The Streets Are Teeth

Rain in Petaling Jaya doesn’t fall; it attacks.
By the time I left the safehouse, the downpour was so heavy it blurred the edges of the world into gray streaks. Streetlights shimmered in the wet asphalt, every reflection bending and twitching with the wind.

Malik had begged me to stay inside.
“You’ve got someone after you, Ash—Arman,” he said, catching himself on my alias. “This isn’t the night to be walking the streets.”

But I couldn’t. I knew that if I stayed cooped up, Nabil would come knocking. And I wanted him on my terms, not his.

I was halfway down Jalan Othman when I heard it—the low, hungry growl of a motorcycle engine weaving through the rain. Not the lazy hum of a food delivery bike. No, this was sharper. Predatory.

I glanced over my shoulder. A black bike with a single, glaring headlight cut through the curtain of water, closing in fast. The rider wore a full-face helmet, visor blacked out. My stomach turned.

Nabil.

I ran.

My shoes slapped against the wet pavement, sending arcs of dirty water into the air. The bike’s engine revved, the sound bouncing off the narrow shopfronts and alleyways.

There’s a rhythm to being chased—you start with panic, then adrenaline takes over, and your brain becomes a machine calculating angles, obstacles, escape routes. I darted left into a narrow lane between a laundromat and a shuttered electronics store. Too tight for a bike.

Or so I thought.

The roar behind me didn’t fade—it got louder. I risked a glance back and saw the bike leaning almost sideways, handlebars scraping the walls as Nabil forced it through the alley with impossible control.

I skidded to the end of the lane, where it opened into a wet market, stalls long since abandoned for the night. Crates of durians and mangosteens lay scattered, the smell sharp in the rain.

The bike burst into the open space, spraying water like shrapnel. I dove behind a stall just as the front wheel slammed into the wooden counter, splintering it in half.

Nabil swung off the bike in one fluid motion, helmet still on. “You can run, Ashique,” he called over the rain, “but you can’t hide in a city that eats cowards alive.

I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find—a broken umbrella with a metal spine still intact. Not much, but it would keep him at a distance for a few seconds.

We circled each other in the market, rain hammering on the tin roofs. The smell of rust and overripe fruit filled the air.

“You were supposed to die in Dhaka,” Nabil said, voice muffled through the helmet. “Kamal made sure of it. You embarrassed him.”

“You’re working for Kamal now?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” he replied. “Let’s just say… we have overlapping goals.”

He lunged, faster than I expected. I swung the umbrella’s metal shaft, catching his wrist before he could slash at me with the folding knife in his hand. The impact rattled my bones.

Nabil twisted, locking my arm and shoving me into a fruit crate. My ribs screamed in pain.

Somewhere in the chaos, a flare went off—red light cutting through the rain. I realized it wasn’t an accident. Farid’s men had arrived.

Three figures in dark jackets emerged from the shadows, machetes in hand.

Nabil didn’t flinch. “Stay out of this,” he barked.

Farid himself stepped forward, smirking. “What, and let you have all the fun? This runner’s worth a fortune.”

The air was thick with danger—three-way tension, everyone waiting for the first move.

I made it.

Kicking a crate toward the nearest machete-wielder, I bolted for the north end of the market, shoving over stalls and sending fruits rolling like marbles under their feet.

I sprinted into the main road, headlights glaring through the rain. Cars swerved and honked as I weaved between them. Behind me, I heard both engines—Nabil’s bike and a black SUV belonging to Farid’s crew.

The SUV’s tires screamed as it fishtailed on the slick asphalt. I darted into another alley, this one leading to the old railway bridge. My lungs burned, but I didn’t slow.

The bridge was half-abandoned, only one side still in use. I climbed onto the maintenance walkway, the metal slick beneath my hands.

Halfway across, the bike’s roar came again.

Nabil cut the engine and stepped onto the walkway. The rain made the steel hum under our feet.

“You think you can run forever?” he said, removing his helmet at last. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes like sharpened glass. “This city’s smaller than you think.”

I backed toward the far side of the bridge. “If Kamal wants me, tell him to come himself.”

Nabil smiled. “He doesn’t want to kill you. He wants you to remember why you should’ve died.”

Something in his voice chilled me more than the rain.

Then headlights appeared on the far bank—Malik’s bike. He must’ve followed me from the safehouse.

Nabil didn’t move as I ran past him, but his parting words followed me like a curse:

“Every city has teeth, Ashique. You just haven’t been bitten deep enough yet.”

By the time we reached the safehouse, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Malik slammed the door and locked it.

“You need to tell me everything,” he said.

I stared out the rain-streaked window, where I could’ve sworn I saw a figure in the distance.

“Nabil’s here for me,” I said finally. “And he’s not leaving until I bleed.”