The Devil You Know

I thought I’d seen the worst of men. The ones who smile as they sell you lies, the ones who break your bones for a few taka, the ones who walk away while you drown. But when Kamal stepped out of that black car, under the blistering Malaysian sun, I realized: monsters don’t die — they follow.

He looked older. More polished. The scruffy street con I once knew was now suited, styled, and flanked by two men with dead eyes. But his grin? That hadn’t changed.

“Arman,” he said, as if the name tasted foreign on his tongue. “Or should I still call you Ashique?”

I didn’t answer. My fingers curled into fists. The air tasted like iron and dread.

Ashraful stepped beside him, eyes unreadable. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t need to. He had already chosen his side — again.

Kamal gestured toward the car. “Let’s take a drive. You and I have... catching up to do.”

I didn’t want to get in. Every nerve screamed *run*. But I couldn’t outrun two goons with guns and a ghost from Dhaka. So, I nodded. Maybe it was time I stopped running.

---

The car smelled of expensive leather and cheap betrayal. Kamal leaned back as the city blurred past the windows.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” he said, “after throwing you under the bus.”

I stayed silent.

He sighed, annoyed. “The truth is, I needed a fall guy. And you? You were perfect — poor, desperate, invisible.”

“I almost died.”

“You didn’t.” He smiled like that excused everything. “Which means you’re useful. Again.”

I looked at him. “I’m not doing anything for you.”

“You will,” he said calmly. “Because you don’t have a choice.”

He pulled out a folder and slid it to me. Inside were photographs — grainy, black-and-white surveillance shots. A shipping yard. Men. Guns. A seal I recognized: **Juba Brotherhood**.

I looked up. “You’re into arms dealing now?”

“No. *They* are.” He tapped the seal. “A Bangladeshi crime syndicate. Expansionist. Ruthless. I work for someone who wants to keep them in check.”

“Who?”

He just smiled. “Let’s call them *the Network*. They're powerful, invisible, and very interested in Southeast Asia. You’re going to help us infiltrate Juba. They already know your name. Thanks to Ashraful.”

I turned to Ashraful. He met my gaze finally. “You wanted answers. You wanted revenge. This is how you get both.”

---

By evening, we were in a warehouse near the docks — Kamal’s temporary base. A few men unloaded crates, while others huddled over maps and photos. I noticed one man in the corner — scarred face, left eye white and blind. He watched me like I was a fly he hadn’t decided to swat yet.

“That’s Rafiq,” Kamal said, following my gaze. “Ex-Juba. He’ll train you.”

“Train me for what?”

“To survive.”

---

**The next few days were brutal.**

Rafiq didn’t speak much. When he did, it was to insult. My first fight session ended with a cracked lip and a bruised rib. He wasn’t teaching me to win — he was teaching me to *last*. I learned how to spot a knife before it was drawn, how to hide one on my body, and how to take a punch without folding.

Between sessions, I studied Juba operations. Routes. Codes. Members. They operated like a paramilitary gang — disciplined, nationalistic, and funded by blood money. They hated outsiders. Kamal’s plan was simple: use me to gain entry, then dismantle them from the inside.

“It’s suicide,” I told Ashraful one night.

He lit a cigarette. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s redemption.”

“You think that’s what I’m after?”

He didn’t answer.

---

A week later, we got the call.

A mid-level Juba captain named *Badal Bhai* needed a new runner. His last one was shot dead. Kamal had greased enough palms to slide my name into consideration. Now it was time to meet him.

Badal ran his operation from a club — *Shonar Bangla*, a loud, neon-lit bar masked as a restaurant. Inside, women danced, men drank, and deals were made in dim corners. The air reeked of perfume, spice, and sweat.

He found me amusing — a “Bangladeshi ghost,” he called me. Said I looked too soft for this line of work.

I smiled. “I’m not here to talk. Just to work.”

He laughed. “Good. Because first job is tonight. You carry a suitcase. You deliver it. No questions.”

I nodded.

“But if you screw up...” He drew a finger across his throat.

Standard procedure.

---

The delivery was easy. An abandoned train yard. I dropped the suitcase with a man who looked like a retired warlord. No words. No weapons drawn. Just a nod.

But the message was clear — I was in.

---

Back at the warehouse, Kamal seemed pleased. “You’ve got a week. Get closer to Badal. We need his client list.”

“And then what?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Whatever my bosses decide.”

I should have felt something — fear, thrill, guilt. But all I felt was numb.

I was becoming someone else. Someone who answered to shadows. Someone who didn’t ask why.

---

Later that night, Rafiq caught me staring at the ocean.

“You think you’re playing a part,” he said. “But every day you pretend, it becomes more real.”

I looked at him. “And what about you? What part did you play?”

He smiled bitterly. “I stopped playing. Now I just survive.”

---

That night I dreamed of Dhaka — its noise, its heat, its chaos. My mother’s face blurred in smoke. My father’s silence. Jamil’s screams.

When I woke up, Kamal was gone. So was Ashraful.

Rafiq handed me a burner phone. One message blinked on the screen:

**“Badal suspects. Get out.”**

My blood turned to ice.

Then a second message came in. A photo.

My face. Blown up and printed. “WANTED FOR BOMBING DHAKA POLICE HQ.” Circulated by Juba operatives.

They knew.

And now I had one choice: run — or finish what I’d started.

-