The First Strike
The morning sky over Al-Faraj was gray — not with clouds, but with smoke.
Three fires burned across the district. Small ones, controlled, but symbolic. A signal to everyone watching.
Khamzah had made his move.
---
The Plan Unfolds
At exactly 5:00 a.m., three units moved at once:
Basheer's crew hit the main stash house on Al-Baladiya Street — a two-story flat controlled by Salim's enforcers. They broke in with silencers and left with duffel bags of drugs and cash.
Layth's group sabotaged the black car workshop where Salim's crew laundered money. They planted crude Molotovs in the oil drums, set them off, and disappeared into the alleys before the fire trucks arrived.
Yahya, a lean, quiet sniper, perched from the rooftop across the checkpoint and picked off two of Salim's collectors mid-shakedown.
Every move was silent. Surgical. Measured.
And every move bore one message:
> You are not untouchable anymore.
---
No Glory — Just Silence
Khamzah didn't celebrate. He stayed in the command flat — a dusty apartment above an abandoned pharmacy. The only light came from the flicker of a TV showing street cams hacked into from local shops.
He watched Salim's crew scramble like ants.
Some ran.
Some retaliated blindly.
Others simply disappeared — melting into the slums with no loyalty and no plan.
Basheer came in grinning, knuckles bruised.
> "We got it all. Pills, hash, cash. His whole east pipeline is dust."
> Khamzah didn't smile. "And the civilians?"
> "No bodies. Just a broken door and smoke."
> "Good."
He lit a cigarette. First in weeks.
---
The Neighborhood Watches
By afternoon, whispers filled the district.
> "Khamzah's crew hit three of Salim's spots."
"They didn't kill anyone innocent."
"No police came. Nothing."
Old men at the coffee stalls said nothing, but nodded in approval.
Women at market started giving Khamzah's boys small discounts. Some called him "Young Sheikh" — half respect, half warning.
Children ran through the alleys pretending to be "Khamzah's army," holding sticks like rifles, chasing invisible enemies.
The legend was growing.
But with it, so was the shadow.
---
Salim's Absence
There was one strange detail that nagged Khamzah.
Salim hadn't responded.
Not a word. Not a counter-strike.
No message. No corpse. No threat.
It wasn't like him.
> "He's planning something," Khamzah muttered to himself that night.
He opened the map — pins, names, routes marked in red ink.
He circled the last unburned stash location, near the spice market. The oldest one. Small, but known to only a few.
> "That's the spine," he said. "We break that, we take his lungs."
---
Calm Before the Flood
In the stillness of midnight, Khamzah stood by the window of the safehouse, watching the moonlight dance off the rooftops.
Basheer snored on a couch behind him, gun in hand.
Outside, dogs barked.
Gunfire cracked faintly, far off.
Khamzah didn't flinch.
The war had begun — and the city was listening.
> No turning back now.
Salim Strikes Back
The silence didn't last long.
Khamzah expected fire — a wave of bullets, a night raid, a bloodied messenger. Instead, Salim chose something quieter.
And crueler.
---
The Package
It arrived in the morning.
Wrapped in a plastic bag. Left at the foot of the mosque steps.
No one dared touch it.
The imam called Basheer.
Basheer called Khamzah.
Inside was the severed hand of one of Khamzah's youngest runners — Qusay, a 13-year-old who idolized him. The same boy who once brought him dates during Ramadan.
Taped to the hand was a phone.
It rang once.
Khamzah answered.
> "He wanted to be a man," Salim's voice rasped. "Now he's a memory. Keep pushing, and you'll have plenty more memories to bury."
Click.
---
The Message Goes Viral
By noon, a video was everywhere.
Qusay's face, bruised, bleeding, begging.
Salim's men forcing him to say he betrayed Khamzah. That he gave up locations. That Khamzah couldn't protect his own.
Then the camera shook.
Screams.
Static.
End.
Shared across phones, whispered about in markets, passed like poison.
The streets flinched.
Fear had returned.
---
Aadil Returns
That same day, Aadil appeared in front of the butcher shop.
No warning.
No guards.
Just him, holding a prayer bead in one hand and a white envelope in the other.
Khamzah walked out with two of his men. Guns hidden but ready.
> "I had nothing to do with the boy," Aadil said quickly. "I came to talk."
> "You're still breathing. That's generous," Khamzah replied.
> "Salim's losing control," Aadil said. "He's paranoid. Killing at random. He's burning his own boys. I'm not his anymore."
> "So you came crawling back?"
> "I came to offer intel. The real stash. The one he buried under that abandoned madrasa."
> "Why now?"
Aadil didn't answer. Just held up the envelope.
Khamzah took it. Eyes on him the whole time.
> "You have five minutes to disappear," he said. "Next time I see you, I won't ask questions."
Aadil nodded, left silently, and vanished into the alleys.
Basheer spat on the ground. "We should've ended him."
> "He's more useful alive," Khamzah muttered. "For now."
---
The Decision
Later that night, Khamzah sat alone, watching Qusay's video again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each time, he forced himself to look.
To remember.
To burn the pain into his memory — not just as fuel, but as a warning.
Power without purpose was madness.
> We fight for the ones who can't.
We win, or we disappear.
He turned off the phone.
And called every crew leader.
> "We hit back. Fast. But not with blood."
"We take the madrasa. We expose everything. We choke him with his own secrets."
---
A War of Shadows
As the city slept, Khamzah mapped out the next phase — not with bullets, but with intelligence.
He wasn't chasing war for glory.
He was waging it like a surgeon.
Precise.
Cold.
And merciless — only when needed.
---
The Allies and the Line Crossed
The madrasa wasn't guarded. That was the first surprise.
Khamzah had expected an ambush. Tripwires. Cameras. Traps.
But when Layth and two boys slipped in through the back wall at dawn, they found nothing but dust, rats, and an iron cellar beneath the prayer room.
Inside: bundles of cash, bricks of narcotics, and folders—folders—with names, dates, payments.
Judges.
Police.
Clerics.
> "He didn't just run the streets," Basheer said, staring at the files. "He owned them."
> "Not anymore," Khamzah replied. "He exposed his neck."
---
The Alliance That Shouldn't Exist
By evening, Khamzah was in a candlelit tea house outside the quarter. He wasn't alone.
Opposite him sat Kareem al-Zahari — head of a rival crew in South Jiddah. A man who once threatened to kill Khamzah over a stolen gun shipment.
Now, he poured him mint tea like an old friend.
> "You've made noise," Kareem said. "Big noise. Got my suppliers jumpy."
> "Just cleaning up filth," Khamzah replied.
> "Salim's men are desperate. They're sniffing around my turf."
> "So let's close the gates together."
> "You offering terms?"
> "One month. Shared access to the docks. No crossing lines. No moves on each other's boys."
> "And in return?"
Khamzah slid a folder across the table — one of Salim's intel books.
Kareem opened it.
Froze.
Laughed.
> "He was watching my men too? This snake…"
They clinked glasses. Alliance sealed — not in trust, but in mutual threat.
---
The Line Crossed
Back at the base flat, Basheer was waiting with news.
A captured runner from Salim's crew. Just a boy. Seventeen. Bruised. Scared.
> "He says he knows where the last shipment is coming in. Wants a deal."
> "What did you promise him?"
> "Nothing. Yet."
Khamzah entered the room. The boy stood. Shaking.
> "I didn't kill the kid," he blurted. "I just—just ran messages. I swear. But I know the route. The real one."
> "Names," Khamzah said calmly.
The boy gave three. One was already known. One matched a file. The third?
> "Abu-Fadl. An officer. Jiddah checkpoint."
Corruption ran deeper than expected.
Basheer stepped forward, gun in hand.
> "We're wasting time—"
> "No," Khamzah said sharply. "He gave us something. Let him go."
> "He's seen our faces—"
> "He's a kid."
Basheer's face twisted. "So was Qusay."
A long silence.
> "He walks," Khamzah repeated.
The boy fled barefoot into the night.
Basheer stared at Khamzah, then walked out — angry, confused.
---
An Unspoken Shift
That night, Khamzah sat on the rooftop.
The stars above were blurred by smoke from burning tires in a distant part of the district.
He thought of his father.
Of the blood.
Of promises made in silence.
> "Am I just building a new kingdom of fear?"
Below him, the boys laughed, playing cards. They called him "Boss" now without irony.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something inside him had changed forever.
He didn't know if it was growth — or rot.
The Spy Among Them
The Uneasy Calm
A few days passed without gunfire. No bodies. No bombs.
It was the longest peace Al-Faraj had known in months. But Khamzah didn't trust silence — he knew what came next would be louder, and deadlier.
The boys relaxed too quickly. The younger ones played football near the butcher's gate. The older ones laughed around the crates, drinking tea and exaggerating their roles in the last raid.
Only Basheer stayed tense.
> "Something's off," he muttered, scanning rooftops. "They know too much. We move, and someone's waiting. Every time."
> "You think it's a rat?" Khamzah asked.
> "I think it's a ghost. One we fed ourselves."
---
Suspicion and Setup
Khamzah ordered the crew split into cells. No open chatter. Phones replaced with hand-signals and runners. Meeting spots were changed daily.
And still, somehow, Salim's crew was waiting.
Twice, they intercepted routes. Once, a truck full of supplies vanished into thin air.
Then came the worst blow: their armory flat, tucked under the old electrical station, was hit. Not just stolen—emptied. Clean. Every gun. Every box of ammo. Gone.
No signs of forced entry.
Only someone with access could've done it.
---
The Trap
Khamzah didn't say a word to the crew.
He let the routine return. Let the boys breathe.
Then, he called Layth and Basheer into the butcher shop and laid out the trap.
> "We fake a new shipment," he said. "Spread the info wide. Loud. But false."
> "And see who grabs the bait," Basheer added, catching on.
> "Exactly."
They chose the warehouse near the dried canal — a known spot, but dormant for weeks.
Within twenty-four hours, word reached the streets: a truck full of rifles was coming in through the south gate.
---
The Reveal
That night, Khamzah and Layth watched from the shadows.
Just after 3 a.m., movement.
Two men slipped through the fence.
One was unfamiliar.
The second?
Tariq.
Quiet. Faithful Tariq. The one who sharpened blades and ran prayer calls when the muezzin was late.
He moved confidently toward the truck.
He even had the keys.
Basheer tackled him before he reached the door.
The stranger pulled a blade and slashed — but Layth dropped him with a single shot.
Tariq froze. Then cried.
> "I had no choice!" he screamed. "They took my sister!"
> "And you took our future," Basheer hissed, cocking his gun.
> "Wait," Khamzah said.
Tariq trembled, his knees bloodied. "They said if I didn't feed them routes, they'd kill her. I tried to lie—switched a few things—but they knew when I did…"
Khamzah stared at him. Long. Cold.
Then ordered:
> "Lock him. Feed him. No beatings."
> "You're not serious—" Basheer protested.
> "I said no beatings."
---
The Warning
At dawn, Khamzah visited Tariq alone.
> "You betrayed us. You lied."
> "I know…"
> "You think that ends here?"
Tariq looked up, confused.
> "You're going back."
> "What?"
> "We feed them lies now. You're going to be our ghost."
> "They'll kill me."
> "Not if you tell them what they want."
> "And what is that?"
Khamzah leaned in close.
> "That I'm weak. That I've broken. That I'm afraid. Give them that lie."
Tariq nodded slowly.
> "And if I survive?"
> "Then we both win."
---
The War Beneath the War
Back at the base, Khamzah told no one of the deal.
To the crew, Tariq was dead.
To Salim, Tariq was the perfect mole.
But in the shadows?
Khamzah had turned the war inside out.
It was no longer about firepower.
Now it was about control — of truth, lies, and fear.
---
The Final Blow
The Calm Before the Collapse
Three weeks passed.
Tariq's misinformation worked like poison. Salim's boys were chasing shadows, ambushing empty alleys, and raiding warehouses filled with rusted pipes and oil drums.
Kareem's crew stayed quiet, keeping their part of the deal. The streets of Al-Faraj buzzed with tension, but no blood.
Khamzah knew this was the moment. The only moment.
> "We strike once. Clean. Hard," he told Basheer and Layth. "After this, no mercy."
> "You sure about the location?" Basheer asked.
> "Tariq confirmed it three times. It's where Salim moves when he feels heat."
An abandoned textile mill. South of the quarter. Guarded, but not a fortress.
Not for long.
---
The Night of Fire
The plan was simple: strike before dawn. Use the sandstorm approaching from the west as cover. No phones. No lights. Just coordination and precision.
The crew moved in teams of four. One unit set the charges. Another blocked the roads. Khamzah's team would breach first.
At 3:57 a.m., the winds picked up. Sand swept the streets in violent curls. The whole district groaned under the storm.
And then—
Boom.
The eastern wall of the mill exploded inward.
Salim's guards, caught half-asleep, scrambled. Bullets sang through dust and darkness. Chaos reigned.
Khamzah moved like a shadow—low, fast, silent. Basheer was beside him, fury in his eyes.
> "Don't stop till you find him," Khamzah shouted.
The gunfire echoed across rooftops, waking the city.
Inside, the warehouse burned. Paper and plastic caught fire. Men screamed.
Then, from the office above the main floor—
> "KHAMZAH!"
Salim. Face bloodied. Arm slung. Holding a boy as a shield.
> "You think this ends with me?" Salim shouted. "You'll never run these streets. They'll eat you like they ate your father!"
> "He trusted you," Khamzah said, stepping forward.
> "He was weak."
> "And you're finished."
> "I still have men!"
> "Not anymore."
At that cue, Kareem's crew burst in from the rear, guns raised.
Salim's last defense crumbled.
The boy he held? Layth shot his leg, and Khamzah grabbed the kid as Salim crumpled.
Basheer aimed for his head.
> "Wait," Khamzah said.
> "He deserves worse."
> "He does. But not here. Not in fire."
---
The Execution
They dragged Salim out to the courtyard, tied him to the post that once held laundry lines.
By dawn, the storm had passed. The sun rose blood-orange over Al-Faraj.
Khamzah stood in front of him.
> "You killed my parents. You sold fear like perfume. And you broke the code."
Salim spat.
> "There's always another Boss."
> "Then let him come."
A single shot. Clean. Between the eyes.
Khamzah didn't flinch.
---
The Silence After Victory
No cheers. No songs.
The crew stood in silence, watching the smoke curl into the sky.
> "It's done," Basheer said.
> "No," Khamzah replied. "It's started."
He looked over the rooftops, where kids watched with wide eyes.
Where mothers whispered his name with fear and reverence.
He wasn't just Boss now.
He was legend.
He was curse.
He was the fire that cleansed—and maybe consumed.
---
The Cost
The Aftermath
The flames were out. The blood had dried. The body of Salim was gone—buried in a nameless ditch behind the mill.
But Al-Faraj wasn't healed.
It was quiet—unnaturally quiet. No laughter from the tea stalls. No music from passing tuk-tuks. Mothers held their children tighter. Shops opened late, closed early.
The people had seen a king fall.
But in the smoke that followed, they weren't sure if a savior or a new tyrant had risen.
---
Within the Ranks
Inside the butcher's den—now turned command center—Khamzah sat alone.
A worn notebook lay on the table. Names were written on the left. Some were crossed out. Some circled.
He stared at one name: Tariq.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Layth entered, blood on his sleeve. Not his own.
> "Three of our boys died in the blast. Two more at the mill. Basheer... took one in the leg."
Khamzah didn't look up.
> "And Kareem?"
> "Wants a seat at the table."
Khamzah smirked. "He'll get one. A small one."
Layth lingered.
> "It's not over, is it?"
> "No."
> "Then what now?"
> "Now we build."
---
What Was Lost
Later that night, Khamzah visited the mosque at the edge of the district. The same one where his father once prayed, before it all fell apart.
He removed his shoes. Walked past the prayer mats. Sat at the back, where no one could see his face.
His mother used to sit here.
He remembered her voice—soft, trembling, reciting surahs in the dark when the power went out.
He remembered his father's belt. His brother's laughter. The sound of windows shattering the night they died.
And now?
All gone.
Except him.
---
What Power Demands
Khamzah walked home alone through Al-Faraj's narrow alleys. The wind carried whispers—his name spoken like a warning.
A boy darted past him, barefoot. The same boy he saved at the textile mill. Their eyes met for a second. Then the boy was gone.
When Khamzah reached his building, he stopped at the door.
Taped to it was a photo: Basheer, in a hospital bed. Scribbled beneath it:
> "Your crown is made of blood."
He crumpled the paper. Didn't speak. Just went upstairs.
Inside his room, he sat by the window.
Looked over the quiet, scared street he had taken with fire and bone.
And whispered to no one:
> "This is what it costs."
---
The Legacy
One Month Later
Al-Faraj was different.
Graffiti of Salim's name had been painted over. Kids now ran messages for Khamzah's crew instead. Men who once feared stepping outside after dark now gathered around the new open-air café that stood in place of the old butcher shop.
But behind the change was tension—coiled like a spring.
Khamzah sat in the same spot Salim once ruled from: a high rooftop overlooking the neighborhood. The call to prayer rang in the distance, but he didn't move.
Basheer walked up slowly, limping from the wound that still hadn't healed right.
> "So this is the empire?"
Khamzah didn't answer.
> "We've got new boys. Old enemies now calling you 'sir'. Police keep their distance. Even Kareem bows when he speaks."
Still no response.
> "And yet, you sit here like you lost."
Khamzah finally spoke:
> "Because we did."
Basheer squinted.
> "We're not kings, Basheer. We're shields. Until someone smarter—someone braver—comes along."
> "Is that why you've been silent?"
Khamzah nodded toward the edge of the rooftop.
Down in the street, the boy from the textile mill—barefoot, fast—was helping an old woman carry crates into her shop.
> "They're watching. The kids. The mothers. The neighbors. All of them. Every move we make."
> "Let them watch. Maybe they'll learn power doesn't have to come with fear."
> "Or maybe they'll wait to take it from us."
---
The Letter
That night, Khamzah opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a single page.
A letter. Handwritten.
To himself.
> "If you are reading this, it means you won. You survived the fire, the betrayal, the weight of your father's sins. But survival is not purpose. And power without purpose becomes poison."
> "Never forget why you stood up when they sat. Why you spoke when others were silent. Not for revenge. Not for title. But because a street without order is a street that buries children."
> "Make them remember your name. Not for fear. But for fire. For rebuilding. For mercy, where none was given."
Signed:
—Khamzah, before the war.
He folded the letter. Placed it beneath a Quran.
---
The Final Image
This chapter neither ended with gunfire, nor with cheers.
But with Khamzah walking through Al-Faraj at dawn. A black shawl over his shoulders. Eyes sharp. Presence undeniable.
Men nodded with respect. Women watched in silence. Children moved aside, wide-eyed.
And as he passed, someone whispered:
> "There goes the Boss."
But another, younger voice corrected:
> "No. That's Khamzah."
NOW THE BOSS IS NOTICED AND CROWNED!!!