The Face of the Devil:
The first thing Zaryan felt was the smell of expensive cologne and antiseptic. The second thing he felt was the weight of a heavy, gold signet ring on his finger—a ring he recognized instantly.
He opened his eyes, gasping for air, expecting to feel the cold pavement of the alleyway where he had been betrayed and shot. Instead, he was in a penthouse suite that screamed of old money and corruption.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, his legs feeling heavy and unfamiliar. When he splashed cold water on his face and looked into the mirror, he didn't scream. He couldn't. His throat seized with a primal, visceral loathing.
Staring back at him was Aryan Khan.
Aryan—the man who had been Zaryan's best friend, his brother-in-arms, and ultimately, the man who had pulled the trigger while whispering, "Nothing personal, Zaryan. You're just too good for this world."
"No," Zaryan rasped, his voice now a smooth, dark baritone—Aryan's voice. "This is hell. It has to be."
Suddenly, his head exploded with a rhythmic throbbing. Images that weren't his began to flicker: Aryan signing execution orders, Aryan laughing as he burned Zaryan's files, and a darker memory—Aryan standing over a weeping woman.
A knock at the door shattered the vision.
"Sir?" a cold, mechanical voice called out. It was Jaffar, Aryan's lead enforcer. A man Zaryan had fought dozens of times. "The board is waiting. And the girl... she's been brought to the holding room. She's refusing to eat again."
Zaryan gripped the marble sink until his knuckles turned white. He had to play the part. If Jaffar suspected Aryan was gone, Zaryan would be dead before he could take his first step. But more importantly—who was "the girl"?
The Paradox of Love and Hate:
Zaryan walked into the dimly lit holding room, his heart hammering against ribs that didn't belong to him. Sitting in a chair, her hands bound by silk ties, was Arisha.
His Arisha.
Her eyes, once full of light and laughter when they were together, were now hollow pits of obsidian rage. When she looked at him—at Aryan's face—she spat on the floor.
"Kill me now, Aryan," she hissed. "Because if I get these hands free, I will carve the heart out of your chest for what you did to Zaryan."
Zaryan flinched. The pain of her words was sharper than the bullet that had killed him. He wanted to scream, It's me! I'm here! but he saw the cameras in the corners. He saw Jaffar watching from the doorway.
"Leave us," Zaryan commanded, mimicking Aryan's arrogant drawl.
Once the door clicked shut, Zaryan took a step toward her. Arisha recoiled, her face contorted in disgust.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You took everything. You took the only man who ever loved me, and you threw his body in the river like trash. Why am I here? To be your trophy?"
"You're here because..." Zaryan paused, his mind racing through Aryan's fragmented memories. He saw a flash: Aryan hadn't just killed Zaryan to take over the organization. He had done it because he was obsessed with Arisha. He had wanted to "collect" her.
"You're here because you're mine now," Zaryan said, the words feeling like ash in his mouth.
I have to be the villain, he told himself. If I don't play the monster, the real monsters will kill her.
"I will never be yours," Arisha vowed. "Every night you sleep, Aryan, know that I am dreaming of the different ways I can watch you die."
Zaryan turned away so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. He realized the cruelest part of this rebirth: he was the only person who could save her, but to do it, he had to make her hate him more than death itself.
The Ghost in the Machine:
As days passed, the "Shared Memory" became a curse. Zaryan began to see the "Hidden Sin."
Through Aryan's memories, he discovered that Aryan hadn't acted alone. There was a "Mastermind" above him—a shadow figure known only as The Architect. Aryan had been planning to sell Arisha's family estate and use her as a scapegoat for a massive financial fraud.
Aryan had ruined Arisha's father, leading to his "suicide." Zaryan realized he wasn't just in the body of a murderer; he was in the body of a man who had systematically destroyed the woman he loved.
One night, Arisha managed to conceal a glass shard from a broken vase. When Zaryan entered her room to bring her food—the only time he allowed himself to be near her—she lunged.
The shard sliced deep into Zaryan's shoulder. He didn't fight back. He let her pin him against the wall, the glass pressing against Aryan's throat.
"Do it," Zaryan whispered in his mind. Finish it, Arisha. End this nightmare.
But her hand stayed. She looked into his eyes—his eyes, not Aryan's—and she paused. "There's something wrong with you," she whispered, her brow furrowed. "Aryan's eyes were always cold. Like a snake. Why are you looking at me like... like he used to?"
"Arisha," he breathed, his voice breaking.
"Tumi fire eshecho bhabcho?" she snapped, regaining her rage. "Ami tomake protiti muhurte shei koshto debo jeta tumi 'take' diyecho. I will make you pay for Zaryan's soul."
I am right here, Arisha, Zaryan thought, the silent scream tearing him apart. The man you want to avenge is the one whose blood is currently on your hands... but this face is my mask.
"Guard!" Zaryan shouted, forcing his voice to be cold again. As Jaffar burst in, Zaryan pushed Arisha away. "She's getting feisty. Double the security. No more glass."
As he walked out, bleeding and broken, he knew he was running out of time. The Architect was coming to collect his "merchandise"—Arisha—and Zaryan had to find a way to kill his current self to save her.
The Final Sacrifice:
The Architect arrived at the private docks at midnight. He was an older man, refined and heartless. He looked at Zaryan (as Aryan) and smiled.
"You've done well, Aryan. The girl is the last loose end. Once she's on that boat, the Volkov-Sterling merger is complete. We can finally erase the memory of that pest, Zaryan."
Arisha was led out in chains, her head held high even as she walked toward her doom. She looked at Zaryan with a final, chilling smile. "I'll see you in hell, Aryan."
"Actually," Zaryan said, his voice changing. He dropped the arrogant drawl. He stood straight, his eyes burning with the cold, calculated fury that had made Zaryan the best field agent in the country. "I think I'll send him ahead to make reservations."
In a blur of motion, Zaryan pulled two concealed handguns. He didn't aim at the guards—he aimed at the fuel tanks of the Architect's yacht.
The explosion rocked the pier. In the chaos, Zaryan moved like a ghost. He wasn't Aryan Khan; he was a dead man walking. He took down Jaffar with a neck snap—a move only Zaryan knew. He reached Arisha, cutting her ties.
"Run!" he shouted. "There's a car at the end of the pier. The keys are in the wheel well!"
"Who are you?" she screamed over the roar of the flames.
Zaryan turned to her. For a split second, he forgot about the face he wore. He reached out and touched her cheek in the exact way he used to—a specific brush of the thumb that was their secret signal.
Arisha froze. Her eyes went wide. "Z-Zaryan?"
"I'm sorry it's this face, Arisha," he whispered. "I hate it more than you do."
The Architect's remaining men opened fire. Zaryan shoved Arisha toward the exit, taking two bullets to the back. He collapsed against a shipping container, his blood—Aryan's blood—pooling on the concrete.
"GO!" he roared.
Arisha hesitated, tears streaming down her face. She saw the man she hated, acting like the man she loved. She realized the truth in the madness. She blew him a kiss—a final, silent goodbye to the soul trapped in the traitor's reflection—and vanished into the night.
Zaryan leaned back, watching the yacht sink. He pulled a detonator from his pocket. He had rigged the entire pier.
"Nothing personal, Aryan," Zaryan whispered to the reflection in a nearby puddle of oil. "But you're just too bad for this world."
As the pier erupted in white light, Zaryan felt a strange peace. He had used the traitor's body to burn the traitor's world. He was dying again, but this time, he wasn't being betrayed. He was being remembered.
The End
Akifa,
The Author.