A New land and A New Life

I tried to move but collapsed, my limbs too weak, my energy drained. The heat of the sun was unbearable as it beat down on me, and the hunger gnawed at my insides like a persistent animal. I could barely keep my eyes open, but the world around me was so unfamiliar that I forced myself to stay awake. Was this Malaysia? I didn’t know. All I could see was the coastline, and beyond it, the tangled jungle that seemed to whisper secrets.

Then, like an angel—or maybe a devil—I saw them.

A group of men, rugged and rough-looking, appeared from the trees, their faces hidden under makeshift hats. They looked like they were coming from nowhere, like they belonged to the earth itself. Their clothes were dirty, their hands calloused from years of hard work. But it was the way they looked at me—suspicious and calculating—that sent a chill down my spine.

They didn’t say a word at first, just hovered around me as I lay half-conscious in the sand. One of them nudged me with his boot, and that’s when I realized I was no longer alone.

“Is he alive?” one of the men muttered in a language I didn’t understand. The others exchanged glances, and I could see the greed and pragmatism in their eyes. They weren’t here to help. They were here for something else.

“Alive enough,” another man said, sounding almost bored. "We need to get him out of here before someone notices."

They hoisted me up, one on each side, their hands rough and unfeeling. I barely had the strength to protest as they dragged me through the underbrush, my body fighting them with what little strength it had left. It wasn’t long before I was stuffed into a cramped, filthy van, the interior smelling of sweat and old oil.

My mind was foggy, the exhaustion and hunger dragging me under, but I could still make out fragments of conversation.

“They’ll pay well for this one,” one of them muttered, his voice low.

“Shut up,” another hissed. “Just keep it quiet. No one needs to know where he came from.”

I didn’t understand all the words, but I knew enough to realize they weren’t taking me to any place of safety. I wasn’t just some lost soul they were helping—no, I was a commodity. And I was being sold.

By the time we reached the city, I could barely stand. My head was spinning, and the world around me seemed to blur. They didn’t care. They dragged me into a rundown building on the outskirts, its walls weathered and cracked, and shoved me into a small room with a cot. There was no luxury here, no safety. Just a cold, hard bed and the sound of muffled voices coming from the street below.

The man who seemed to be in charge of the group looked down at me, his eyes narrowing. “Rest. We’ll get you working tomorrow.”

I barely heard him. I was too tired, too broken to care. But I knew one thing—my survival depended on moving forward, on blending in, on becoming invisible. In this foreign land, I was a nobody, a nameless ghost. The past was still chasing me, but I couldn’t afford to think about it. Not now. I had to survive. I had no choice.

The next few days were a blur of physical pain and mental exhaustion. I was smuggled into a factory where I was forced to work long hours under grueling conditions. The air was thick with the smell of chemicals and sweat, and the machines hummed incessantly, a constant reminder that there was no escape. My new identity, “Arman Azin,” was a lifeline. It was a name that meant nothing to anyone. It was a name I could hide behind.

But hiding wasn’t as easy as it seemed.

The factory workers didn’t ask questions. They didn’t care about who I was or where I had come from, as long as I worked. But that didn’t make it any easier. The work was backbreaking, underpaid, and brutal. The conditions were dangerous, the hours long, and every moment felt like I was inching closer to a breakdown.

I spent my days assembling parts, lifting heavy boxes, and hauling materials I could barely lift. My body screamed in protest, but there was no time to rest. There was no room for weakness in this world. Not when you were living on borrowed time.

The city was an unforgiving place for someone like me. I was an illegal worker, an undocumented migrant trying to survive in a country that didn’t want me. Every time I walked down the streets, I felt eyes on me—watchful, suspicious eyes. I had to keep moving, had to blend in with the crowd, never standing out, always keeping my head down. But no matter how much I tried to stay invisible, the weight of my past lingered.

Every so often, I would hear whispers—rumors about a man named Arman Azin, a new worker who had appeared out of nowhere. I would see people exchanging looks, their eyes narrowing as they tried to make sense of me. But they never asked. They never cared enough to ask.

And that was exactly how I wanted it. I had to disappear. I had to become nothing more than a shadow in this city. It was the only way I could survive.

At night, I would lie awake on my cot, staring at the cracked ceiling, the constant hum of the factory machinery still ringing in my ears. The past seemed so far away, yet it was always there, lurking in the background, a dark cloud that refused to let go. The weight of the crimes I’d been framed for pressed on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

But no one cared about that. No one cared about the lies that had been spun around me. No one cared about the truth.

All that mattered now was surviving another day. And I wasn’t sure how much longer I could do that.