Pyres of Liberation

From our command post—a half-collapsed apartment on the fifth floor of a long-abandoned block—I watched as the members of our ragtag alliance moved into position. Razak’s Tigers of Klang crouched in the shadow of the sewer entrance; Farzana led Khaled’s crew toward the paramilitary camp by the river; and Raja’s remaining loyalists prepared to hit Red Fang’s HQ in the docks district.

All at once, it felt like the heart of the underworld had been sliced open, and every drop of its corruption was about to spill onto the streets.

I ran a hand over my bloodstained jacket—my father’s old shawl repurposed into a makeshift bandolier—and felt the weight of every man, woman, and child who had suffered under Kamal’s reign. This was more than retribution. It was liberation.

“Zero hour,” I whispered into my comm.

Below, in the darkness, echoes of the plan unfolded.

Farzana’s voice crackled in my earpiece: “Ten seconds.”

I flipped the switch on a small jammer I’d planted earlier. The paramilitary radios sputtered and died. In the silence, Farzana and her squad moved like shadows, scaling the barbed outer fence with grappling hooks. They dropped silently into the courtyard.

The first guard—a young kid no older than Rehan had been—turned at the sound of scrambling ropes. Farzana was on him in an instant, her knife at his throat.

“Step aside,” she whispered fiercely.

We’d arranged for them to take captives intact; we needed the intel more than the bloodletting. Farzana bound him, gagged him, and motioned her team forward. They swept through the camp, neutralizing sentries and cutting power lines. Within five minutes, the paramilitary compound was in chaos: lights out, communications down, and half a battalion of soldiers disoriented in the pitch-black.

Heavy footsteps pounded the ground as a riot of movement erupted. Farzana’s team grabbed the guards and led them to a makeshift holding area, binding them to the remnants of a broken-down ambulance.

“Secure the intel,” Farzana ordered. She planted a small explosive on the main gate’s control panel. “We collapse in two. Move.”

We heard the distant echo of the explosion moments later—an audible promise that Kamal’s new hammer was shattered.

Meanwhile, Razak signaled from the sewer entrance beneath us. The Tigers of Klang surged upward in formation, armed with stolen riot shields and suppressed SMGs. Their objective: cut the supply routes that fed Red Fang’s waterfront fortress.

The sun’s first rays flickered overhead as the gates of the docks swung open to admit a fuel tanker. Razak’s men emerged from the sewer like specters. Quick, methodical, lethal. They cleared the outer perimeter in seconds—incapacitating guards with stun rounds and flashbangs.

A convoy of three vans approached the loading bay. Razak roared a command in low, guttural Malay, and the Tigers unleashed a hail of gunfire. One van exploded in a plume of flame. The other two skidded to a halt. The drivers froze as masked Tigers dragged them out.

I climbed over the balcony railing, nodding to Razak. “Time?”

He checked his watch. “Two minutes until we hit their main warehouse.”

I sprinted across collapsed crates, dodging a straggler who lifted his weapon. I shot him in the knee, watched him keel over with a scream. Guilt flared, but I swallowed it. There was no time.

We stormed the warehouse: a cavernous hangar full of crates stamped with foreign insignias. The air smelled of diesel and cedar. Red Fang soldiers—half-asleep from the late shift—were too slow to react. We swept through, tying them up against the walls.

Rehan’s ghost name popped into my mind. I forced it away. There was no place for regret in this war.

Before leaving, Razak’s lieutenants rigged the crates to detonate on timer, a loud, blazing message to every faction that dared challenge us.

“Move!” Razak barked.

We slipped back into the alley, leaving fire and fear behind us.

My own target lay deepest in enemy territory: Kamal’s stronghold at the hilltop villa overlooking the city’s glimmering skyline. Tall gates, CCTV cameras, private militia—all symbols of his power.

As our signals synchronized, I led a small team of Khaled’s best men to the service entrance—an unassuming gate behind a wall of bougainvillea. It took mere seconds to cut the lock. The intrusion sensors were on backorder. Bless government incompetence.

Inside, the villa was silent. Once grand marble floors now slick with rain. Golden chandeliers dim with dust. I moved like a specter, gun drawn, every sense on fire.

We found Kamal in his study, face bathed in the blue glow of multiple monitors—live feeds from every corner of his empire. He didn’t flinch when we burst in. Instead, he calmly rose, folded his arms.

“Well done,” he said. “I see the city is ablaze.”

I leveled my pistol. “It’s over, Kamal.”

He laughed softly. “Over? You think you’ve won?”

Behind him, two of his loyal guards stormed in. I fired twice, dropping one. The other charged, and Farzana, who had slipped in behind me, ended him with a brutal slash.

Kamal remained standing, eyes calm. “You’re good,” he said. “Listen… this could be the end of one chapter—or the beginning of another.”

I gripped the trigger.

He held up a hand. “Before you kill me, hear this.”

I lowered my gun just enough to hear him. His voice was eerily devoid of panic.

“You’ve broken my empire, flooded my coffers, and hunted my men,” he said. “But you think this is about me?”

I didn’t answer.

Kamal turned to the monitors. “Your friend at the paramilitary compound—he’s no pawn. He’s a civilian volunteer undercover.” He tapped a screen showing a hospital logo. “He’s going to rot in a cell for FBI extradition.”

My chest tightened.

“And your Tigers? They’re foreign nationals. Your liberation will get them deported or executed as terrorists.”

I felt the air go out of me.

Kamal continued: “Your precious coalition could be crushed by a single legal decree. Once the government decides this is domestic terrorism, they’ll unleash drones, special forces—everything.”

The weight of his words settled over me like smog. We had won the battles, but losing the war was still one misstep away.

He stepped forward. “So here’s the offer: leave the city. Take Farzana and what’s left of your alliance. Go somewhere else—they’ll hunt you here forever. Or stay, and face the consequences of your ‘victory.’”

I glanced at Farzana—eyes wide, body tense. She lifted her chin.

I realized then that I had a choice: spare him and keep my moral code, or pull the trigger and end this man once and for all.

I closed my eyes and remembered the boy I’d been: desperate, scared, willing to kill for a false promise. Then I thought of the man I’d become: someone trying to forge a path out of darkness.

I opened my eyes. “It’s not over,” I said. “Not for you. Or me.”

I slammed the butt of my pistol against Kamal’s temple. His eyes caught mine—surprised, maybe even a flicker of respect. He crumpled.

Farzana hurled a grenade at the monitors, sending shards of glass and sparks into the air. The wiring ignited. Smoke curled in lazy tendrils.

We dragged Kamal’s limp body outside to the front courtyard. The city skyline glowed, indifferent to our war. I bound his hands and slipped a hood over his head.

Razak and his Tigers cleared the gangrene of militia guards, leaving bodies in tidy rows. The villa burned from our earlier incendiaries—orange flames licking the pillars, windows exploding inward.

I stood atop the marble steps, looking down at the inferno. Ash and embers swirled around Kamal’s prone form.

A voice called from below. Faces—Farzana, Khaled, Razak—stared at me. Their expressions were a mixture of awe and fear. They waited for my command.

I took a deep breath.

“Tonight,” I said, voice steady, “we end this.”

I stepped down, kicked the hood from Kamal’s head. His eyes met mine, unblinking.

“For you,” I said, and I shoved him forward. He rolled, caught a rib on the step.

Then I raised my hand.

An inferno roared behind me—flames spread from the villa to the grounds.

“We burn his empire,” I said, “but we don’t become him.”

I turned away.

The first torch of our revolution roared to life: we set Kamal’s body on the steps as a pyre, the symbol of his tyranny consumed by the virus of his own ambition.

No cheers. No celebration. Just the crackle of fire and the promise of dawn.

By sunrise, the city awoke to chaos. News helicopters circled the plumes of smoke, broadcasting images of the burning villa and the hooded corpse atop its steps. Rumors swirled: gang war, terrorist coup, revolution.

But in the underworld, a new respect was born. A ragged alliance had unseated two empires and spared their puppet master only to deny his power.

Farzana and I slipped away at dawn, riding a stolen motorcycle out of the city. Razak and Khaled’s forces held the perimeter, keeping both police and rival gangs at bay for a precious few hours. They would make their peace with authorities soon enough—some would be arrested, others granted immunity in exchange for testimony.

As we crossed the final bridge out of Kuala Lumpur, I looked back at the skyline. Smoke curled in the morning light, and the city rose, resilient and indifferent—always ready for the next conflict.

I shifted in the seat and placed my hand on Farzana’s. “We did it.”

She gave a tired smile. “For now.”

I nodded. We both knew the war was never truly over. Power vacuums get filled. Tyrants return. But for today, we had rewritten our destinies.

I glanced at the horizon, where the sun cracked the sky with gold and crimson—colors of fire and blood.

In that moment, I realized: I was no longer a ghost. I was a spark.

And wherever we went next, that spark would burn.