, and his eyebrows were torn, one side swollen and discolored with a deep black bruise.

His eyes, though open, were dull and filled with a broken fury. Dark circles rang them, and they seemed to tremble with unspent rage and despair. His mouth was gagged with thick layers of coarse tape, the edges cutting into the sides of his face. The faint muffled sounds of his strained breathing barely pierced the room's oppressive silence.

His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the fabric of his dirty, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his skin. Bruises and cuts adorned his chest and neck, each mark telling its own story of pain.

The prisoner stirred suddenly, his head lifting just enough for his ears to focus on the faint sounds coming from the adjacent room. Muffled at first, the noises grew clearer, sharpening into the unmistakable sounds of heavy breathing and moans of pleasure.

He froze. His bloodshot eyes widened as he recognized the rhythm of what he was hearing.

The voice of a man—low, gruff, and punctuated with labored breaths—mingled with the sweet, high-pitched sighs of a woman. The intimate sounds clawed at his ears, filling him with a helpless rage that made his chains rattle faintly as he strained against them.

In the next room, a single candle burned on a chipped wooden table, its wax pooling onto the scratched surface. The dim light cast a golden glow over two figures entwined on a tattered bed.

Alexander.

His powerful frame loomed over the woman beneath him, his face a mask of both pleasure and menace. His sharp features were partially illuminated, his chiseled jaw catching the light as he leaned in closer to her. His nose grazed her belly, inhaling deeply before pressing his lips to her skin.

The woman wore a black saree, the fabric loosely draped around her body, exposing her navel and shoulders. Her face, hauntingly beautiful, was tilted back, her dark hair spilling over the pillow like a silken waterfall.

Alexander's kisses moved methodically—her navel, her hips, her sides. He took his time, each kiss deliberate, almost cruel in its slow intensity. His lips pressed against the curve of her belly, his breath warm and steady, leaving traces of moisture on her skin that shimmered in the candlelight.

The woman, Sohana, let out a small gasp, her body arching involuntarily as Alexander's mouth moved upward. He paused when his lips reached her chest, his eyes lingering on her breasts. Without hesitation, he leaned forward, capturing one nipple between his lips, sucking with a possessive hunger that made her shudder.

For a moment, she held him, her arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders as she kissed the top of his head. But then, the mood shifted. Alexander suddenly pulled back, his dark eyes narrowing as they locked onto hers. He sat upright, his expression hardening into something cruel. Before Sohana could react, his hand lashed out, striking her across the face with a force that sent her tumbling off the bed. She landed hard on the floor, her cry echoing in the small room.

Sohana clutched her cheek, her eyes wide with shock and pain. Tears welled up and spilled over as she scrambled to cover herself with her saree. "Why? What did I do?" she whimpered.

Alexander rose from the bed, his towering form casting a shadow over her trembling figure. His voice was a growl, sharp and venomous. "Don't you know who I am?"

"Alexander," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Yes," he snarled, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "And I have my eyes on you. Why did you go there?"

"Where?" Sohana asked, her voice cracking as she struggled to stand.

"To the hospital, you bitch!" Alexander bellowed, his voice filling the room. "Why did you go there? Did I tell you to go there?"

Sohana backed away, her hands clutching her saree tightly around her body. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to explain. "I went there… for you! The police inspector, Kavin—he went to Leonardo Smith. I thought—"

"Thought what?" Alexander interrupted, his voice dripping with disdain. "That you could play your own game?"

For a moment, the tension was palpable, the room thick with unspoken threats. But then Alexander's expression softened, shifting from rage to something unsettlingly tender.

"Oh, my sweetheart," he murmured, his voice suddenly soothing. "Come here."

Sohana hesitated, her body still trembling.

"Come," Alexander repeated, his tone almost loving now.

Back in the dark room, the prisoner's breathing grew heavier as the muffled sounds from the other room shifted again.

Alexander's voice turned soft, his words inaudible, but the prisoner could hear Sohana's hesitant murmurs in response.

Then came the sounds of intimacy once more—long, drawn-out breaths and murmurs of pleasure.

"Harder," Sohana's voice gasped faintly. "More, baby."

The prisoner clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he strained against his bonds. His muffled cries of anguish filled the room, mixing with the sickeningly sweet sounds of Alexander and Sohana in the next room.

It was 4:00 a.m., the darkest hours of the night when even the shadows seemed to rest. The air inside Alexander's palace was heavy and still, except for the faint sound of breathing.

Alexander lay sprawled on the large, intricately carved bed. His head rested on Sohana's chest, her slow, rhythmic breaths blending with the faint rustling of the curtains in the cold morning breeze. Both were in a deep sleep, their bodies heavy with exhaustion after hours of passion.

The room was dimly lit by the dying embers of a candle on the far table, its faint glow flickering as if the flame itself feared the silence. Suddenly, a ferocious sound tore through the stillness—a deep, guttural roar, unlike anything human. It was primal, feral, the kind of sound that sent chills racing up the spine.

It came from the direction of the main gate, shaking the air like a lion's bellow or a tiger's growl. The force of the sound vibrated through the palace walls, startling Alexander awake.

His eyes snapped open, wild and alert. Sohana stirred beneath him, her brows furrowing as she murmured incoherently.

"What the hell…" Alexander muttered, his voice groggy but tinged with alarm.

Before he could fully comprehend the noise, a cacophony of screams erupted—agonized cries that were sharp, raw, and quickly silenced. Then came the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Alexander bolted upright, his heart pounding. He reached for the switch on the wall beside his bed and slammed it with his palm.

An ear-splitting alarm blared through the palace, its shrill tone echoing down the long corridors. Within moments, the building came alive with chaos.

Alexander's elite guard—350 goons stationed throughout the palace—sprang into action. Footsteps thundered as men armed with guns, knives, and other weapons rushed to Alexander's room, forming a human barricade around his door.

Another 350 rushed to the main gate, their boots stomping against the cold stone floors. Johnson, the leader of the guards, led the charge.

As the goons reached the gate, the scene that greeted them was nightmarish.

Three guards lay dead, their bodies twisted and mutilated. The leader of the group, Jonson, froze for a moment, his eyes widening as he took in the horror before him.

Cristopher's face was unrecognizable—his features obliterated, his skull crushed as if by an enormous paw. Where his eyes once were, there were now hollow sockets, blood pooling around them.

Maccallum's body was ripped open at the chest, and his ribcage shattered. His organs spilled onto the ground in a grotesque display, glistening in the pale light of the gate's floodlights.

Macmillan's death was no less gruesome. His legs were mangled, the bones splintered and twisted at unnatural angles. His pelvis was destroyed, a gaping wound where his groin once was.

Jonson's hands trembled as he gripped his walkie-talkie. He clicked it on, his voice cracking as he spoke. "Chief! Are you hearing me? Am I audible? Chief!"

Alexander grabbed the walkie-talkie from his bedside, his voice sharp and impatient. "Yes, Jonson, what happened?"

Jonson swallowed hard, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Chief, our three men are down. In front of the main gate."

Alexander's brows furrowed, his jaw tightening as he swung his legs off the bed. "Three men? What do you mean 'down'?"

"Dead, Chief," Jonson replied, his voice trembling. "They're dead. And it's… it's something brutal. You need to come see this."

Alexander's expression darkened. "I'm coming."

He stood quickly, pulling on a pair of black pants and a T-shirt. His movements were swift and deliberate, his mind racing as he considered the possibilities.

When Alexander stepped out of his room, the sight of 350 armed goons standing guard in front of his door greeted him. Their eyes were hard, their weapons ready.

He descended the grand staircase, his boots clicking against the polished marble steps. As he moved, his goons parted like a sea, making way for him.

The air outside was cold and sharp, the faint scent of blood mingling with the earthy aroma of the nearby hills.

When he reached the main gate, Jonson was waiting for him, his face pale.

Alexander's eyes fell on the bodies, and for a moment, even he felt a flicker of unease. The sheer brutality of the deaths was staggering.

He crouched beside Cristopher's body, examining the injuries. The claw marks across the man's face were massive, unmistakably from a large animal. His hand moved to Maccallum's chest, where the ribs jutted out grotesquely. He didn't need to touch the wound to know the force that had caused it was immense.

Then his gaze moved to Macmillan, and his lips curled into a snarl. "What the hell is this?"

Jonson stepped forward, his walkie-talkie still in his hand. "Chief, I don't think this was human. It… it looks like a tiger. Or a lion."

Alexander stood, his face hardening into a mask of cold determination. "Not one. More than one."

He turned to face the rest of his goons, his voice booming. "They're animals. Be alert from now on. This palace is surrounded by hills, and it's clear something is watching us."

Alexander's piercing eyes scanned the grotesque scene one final time before straightening his back. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, veins bulging with frustration and something else—an unspoken fear he would never admit to his men.

But before he could bark another command, a faint sound in the distance caught his attention. It was subtle at first, like the low growl of an engine carried on the cold morning air.

His sharp gaze turned toward the hills beyond the palace, his lips curling into a sneer. "What now?"

They came into view all at once. Two massive creatures barreling down the hillside, their eyes glowing faintly in the dim pre-dawn light.

They weren't tigers. They weren't lions.

They were dogs.

But these weren't ordinary dogs. Each stood nearly as tall as a man, their powerful bodies covered in sleek, dark fur that seemed to ripple with every stride. Muscles bulged under their skin as they ran with terrifying speed and ferocity, their snarling jaws parting to reveal gleaming, razor-sharp teeth.

Their growls were guttural, a sound that seemed to vibrate the very ground beneath them as they closed the distance to the palace.

And they weren't alone.

Behind them roared a black motorcycle, its engine screaming as it tore through the winding hillside roads at 150 kilometers per hour. The rider, clad in a dark leather jacket, leaned forward over the handlebars, his face obscured by a sleek helmet. The rider was relentless, his posture firm and commanding. He moved as if he were one with the bike, his every motion precise and deliberate.

The dogs' eyes fixed on their target: Alexander's palace.

And then, without warning, a deafening explosion ripped through the night.

The back of the palace—the sprawling garden section with its manicured hedges, ornate fountains, and towering stone walls—erupted in flames.

The ground shook as debris flew into the air, shards of stone and wood scattering like deadly confetti. The fire spread quickly, its orange and red tendrils licking hungrily at the walls and surrounding trees.

Alexander turned sharply, his eyes widening as he watched the destruction unfold. The heat from the fire reached him even from the main gate, the inferno consuming everything in its path.

"Get back!" Alexander roared, his voice cracking with rare panic.

His men, already shaken by the sight of their mutilated comrades, began to retreat from the main gate. Some stumbled in their haste, their weapons clattering to the ground as they fled.

From his vantage point near the gate, Alexander could see the source of the chaos.

The motorcycle skidded to a halt on the road a safe distance from the palace. The rider stood tall, removing his helmet to reveal a face hardened by determination and shadowed by vengeance.

It was him.

The Dog Man.

He stood in stark contrast to the chaos behind him, his presence calm yet commanding, his posture radiating confidence. His dogs flanked him, their massive forms bristling with raw power. They growled low and steady, their eyes locked onto Alexander as if they could already taste victory.

The palace burned brightly in the background, its flames casting eerie shadows that danced across the hillside.

Alexander's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. The sight of the Dog Man, standing proud and unyielding with his monstrous companions, sent a wave of anger coursing through him.

The Dog Man mounted his bike once more, his gaze never leaving Alexander. The engine roared to life, echoing across the hills like a battle cry.

And with a final, taunting rev of the engine, he sped off into the darkness, his dogs running beside him like ferocious predators unleashed.

The garage was an aging relic, hidden away on the city's outskirts. Its brick walls were mottled with dark stains from years of damp weather, and thin veins of moss crept along the cracks, giving the place an almost forgotten look. A faint metallic scent lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of oil-soaked floors and rusting machinery.

A single, dim bulb hung from the ceiling, its weak light casting uneven shadows on the rows of old, abandoned cars covered in layers of dust. In one corner sat a sleek black motorcycle, its engine still faintly ticking from the heat of its recent journey.

The rider dismounted, his movements deliberate and smooth. With a casual flick of his wrist, he pulled off his helmet and hooked it over the bike's handlebars. As he stood there, the light caught his face, revealing sharp, striking features.

His eyes were the kind that captured attention—piercing and brilliant, as though they held secrets too deep for words. They glimmered with a quiet triumph, a hint of satisfaction sparkling in their depths. His hair, medium in length and slightly tousled from the helmet, framed his face perfectly. A small strand fell across his forehead, but instead of brushing it away, he let it stay, adding to the rugged look of a man who had just pulled off something extraordinary.

And then there was the smile.

It wasn't just a smile—it was a victorious grin, the kind that lingered long after a win. It curled naturally at the edges of his lips, exposing just enough of his teeth to make it confident but not cocky. That smile was familiar, not just to those who knew him but to anyone who had seen bravery in its purest form.

Yes, it was him.

Hasib Jackson.

The Dog Man.

Though he hadn't formally claimed the title, his actions had spoken louder than words. Tonight, he had done the impossible—he had struck fear into the heart of Alexander, the most dangerous man in the city.

At Hasib's feet, Tommy and Tiger stood like sentinels, their strong, muscled bodies poised and alert. Their glossy black coats gleamed faintly in the dim light, and their piercing eyes reflected the loyalty and ferocity that made them more than mere animals—they were warriors.

Tommy wagged his tail, the rhythm steady but forceful, like the beat of a battle drum. Tiger followed suit, his tail thumping against the garage's concrete floor, the sound echoing faintly in the stillness.

Hasib crouched down, his hand reaching out to ruffle the fur on each of their heads. "Both of you did a great job tonight," he said, his voice soft but filled with pride.

Tommy's ears perked up, his tail wagging faster, while Tiger let out a low, pleased growl. They leaned into Hasib's touch, their actions as close to smiling as a dog could manage.

"Come," Hasib said, standing and gesturing toward the stairs that led to his home above the garage. "Let's go inside. You've earned your rest."

As Hasib turned to the staircase, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The vibration felt louder in the quiet garage, and he quickly pulled the device out to see the name flashing on the screen.

Nafisa.

He smiled again, but this time it was softer, almost shy. His thumb swiped the screen, and he brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello," he said.

The voice on the other end was breathless and filled with worry. "Hasib! Are you okay? What happened? What's the result of the mission?"

"I won," he replied simply, but the pride in his voice was unmistakable.

"Seriously?" Nafisa's voice wavered, a mix of tension and relief. "Oh, thank God. I was so worried about you."

Hasib leaned back against the bike, his free hand resting casually on the seat. "Don't worry about me, dear. You know the best part?"

"What?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity and excitement.

"The bombs destroyed half of his palace, and I saw fear in Alexander's eye," he said, his grin widening.

There was a pause on the line, and then Nafisa's voice came through, loud and filled with disbelief. "Really?"

Hasib chuckled. "Really."

"Hasib," she said, her tone softening. "I want to see you. Right now."

"Then come," he said, his voice warm. "Come to my home. Have dinner with me and my parents."

"Okay," she replied, her voice lighter now. "I'm coming."

The call ended, and Hasib slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Before heading upstairs, Hasib hesitated. He opened the messenger app on his phone, his thumb hovering over the most recent message.

It was from someone named John.

"Alexander killed Newton. Catch him at the southeast Sundarban Area."

Attached was a Google Maps location, the marker pointing to a remote spot deep in the mangroves.

Hasib's jaw tightened, the fires of vengeance sparking in his eyes once more. This message had arrived earlier, just after Inspector Kavin and his team had left his house. It was the catalyst that had sent him into action tonight, leading the attack on Alexander's palace.

But the mission wasn't his alone. He glanced at another message thread, this one from Nafisa and her younger sister, Mariya Aava. Their courage had been instrumental—they had helped him plant the explosives that had torn through Alexander's fortress.

Hasib Jackson climbed the stairs slowly, his footsteps echoing faintly in the empty garage. Tommy and Tiger padded along behind him, their claws clicking softly against the floor.

The victory tonight was undeniable, but the battle was far from over.

Alexander would retaliate—of that, Hasib was certain. The mafia don's wrath would be fierce, calculated, and merciless. And then there was Sohana, the woman who lingered in the shadows, her loyalties as mysterious as her presence.

Would they remain silent after such a blow? No, the silence wasn't their nature. Something was coming.

Something worse.

Something bigger.

The night was alive with an uneasy stillness, the kind that seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something to shatter the fragile calm. Inside the dimly lit house, Hasib Jackson moved like a shadow, his movements deliberate and quiet. The faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots was the only sound, blending with the muted hum of the city outside.

He was back in his home, but his mind was miles away, still caught in the swirling chaos of the night's events. Hasib leaned against the edge of the dining table, his arms crossed over his chest. The faint light from the kitchen spilled into the room, casting long shadows that seemed to dance on the walls like silent witnesses to his thoughts.

His victory tonight—half of Alexander's palace reduced to smoldering ruins—wasn't enough. Not yet. The image of Newton's broken body and lifeless eyes burned in his memory, a wound that refused to heal.

Tommy and Tiger lay at his feet, their bodies tense despite the apparent calm. Tommy's head rested on his paws, but his sharp eyes followed Hasib's every movement. Tiger, ever the guardian, sat upright, his ears twitching at the faintest sound from outside.

"Good boys," Hasib muttered, crouching down to stroke their heads. His hand lingered on Tiger's thick fur, his fingers brushing against the faint scar that ran across the dog's neck—a reminder of their shared battles.

The dogs responded with subtle movements. Tommy wagged his tail once, slow and deliberate, while Tiger let out a low, approving growl.

"You saw it too, didn't you?" Hasib said softly, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. "The fear in Alexander's eye."

Tiger let out another growl, deeper this time, his amber eyes glinting in the dim light. Tommy's tail wagged faster, a steady rhythm against the hardwood floor.

"We're not done yet," Hasib continued, his tone dropping. "This is just the beginning."

Hasib's thoughts returned again to the messenger app, the message from John. He opened the messenger app, his eyes narrowing as he reread the text:

"Alexander killed Newton. Catch him at the southeast Sundarban Area."

The attached Google Maps location sat like an open wound on the screen, a pinpoint in the heart of the mangroves that called to him with a dark promise.

But the message wasn't what unsettled him most. Who is John? How did John know? And more importantly, why did he care?

Before Hasib could lose himself in these questions, a knock echoed through the still house. It was firm but not urgent, the kind of knock that demanded attention without shouting for it.

Tiger was on his feet instantly, his body tense, his ears pricked. Tommy followed, his growl low and guttural.

Hasib moved to the door, his steps slow and deliberate. He paused, one hand resting lightly on the knob, his other brushing against the knife tucked into his waistband.

When he opened the door, he was greeted by emptiness.

The corridor was silent, the faint hum of the streetlights outside the only sound. A chill ran through him as he scanned the shadows, his sharp eyes searching for movement.

But there was nothing.

He stepped back, closing the door with a quiet click. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on him.

As Hasib turned away from the door, his gaze lingered on the window. The city lights shimmered faintly in the distance, but the darkness between them seemed deeper, almost alive.

He felt it then—a presence, something watching him from the shadows.

Alexander wouldn't stay silent after tonight. That much was certain. But it wasn't just Alexander.

There was something else.

Something worse.

Something waiting, biding its time.

For Hasib.

For Nafisa.

To be continued….