Blood in the Smoke

The night fell fast over the tin roofs and crumbling bricks of Kuala Lumpur’s underworld. I crouched on the second floor of a half-built apartment complex, peering through the crack in the wall. My breath was slow, controlled—but my heart pounded like a war drum in my chest. My hand gripped the cheap Beretta tightly, sweat slipping between my fingers. This wasn’t some petty heist. This was war.

Down below, the rival gang—Red Fang—was unloading crates. Ammunition, maybe weapons. Their leader, a tall man with slicked-back hair and a dragon tattoo stretching across his collarbone, barked orders like a general. I had seen him before. Jin Wei. He was ruthless. He made Kamal look like a pet store owner. And I was about to rob him.

“What’s the signal?” Rehan whispered from behind me.

“When I shoot,” I said grimly.

Rehan was a twenty-year-old Bangladeshi kid, new to this life. Picked up by Raja and dumped into our crew. He was eager. Too eager. I didn’t like working with green boys, but Raja insisted.

Raja was getting too comfortable in power, surrounding himself with yes-men and cowards. And now, he wanted a show. Wanted us to cripple Red Fang by stealing their shipment and burning their safehouse to the ground. I had told him it was suicide.

He only laughed and said, “Then die a hero, Arman.”

I waited as the final crate came off the van. Eight men surrounded the cargo. Two had M4s, and one—Jin Wei—carried a gold-plated pistol. We were outgunned and outnumbered.

Rehan adjusted his scarf and tugged at my sleeve. “We’re gonna die, bhai.”

“Then die quiet.”

I took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

The shot shattered the stillness of the night like glass underfoot. My bullet hit one of the guards dead in the neck. He dropped, gurgling. Panic erupted below. Jin Wei ducked behind the crate, barking in Mandarin. My second shot clipped another man in the thigh before I grabbed Rehan and shouted, “Move!”

We bolted down the stairs as bullets flew past us, turning concrete into dust. The rest of our crew, stashed in the alley with cheap Molotovs and one grenade, charged in on cue. Chaos exploded in waves.

I slid behind a dumpster as flames lit the night orange. One of our boys lobbed a bottle that shattered against the van, engulfing it in fire. Screams. Explosions. Sirens in the distance.

I saw Rehan crouched behind a barrel, trying to reload. I ran toward him, but I wasn’t fast enough.

A shot rang out. He collapsed like a puppet whose strings were cut.

“Rehan!”

I dropped beside him. Blood poured from his side. His lips trembled.

“Bhai... tell Amma I tried to be... someone...”

His eyes went still.

I couldn’t cry. Couldn’t even scream. Just rage. Cold, burning rage.

I picked up his pistol and rose, both guns blazing.

The remaining Red Fang thugs scrambled, unprepared for the madness I brought. I shot three before diving behind the van. Jin Wei spotted me. Our eyes locked.

“You again?” he sneered.

I threw my empty pistol at him and sprinted as fast as I could, grabbing a broken metal pipe from the ground. Jin Wei raised his gun but I was already there—slamming the pipe into his wrist, making him drop it. We fought like animals. He clawed at my face; I smashed my knee into his gut. He elbowed me in the ribs; I punched his throat. We were rolling in blood and soot when his men shouted, “Police!”

For a moment, everything paused.

He stared at me. “This isn’t over.”

Then he ran.

The sirens closed in. I grabbed Rehan’s gun, sprinted through the alley, and melted into the shadows just as police vans stormed the street. I didn’t stop running until I reached the sewer hatch behind our safehouse.

When I returned, Raja was lounging on his throne of stolen furniture, sipping whiskey like a king.

“We lost three,” I growled.

He shrugged. “But we gained control of three blocks.”

“And Rehan?”

“He was a pawn. You’re my knight.”

I wanted to kill him. Right there. But I didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I nodded and walked out.

Two nights later, word hit the streets—Jin Wei put a bounty on my head. 5,000 ringgit. Dead or alive. Posters started going up in local dens with a grainy CCTV image of me mid-sprint. The whole underworld was watching now. I couldn’t breathe without looking over my shoulder.

One night, as I returned to my apartment, I found the door slightly open. My blood froze.

I slid my knife from my boot and crept in.

A man was sitting at my table. Older. Calm. Clean-shaven with a silver ring on his left hand. He was drinking my last packet of tea.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who doesn’t like Raja. Or Jin Wei.”

I didn’t speak.

He set the cup down. “You’ve made quite the mess, Arman Azin. Or should I call you Ashique?”

My heart stopped.

He leaned back. “Relax. I’m not here to kill you. Yet.”

“What do you want?”

He smiled. “A partnership.”

“With who?”

He slid a photo across the table. It was a symbol—a snake wrapped around a dagger.

I had seen that mark once, years ago, carved into the arm of a corpse floating in the Buriganga River.

The man stood.

“War is coming, Ashique. Pick the right side. Or die in the crossfire.”

And just like that, he was gone.