Meanwhile, in the office, Samir stamps documents at his desk.
His desk lies in the corner, so the lighting is very faint. Then he hears a whistle and turns his head.
"Hey, Samir, come take a look at this," Cyrus, the old captain, uttered.
"I'm busy at the moment, uncle. I'm listening," Samir said.
"It's important," Cyrus said. His voice echoed throughout the room when he insisted upon it.
Slowly, Samir got up and walked toward his desk. On top of it, a red object lay on a stack of papers.
"What is that, Samir?" Cyrus asked.
"It's a flare gun," he responded.
"Correct. It's just a flare gun. It's the same flare gun. Yet it does what no flare should do. The more I look at this thing, the more nothing makes sense."
Samir peered closer. To him, it looked ordinary. But he knew that was far from the truth. "How do you know the flare was the reason it was killed?" he asked.
"Any other explanation wouldn't make it easier to grasp," Cyrus muttered. "But Samir, take a closer look."
He handed the gun to Samir, and he inspected it—the barrel, the handle. Then he spotted it. The handle was coated in black, cracked. Looking inside the barrel, it was filled with a charcoal color.
"How is that possible? I've never seen a flare do such a thing," he said.
"Whether the boy handled it right or wrong, it shouldn't do that. And there wasn't anything that modified it. And that's not everything," Cyrus said, grabbing something out of his pocket.
He laid it on the table—a black piece of ammunition. It engulfed the dim lights above it.
"I took this out of the barrel, and it looked melted. It leaked a black charcoal that almost turned it to dust," Cyrus commented.
"Is that supposed to be a bullet?" Samir asked.
Cyrus sighed, adjusting himself in his seat. "Most likely. But that's not what stumps me. What stumps me is these situations all revolving around the boy . . ."
"Do you think any of it could've been prevented?" Samir asked.
". . . Everything I've done was necessary," Cyrus responded coldly.
Samir changed the subject, bringing a chair to the desk. "But what about the bullet? How can that be explained, then?"
Cyrus gulped. "All I know is that whatever it is, it's more than what it makes out to be."
"Do you think Malik is at fault?" Samir asked.
"There are a lot of things about that boy that surprise me. But I'm not the only one that's surprised."
Samir grabbed the charcoal bullet. "Did we have this in our supply?"
"We did. Just not like that," Cyrus answered.
. . .
They were both silent for a brief moment, staring at the gun.
Leaning back in his seat, Samir accidentally dropped the bullet from his hand.
Going to pick it up, he saw it.
Sizzle.
The bullet melted into a small puddle, bubbling, seeping within.
"Uncle. Take a look at this," Samir said worriedly.
Cyrus looked at it. "We definitely did not own something like that. And even if we did, it must've come from a source that cackled in the face of all morale."
"You speak of this like you've seen it before. You don't think that he created it, right?" Samir asked.
"No. But I think it called to him, like many things in his life," Cyrus shook his head lightly.
"Things have been getting worse every day. It's hard to live with clean hands—even harder to live with bloody ones," Samir uttered.
"What are you implying, Samir?"
"What I mean is that things can't be perfect for much longer. You, of all people, should know best, uncle."
". . . Ahh, Samir. You seem to have a point. Maybe I did want things to be perfect. Here, I have control. Take me anywhere else, and I'm a grain of sand in a pool of blood. Now, is it too much to ask if I just wanted my son, my crew, to be safe?"
Silent, Samir stared at the empty barrel of the flare gun.
"I've seen boys like mine before. One that chose to lather his hands in blood. When there was a time I couldn't be there for him, it was already too late."
"Elaborate, uncle," Samir leaned in closer.
"I met him at a military gathering when Malik was young. He was around your age, I'd say. He was a general already, holding a prosperous future. We became good friends, and I even gave him the offer to join my crew. He politely declined, which I understood."
". . . But when I didn't have my eyes on him, he went on a mission. The last time I spoke to him, I could tell he had already died. That boy I knew was no more."
Samir asked softly, "What happened to him?"
"I couldn't tell you. What I can tell you is that I wouldn't have let him fall as far as he did. I wonder sometimes what could've happened if I convinced him to come here. But those are only fantasies at the end of the day," Cyrus muttered.
Samir stared at the floor. It, too, crumbled.
"Do you see now, Samir? It took one bad day on his own for him to fall. I can't allow another."
". . ."
"Even if my boy hates me now, at least I was given the chance to shape him. If it meant him hating me instead of the world like the other one did, then I'd be alright with it. No matter how deep the wound is carved into me."
Samir palmed his face, taking a deep breath. "Do you think it will all be worth it in the end?"
"I'd rather him become wicked on my accord than his very own. Because then, I could at least blame myself and know that I tried. Letting him out there would mean that I have given up on him."
He paused. "In what realm would any good father give up, Samir?"