The auction hall shimmered under golden chandeliers, velvet curtains draped against the walls. A hundred silent faces turned toward the glass case at the center of the stage. Inside, resting on black satin, was a bracelet once worn by Queen Victoria herself.
The auctioneer lifted his hammer.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we begin the bidding at three million dollars."
Hands shot up. Voices called out.
"Four million!"
"Six!"
"Ten million!"
The numbers rose higher, climbing like fire. Each shout echoed in the grand hall until the room gasped at forty-two million.
"Forty-two million," the auctioneer boomed. "Going once… going twice…"
And then it happened.
From the middle row, a calm, steady voice cut through the hall.
"One hundred and fifty million."
The crowd turned as one. A man sat there, hand raised, his gaze unwavering. Murmurs rippled through the audience, some in shock, others in awe. Who was this man who dared throw down a fortune like spare change?
The auctioneer stammered, barely believing his ears. "O-one hundred and fifty million, ladies and gentlemen."
But before the hammer could fall, the lights flickered. A cold draft swept the room. Shadows seemed to twist, swallowing the air.
And then, silence.
The man was gone. So was the bracelet. The chair where he had sat moments ago was empty, like he had never existed at all.
The world would remember the name he gave that night: Dahaf.
But beneath the mask, beneath the shadows, he was someone else.
He was Fahad.
The news exploded across every screen before midnight. Vanished in plain sight. A man who called himself Dahaf had outbid the world with a single shout, and then dissolved into nothing, bracelet in hand.
Security guards rewound the footage a hundred times. No tricks. No wires. No secret exits. The cameras showed him sitting in his chair one second, and the next… emptiness. As though the man had never been there at all.
The mystery only grew when a reporter, standing before the flashing lights of the police blockade, whispered the words that would spread like wildfire:
"He's not a thief. He's a gentleman. The Gentleman."
By dawn, the police combed through the auction hall, searching for evidence. But what they found was worse than silence.
At the exact spot where the bracelet had been displayed, it lay again—untouched, gleaming beneath the morning light. As if the thief had returned it, mocking them all.
Beside it was a single folded note.
On it, in sharp black ink, were the words:
"You can feel me.
But you can't see me."
It had been ten years since Farooq's death.
Now twenty years old, Fahad sat alone in his dimly lit living room, the silence heavy around him. A worn photograph rested in his hands, himself as a boy beside his smiling older brother. His eyes lingered on Farooq's face, and inside his mind a single vow burned:
"I will take revenge for you, brother."
Setting the picture gently on the table, Fahad walked to the kitchen, brewed himself a cup of coffee, and drank it in steady sips. Each taste was bitter, but not nearly as bitter as the loss he carried.
When the cup was empty, he pressed a hidden panel on the wall. The door slid open, revealing his secret room, dark, cold, filled with rows of computers and flickering monitors. He sank into the chair, his sharp eyes fixed on a live CCTV feed from a stranger's mansion.
Minutes passed. Plans unfolded in his mind.
Then Fahad stood. He opened a small drawer, pulled out a fake beard, and carefully fixed it to his face. Bit by bit, his features transformed. The young man vanished; in his place stood an old housekeeper, unremarkable, invisible to suspicion.
And with that disguise, The Gentleman walked out of his home, toward his next move.
Fahad had come prepared. A thin rope coiled neatly in his hand.
When the man opened the door, Fahad's disguise made him look harmless. "Housekeeping," he muttered quietly, stepping inside. The man barely glanced at him as he started tidying up.
Minutes passed. Fahad waited, calm, silent. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the rope shot forward. It wrapped tightly around the man's hands, securing itself as if by magic. Before he could react, Fahad pressed tape over his mouth. The man struggled, but the hold was firm.
Fahad sat down slowly, watching the terror in the officer's eyes. One hand moved to his face. The fake beard and makeup came off, revealing the young man beneath. Calmly, he whispered:
"Remember me?"
The officer's muffled voice tried to reply. "Who… who are you?"
"Ten years ago," Fahad said, his voice quiet, controlled, deadly, "a boy came to your station. He wanted help. His brother was dying. But you… you did nothing. Because of you… he died."
The officer's eyes widened as realization struck.
"Now," Fahad added, voice low but unyielding, "I am The Gentleman."
He removed the tape, letting the man scream, beg, plead, but Fahad merely stood and walked out the door.
The officer thought he had been spared. Relief flickered across his face.
Then a small click echoed from the street. A red light blinked on Fahad's remote. A distant rumble. The house shook. Fire and debris erupted in an instant. The officer's scream was cut short, swallowed by the flames.
Fahad walked away, untouched, unshaken. The Gentleman had struck again.
To Be Continued.