The voice of the old woman cut through the narrow flat like a knife.
"Dirty money again, Rafique? You think we eat well because God blessed us? No! You shame your father's name every time you bring this filth inside!"
Rafique clenched his jaw, fists stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. His sister sat small at the table, eyes down, not daring to speak.
"I told you—I'm doing what I have to," he muttered. "College isn't free. Food isn't free. Nothing is free."
The woman's voice cracked, high with rage. "Better starve with dignity than eat with blood on your hands!"
He didn't argue further. He pushed past, the sting of her words still burning as he stepped into the elevator. The ride down was silent except for the thrum of his pulse. When he reached his car, the streetlight gleamed on something white tucked beneath his wiper. A note.
Two words, written in neat block letters: Lovely home.
Rafique's stomach dropped. He spun on his heel, hand already brushing the grip of his gun. He shoved the elevator button until the doors yawned open, riding back up two steps from breaking into a sprint.
The flat was too quiet when he entered.
His eyes swept fast — the nanny wasn't in the kitchen, wasn't scolding, wasn't anywhere. He moved straight for the bedroom and froze. She lay neatly on the bed, shoes off, tucked like a child at rest. Her chest rose steady. Alive. But unconscious.
In the living room, a man sat with his back to him. Broad shoulders, wolf-cut hair silvered by the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. He didn't move when Rafique entered.
Rafique's mouth went dry. The muzzle of his gun wavered. "…Wolfgang."
"She's fine," the man said. His voice was deep, calm, certain. "She's asleep. I made sure."
Rafique raised his gun anyway, sweat slicking his palms.
"You should put the gun down," Arash said quietly. "You won't need it for what comes next."
On the coffee table between them sat a plain envelope. The stranger nudged it forward with a finger. "Open it."
Rafique's throat tightened. He stepped closer, picked it up, and slid the photos free.
He stopped breathing.
His heart clattered in his chest. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeve and showed the mark inked into his skin: a crow bound in broken chains. His voice shook. "I'm with the Cleaners. High seat. If this goes through, there'll be consequences. They'll come for you."
Arash finally turned his head. His eyes were flat, measuring. "That's what makes this clean," he said. "You know how they move. And you know I can climb back from anything. Numbers don't lie. You're here because of me."
Rafique's hand trembled on the pistol. He set it down slow on the armrest, like letting go of something heavier than he could hold. His voice cracked into a whisper. "And my family? What about them?"
Arash didn't blink. "Depends. If they know the truth, they'll be disposed too."
Rafique's shoulders sagged, air rushing out of him like the fight was gone. He nodded, just once. "Then I'll make my last preparations."
The letter sat on the table in the morning light.
"I won't be coming back. Don't look for me. Don't wait. The life I lived was mine alone. Stay clean. Stay far. Forget my name. Remember only that I tried."
The nanny's hands shook as she read it. His sister pressed her face into her palms, muffling sobs. The paper stayed on the table, wet with tears that smudged his last line.
Rafique walked alone to the memorial wall. A stone slab hidden in the quiet of the city, names carved deep into its face — assassins, enforcers, cleaners, all reduced to the same hollow grooves.
He ran his thumb across the letters, tracing the lives already gone. His breath came long and steady, the kind of breath that steadies your hands when you know they'll soon be empty.
Behind him, a shadow fell. He didn't turn. He'd accepted what was coming.
"There'll be consequences," he said softly, one last echo of warning.
The shot cracked the night. Clean. Ordinary.
Rafique slid down the wall, folding like a man settling into a chair. His body went still beneath the names, another story reduced to stone.
Arash stood a while longer, pistol low, face unreadable. Then he turned and walked into the dark, leaving silence to bury the rest.
-END OF CHAPTER-