Deep beneath the outskirts of Pakistan, a narrow basement corridor stretched like a cold throat into darkness. Faint bulbs flickered overhead—weak, dying, barely clinging to the cracked concrete ceiling. The air was damp, stale, heavy with the metallic scent of corrosion.
Footsteps entered that silence—steady, measured, unhurried, yet unstoppable.
A man walked through the corridor wearing a rugged black T-shirt, worn black jeans, and a half-face mask that concealed everything except his eyes. Those eyes were unreadable—calm, steady, and terrifyingly focused.
He reached a rusted metal door.
A thin blade of dusty light spilled through its cracked edges.
The doorknob twitched.
Turned.
Clicked.
He pushed the door open.
What followed was almost silent.
Four suppressed shots hissed through the air.
The first two bullets drilled cleanly through the foreheads of the men sitting at the table—both collapsing mid-breath. Their cards fluttered away like dead leaves.
The third man barely stood before the next bullets struck—one burying into his clavicle, the other tearing through his thigh, throwing him to the ground with a blood-splattered gasp.
The Masked Man grabbed him by the hair, dragged him upright, and forced him onto his knees.
His gun lowered toward the man's leg.
"This bullet," he said with unsettling calm, "will pass through your patella, shatter the tibial plateau, and split the medial condyle before your nerves even understand what happened."
He tilted the trembling man's face upward.
"Where is Abhur al-Issar's basement?"
The man hesitated—a second too long.
A sharp, precise shot tore through his leg. He screamed—short, shocked, animal-like.
"I'll tell you! I'll tell you! East wing! Second block—old storage hall! Only his guards go there!"
The Masked Man nodded once.
Before the man could breathe again—
CRACK.
A clean bullet entered the center of his forehead. The body went limp instantly, collapsing face-first, blood spreading beneath him like a dark bloom.
The Masked Man stepped over the corpse without pause and walked back into the corridor.
---
Ten minutes later…
Inside the basement the wounded man described, Abhur al-Issar sat at a steel table, inspecting a disassembled rifle. His guards lounged around—cleaning pistols, checking magazines, bored, unaware.
And then—
the lights died.
Complete blackout.
Someone sucked in a sharp breath.
Someone else cursed under their breath.
Then it began.
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
Gunfire erupted outside the hall.
Screams exploded.
Weapons clattered.
Shouts cut off mid-word.
And then—silence.
Every guard held their breath.
"…it's over?" one whispered.
It wasn't.
Four bodies dropped instantly—killed in the dark by shots so fast no one even saw the shooter entering.
The final volley hit Abhur: one bullet ripped into his leg, another through his hand, another into his shoulder. He toppled backward, weapons scattering across the floor.
He tried crawling away—slipping, sliding, bleeding.
Emergency backup lights flickered on, trembling weakly.
And from that dim red glow…
He walked in.
The Masked Man.
Silent.
Calm.
Gun lowered.
Abhur's eyes widened—recognition ripped through him like ice water.
"You…" he whispered. Terror lacing every syllable.
He tried dragging himself away faster, but his wounded leg buckled and his hand shook violently. His palm left streaks of blood as he pushed back.
The Masked Man didn't move.
He waited.
Watched.
Until Abhur's back slammed against the wall.
His breath froze.
And then the memory hit him—so vivid it felt like the room tilted.
A week ago.
A dim room.
A single bulb.
A shadowed figure sitting with the same half-face mask.
The voice from that video—
"Abhur al-Issar. You are my next target. And when I reach you, the pain you feel will be the final thing your mind ever learns."
Abhur's eyes widened instantly. Heart pounding. Cold dread filled him. Every instinct screamed danger—he knew this wasn't a bluff.
He was already marked.
Stories about him—the ghost. The shadow that arrived without sound. The one no one escaped. Not politicians. Not warlords. Not terrorists. Not kings. No one.
Once he marked you… your fate was sealed.
---
"W-wait," Abhur stuttered, desperation shattering his voice, "don't do this… I have money—more money than you can imagine—I can make you powerful anywhere… any country… I can make you rule—"
The Masked Man smiled behind the half-mask.
It wasn't a gentle smile.
It was a smile of someone who already knew the end of this story.
He pulled two knives from his boot.
Before Abhur could react—
THUNK.
The first knife slammed through his shoulder, pinning him to the lower wall.
Abhur screamed, voice breaking.
THUNK.
The second knife drove through his hand, nailing it to the floor.
Blood splattered across his arm.
Then the Masked Man pulled out a pair of pliers.
Abhur's panic exploded.
"N-no… no please—please, I'll quit—I'll leave everything—I swear I'll stop—I'm not even a believer—I'm just a terrorist—I'll quit—please…"
The Masked Man crouched in front of him.
He gripped Abhur's thumbnail.
RIIIIIP.
The scream shattered the room.
Then the next nail.
And the next.
And the next.
Every nail of Abhur's left hand was torn out while he cried, begged, and convulsed.
His sobs were raw, broken—nothing human left in them.
When it was done, the Masked Man took out another blade—its edge tinted faint purple.
Poison.
Nerve poison.
Fear slammed into Abhur's chest.
"No—no—no, please—"
The blade drove into his patella.
His scream didn't sound like it came from a human throat.
Pain exploded.
Terror multiplied.
Paralysis crept upward like cold fire.
The Masked Man stood up.
"You will die slowly," he said softly.
"Half an hour.
Pain.
Fear.
Paralysis.
Then nothing."
He turned away and walked toward the exit.
Abhur writhed helplessly, pinned to the wall, poison spreading through his nerves, breath shaking, vision blurring.
"P-please… don't… don't leave… please—"
The Masked Man never looked back.
His boots echoed calmly as he disappeared into the corridor.
Abhur's screams followed him until they finally broke apart into silence.