The Blood Pact

The rain hadn’t stopped for hours.

It fell in thick sheets against the corrugated tin roofs of the back alleys of Jalan Kelapa. The air reeked of wet cement, diesel, and something else—blood, maybe. It was hard to tell anymore. I’d been back in the city for just over two weeks, but it felt like years. Sleep was rare. Trust was extinct. My lungs didn’t breathe air; they breathed tension.

After the incident with the nightclub and the gunfight in Season 2 Chapter 12, I knew I was now more than just a runaway. I was an asset.

Or a liability.

Depends on who you asked.

Khaled hadn’t spoken to me since we returned from that bloody ambush. I thought I was going to get a bullet in the back of my head that night. Instead, he handed me a towel, lit a cigarette, and said, “You’re in this now, like it or not.”

And I didn’t. I didn’t like it one bit.

It started with a message on my burner phone:
“Meet me behind the Green Lantern. No weapons. Just you. Midnight.”

No name. No number. Just the message.

I showed up anyway. I wasn’t brave—I was desperate.

The Green Lantern was a rundown massage parlor posing as a hookah lounge. Behind it was a loading dock, soaked and rusting, under the dim flicker of a dying streetlight. I waited five minutes. Then ten.

Then he came.

A man in a black coat, face shadowed under a hoodie. He lit a match, and for a second, his face glowed. I recognized him instantly.

Shafiq.

We’d met weeks ago at the safe house. I remembered him because of the scar that split his eyebrow and how he sharpened knives like a ritual. Quiet. Efficient. Dangerous.

He tossed me a small plastic bag. Inside was a photo. My photo. Alongside three others. Faces I didn’t recognize.

“They’re marked,” he said.

“Marked for what?”

“Retribution. They sold out Kamal’s crew to the immigration police.”

I stiffened. “So what does this have to do with me?”

Shafiq exhaled smoke. “You owe us, Arman. After what happened at the docks, you’re still breathing because we let you. You’ve got to earn your place.”

“By killing them?”

He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Or bring them in. Khaled will decide what to do.”

I stared at the photos. Two men. One woman. All Bangladeshi. All looked around my age. One of them had a faded school ID hanging from his neck. The logo said "Rajshahi University".

“Who are they?” I asked.

Shafiq stepped closer. “Ghosts. Like you. But not everyone wants to disappear. Some want to make noise.”

He dropped the match, let it hiss out in the rain, and walked away without another word.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I flipped through the photos over and over again, wondering how I had gone from a desperate runaway to a man with a hit list. The funny thing? My hands didn’t even shake anymore. I should’ve been scared. Sick. But I was just... numb.

I picked the first target. The woman—Farzana Murshed. Age: 24. Last seen in Bukit Merah.

I used the little I had left of my money to bribe a guy who ran SIM card racks near the docks. He gave me a tip: she worked under an alias—Nina—serving drinks in an underground poker den frequented by middle-class businessmen who liked the thrill of danger more than the drinks.

It wasn’t hard to find her.

She spotted me the moment I walked in. Her eyes narrowed, and she subtly touched the inside of her coat, where I guessed she kept a blade or pepper spray.

Smart girl.

I waited until her shift ended and followed her down an alley.

She spun around before I could even open my mouth.

“If you’re here to kill me, make it fast,” she said.

I held my hands up. “I’m not here to kill you.”

She laughed, bitter and hollow. “They always say that before they kill you.”

“I’m not one of them,” I said.

She tilted her head. “Then why do you have this?” She held up a copy of the same photo Shafiq gave me. My heart stopped.

“How did you—?”

“I’m not stupid,” she said. “I knew they’d send someone. Khaled wants all loose ends tied up.”

“I’m a loose end too,” I said. “You think I want to be doing this? I’m just trying to survive.”

She looked at me again. Her eyes softened for just a second. “We all are.”

That second was all it took. A loud metallic clang behind us snapped both our heads around. Someone else was in the alley.

Then we heard the click of a safety coming off.

“Drop the girl,” a voice barked.

Farzana lunged. I don’t know whether it was instinct or courage. Either way, I jumped with her. The first bullet grazed my shoulder. The second slammed into the wall behind me.

We rolled into a pile of trash bags as Farzana pulled a switchblade and slashed the shooter’s leg. He screamed.

I tackled him before he could fire again. We wrestled for control of the gun. He headbutted me and tried to run. Farzana stabbed him in the calf. He went down like a sandbag.

“Who sent you?” I shouted.

But he was already choking on blood. The knife had hit an artery.

Farzana stood over him, shaking. “That’s not one of Khaled’s men.”

“Then whose?”

She looked at me.

“You’re not the only one with enemies, Arman.”

Back at the safe house, I treated my wound with vodka and cheap bandages. Farzana sat across from me, legs shaking.

“I think they’re trying to clean house,” she said. “Whoever’s pulling the strings—it’s not just Khaled anymore.”

“You mean Kamal?”

She nodded. “He’s still alive, Arman. And he doesn’t want you dead... yet.”

I leaned back against the cold wall.

“What does he want?”

She looked at me, dead serious.

“He wants you back.”