Heat Rising
The summer heat rolled in thick over the narrow streets of Al-Batha. The sun bore down on the corrugated rooftops, shimmering off glass and stone, soaking into the dust like sweat into skin. By midday, the city steamed with tension, and not just from the weather.
People whispered more now — glancing over their shoulders before speaking, locking their doors earlier, hurrying their prayers. Something had shifted since the fire, since the ambush. The streets that once hummed with the rhythm of traders, butchers, beggars, and call-to-prayer speakers now felt off-beat. Like the city was holding its breath.
Khamzah walked through the heart of it all.
He kept his head low, hoodie up, pistol tucked into the back of his waistband. His eyes scanned the faces around him — the old woman selling figs, the two boys playing football with a crushed bottle, the butcher sharpening his blade outside a stall.
Normal faces. But fear clouded all of them.
Not fear of Salim.
Fear of what would come next.
---
The Retaliation
The blast hit just after Asr prayer. It came not in a bang, but in a roar — a motorcycle rigged with a small device detonated in front of an auto-repair garage that had long paid dues to Faraj.
Khamzah was five blocks away when he felt it — the ripple of air, the screeching metal, and then the screaming.
He ran.
By the time he arrived, smoke coiled into the sky, black and poisonous. Flames licked at a twisted metal frame. A boy, no older than 11, sat in the middle of the street holding his arm, which bent wrong — blood trailing down his elbow like ink.
Khamzah froze.
He had seen this before.
Years ago, it had been his family.
Now it was someone else's.
---
Rage and Blame
Faraj arrived moments later, surrounded by his usual lieutenants. The old man's face was carved in fury, but behind his eyes, Khamzah saw it — fear.
"We lost three," Faraj muttered, hands trembling behind his back. "One was just a kid."
"They weren't soldiers," Khamzah said, stepping closer. "They were civilians."
Faraj's eyes snapped to his. "That's how Salim works. He doesn't kill enemies. He kills examples."
"We need to hit back," said Nasser, Faraj's muscle-bound enforcer. "Loud."
But Khamzah shook his head. "That's exactly what he wants. To drag us into war we can't control."
Faraj's voice dropped, slow and tired. "Then what do you suggest? Prayer?"
Khamzah stepped forward, chest rising. "I want names. Routes. Who delivered the bike. Who set the timer. Salim's not the only player. He's got worms in our walls. We flush them first."
---
The City Bleeds
That night, the neighborhood mourned.
Three funerals were held side by side. Men stood shoulder to shoulder in prayer, eyes downcast, hands raised. Wailing echoed through alleyways. Mothers pressed trembling hands against photos. And children watched with wide, terrified eyes — children who might one day hold guns themselves.
Khamzah stood outside the mosque, arms crossed, heart heavy. Ranya joined him quietly.
"They say you're the reason this started," she said softly. "That if you hadn't fought back, Salim wouldn't have come this hard."
He didn't respond.
Because part of him feared it was true.
"But I also heard," she added, "that you pulled three people out of the fire with your own hands. That you carried a boy a mile to get him help."
Khamzah's jaw tightened. "That doesn't bring back the dead."
"No," she said. "But it proves something."
He looked at her.
"That you're not Salim."
The Pulse of Al-Batha
By late afternoon, Al-Batha turned quiet — not peaceful, just cautious. Like the streets had learned to tiptoe.
Vendors kept their tarps half-folded, half-expecting gunfire. Boys who once chased each other across rooftops now stayed indoors, noses pressed against second-story windows. The halal butcher closed early, his once-jovial radio now silent.
In a narrow alley between two shuttered cellphone stalls, old men sat on plastic chairs, playing dominoes under the shadow of a faded green awning. They didn't talk much. Not anymore.
Once, Khamzah had run through these same streets barefoot, his father calling him back home as his mother laughed from the doorway. Now, walking past the alley, those same old men gave him sharp glances and shuffled their dominoes faster.
"That's the boy," one of them whispered. "The one they say brought war to our doors."
Khamzah heard. He didn't flinch.
He kept walking.
---
The Blast Echoes On
The funeral procession wound through Al-Farouq Street like a black thread pulled tight across the city's frayed fabric. The sun had just begun to set, bathing the mourners in gold and orange.
Khamzah stood off to the side, wearing dark clothes, head bowed. He recognized the father of one of the victims — a man named Abu Mazin, who used to fix fans and kettles from a rusted shop on the corner.
Now he walked with a slight limp, shoulders caved in, dragging the weight of his son's coffin with both hands.
No one looked at Khamzah directly.
But he felt their eyes.
A small girl, maybe eight, clutched her mother's abaya and asked loudly, "Mama, is he the man from the fire?"
The mother shushed her and pulled her away quickly, but the silence that followed was deafening.
Khamzah turned and walked the other way.
---
Memory of Ash
That night, alone in his flat, Khamzah lit a candle and sat by the window. His pistol lay in his lap. The flame flickered gently in the dark room, casting long shadows on the walls.
He didn't sleep.
Instead, he remembered.
That night years ago — the one that started it all — came back in fragments.
His father shouting behind a locked door.
The sound of glass shattering.
His mother's scream.
And the blinding flash of flames bursting through their living room as masked men kicked down the door.
He remembered the heat. The choking smoke. The way his legs refused to move.
And then, the escape — slipping out the back, barefoot, through the narrow alley where his mother once hung laundry.
He remembered looking back once, just once, and seeing his home engulfed in fire.
That same smell was in his nose now — acrid, choking, the ghost of burning wood and plastic.
That smell had never left him.
---
Ranya's Warning
Near midnight, a knock rattled the door again. Soft but urgent.
It was Ranya.
Her eyes were wide, her hijab wrapped tightly around her head. She stepped in, arms crossed, pacing as soon as the door clicked shut.
"I heard from Basheer," she said. "Salim's men are asking questions. About you. About where you sleep. They want your routine."
"I don't have a routine," Khamzah replied, too calm.
"They're watching people close to you."
She stopped pacing.
"They came to my father's stall this afternoon. Said they were looking for a lost phone. But I saw the man — I know his face. He used to work for Sharif, before Salim absorbed him."
Khamzah's heart dropped. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Because I wasn't sure you cared."
The silence that followed was sharp.
Finally, he stood. "You should stay somewhere else."
"I'm not leaving."
"You could get hurt."
Ranya stepped closer, defiant. "You already hurt me when you chose this life."
---
Internal Divide
After she left, the room felt smaller.
Khamzah stared out at the street. A group of young teens sat under the mosque's steps, passing around a cigarette. One of them — skinny, sharp-eyed, maybe sixteen — caught Khamzah's gaze.
The boy didn't look away.
He stood up, chest out.
A message.
Khamzah nodded slightly. Just enough.
The boy nodded back.
It wasn't friendship.
It was something colder. Respect built on fear.
Khamzah leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly.
He was no longer part of the neighborhood.
He had become something else.
And once the city saw you as dangerous — even just once — it never looked at you the same again.
Loyalty or Fear
The next morning, the sun hadn't yet touched the prayer towers when Khamzah stepped into the back of an old auto shop.
It had once belonged to his uncle — a gruff man who repaired engines and fixed mopeds before vanishing during a police sweep two years ago. Now it was abandoned, its floor littered with bolts, half-burnt receipts, and a crooked Qur'an left on a shelf above a rusted toolbox.
This was where Khamzah would begin.
He locked the door behind him.
Then he waited.
One by one, they arrived.
Jalal, the street-runner with knife scars on his neck and a temper like a lit match.
Hamoud, barely seventeen, quiet and ruthless, born in the alleys of al-Mahjar and raised on chaos.
Basheer, the oldest at twenty-six, with blood on his hands and a mind for logistics.
And finally,
Tariq — who spoke little but never missed a shot.
They came not because they liked Khamzah.
They came because they believed he would win.
---
The Oath
There was no ceremony. No blood pact or fancy speeches.
Just words. Quiet, spoken once, never repeated.
Khamzah looked each of them in the eye.
"No one outside this room knows what we build. Not your brothers, not your mother. Loyalty isn't a word. It's what you do when things go wrong."
They nodded.
"No side deals. No backdoor payments. We move together. Or we don't move at all."
Basheer stepped forward. "And if someone crosses the line?"
Khamzah didn't hesitate. "They won't walk back."
Jalal smirked.
Tariq simply nodded.
Hamoud swallowed, but said nothing.
And just like that, it began.
The birth of a crew.
---
Aadil's Caution
Later that evening, Khamzah sat on the curb outside a shuttered corner store, flipping a lighter in his hand.
Aadil found him there.
He hadn't come in weeks — not since the warehouse fire, not since Khamzah had begun changing.
But tonight, he came with eyes heavy and slow.
"You've started gathering them," Aadil said, sitting beside him.
Khamzah didn't answer.
"They're calling you a leader now."
Khamzah smiled faintly. "Better than being called a coward."
Aadil chuckled dryly. "Is that what you think you are without them? A coward?"
Silence.
The lighter clicked open. Then shut.
Open. Then shut.
"You're building something dangerous, Khamzah," Aadil said. "Not because of the weapons. But because of what power does."
Khamzah looked at him. "What did it do to you?"
Aadil's face darkened. "It cost me everything I couldn't get back. Friends. Family. Myself."
---
Fear vs Respect
"What do you want from this?" Aadil asked finally. "Revenge? Money? Power?"
Khamzah's voice was quiet. "To never be powerless again."
Aadil nodded slowly. "Then remember this — loyalty that comes from fear doesn't last. It only waits for the next man stronger than you."
"And respect?"
Aadil smiled bitterly. "That dies the moment you betray your own soul."
He stood, dusted his pants, and turned to leave.
"Be careful what you become, habibi," he said over his shoulder. "Because the street will remember your name — but it will not love you for it."
---
Seeds in the Shadows
That night, Khamzah returned to the auto shop. His new crew had cleaned the space. Spray-painted walls had been scrubbed. Cots arranged in corners. Guns stacked in crates, hidden beneath tarp and tires.
A map of Al-Batha was pinned to the wall, with circles drawn in red ink.
"Supply routes," Basheer explained. "Salim's operations mostly run through these paths. We intercept three, we hit his pockets."
"And his pride," added Jalal.
Khamzah stared at the map. The city looked smaller like this. Just lines, blocks, weak spots.
Hamoud lit a cigarette. "Word on the street is Salim's watching us now. People say he's getting nervous."
"No," Khamzah corrected, calm and cold. "He's getting angry."
And that was more dangerous.
Salim's Trap
The Message
It came at dawn.
Hamoud burst into the auto shop, out of breath, dust on his abaya and eyes wide.
"A drop. Big one. South border of Al-Hijrah street. Tonight. Salim's guys left a shipment behind after a quick cleanout. Word is they're relocating."
Khamzah didn't respond at first. He sipped the bitter qahwa Basheer brewed every morning and stared out the dusty window.
"That's Salim's main zone," Jalal muttered. "Why leave anything behind?"
Basheer raised an eyebrow. "It's bait."
"Or a trap," Tariq added flatly.
Khamzah leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Or it's real. He's stretching himself thin. A careless drop's possible."
"But if it's bait..." Basheer warned.
Khamzah stood. "Then we bite. Carefully."
---
The Setup
The crew moved before sundown.
Jalal and Hamoud circled the perimeter in an old, rusted Hilux with tinted windows. Tariq and Basheer followed on foot through alleyways, radios in their jackets, knives tucked in belts.
Khamzah moved last, face covered, pistol cold against his ribs.
The building was a forgotten textile warehouse — grey-bricked, windows shattered, the floor still dusted with fabric dye from another era.
The box was there. Just like Hamoud had heard.
A small crate, barely a meter wide, wrapped in black tape.
Too easy.
"Clear?" Jalal whispered through the radio.
"Too clear," Basheer replied. "Something stinks."
Khamzah stepped forward.
"Open it."
Basheer approached, blade in hand. He slit the tape and pried the crate open.
Inside — a single phone. Flashing. Recording.
Then — footsteps.
---
The Ambush
They came from above.
Rooftops.
Balconies.
The alley mouth.
Five, ten, then fifteen masked men — automatic rifles raised. The night exploded into sound — gunfire cracking through the air, glass shattering, boots slamming on metal.
"DOWN!" Tariq yelled, diving behind a stack of pallets.
Bullets tore through the wooden crates.
Basheer dragged Hamoud behind a rusted bin, blood trickling down his arm.
Jalal returned fire, shouting curses as he ducked between shadows.
Khamzah didn't retreat. He ran forward — straight into the smoke.
A single figure approached — tall, wrapped in a grey shawl, rifle in hand.
Salim's lieutenant. Ghassan.
The two locked eyes — not a word exchanged.
Then Ghassan lifted his weapon — and fired.
Khamzah rolled to the side, a bullet grazing his jacket. He returned fire. Two shots. One hit the wall. The other—
Ghassan staggered back, bleeding from the shoulder.
Chaos.
Screams.
Sirens in the distance.
Khamzah called out — "FALL BACK! EAST SIDE!"
His crew moved, broken and bruised, disappearing one by one into the alley maze.
---
The Cost
They regrouped three streets away.
Jalal was limping.
Hamoud was coughing blood.
Tariq had a gash above his eye.
Basheer was missing.
Khamzah's heart froze.
"We lost him," Hamoud said, voice low.
"No," Khamzah snapped. "We go back."
"They'll be waiting."
"I don't care."
Silence.
Then Tariq nodded. "I'll go with you."
And so, they turned back — deeper into Salim's territory — to get one of their own back.
Blood Oath
The Return
They came back under cover of night, dressed like waste collectors. Khamzah and Tariq rode a stolen pickup with a dented back gate and trash piled high over crates of hidden weapons.
The warehouse was still lit.
Not by daylight — but by fire barrels and the laughter of men who thought they had won.
Salim's boys.
Two guards stood by the entrance, smoking and distracted.
Tariq slit one's throat before he finished his exhale. Khamzah pistol-whipped the other until his face caved in.
Inside, screams echoed.
They followed them.
---
Rescue
Basheer was tied to a chair. Face swollen. Shirt bloody. Breathing ragged.
Ghassan stood over him, dragging a machete across the floor.
He didn't see Khamzah come in.
Didn't hear the bullet that tore through his hip.
He dropped the blade and fell, howling.
Khamzah didn't speak.
He walked up and shot him in the neck.
No hesitation.
Basheer looked up, barely conscious. "I thought… I was dead."
Khamzah cut the ropes with a rusted knife and held him up.
"You are ours. You don't die unless I say so."
Tariq tossed him a bloodied scarf. "Wrap your ribs. We move now."
They limped out as quietly as they came — but left fire in their wake.
Khamzah lit the crate room with gasoline and a lighter.
The explosion could be heard five streets away.
---
The Oath Enforced
Back at the auto shop, the crew gathered.
Basheer was patched. Tariq was cleaning his rifle. Jalal stitched a cut on Hamoud's shoulder.
Khamzah stood in the center, eyes hard. "There's a traitor."
Everyone froze.
"Someone told Salim where we'd be."
Nobody spoke.
He looked at Hamoud.
"Where did the info come from?"
Hamoud hesitated. "A boy from the market. Said his cousin saw the crates being moved. I paid him two hundred riyals."
"And you told anyone else?"
Hamoud looked down.
"Just… Kareem."
Kareem.
A new runner.
Sixteen. Smart mouth. Too eager.
They dragged him in ten minutes later, wrists tied.
"I didn't tell no one!" he screamed.
But Khamzah had already decided.
He walked to the boy. Looked him in the eyes.
"Did you sell us for money?"
"No!"
"Did you talk?"
Kareem trembled. "I just… I told my cousin. I thought he could help—"
That was enough.
---
Judgment
Khamzah turned to the crew.
"You want to lead men? You make decisions that haunt you."
He raised his pistol.
Tariq looked away.
Basheer didn't blink.
Khamzah pulled the trigger.
One shot. Quick. No spectacle.
The boy dropped like a stone.
No one moved.
Blood soaked the floor.
Khamzah put the gun down, slowly.
"If you ever doubt where your loyalty lies… remember this night."
---
What the Streets Say
That same week, the word spread:
Khamzah doesn't flinch.
He shot a boy for loose lips.
He rescued Basheer from under Salim's nose.
He blew up a warehouse.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was making people choose.
Loyalty or fear.
Respect or silence.
And slowly, from coffee stalls to gambling corners, from alley whispers to market gossip — they stopped asking who Khamzah was.
They started asking what he was becoming.
The First Execution
Whispers Before Dawn
The air in the neighborhood was heavier than usual.
Whispers followed every alleyway. Cafés closed early.
Old women pulled their children inside, and men who once claimed they feared no one… avoided the auto shop.
Inside, Khamzah sat in silence, cleaning his pistol with slow, deliberate movements.
Basheer watched him from across the room, still bandaged, still healing.
"They'll come for us," Basheer said. "Salim's people. Maybe the police."
"Let them come," Khamzah replied. "Let them test their luck."
But his mind was elsewhere.
---
Faraj's Doubt
Later that evening, Faraj — the crew's oldest member and former street enforcer — entered with his fists clenched and eyes heavy with doubt.
"We were not made for this," Faraj said.
Khamzah didn't respond.
"This thing you're building... it's not a crew anymore. It's something darker."
"We are what this street made us," Khamzah said flatly. "You either bend or break."
Faraj shook his head. "There's a boy buried behind the shop because he trusted the wrong person. We could've let him go."
"He talked. People died."
"And now we kill our own?"
Khamzah stood. Slowly. Not threatening — but final.
"This isn't about right or wrong. This is about keeping your word. And surviving. You know that better than anyone."
Faraj paused. Then said something dangerous.
"Maybe Salim was right about you."
---
The Test
Later that night, the crew gathered again.
A runner brought news: Faraj had been seen meeting with a man connected to Salim's network.
A meeting — quick, quiet — by the old spice shop near the mosque.
No money exchanged. But too much talk.
Jalal wanted to let it slide. "Faraj's a veteran. He's been here since the beginning."
Tariq, ever cold, disagreed. "A whisper now becomes a scream later."
Basheer said nothing, but his hand drifted toward his knife.
Khamzah listened, eyes empty.
Finally, he spoke.
"Bring him to the yard."
---
The Execution Yard
The auto shop's backyard was a patch of cracked concrete behind rusted walls.
Once used for stripping stolen cars.
Now, it was quiet.
A chair stood in the middle, dimly lit by a single bulb that swung overhead.
Faraj was forced to kneel, hands tied behind his back.
He didn't plead. Didn't beg. Just stared.
"I gave you years, Khamzah," Faraj said. "I taught you how to hold a blade. How to read a man's lie."
"You also taught me to end a threat before it grows teeth," Khamzah said.
Faraj smirked bitterly. "So this is how you become boss?"
"No," Khamzah whispered. "This is how I stay boss."
The gunshot cracked through the night.
Clean. Quick.
But the silence afterward was deafening.
---
The Shift
Nobody moved.
Basheer lit a cigarette.
Jalal wiped his face.
Hamoud looked at the sky.
Tariq was the first to speak.
"You're not the boy I met a year ago."
Khamzah holstered the pistol and walked away.
"I buried him," he said, voice low.
---
A Message to Salim
At sunrise, a body was dumped near one of Salim's supply routes.
It wasn't Faraj's.
It was Ghassan's — what was left of him, burned and broken.
Wrapped in cloth was a small note written in Arabic:
> "The street belongs to no one. But death? Death answers to me now."
Salim got the message.
And the war changed shape.
---
Final Reflection
Back in his room above the auto shop, Khamzah sat alone.
A small picture of his family — his father, mother, and baby sister — still rested beside a rusted oil lamp.
He looked at his own reflection in the mirror.
Blood on his shirt.
Ash in his hair.
Eyes that had forgotten sleep.
The boy who escaped death years ago was gone.
What remained was someone else.
Someone the street had molded from pain, steel, and silence.
And in that silence… Khamzah whispered:
> "Let them come. Let the city learn my name."