The Knife's Edge

They say when you're close to death, everything slows down. For me, it sped up.

The moment I saw my face on that flyer, my lungs forgot how to breathe. That flyer wasn’t just a death sentence—it was a signal. A green light. Juba knew who I was, and worse, they knew where I was.

I shoved the burner phone into my pocket and turned to Rafiq. “How long do I have?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just grabbed his jacket and said, “Move.”

We raced through the alleyways behind the warehouse district. Rafiq took the lead, winding through tight lanes like he knew every crack in the concrete. I could feel eyes on us—real or imagined, it didn’t matter. I was hunted again.

We ducked into a crumbling tenement near the docks. As we climbed five flights of creaking stairs, I couldn’t help but ask, “You knew this would happen?”

“I knew it could. You wanted to get close to fire,” he said without turning around. “Now you’re burning.”

Inside a dim apartment, lit only by a flickering bulb, an old man sat by a chessboard. Rafiq spoke in Bengali. “He’s compromised. We need the fallback.”

The man didn’t speak. He simply stood up, walked to the back wall, and pushed aside a dusty bookshelf. Behind it was a rusted metal door. A hidden passage.

Rafiq turned to me. “This leads to the storm drains. After that, we vanish.”

I hesitated. “What about Kamal? Ashraful?”

“They vanished before you got burned. Think about that.”

The tunnels were tight, filthy, and filled with rats. But they were quiet. Quiet enough for thoughts to start creeping in.

This was the second time I had run. First from Dhaka, now from my so-called allies. I was a pawn again, dancing to someone else’s tune. Juba wanted me dead. Kamal wanted me useful. No one gave a damn who I really was.

I didn’t say it out loud, but I knew then: I couldn’t keep running forever. One day, I’d have to make someone else run. From me.

By dawn, we were in Bukit Tunku—a rich neighborhood far from the slums. Rafiq had a contact here. A safe house disguised as a food vendor’s storage unit. Inside, I collapsed onto a thin mattress, sweat freezing on my skin.

“Sleep,” he said. “Tonight, we plan.”

I didn’t sleep.

That evening, I woke to voices. Urgent. Low. I crept to the edge of the curtain.

A woman I hadn’t seen before was arguing with Rafiq. She was maybe thirty, wearing jeans, boots, and a headscarf wrapped tight. Her voice was fire.

“You should’ve told me the kid was burnt. Now we’re exposed.”

“He’s our only link to Juba’s drug arm,” Rafiq replied. “He stays.”

“He’s dead weight. You want me to risk my boys for this ghost?”

That’s when I stepped out. “I can hear you, you know.”

She turned sharply. Her eyes were sharp, calculating. “Good. Saves time.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Lina,” she said. “And I don’t like you.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

She almost smirked.

Rafiq cleared his throat. “Lina runs an anti-trafficking outfit. Smugglers, whistleblowers, defectors. She’s ex-Juba too.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re all ex-Juba?”

She nodded. “We all bled for that flag once. Then we saw what it really stood for.”

Over a bare table lit by one swinging bulb, we drew out the plan.

“You can’t hide anymore,” Lina said. “So don’t.”

“What?”

“Let Juba think you’re on the offensive. Draw them in. Let them come to you.”

I blinked. “You want to use me as bait.”

“No,” she said. “I want to use you as a knife.”

The plan was insane.

I would fake a surrender. Claim I was betrayed by Kamal and wanted revenge. I'd contact Badal’s second-in-command—Kibria—and ask to meet, promising names and intel in exchange for mercy.

While I lured them out, Rafiq and Lina’s crew would intercept the convoy. Cut off their muscle. Grab Kibria alive.

“Why not kill him?” I asked.

“Because Kibria knows who ordered the bombing in Dhaka,” Lina said. “We need names.”

“And what if they just kill me on sight?”

She smiled grimly. “Then you’d better sell that lie like your life depends on it.”

Two nights later, we were set.

I sent the message. Simple, desperate:

"Kibria bhai. I was used. Kamal betrayed me. I know who he's working for. I want out. Let's talk."

We waited.

An hour passed. Then two.

Then a reply:

“Midnight. Underpass. Come alone.”

I stood at the underpass, dressed in old Juba colors. Sweat soaked through my shirt. Every second felt like a countdown to something explosive.

A black van pulled up.

Four men stepped out.

Kibria was among them. Short, round, gold teeth. He walked like he owned the street.

“Well, well, look what the gutter spat out,” he sneered.

I stepped forward. “You want Kamal? I’ll give you everything. But I want protection.”

He tilted his head. “You’re not in a position to bargain, Arman.”

My heart thudded. “I know where the next shipment is. Drugs. Guns. Kamal’s network is here. In KL.”

That caught his interest.

He waved a hand. “Put him in the van. We’ll talk on the road.”

That’s when the world exploded.

Tires screeched behind us. Flashbangs. Smoke. Gunshots cracked the silence.

Rafiq’s team swarmed like ghosts.

I ducked. Crawled. A man fell next to me, blood pouring from his mouth.

In the chaos, I saw Kibria trying to run.

Rafiq tackled him, driving a fist into his throat.

A minute later, it was over.

Kibria was in cuffs. Rafiq bleeding from the arm. One of Lina’s men lay still on the ground.

But we had him.

Back at the hideout, Kibria spat blood and curses.

“You idiots think this changes anything?” he growled. “Juba is everywhere. Kill me and ten more will take my place.”

“We’re not here to kill you,” Lina said. “We’re here to trade. You talk, you live.”

He laughed. “Talk about what?”

“Who planted the bomb,” I said. “And who gave the order.”

His eyes flicked to me.

And for the first time… he looked scared.

“I’ll talk,” he said quietly. “But you won’t like what you hear.”