The sun is high over the coast, and from where I'm standing, horizon is crystal clear. I lean down slightly to set the plastic bowls on weathered wooden table, my blue-tinted sunglasses catching glint of the waves.
"Chill the heat." , flashing a grin as I slide the first bowl.
The shaved ice is piled high, drenched in palm sugar syrup and coconut milk, with those bright green droplets of jelly peeking through. I take my seat, still towering a bit even while sitting, and pick up my spoon.
The world seemed to drop away toward the shoreline, making stretch of white sand look like a pristine ribbon of salt.
"You know Malik," he murmured, his voice dropping to low, appreciative hum. "The water out there... it's the exact same shade as these lenses. I can't tell where the sky ends and the ocean begins."
Beach was strangely, beautifully vacant. There was no roar of engines or shouting tourists—just heavy, rhythmic thrum-hush of tide pulling at the shells....
The atmosphere between them grew thick with a comfortable, salt-aired silence. The only break in the quiet was the synchronized, rhythmic scraping of plastic spoons against the bottom of their bowls, echoing like small, sharp heartbeats as they hunted for the last bits of shaved ice.
The silence was perfect, broken only by the rhythmic scritch-scritch of Arash's spoon hunting for the last bits of green jelly at the bottom of the bowl.
"You're really fighting that bowl, Rush,"with a quiet, dry chuckle to him. "If you scrape any harder, you're gonna go right through the table."
I leaned back, my long frame taking up most of the bench as I let out a slow, heavy sigh. From my height, the view was incredible—the white sand stretched out like a blank canvas, and the ocean was a deep, vivid blue that matched my lenses perfectly. I felt completely at peace, the heat of the sun balanced by the icy bowl in my hands.
"The beach isn't going anywhere, Rush," I murmured, watching the tide pull at the shells. "And neither is the sugar. Just take it in."
I closed my eyes for a second, soaking in the salt air. The silence was heavy and comfortable, but as the crunch of sand grew closer from all sides, I knew the peace had officially expired.
"What we gonna do?" Arash asked. His voice was flat, almost bored, as he scraped the last bit of ice from his bowl. He didn't even look up at the shadows closing in.
"Give them the first turn," I murmured, keeping my head tilted back.
From the treeline, a heavy voice broke the rhythm of the waves. "Nice of you to stay seated. Saves us the trouble of chasing you down."
I opened my eyes slowly, looking through my blue lenses as six men stepped out from the palms, forming a tight, jagged circle around our table. They were armed, their knuckles white as they gripped lead pipes and jagged blades.
"Okay."
***
The air was a stagnant soup of expensive tobacco and the sharp, acidic bite of whiskey, clinging to the lungs of the three men huddled around the low table. The amber light flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced against the damp concrete walls.
The heavy iron door at the top of the stairs groaned, followed by the slow, uneven thud of boots. Till descended into the room. He didn't rush. He didn't speak. He simply moved into the light, his shoulders hunched as if the ceiling were physically pressing down on him. He sat at the edge of the circle, staring at a knot in the wood of the table with a hollow, disturbed intensity.
"Till," one of them rasped, not even bothering to look up as he slid a tumbler of whiskey across the scarred wood. "Let me guess. The same order? Still chasing that shadow?"
Till didn't reach for the drink. His hands remained flat on the table, his fingers perfectly still, though his knuckles were white. He looked at the glass, then at the men, his expression unreadable but deeply unsettled.
"The same order. But they should just give up on him. Haibat Al-Zar... that family name used to mean something. Now? It's just a corpse they refuse to bury. It's long gone,Warden."
He looked at the amber liquid in the glass, his eyes dark with a quiet, lingering dread. "Their last seed is out there, wandering a world that's moved on, just minding his own business. It's been three years. We're burning through our best people, sending high-potential recruits into the dark to find a ghost that doesn't want to be found. We aren't hunting a man anymore. Till's voice dropped an octave, dripping with a quiet, bitter exhaustion. "We aren't hunting a man anymore. We're just sacrificing lives to a memory to a king that doesn't exist.".
The man at the head of the table leaned forward, the light catching the predatory sharpness of his features. "But isn't that exactly what makes it Till? To be the last one? To survive three years in the 'Roulette' without a House. that's a pedigree that could rewrite the power balance of this city."
The Boss didn't flinch. He just watched the way the amber light died in Till's eyes. Then, the silence was shattered by the sharp, jagged vibration of a phone on the wood.
"Speak," he murmured.
He didn't say another word. He just sat there, the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the static and the voice on the other end. As the seconds ticked by, the light in his eyes—that flickering amber warmth—seemed to go out entirely. He looked like a man watching a slow-motion car crash, unable to turn away.
The other men watched him, their breath held. They saw the moment the reality shifted. Till's jaw tightened, a small muscle leaping in his cheek, and he closed his eyes as if bracing for an impact.
He pulled the phone away and let it drop onto the table with a hollow clack. He didn't look at the whiskey anymore. He looked directly at the Boss.
"Entrance," Till said. His voice wasn't panicked; it was flat, drained of all hope, and chillingly certain.
The Boss didn't say a word. He just turned, his coat sweeping the floor as he headed for the stairs. Behind him, the basement emptied out—a silent, dark tide of underlings rising from the shadows of the room, their hands instinctively hovering over the grips of their holstered weapons. The thud of their boots on the wooden steps sounded like a drum roll for an execution.
They reached the upper level, a vast, hollowed-out warehouse space. At the far end stood the main barrier: not a standard door, but a massive, industrial steel garage door that acted as the mouth of the lair.
As the heavy steel curtain rose, the world outside was revealed in jagged horizontal slices. First, the asphalt. Then, the glint of chrome. Finally, the moonlight hit the floor, silver and sharp as a blade, slicing through the stagnant indoor air.
Malik stood there, silhouetted against the night, a monolith that seemed to hold up the sky. Beside him, the mud-streaked truck idled, its engine a low, rhythmic heartbeat that harmonized with the grinding of the door.
The bag hit the concrete with a wet, visceral thud.
It didn't just land; it traveled, sliding with a sickening, rhythmic friction across the smooth floor. It trailed a thick, steaming smear of deep crimson—blood shimmering like liquid rubies under the moonlight. The trail stopped with surgical precision right between the two sides, the smell of iron rising to meet the gangsters like a physical wave, thick and suffocating.
Malik took a single step forward, crossing the threshold into the warehouse. The moonlight caught the blue of his lenses, turning his gaze into two cold, glowing stars. His voice was a low, melodic rumble that felt like it was coming from the very earth beneath their feet.
"O' world of Sicario Roulette," he murmured, his presence expanding until it swallowed the room whole. "Here I stand."
The Boss, standing at the very edge of the fresh blood-trail, didn't move. He just looked at the mess, then up at the giant, his jagged grin stretching wider.
"If the opportunity comes to you," the Boss whispered, his eyes gleaming with a manic light, "then it's meant to be."