Pressure Points
Khamzah shut the door behind Ranya and locked it twice.
She stood near the window, arms crossed, head down. Her scarf had slipped off her shoulder, revealing a faint scar near her jaw — a scar he remembered from when they were kids. Back when things were simpler. Before the blood.
"How do you know?" he asked.
Ranya looked up, her eyes wet but sharp. "My brother works under Faraj. He heard your name."
"He told you?"
She nodded. "He said it like a warning."
Khamzah paced the room, barefoot on the cold tile, mind running through every possible angle. Ziyad had sent him. Faraj had paid him. But someone had watched — and someone had spoken.
He had barely started, and already the walls were whispering.
"What did your brother say, exactly?"
"That Ziyad's testing you. That the envelope you delivered wasn't a message. It was a signal."
Khamzah stopped. "Signal for what?"
Ranya hesitated. Then: "For them to move on a rival. Someone's warehouse was burned this morning. A turf marker. They think you're loyal now."
Loyal.
The word hit like a slap.
He wasn't loyal to anyone. Not yet. Not ever, if he could help it. But now his name was tied to a hit, and the money in the floorboard was soaked in someone else's fire.
"I didn't sign up for this," he muttered.
"You did," Ranya snapped. "The second you said yes."
The silence between them stretched — not cold, not angry. Heavy.
She softened her voice. "I'm not judging you. Just... be careful. You think you're moving up, but you're being pulled in."
Khamzah looked out the window. The sky was bleeding orange with the coming dawn. The call to Fajr was minutes away. Another prayer, another lie on his lips.
"Tell your brother," he said, "I owe him nothing."
"I will," Ranya replied, pulling her scarf tighter.
As she reached the door, she paused. "But they'll come back. With more."
Khamzah didn't answer.
She left quietly, the sound of her sandals fading down the concrete stairwell.
He turned back to the biscuit tin. The money was still there. Still real.
But now it had a price.
And blood always demands its receipt.
Smoke on the Rooftop
The sun had barely crested the skyline when Khamzah climbed to the rooftop of his building — his usual thinking place.
From up there, the city looked almost peaceful. The mosque domes below shimmered in the morning heat, minarets casting long shadows over tin roofs and broken satellite dishes. But he knew better.
Beneath every silence in Al-Batha, there was tension.
He lit a cigarette and leaned against the rusted water tank, the same one he'd sat by since he was thirteen. Back then, he used to dream about escaping — joining the military, becoming a pilot, building something clean with his hands. Now all he built were secrets.
The money was real.
Ranya's warning was realer.
And now he needed answers.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
He didn't answer. It rang again.
Finally, he picked up.
> "You ready for your second job?" a voice asked. Deep. Calm. Ziyad.
Khamzah didn't reply.
> "Faraj said you didn't panic. That's good. That's rare."
"What's the job?" Khamzah asked.
> "Collection. Old man owes. You'll go with Aadil. Don't speak unless asked. Don't swing unless necessary."
"Location?"
> "Al-Hindiyah Street. Back of the paint shop. 9 p.m."
The line cut.
Khamzah flicked the cigarette away and watched the ash fall four stories down. He hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, but his mind was clear. He wasn't being used — he was learning.
Every job was a lesson. Every mistake, a message.
But this wasn't just about making money anymore.
This was about building a name.
And names needed fear behind them.
He stayed on the rooftop a little longer, memorizing the shape of the streets, the way the sun carved lines through the dust.
Tonight would be his first collection.
Not a message.
Not a favor.
Pressure.
And the way you applied pressure told the world exactly who you were becoming.
The Collection
The paint shop was a forgotten hole wedged between a shuttered cafe and a fruit stall. The sign overhead was cracked and faded, peeling like the promises made inside.
Khamzah and Aadil stood across the street, watching.
Aadil lit a cigarette, flicked the lighter twice, and exhaled a slow cloud of smoke. "This place?" he said, voice low. "Owner's name's Rashid. Owes Ziyad a hefty sum. Doesn't like paying."
Khamzah nodded but said nothing.
"Listen," Aadil continued, "it's not just about the money. It's about respect. You show up, you collect, you leave a message. Understand?"
"Message?" Khamzah asked.
"Yeah. Like a mark on their skin. So everyone knows who's running things."
The street was silent except for the distant hum of a late-night vendor packing up crates.
Aadil dropped his cigarette and crushed it underfoot. "Let's move."
They crossed the road, boots echoing on cracked pavement. Khamzah kept his eyes sharp, fingers brushing the small knife tucked in his belt.
The door to the paint shop was ajar. Inside, the smell of chemicals mixed with stale sweat and desperation.
Rashid, a stocky man with tired eyes and a twitch in his jaw, looked up from a counter cluttered with unpaid bills and empty cans.
"Evening," Aadil said, voice smooth but firm. "Ziyad sends his regards."
Rashid's eyes flicked to Khamzah, then back to Aadil. "You're kids," he spat. "Can't scare me."
Khamzah stepped forward, voice steady but cold. "We're not here to scare. We're here to collect."
Rashid laughed, harsh and short. "And if I don't pay?"
Aadil's hand rested lightly on the butt of his concealed pistol. "Then Ziyad sends someone who doesn't ask questions."
Rashid's smile faltered. Sweat broke on his brow.
Khamzah reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper — the same seal from the envelope.
"This," he said, "is your warning."
Rashid's face went pale.
Without another word, he pulled out a wad of cash, counting quickly and handing it over.
Aadil nodded approvingly. "Good. You're learning."
Khamzah felt the weight of the moment settle — this was more than just money. It was power. Fear. Respect.
As they left, Aadil clapped Khamzah on the shoulder, a rare gesture.
"Not bad for a rookie. Keep your head, and you'll go far."
Khamzah said nothing, but inside, the fire burned brighter.
Shadows Move
The streets didn't sleep — not really.
Even under the thick night sky, Al-Batha pulsed with quiet whispers and unseen eyes. Word traveled fast. Too fast.
Khamzah and Aadil returned from the paint shop job, the weight of the cash heavy but the weight of attention heavier.
Aadil's phone buzzed as they rounded the corner. He glanced down, then back up, voice low.
"Message from Ziyad. Someone's talking. A rival gang — the Qureishi crew — they don't like new players stepping in."
Khamzah felt a cold edge slice through his chest. This wasn't just business anymore. This was war.
Aadil lit a cigarette, smoke curling in the night air. "They think you're weak. A kid playing big."
Khamzah's jaw tightened. "Let them think what they want."
"But they won't wait to test you."
They slipped into a nearby café, the kind that stayed open late, serving cheap tea and cheaper secrets.
Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and half-truths. Aadil's contacts were already there — faces worn by street fights and lost chances.
One of them, a wiry man named Sami, leaned forward. "Qureishi sent a message. They're moving on Faraj's territory. They want blood."
Aadil's eyes darkened. "Faraj is Ziyad's right hand. If they hit him, we all burn."
Khamzah clenched his fists. This was bigger than him. But he wasn't about to back down.
"If they want war," Khamzah said quietly, "I'll give them hell."
Aadil nodded, respect flashing in his eyes. "You're learning fast."
---
Enter the Rival: Salim Qureishi
Far away in a dimly lit room filled with smoke and the clink of empty tea glasses sat Salim Qureishi — the man whose name made even hardened men flinch.
Salim was in his early 30s, sharp-featured with dark eyes that burned like coals. His jaw was strong, his stare cold — the kind that saw every weakness and waited to exploit it.
Born into the fractured edges of the city's underworld, Salim had clawed his way up with ruthless ambition. For him, power wasn't just survival — it was revenge.
Years ago, his family's turf had been carved up and stolen during a gang war that left scars no money could heal. Faraj's network had pushed into what Salim called his birthright. Every day without reclaiming it was a reminder of the blood spilled.
Salim was patient but deadly — a snake coiled tight, waiting to strike. He didn't waste bullets or words. Every move was calculated, every hit surgical.
He didn't see Khamzah as just a threat.
He saw him as an interloper — a boy playing at a man's game.
A challenge to be crushed before it grew.
Salim tapped ash from his cigarette and smiled thinly.
"Let them come," he murmured. "The boy wants war. I'll teach him how it's really done."
---
Back at the café, Khamzah caught a flicker of movement in the window — a shadow slipping away into the night.
Enemies were already watching.
And in this game, the first strike was often the last.
First Strike
The air was thick with tension, but the city's night sounds never truly stopped — a distant honk, the shuffle of feet, whispered curses.
Khamzah crouched low on the rooftop, fingers wrapped tightly around the cool metal of his pistol. Below, the glowing ember of the fire had turned into smoldering ruins, but the wounds in Al-Batha's underworld were fresh and bleeding.
He glanced at Aadil, who was perched nearby, scanning the shadows with a practiced eye. The older man had seen more nights like this than Khamzah had fingers, and his calm was the only thing steady in the chaos.
"Salim's not just hitting us to hurt," Aadil said quietly. "He's sending a message."
Khamzah nodded, flicking a fresh cigarette to life. "What's the message?"
Aadil exhaled a plume of smoke. "That we're weak. That this neighborhood is his to take and that anyone who stands in his way will burn."
The word burn hung in the air, heavier than the smoke drifting around them.
Khamzah thought of the money tucked beneath the loose floorboard in his flat — the money that marked the first step out of poverty, the first step into power. But power, he now understood, was a double-edged blade.
---
Back at Faraj's Warehouse: The Aftermath
Inside the half-destroyed warehouse, Faraj stood with his closest lieutenants. The building smelled of ash and despair, a harsh contrast to the usual sharp scent of oil and metal.
"Salim's move was calculated," Faraj said, voice low but resolute. "He wants to dismantle us piece by piece."
Sami, the wiry information broker, handed Faraj a cracked phone screen. "We intercepted chatter. Salim's men are planning a hit — bigger than the fire. Something that will shake the entire network."
Faraj's eyes narrowed. "We need eyes everywhere. We can't afford to be caught off guard."
From the corner, Ranya's brother shifted nervously. "If Salim's serious, we're sitting on a powder keg."
Faraj's gaze swept the room. "Then we light the fuse first. No more waiting."
---
The Plan Forms
Back on the rooftop, Khamzah and Aadil laid out their strategy. The stakes were higher than ever.
"We hit their shipments," Aadil repeated. "Cut off their flow. Hit their pockets."
Khamzah frowned. "And if they come after us?"
"We hit harder. We fight smarter. We don't back down."
The city stretched below them, a maze of concrete and steel — and shadows that moved like ghosts.
---
Inner Conflict
That night, as Khamzah returned to his small flat, the weight of his choices pressed down on him. He sat on the floor, the biscuit tin with money beside him. The flames in Al-Batha were not just outside — they were inside him too.
Memories surfaced — his family, the night that changed everything. The boy who ran and hid, the man who now carried a gun and debts.
Was this who he was meant to be?
Or was he something more?
He lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling, smoke twisting like questions in the dark.
The Night Grows Darker
Khamzah's flat was cramped and dimly lit — a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting weak light over cracked walls. The city noises filtered in through the cracked window: distant prayers, the faint roar of traffic, the restless murmur of a neighborhood that never truly slept.
He sat at the edge of his mattress, rubbing his temples. The pistol lay on the floor beside him, cold and heavy.
A knock came at the door — sharp, urgent.
He froze, then reached slowly for the handle.
Aadil slipped inside without waiting for an invitation, eyes alert, his presence like a shield.
"Trouble," Aadil said, voice low.
Khamzah's heart hammered. "What now?"
Aadil tossed a folded piece of paper on the floor. Khamzah unfolded it, eyes scanning the scribbled message:
"They're coming for you. Salim's men. Midnight. Near Al-Salem Park."
Khamzah folded it back, jaw tight.
"You ready?"
He didn't answer.
He couldn't afford to.
---
The Midnight Ambush
Near Al-Salem Park, the night was thick and quiet, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine and dust.
Khamzah and Aadil waited in the shadows, backs pressed against the rough stone wall of a shuttered shop. The pistol felt alive in Khamzah's grip, every muscle taut.
Minutes passed like hours.
Then, footsteps.
Low voices.
A figure emerged — a young man, dressed in black, eyes scanning the street.
Aadil whispered, "Salim's scouts."
Khamzah's breath steadied.
Suddenly, more figures spilled from the darkness — fast, silent, ghosts ready to strike.
The alley erupted.
The Fight
Khamzah's first instinct was survival.
He fired once — sharp crack in the night.
Aadil was beside him, fists swinging with brutal precision.
The sound of metal hitting metal, grunts, and curses filled the air.
Khamzah moved with surprising speed, ducking, weaving, the pistol steady in his hand.
A figure lunged.
Khamzah parried, then slammed his fist into the attacker's jaw.
Pain exploded, but he didn't stop.
Adrenaline surged.
This was no longer a test.
This was war.
---
Aftermath
Breathing hard, Khamzah and Aadil stood over the scattered forms of Salim's scouts.
"We made a statement," Aadil said, eyes scanning the street.
Khamzah felt a bitter taste — victory, but also the cold certainty that the retaliation would be worse.
They vanished into the night, knowing the game had only just begun.
---
Alone with Shadows
Back in his flat, Khamzah stared at the pistol, then at the money.
Blood and cash, intertwined.
His reflection caught in the cracked window — a boy shaped by fire, ready to become a boss.
Crossroads
The first light of dawn seeped through the cracked windowpane, casting a pale glow over Khamzah's small flat. The city was waking — the distant call to prayer weaving through the air, mixing with the hum of early vendors setting up their stalls.
But inside, Khamzah felt the weight of the night pressing down on him.
His body ached — muscles tight from the fight, nerves frayed from the tension. Yet it was the quiet inside that unsettled him most.
Aadil had left hours ago, vanishing into the waking streets, leaving behind only a whispered warning:
"Watch your back. Salim won't stop."
Khamzah sat on the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on the pistol resting on the floor beside the biscuit tin full of money. They felt like strangers in this room — symbols of a world he'd stepped into but didn't fully understand.
His mind drifted back to the past — the night his family was taken from him, the silence he'd buried beneath layers of pain and survival.
He remembered his mother's voice, soft and desperate: "Trust no one, Khamzah."
But here he was, trusting a gun and the loyalty of a man like Aadil.
Was this what trust looked like now?
The question twisted in his gut.
A Visit From the Past
A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.
Khamzah's heart jumped.
He opened the door to find Ranya standing there, eyes tired but steady. She stepped inside without waiting.
"I heard," she said softly. "About the fire. The fight."
Khamzah nodded, motioning for her to sit.
She looked around, her gaze lingering on the pistol. "This isn't you."
He shrugged. "It's the only thing keeping me alive."
Ranya's voice was firm. "There's another way. You don't have to become what they expect."
Khamzah looked away, anger bubbling beneath the surface. "And what? Go back to nothing? To being a scared kid hiding from the world?"
She reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "No. To being yourself. To building something real."
He swallowed, the fight inside him faltering for a moment.
Decision
Later, alone again, Khamzah stood by the window, watching the city stir.
He knew the path ahead was dangerous — filled with enemies and betrayal.
But he also knew he had a choice.
To be the boy who ran and hid.
Or the man who stood —
who fought —
who became a boss.
He clenched his fists.
The sun rose higher, casting light on a new day.
And Khamzah made his decision.