The Silent Hunt

I had always thought that being hunted would feel loud—sirens, shouts, footsteps echoing behind me. Instead, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of silence that presses against your ears until you can hear your own pulse, quick and shallow.

For the past two days, I’d been shadowed. No mistake about it. The same figure kept appearing—sometimes reflected in a store window, sometimes a silhouette at the far end of the street. Always just far enough not to be sure… but close enough to know.

It started after the meeting with Rahman bhai, the gang leader who’d agreed—reluctantly—to let me run jobs for him under strict supervision. The man didn’t trust easily, but his operations needed a runner who could blend in. My new identity, Arman Azin, was perfect for it.

Or so I thought.

It was late evening, the streets of Petaling Jaya slick with fresh rain. Neon signs shimmered in puddles, and the air smelled faintly of durian and diesel. I was delivering a package from one of Rahman’s front businesses to a “client” in an apartment block that had no doorbell, no nameplates—just a steel door with peeling paint.

After the drop-off, I caught the shadow in the glass of the building across the street. A tall figure in a dark hoodie, standing unnaturally still under a broken streetlight.

When I turned, he was gone.

“Arman,” Malik said the next day, tossing me a set of keys to one of the gang’s stolen motorbikes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I have,” I muttered.

He smirked. “You’ve been in this life long enough now to know ghosts are real, but they wear shoes.”

I didn’t laugh.

By the third night, I was sure it wasn’t just paranoia. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. No close approaches, no mistakes. Just constant presence—enough to rattle me.

And here’s the problem: in our world, if someone follows you for more than two days, they either want to kill you… or recruit you.

I didn’t know which was worse.

That night, I was assigned to meet with one of Rahman’s rivals, under the guise of making peace over territory. I knew it was a dangerous errand. And yet, part of me wanted the meeting—because if my shadow followed me there, maybe I could finally catch them.

The meeting point was a derelict warehouse near the docks. The air smelled of rust and saltwater, and rats scurried along the beams above.

I waited. Listened. Footsteps approached.

A man in a leather jacket stepped into the flickering light—Farid, lieutenant of the rival crew. His face was marked with an old scar across the cheek.

“You’re Rahman’s runner?” he asked.

I nodded. “Here to talk business.”

His smirk was slow, deliberate. “Business, or bait?”

Before I could respond, a metal clang echoed from the far side of the warehouse.

Both of us froze.

I drew the small switchblade I kept hidden inside my jacket sleeve. Farid’s men shifted nervously, hands on their weapons.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness.
The hooded figure.

He moved like water—silent, purposeful. In two steps, he was inside the circle of light.

Farid reacted first, pulling a pistol. “Who the hell—?”

The figure moved faster than I thought possible, disarming Farid with a twist and sending the gun skidding across the concrete.

Before I could join the fight, the man’s gaze locked on me.

And I saw his face.

It was Nabil.

I hadn’t seen him since Dhaka—since the night the bomb went off, since the night Kamal framed me. His face was leaner now, eyes harder, but the same faint scar ran above his eyebrow.

“You,” I whispered.

“Arman Azin,” he said mockingly. “Or should I say… Ashique?”

The sound of my real name in his voice hit me like a bullet.
Farid’s men exchanged glances—they hadn’t known my real name.

“Looks like I found my runaway,” Nabil continued. “And I think Rahman would pay good money to know the truth about his newest recruit.”

Farid was no fool—he knew an opportunity when he saw one. “Wait,” he said, turning to me, “you’re not who you say you are?”

“This isn’t your fight,” I growled, but my voice lacked conviction.

“It is now,” Farid grinned.

Before I could move, Nabil lunged—not at me, but at Farid. In the confusion, I dove for the gun on the floor, only for someone to slam into me from behind.

I fought blindly—elbows, fists, whatever it took. The warehouse erupted into chaos, shouts and the dull thud of fists against flesh

Somehow, I broke free, grabbing the gun and backing toward the door. Nabil was tangled with one of Farid’s men, both of them locked in a brutal struggle.

I should’ve run.

Instead, I aimed at the ceiling and fired. The deafening crack froze everyone for a split second.

“That’s enough,” I shouted. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Nabil, but if you follow me again, you’ll regret it.”

He grinned—blood on his lip. “You’ll see me again, Ashique. And when you do… you’ll wish Kamal had killed you back in Dhaka.”

I didn’t wait for more. I bolted into the rain, the gun still in my hand.

Back at the safehouse, Malik stared at me. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something. And you’re shaking.”

I tossed the gun on the table. “Someone from my past found me.”

“Who?”

I hesitated. “A ghost wearing shoes.”

Malik didn’t press. But I could tell he knew—my time hiding behind the name Arman Azin was almost up

Outside, the rain had stopped. Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle engine roared.

I went to the window.

A lone figure sat on a bike at the far end of the street, helmet hiding their face.

They didn’t move.

Neither did I.

In that stillness, I understood one thing: the silent hunt wasn’t over. It had only just begun.