The Fire at the Mosque
The call to prayer never came that morning.
Instead, there was smoke.
Thick, black, angry smoke that curled above the rooftops of the neighborhood and bled into the dawn sky like a wound refusing to close. Men ran in sandals, barefoot, yelling and coughing. Mothers clutched children to their chests as the air grew hotter, as walls cracked, as the small mosque at the heart of the community crumbled in flames.
The old Imam, Sheikh Jabir — white-bearded and kind-eyed — was dragged out of the rubble, his robes stained with soot, half-conscious, murmuring verses from the Qur'an.
By the time Khamzah arrived, it was nearly too late.
---
The Memory in the Smoke
The flames hissed low now, the worst of it over. But smoke still rose from the mihrab where men once bowed in peace. Khamzah stood by the scorched gate, the curved arch now blackened like charcoal, watching men with buckets try to save what little was left. The heat bit at his skin.
He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stared.
This was his mosque. The one his mother took him to before Eid prayers, when he was still too small to tie his own shoes. The one his father once prayed in, hand raised, whispering a peace he never lived. The same place where the Imam gave him dates and warm words during the worst of his orphaned days.
Now it was ash.
Someone handed him a wet cloth for his mouth. He waved it off. The smoke was the truth — he deserved to taste it.
---
The Message
A boy ran up, barely breathing. "They say it was gas... leaking. An accident."
Another man interrupted, older, angrier. "Lies. This was a message."
Khamzah turned slowly. "From who?"
The man spit on the ground. "You know who. This doesn't happen by accident."
And then he saw it — a piece of scorched cardboard nailed to the side wall, barely legible through the soot. But the word was still clear, written in red:
"KILL THE FAITH."
Khamzah's jaw clenched. His knuckles went white.
---
Basheer's Arrival
Basheer stepped beside him, sweat running down his brow, breath short.
"Salim's people?" he asked.
Khamzah didn't respond. His eyes were locked on the smoldering ruins.
Basheer looked around — saw the stares, the suspicion, the growing rage in the eyes of the locals.
"You need to say something," Basheer whispered. "The people are turning."
Khamzah finally turned to him.
"No," he said. "They're waking up."
---
Behind the Mosque
Khamzah walked alone to the alley behind the mosque, where the scent of burning cloth still lingered. There, etched crudely into the wall in black spray paint, were three words in Arabic:
> "You're not God."
It wasn't just about the turf war anymore. It was personal. Salim was reaching deeper — not just for his power, but for his soul. Destroying what Khamzah believed in. Burning away the things that still reminded him he was once innocent.
---
A Shift in the Street
As the sun rose, whispers traveled faster than smoke.
Old women muttered, boys nodded silently, even the shopkeepers seemed different.
Some called him a curse now.
Others saw him as a devil rising.
But many… began to call him something else:
"The Flame."
Not because he started the fire.
But because he no longer flinched from it.
---
Tariq's Power Play
The tension in the room was thicker than the smoke still clinging to Khamzah's clothes.
They gathered in the basement of what used to be a butcher's shop — now one of Khamzah's unofficial war rooms. The meat hooks still hung from the ceiling, cold and empty. The red tile floors had seen more blood than beef lately.
Tariq leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gold chain glinting beneath his hoodie. His eyes scanned the room like a wolf waiting for one of the herd to limp.
Aadil sat near the corner, silent, arms resting on his knees, reading everyone. Basheer stood behind Khamzah, arms folded, offering silent support. Two younger boys — Saad and Farouq — hovered near the door, barely old enough to shave but eager to be seen.
Khamzah didn't sit. He walked slowly across the room, his voice low.
> "They lit a mosque on fire," he said. "They put Sheikh Jabir in a hospital bed. They carved a message into our bodies and burned our past."
He paused, meeting eyes one by one.
> "Now we burn back."
---
The Tension
Tariq scoffed.
> "What's the plan? Light their mosque too? That's not war — that's suicide. You keep playing sentimental while Salim stacks bodies."
The room shifted. The younger boys looked between them like it was a match waiting to be struck.
Khamzah stared at him. Calm.
> "You think burning prayer mats makes him powerful?"
> "I think it makes him serious," Tariq snapped. "And I think you're too soft to get serious with him."
The silence cracked like dry bones.
---
The Offer
Tariq pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. He passed it to Basheer, who reluctantly handed it to Khamzah.
A photo. Two men in fatigues. Syrian smugglers — their eyes cold, their truck loaded with black packages.
> "This is what serious looks like. A deal. Weapons, amphetamines, logistics. We cut the street middlemen and go wholesale. Straight pipeline from Daraa to our hands."
> "Meth?" Aadil finally spoke, voice quiet but firm. "That poison?"
Tariq didn't even blink.
> "This is war. You want to cry over broken minarets or win? We're dying slow. Let me take a corner — just one — and test it."
---
The Rejection
Khamzah didn't look at the phone again.
> "You want to bring meth into this block?" he asked.
Tariq shrugged. "Not into the block. Into the market. We keep our people clean. The filth flows out."
> "You think filth knows borders?"
> "I think money does."
Khamzah took a step closer. The tension was airless.
> "You want a throne," he said.
Tariq's smile faltered just slightly.
> "I want us to stop pretending we're saviors. We're not prophets. We're bosses. Or we're dead."
---
Power Shift Begins
Khamzah nodded slowly. Then handed the phone back.
> "No."
> "You're making a mistake."
> "Then we'll see who pays for it."
Tariq straightened. "You're not as untouchable as you think."
Basheer stepped forward, but Khamzah raised a hand. Still calm.
> "I don't need to be untouchable," he said. "I just need to know who's touching the knife."
---
Aftermath
Tariq left the room without another word.
When the door slammed shut, Aadil exhaled like he'd been holding his breath the whole time.
> "He's not going to let that go," Aadil said.
> "I don't want him to," Khamzah replied. "Now I know what he wants."
Basheer stepped closer.
> "Should we watch him?"
> "No," Khamzah said. "Let him believe he's leading. Just make sure he doesn't forget who owns the leash."
Salim's Counterstrike
Nightfall. A Truck That Shouldn't Be There.
The neighborhood didn't sleep that night.
Not after the mosque fire. Not with Tariq stomping off like thunder with a grin that didn't sit right. Not with Khamzah unusually quiet, head lowered in prayer long after the others had gone.
At 2:17 a.m., a flatbed truck — dented, dusty, and too clean underneath — rolled through the side alley of Al-Khudayri Street. No headlights. No license plate. Just the hum of something calculated. Two men in masks stepped down. No one saw them. At least, no one who'd admit to it.
What they left behind, tucked beneath the covered back gate of a known neutral shop, was a crate marked only with a red crescent and a note:
> "For the people. K."
But Khamzah didn't send it.
---
The Morning Shock
At dawn, word spread like wind over dry grass.
The crate was opened by a group of young men — mostly runners, hangers-on, eager to impress. Inside: cartons of powdered milk, soap, children's shoes, even antibiotics. It looked like charity. Looked like kindness.
Until Saad lifted the false bottom.
Below it: six Glock 19s. Four military-grade radios. Two hand grenades.
And a flash drive.
---
The Message
Khamzah held the drive in his hand, in the butcher shop basement again, watching the contents on Basheer's laptop. The video opened with an aerial shot — drone footage of the neighborhood. His block. His street.
Then Salim's voice, filtered and cold.
> "The boy wants to be a man. The man wants to be a god. But gods bleed. Ask his father."
The screen flashed to grainy footage. A home — his home. The night of the robbery. The screaming. The flashes of gunfire. His father begging, out of frame.
Khamzah gripped the chair. His fingers ached.
Salim wasn't threatening him.
He was reminding him.
> "You inherited blood," Salim said. "Now it spills again."
---
Lines Are Drawn
Aadil paced the room. "He's baiting you."
Basheer growled, "He's declaring war."
Khamzah didn't speak at first.
When he finally did, his voice was almost calm.
> "He planted those weapons. He wants people to find them. Wants the government to come down on us. He's not trying to kill me — he's trying to erase me."
A pause.
> "We need to move before the street believes I sent that crate."
Basheer nodded. "We could intercept the next drop."
> "No," Khamzah said. "We do it louder."
---
A New Order
Khamzah gave three orders that day.
1. Every runner, every ear, every dealer loyal to Salim was to be marked. Not killed — not yet. Marked. Made to feel watched.
2. A second crate — a real one — was to be assembled and distributed at Maghrib. With food. With clean hands. With Khamzah's initials painted clearly.
3. And last — Tariq was to be followed.
Not touched. Just shadowed. One whisper from Tariq to Salim and Khamzah would know.
---
The Cost of Control
Later that night, in the back of the mosque ruins, Khamzah sat on the stone foundation, staring into nothing.
Aadil approached him.
> "You alright?"
> "No," Khamzah said honestly.
Aadil nodded, sitting beside him.
> "He knows everything, Aadil. My father's sins. My childhood. The screams I still hear when I sleep. He doesn't need to kill me. He just has to pull the right strings."
Aadil looked at him.
> "Then cut the strings."
Khamzah didn't respond.
But something in his silence was changing.
The Funeral and the Boy's Father
The Funeral
The courtyard was silent except for the sound of shovels and grief.
Three men lowered the small, scorched body wrapped in white cloth into the ground while the imam recited Al-Fātiḥah. Khamzah stood at a distance, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The boy — no older than seven — had died in the fire meant to be a warning from Salim's men.
The boy wasn't meant to be a message.
He was collateral.
Around the grave, women wept softly. Men kept their eyes low. And the street — Al-Faraj, so loud in its chaos — had gone still for the first time in weeks.
> "He just wanted to sell candy," someone murmured.
"He was always laughing…"
The cloth was soaked with smoke and silence.
---
The Boy's Father
A tall man, lean from labor, with creases across his face like carved wood — the boy's father stood motionless. He hadn't wept once. Not even when he threw the first handful of dust on his son's body.
When the prayer ended, he turned toward Khamzah, walking slowly.
The whole crowd watched. Even the birds seemed to pause.
Khamzah braced himself. He expected curses. Or worse — blame. He was the de facto boss now. When blood spilled, it stuck to his name.
But the man didn't strike.
He bowed his head.
> "I know you didn't do this," he said. "But you didn't stop it either."
Khamzah's throat tightened.
> "I'm sorry," he said.
The man looked at him, eyes hollow and glassy.
> "Don't be. Just make sure the next boy doesn't end up in that hole."
Then he walked away, slower than he came, as if every step pulled at a weight too heavy to speak of.
---
Khamzah's Reflection
That night, Khamzah sat alone on the butcher shop roof. Smoke from neighborhood fires drifted above the rooftops. He could still see the shape of the grave in his mind — that small body wrapped in white.
> This isn't about turf anymore, he thought.
It's about what kind of man I'm becoming.
He pulled out his father's old ring from his pocket — rusted, engraved with a crescent moon. A relic of the past. Of shady deals and unspoken betrayals.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then put it on.
---
The Weight of Leadership
Khamzah knew the boy's death had shifted the balance.
He wasn't fighting for revenge anymore.
Not just for control.
But for the soul of the street.
And he knew — deep down — that this funeral wasn't the last.
It was the beginning.
---
Retaliation in the Smoke
The Hit
It started with a lighter.
A cheap one. Scratched plastic. Flicked three times by a man in a brown thobe who didn't belong on Al-Faraj Street.
The flame caught on a trail of gasoline that had been laid while the call to Fajr was still echoing through the minarets. By the time the fire kissed the side of the fruit stall, it wasn't just a message.
It was a declaration.
Flames licked up crates of oranges, dry cardboard, tarps, and finally the wooden balcony of old Haj Musa's shop. The explosion wasn't massive — but loud enough to wake the block and bring panic clawing up through the narrow alleyways like a tidal wave.
Basheer and two others were closest. They put the fire out before it consumed the building, but it didn't matter.
Everyone saw.
Everyone knew.
And the word spread before the smoke cleared.
> "It was Salim."
But that wasn't the point.
The point was Khamzah hadn't stopped it.
---
Back in the Butcher Shop
Khamzah's fists slammed the table.
> "He burned Musa's place? An old man who never picked a side? He's playing with fire for real now."
Basheer threw the burnt lighter on the table.
> "Left behind on purpose. No prints. Cheap. Bought in bulk — the kind Salim's boys hand out like candy."
Aadil said nothing. He was staring at a small girl crying in the doorway across the street. Smoke-blackened face. A bruised doll in her arms.
> "This won't end in words," Aadil said quietly.
---
The Gang Leader Enters: Salim's True Self
Later that day, in the dim heart of the Madina Souq, Salim sat on a plastic chair beneath a sagging ceiling fan. He wore black — always black. No gold, no chains, no unnecessary noise. His presence was his armor. He didn't shout. He whispered — and people moved.
He was in his fifties now, thick-armed, scarred jaw, half his teeth replaced with silver. Every word he spoke felt like the last word someone else would hear.
He looked at his lieutenant, Qasim, who brought news of the fire.
> "Khamzah still plays at rules," Qasim said with a crooked grin. "He won't hit back hard."
Salim shook his head slowly.
> "He will," he replied. "But not yet. He's a chess player. His pride won't let him strike until the moment looks righteous."
> "And when that moment comes?"
Salim smiled — a cracked, bloodless thing.
> "Then we'll burn something he can't rebuild."
---
Inside Salim's Mind: Motivation
Salim had once known Khamzah's father.
Not as friends. As rivals. As necessary evils. He remembered that boy — small, wide-eyed, hiding behind a pillar while his world fell apart. He'd let that boy live because dead children didn't serve anyone. But now that child had become a voice on the street.
And Salim hated voices.
He only respected echoes.
> "He thinks this is a war," Salim muttered to Qasim. "But it's a test. Of memory. Of blood. Of who this block truly belongs to."
He believed the streets remembered — and in his twisted way, he thought he was cleansing them. Removing the impure. Taking back control not out of greed, but out of a violent sense of order.
> "The block is broken," Salim said. "I'm just clearing the rot."
---
The Challenge
That night, a voice message spread across the street like a virus. Short. Grainy. Sent via burner phones and whispered over fences.
Salim's voice.
> "Tell Khamzah this:
The fire was a courtesy.
Next time, I burn the roots."
Betrayal in the Ranks
A Broken Lock and a Whisper
The air in the butcher shop basement was heavier than usual. The scent of blood from the hooks upstairs had long soaked into the walls, but now something else lingered — suspicion.
Khamzah stood over the steel desk, reviewing the inventory of weapons. Something was off.
> "Where's the extra magazine case?" he asked without looking up.
Basheer exchanged glances with Youssef.
> "It was there this morning," Youssef muttered.
Khamzah's hand tightened around the paper. His voice dropped.
> "So who had the keys last?"
Silence.
> "I did," said Aadil.
The others turned. Even the shadows seemed to step back.
---
Aadil's Strange Behavior
Over the past week, Aadil had grown distant. He stayed back during operations, avoided direct orders, and flinched at the mention of Salim's name. Khamzah noticed. He noticed everything now.
Aadil claimed exhaustion, but the street whispered louder than his excuses.
The turning point came three nights earlier, after the checkpoint fire. Aadil had slipped away for hours — claiming to scout routes. But now, ammunition was missing, and a coded location had been leaked.
> "Tell me you didn't," Khamzah said, voice low.
Aadil didn't respond.
> "Tell me you didn't give them our hideout."
> "I didn't… exactly—"
Khamzah moved fast. He slammed Aadil against the brick wall with one arm across his throat. The others reached for weapons, but paused — waiting.
> "You were my brother," Khamzah hissed. "You are my brother."
> "He said he'd spare us if I just gave him one thing," Aadil choked. "Just one location. One name."
> "He lied," Khamzah growled.
Aadil looked ashamed. And afraid.
> "I didn't think it would matter… just one piece. One time."
> "It always starts with one."
---
The Crew Reacts
Basheer wanted him dead. Youssef too. Even the younger boys started to surround Aadil with clenched jaws and quiet fury.
But Khamzah raised a hand.
> "We don't kill family."
> "He stopped being family when he opened his mouth to Salim," Basheer spat.
Khamzah stared at Aadil. The weight of leadership pressing into his shoulders.
> "Exile him. Strip him. He walks out with nothing. If he ever steps back into this quarter…"
> "What?" Aadil asked, voice cracking.
> "Then I won't stop them," Khamzah said coldly. "And I won't bury you either."
---
Aadil's Exit
At dawn, Aadil left Al-Faraj quarter. No one spoke. No one followed. He didn't carry a bag — just the clothes on his back and the mark of betrayal like ash on his soul.
As he disappeared into the sunlit streets, Khamzah stood at the rooftop, watching.
> This is what power costs, he thought. Not just blood. But pieces of yourself.
And far across the rooftops, a raven circled.
A sign.
War was closer than ever.
Midnight Deal
The Alley of Thieves
The street was narrow, flanked by shuttered shops and rusted window grates. Midnight in Al-Malaz district felt like another world — older, dirtier, and always watching.
Khamzah walked alone, hood up, hands tucked inside his thobe. The Glock was holstered beneath his garment, close to his ribs. Just in case.
The meeting had been arranged in whispers — through three middlemen, a burner phone, and a boy who didn't speak Arabic. Everything pointed to a trap.
Still, Khamzah showed up.
He had to.
---
The Contact
The man waiting in the alley wasn't Salim.
He was older. Pale Saudi skin, dyed beard, Turkish coat with a prayer bead looped around one hand. Eyes sharp — not street, but political. Government, or worse.
> "You came," the man said. "That's rare for someone in your… position."
> "I'm not in a position," Khamzah replied. "I'm in a war."
The man chuckled. "Good. Then let's talk like generals."
---
The Offer
The man laid it out quickly.
He represented a third interest — not police, not gang.
They wanted Salim out, but couldn't move directly.
They could supply weapons. Intelligence. Protection for limited engagements.
In exchange: control. Influence. A favor owed in the future.
Khamzah felt the pressure mount. It wasn't just street politics anymore. This was stepping into the long game — where names got erased, and debts outlived the people who made them.
> "Why me?" Khamzah asked.
The man smiled thinly. "Because you're not greedy yet. And that makes you useful."
---
The Choice
Khamzah didn't answer right away.
He stared at the darkness behind the man. Thought of Aadil. Of the boy in the grave. Of his mother — dead in her kitchen all those years ago.
He thought of his father's last words: If you play a dirty game, don't cry when your hands get bloody.
> "If I say yes," Khamzah said finally, "I want one thing."
> "Name it."
> "Salim's real supplier. The one even he bows to."
The man's smile didn't break, but something shifted behind his eyes.
> "Now you're thinking like a boss."
He extended his hand. Khamzah looked at it, then shook it.
> So it begins.
---
The Price of Power
As Khamzah walked away, his fingers curled into fists in the shadows of his cloak. The line between survival and sovereignty was vanishing.
He was no longer just defending his corner.
He was becoming a player in a deeper game.
And deep games always came with deep graves.
---
The Turning Point
Rain Over Al-Faraj
It rained for the first time in months.
Not heavy, but steady — as if the skies themselves were cleansing the blood-soaked dust from Al-Faraj. The puddles reflected dim lights and shattered lives. From the rooftop, Khamzah watched the drops paint rust-colored streaks across the concrete.
He had barely slept since the midnight deal.
The offer weighed on him more than he expected. The handshake still burned in his palm. Power, it seemed, didn't come all at once. It crept — like mold in old walls.
---
The Message
Basheer found him just after dawn, soaked and shivering.
> "A body," he said breathlessly. "Hanging. At the checkpoint."
Khamzah's face didn't move, but inside, something cracked.
---
The Scene
They walked together in silence to the checkpoint on the edge of their turf. A crowd had gathered but kept distance. On the electric pole, a young boy's body dangled — hung with barbed wire, mouth stuffed with a candy wrapper.
It was the younger brother of the boy who died in the fire.
Salim had sent a message.
Not just to Khamzah.
But to the whole quarter: You are nothing. Not even your children matter.
---
Khamzah's Breaking Point
He didn't cry. Not this time. He didn't shout or command. He stood in the rain until the body was cut down, and the puddles turned red beneath his feet.
And then he walked.
Not to his home.
Not to the butcher shop.
But to the old textile warehouse. The one the midnight man had shown him on a map.
It was stocked. Just as promised — crates of Kalashnikovs, bulletproof vests, radios, foreign cigarettes. A private war waiting to be claimed.
---
The Declaration
That night, Khamzah called every lieutenant, every street captain, every runner and courier to the warehouse.
He stood on a crate, soaked to the bone, voice raw.
> "We don't wait for death anymore," he said. "We send it first."
> "No more lines. No more truces."
> "Salim drew blood. We flood the streets with it."
They raised fists. Some shouted. Others simply nodded, eyes burning.
It wasn't about drugs anymore.
Or money.
This was war.
---
From Survivor to Storm
Khamzah stepped into the warehouse office. Closed the door. Faced himself in a dusty mirror.
He no longer saw a boy trying to survive his father's sins.
He saw a man willing to rewrite the rules of power — no matter the price.
And with a single breath, he whispered:
> "It's time they feared my name."