Z's Room.
"So tell me... who the hell are you really, Z?"
Huzaifa's voice hung in the air, heavy and accusing.
Z stood by the door, his presence filling the room with a cold, electric thrill. But Huzaifa didn't flinch. He wasn't looking at a monster; he was looking at the brother who had saved his life.
"What do you mean, my brother?" Z asked. His voice was calm, soft, and terrifyingly polite.
"I know you are Z," Huzaifa said, gripping the chess piece. "But you aren't him right now."
Z didn't answer immediately. He walked to the table and sat down opposite Huzaifa. He looked at the chessboard.
Clack.
Z moved his pawn two squares forward.
Huzaifa's eyes narrowed. This wasn't how Z played. The Innocent Z played defensively, protecting his pieces. This move... this was a trap. It was a strategy designed to lure the opponent in, forcing them to attack until they overextended, leaving their King defenseless against a single, fatal blow.
"Remember the day I was bullied by Sajawal?" Huzaifa asked, maintaining his intense stare.
"Brother," Z said, not looking up from the board. "You know I have forgotten my past. How could I know?"
"I went to meet Sajawal today," Huzaifa cut him off. "And what he told me... isn't good news, Z."
Earlier That Day. Sajawal's Mansion.
The room smelled of expensive cigars and old money, but beneath the luxury, there was a scent of stale sweat.
Huzaifa sat on a plush leather sofa. Sajawal, now a rising politician and the son of the MILSUM leader, entered the room. He wore a sharp Italian suit, attempting to project power, but his eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal.
"I am sorry for being late, I was in a meeting," Sajawal said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He sat down, but his leg bounced nervously, shaking the coffee table. "I am glad to see you, Huzaifa. You said you wanted to talk?"
"Yeah," Huzaifa leaned forward, cutting through the pleasantries. "You remember that day? Outside our school? You were beating me, and I passed out."
The color drained from Sajawal's face instantly, leaving him ghost-white.
His hand flew to his left shoulder, gripping it tight. His fingers dug into the expensive fabric of his suit as if trying to hold his own bones together. A phantom pain, twelve years old but fresh as a wound, shot through him.
"That day..." Sajawal whispered. His breath hitched. "I don't want to talk about it. Please."
"See, Sajawal," Huzaifa said, his voice firm but quiet. "I just want to know why we all woke up in a hospital. Please. Tell me what happened."
Sajawal tried to pick up his glass of water. His hand shook so violently that water sloshed over the rim, staining his cuff. He slammed the glass back down.
"I did very wrong," Sajawal stammered, his eyes wide and unfocused. "I have changed now! I am not that bully anymore! I swear! I am sorry, Huzaifa!"
"Don't say sorry. Just tell me the truth."
Sajawal closed his eyes, and a tear leaked out. He wasn't a politician anymore. He was a scared little boy again.
Flashback: 12 Years Ago.
The schoolyard was dusty. Huzaifa lay on the ground, bleeding.
"Oh my, oh my," Sajawal laughed, walking toward Z. "Is someone getting angry?"
Z stood still. His head was down. He was panting deeply—a strange, guttural sound that didn't sound human. It sounded like a beast waking up in a cage.
"If you think you can save your friend by acting all weird, then do it!" Sajawal yelled, gathering his fist. "I am sending you both to hell!"
Sajawal ran forward. He blinked his eye.
When he opened it, the world broke.
He didn't see a boy. He didn't see Z.
He saw a face containing no eyes, no nose, no lips, no hair—a blank sphere of infinite darkness.
Narrator's Note: It is said that when a human's primal instincts realize they are facing certain death, the brain stops processing visual details to save processing power. It focuses only on the threat. In these final instincts, you don't see the physical form. You see pure energy. Pure emotion. Sajawal saw a blank sphere because his mind could not comprehend the monster standing before him. It is the same void Farda saw before she died. Z is not just a force of nature; he is an entity that the human mind refuses to see.
Within the blink of an eye, the void moved.
CRACK.
Z punched Sajawal on the left shoulder. The sound was sickening—wet and loud, like a tree branch snapping in a storm. The vibration shattered Sajawal's confidence instantly.
Sajawal flew backward, smashing into a metal dustbin. He slumped there, paralyzed by a pain so white-hot it blinded him. Through the haze, he watched.
Z moved like a ghost. One second he was here. The next, he was there.
He lifted the second bully by the neck with one hand—effortlessly—and slammed him into the concrete. The boy didn't even scream.
Sajawal blinked again, terror freezing his lungs.
BOOM.
A roundhouse kick connected with the third boy's face. Teeth scattered on the ground like hail.
Reality.
"He was moving like a ghost," Sajawal whispered, staring into the empty air of his drawing room. He wasn't seeing the furniture; he was seeing the schoolyard. "Then... the very next moment, he was right in front of me."
Sajawal grabbed Huzaifa's arm, his grip desperate and painful.
"He was laughing, Huzaifa! Crazily! And then... he started punching himself."
Huzaifa frowned, pulling his arm back gently. "Himself?"
"Yes!" Sajawal shouted, hysteria creeping into his voice. "He wanted to show the teachers that the fight was fair! That he got hurt too! It was calculated! It was madness!"
Flashback.
Z grabbed Sajawal by the hair, lifting his face up. Z's face was covered in blood—his own blood.
"Where are your claims now?" Z screamed, his voice distorting into a demonic growl. "Look into my eyes, Sajawal! Can you see death?!"
"Hell, huh?" Z laughed. "What happens if you go there instead of me? You might find your company!"
Z raised his fist to finish Sajawal off.
Suddenly, Z's left hand shot up. It grabbed his own throat.
Z choked. He gagged. His left hand was squeezing his windpipe, fighting against the rest of his body.
It was as if his hand had its own consciousness. It was trying to stop the murder. Z stumbled back, warring with himself. He lost his balance and fell to the ground. He turned his face toward Sajawal.
The last thing Sajawal saw before blacking out were those eyes. Hollow. Dead. Empty.
Reality.
Sajawal released a long, shuddering breath. He slumped back into the sofa, looking defeated and small.
"I saw those eyes," Sajawal whispered, wiping sweat from his upper lip. "I still see them in my nightmares. Every time I close my eyes, he is there."
Z's Room. Present Time.
Huzaifa leaned back in his chair.
"I saw your eyes too, before I blacked out that day," Huzaifa said softly. "They were the same as they are right now. I can clearly say... you aren't Z."
Z stared at him for a long moment. Then, a smile slowly spread across his face. It wasn't kind. It was arrogant.
"Just as I expected from a brother," Z said, his voice dropping an octave. "Very well, Huzaifa. You are right."
Z leaned back, spreading his arms wide, claiming the space like a king.
"I am not Z. That boy is a pussy. Acting all kind to everyone. In a world of 'survival of the cruel,' he is nothing but a weak soul trying to spread kindness and forgiveness."
"I don't care what you say!" Huzaifa snapped, his voice thick with emotion. "He is an angel to me! To all of us!"
"He is," Z interrupted, his eyes gleaming. "He is an angel... born in hell."
Suddenly, the front door banged open.
A neighborhood boy, barely ten years old, came running into the room, panting heavily.
"He... huh... huh..." The boy gasped for air. "He killed Auntie Farda!"
Huzaifa froze. He shot up from his chair. "What?"
"Dasa..." the boy stammered. "Dasa murdered Auntie Farda! He went crazy! The police are everywhere!"
Huzaifa looked at Z.
Z was sitting perfectly still. Calm. Unsurprised.
The boy ran out to spread the news to others.
Z stood up. He walked to his Almirah. He opened a secret compartment at the back, pulling out a thick file and a stack of cassette tapes.
Thud.
He threw them on the table in front of Huzaifa.
"This file has all the answers to your questions, my brother," Z said.
Huzaifa looked at the file. The name "Dr. Nawaz" was written on the tab.
"I might feel like the wrong person to you right now," Z continued, his voice heavy with authority. "But after seeing these tapes... you get to decide. Whether you stand against me, or keep your promise and help me fulfill my dream."
"What kind of dream?" Huzaifa whispered, looking at the monster wearing his best friend's face. "What made you like this, Z? Tell me."
Z walked toward his bed. He looked tired, but his spirit was burning.
"See, my brother," Z said, looking out the window at the dark sky. "The longer you live, the clearer the lie becomes."
"You think Peace is real? No. Peace is nothing but the time wolves take to sharpen their teeth before the next war."
"You think Light saves you? Light exists only to blind you, so you cannot see the dagger in the shadows."
"And Love?" Z laughed softly, a sound devoid of warmth. "Love is just a leash, Huzaifa. It kept us weak. It kept us begging."
He turned to Huzaifa, his eyes boring into his friend's soul.
"The strong don't just rise, brother. They feed on the broken. And the weak? They call it 'fate' to make themselves feel better about being food. I did not choose cruelty. The world carved it into me. I just accepted the shape."
Z lay down on the bed, closing his eyes.
"So don't ask me why I embrace the darkness. Ask yourself... why are you still blindly chasing a light that burns you?"
Two Days Later. Dr. Abd's House. 3:00 A.M.
Dr. Abd unlocked his front door. His hands were shaking from exhaustion. It had been an 18-hour shift. He smelled of antiseptic and coffee.
He stepped inside.
"Honey?" he called out softly. "I'm home."
Silence.
Usually, the house was warm. Usually, the heater was humming. But tonight, the air was freezing. It bit at his skin.
"Girls?" he called for his daughters.
No answer.
A strange smell hit his nose. Not dinner. Not perfume.
It was the smell of rain and wet earth.
Dr. Abd walked into the living room. The lights were off, but the streetlamp outside cast long shadows across the floor.
He looked at the dining table.
His blood turned to ice.
His wife and his two young daughters were sitting at the table. They were perfectly still. Their eyes were wide, filled with terror. Their mouths were duct-taped shut.
At the head of the table sat a figure.
He wore a black mask. He was calmly cutting a steak with Dr. Abd's silverware.
The Masked Man stopped cutting. He looked up. His hollow eyes locked onto the doctor.
"Welcome home, Doctor," the calm voice echoed in the silent house.
He pointed the steak knife at Dr. Abd.
"I believe it is time for my check-up. You cheated Death to save me, Doctor. So I brought him here to meet you."