The Invitation

I didn’t sleep that night.

Farzana was snoring in the corner, wrapped in an old tarp, while I sat near the barred window of the safehouse, nursing my bandaged shoulder and watching the rats fight over leftover rice in the alley. My mind spun.

He wants you back.

Those words echoed like gunshots in my head. Kamal — the same man who used me, framed me, and left me to be eaten alive by the media — wanted me back.

But why?

I was supposed to be dead. Or exiled. A ghost. But instead, I was alive, renamed, battle-scarred, and somehow valuable again.

A little past dawn, there was a knock on the door.

Three slow taps. Pause. Two quick ones.

It was the code.

Farzana leapt up with her blade drawn. I moved to the corner, hand hovering over the pipe I’d sharpened into a weapon. When the door creaked open, we both froze.

It was Khaled.

Tall, trench coat wet from the drizzle, cigarette already half burnt. He stepped in like he owned the place.

“I see you two had quite a night.”

“You sent someone to kill her,” I said, not hiding the venom in my voice.

He arched an eyebrow. “If I wanted her dead, she’d be in pieces.”

“Then who was the shooter?” Farzana hissed.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he dropped a folded envelope on the table and turned to me.

“You’ve got mail, Arman.”

I opened it carefully.

It wasn’t a letter.

It was an invitation.

Printed on a matte black card, with a gold snake symbol pressed into the corner. The words were simple:

"Tonight. 11 PM. Batu Caves. Come alone. You’ve been summoned."
— K

Kamal.

I felt bile rise in my throat.

“What is this?” I asked.

Khaled shrugged. “Call it a reunion. A chance to settle old debts. Or make new ones.”

Farzana grabbed the card. “This is suicide.”

Khaled ignored her. “Kamal is rebuilding. Recruiting. Consolidating the gangs after the purge. He’s bringing back only those who’ve survived the fire.”

“Why me?” I asked.

“Because you didn’t just survive, Arman,” Khaled said. “You learned. You adapted. You’re not the same naive fool anymore.”

I stayed silent, fists clenched. He was right. The boy who smuggled a bomb thinking it was medicine had long died.

“What if I don’t go?” I finally asked.

Khaled smiled grimly. “Then Kamal sends his other messengers.”

By nightfall, I was dressed in all black, face partially covered, Farzana trailing behind me despite my protests.

“I have my own score with Kamal,” she said, slipping a revolver into her belt. “If this goes south, I’m not watching you die alone.”

We took a stolen motorbike up the winding road to Batu Caves, a limestone hill laced with cave temples. Tourists came here for selfies and statues during the day. But now, under the cloak of night, it looked like a mouth waiting to swallow us whole.

There were no guards, no gates — just a single path lit by flaming torches, leading into the cavernous main hall.

Kamal never did like doing business like a normal man.

At the end of the stairs, we found them.

About a dozen men, all armed, some wearing masks, some not. A few I recognized from the safehouses. A few I didn’t. But standing in the middle, dressed in an ash-gray sherwani with a crimson scarf, was Kamal.

He hadn’t aged a day.

He smiled like a politician, arms wide open.

“Arman Azin. Or should I say... Ashique?”

Every gun turned toward me.

I stepped forward. My legs didn’t shake. My voice didn’t break.

“What do you want?”

Kamal laughed. “So blunt. You used to stammer like a kicked dog. I like this version better.”

Farzana moved closer to me. Kamal raised a hand, and the men relaxed their aim — slightly.

“I want to offer you a job,” Kamal said.

I stared at him, incredulous.

“You made me a fugitive. You tricked me into becoming a terrorist.”

“And look where it got you,” he said, stepping closer. “You learned to survive. You learned how this world really works. You shed your skin like a snake. Now, I want you to come back — not as a pawn... but as a partner.”

The cave echoed with silence.

Farzana spoke before I could. “What’s the catch?”

Kamal turned to her, amused. “The catch, dear Nina, is that the game has changed. The immigration crackdown? The media blackouts? The new paramilitary task force? That’s not just Malaysia. That’s a purge of the undocumented. All of us. And we need people like Arman — survivors — to lead.”

He pulled out a file from his coat. Threw it on the floor.

Inside were photos. Maps. Target lists.

“This is a war now,” Kamal said.

“And you want me to be your general?” I scoffed.

“No,” he replied. “I want you to be my heir.”

The room went quiet.

I looked at the faces around me. Some were stunned. Some furious. One or two looked… impressed.

Farzana leaned close. “He’s setting you up.”

I nodded.

“I know.”

Then I turned back to Kamal. “Why should I trust you?”

He smiled.

“You shouldn’t.”

As I stepped forward to pick up the file, the torches flickered violently. A gust of wind swept through the cave.

Then: BOOM.

The far end of the chamber exploded.

Screams. Smoke. Gunfire. A rain of rock and flame.

I dove to the ground, dragging Farzana with me. Bullets zipped past us. I looked up and saw silhouettes charging in through the smoke.

Not Kamal’s men.

A rival gang. Or worse — the immigration task force.

Chaos erupted.

Kamal was gone — vanished in the confusion.

I looked at Farzana. “We’re leaving. Now!”

We ran toward a side exit, climbing over broken crates and bodies. Somewhere behind us, men were shouting in Bengali and Bahasa. One voice stood out:

“GET ASHIQUE! BRING HIM ALIVE!”

They knew my real name.

Even my new identity wasn’t safe anymore.

We burst out into the night, lungs heaving, hearts racing.

Farzana gripped my arm. “What now?”

I stared at the dark horizon.

“We don’t run,” I said.

“We start a war.”