Chapter 4: evil isn’t born, but created.

Chapter 4: Evil Isn’t Born, but Created

October 11th, 2024 (Revamped April 15th, 2025)

A shadowy figure loomed over the fallen Mutafakir, who lay silent and unresponsive.

The figure spoke with a sharp tone.

“Reach out and grab my hand. I’m not keeping it out a second longer.”

Mutafakir obeyed without hesitation, lifting his hand to meet the figure’s.

As their hands touched, the figure felt a faint spark pulse from Mutafakir’s wrist.

(A spark? From someone like this? That can only mean one thing…)

The figure quickly withdrew his hand after helping Mutafakir up.

“You… come with me. Right now.”

“Wait—come with you? Thanks for the help, but why should I—”

“You don’t get to question me. Come with me this instant or I’ll cut off your head, and trust me, no one would even remember you existed.”

That struck a nerve.

(No way… I have to follow this guy after being insulted and threatened like a slave?)

Mutafakir gritted his teeth and answered.

“Fine… I’ll follow you. If it keeps me alive.”

He followed the man to a massive, luxurious estate—bright white with golden accents gleaming like royalty.

Inside, the figure led him into a sleek office and sat in a rolling chair, arms crossed, his back facing Mutafakir.

“I’m sure you’re curious why I brought you here,” he began. “But know this: what we discuss stays between us. If word gets out… you die. Simple.”

Mutafakir didn’t nod. He just listened intently.

“So. Introduce yourself—and tell me your hobby.”

(My hobby? Strange question to ask after dragging me here…)

Still, Mutafakir responded confidently.

“My name is Mutafakir. And my hobby… might sound odd, but I really enjoy dodging things. I get a rush from it.”

“Dodging, huh… Ever heard of a ‘Disposition,’ Mutafakir?”

“Not really.”

The figure sighed, clearly annoyed at having to explain.

“Here’s the short version: a Disposition is a power born from your hobby. In your case, your ability would be tied to your love for dodging. Think of it as gaining a supernatural skill based on what you enjoy doing most.”

“And that spark earlier…”

His voice trailed off as a flashback crossed his mind.

“It was weak—but it means your Disposition exists. You just haven’t awakened it yet.”

Mutafakir followed the explanation carefully, nodding with growing understanding.

The figure finally turned his chair, revealing himself: a young man with neck-length black hair and pale skin. Handsome, with a deadpan yet furious expression. He wore a beige trench coat, a crisp white shirt, and a black tie.

“The name’s Mutakamel,” he said firmly. “I’ll repeat this only twice. I didn’t bring you here to gift you a Disposition out of goodwill. This is an exchange. I’ll make myself clearer.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a photo of a house with a red pin on it.

“This house,” he said, “has something called ‘Banjo.’”

“Wait… isn’t Banjo a drug?”

“Let me finish.”

Mutafakir fell silent.

“And no—it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s far more than something that drives people mad.”

Mutafakir squinted at the photo. It was Tariq’s house, though he didn’t recognize it right away.

Mutakamel pulled out another photo—this one of a glowing, magical blue powder. The powder shimmered so intensely it seemed to glow through the photo itself.

He leaned in, eyes locked on Mutafakir.

“دي يا زميلي، عظمة.”

“This, my friend, is greatness.”

“This powder awakens a person’s true potential.”

He spoke with unwavering certainty and a strange blend of pride and seriousness. The two pictures hovered briefly, then floated smoothly back into his coat.

“I just need a sample. Even a small one.”

“Your job,” he continued, “is to break into that house and bring me a bit of that powder.”

“That spark earlier? It tells me your Disposition is either dormant or incredibly weak. And the way to awaken it… is by inhaling the powder.”

Mutafakir’s mind raced. So much was happening at once. But eventually, he processed it all. His confused expression slowly shifted to one of clarity.

He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then opened them with a determined look.

“Alright. I’m willing to do the job. Right now.”

Mutakamel raised a finger.

“Like I said—I’m not doing this to favor you. This is a trade. You bring me the powder, and in return, awaken your ability.”

“So…”

He extended his hand.

“Do we have a deal?”

Mutafakir shook it firmly.

“You’ve got my word, Mutakamel.”

Flashback End

Back in the present, Mutafakir stumbled near a grave while fleeing Tariq’s house. He tripped over a rock and hit the ground hard.

“Damn it… Why do I always trip over things?”

He rubbed his knees and stood up, unaware that a small pinch of the blue powder had fallen from his pouch—landing directly on the grave.

Oblivious, he walked away calmly, believing he was in the clear.

But then—an arm burst through the grave.

Back at Tariq’s House

The trio woke the next morning. The TV was still on, randomly flickering through channels—until a breaking news alert suddenly appeared.

News Anchor:

“BREAKING NEWS: As of July 14th, 2018, multiple suicide cases have been reported at Moaz Bin Jabal Primary School!”

Harith grabbed the remote and turned the volume down, groaning.

“Goddammit, Tariq. Why’s the TV always so loud?!”

Amina frowned.

“Yo, Harith—you didn’t just ignore what she said, right? She said people at our school are killing themselves.”

“What, suicide? Nah, that’s probably a new trend. Emo culture’s contagious now?”

Amina facepalmed.

Tariq walked in, yawning as he stretched.

“Morning, guys. Slept great. What’s all the noise?”

Harith snapped his fingers.

“Oh yeah… wait. Moaz Bin Jabal is our school. How the hell didn’t I realize that?”

Amina blinked.

“Damn… you’re actually right.”

Harith grinned smugly.

“Guess that means today’s a day off!”

He started cartoonishly walking toward the door.

Amina yanked him back by his shirt collar like he was an NPC.

Tariq brushed his teeth in the background.

“So… are you two actually going to school after hearing that?”

Amina quickly chimed in.

“Yup! Me and Harith said we’d go investigate!”

She held Harith down with a hand over his mouth while he muffled angrily.

He bit her hand.

“Ow!”

She pulled back, wincing.

“Come on now! I didn’t say any of—”

He paused, thinking.

“You know what? Fine. I beat all my games anyway.”

He grabbed his phone and slid in his white earphones.

As they walked toward school, Amina tried to talk to him, but Harith was vibing—mouthing lyrics, gesturing, completely absorbed.

Then he saw her face.

And in that moment, he tripped—face-planting on the concrete.

Looking up, he froze.

Bloody pencils. Puddles of gore. Lifeless bodies strewn around the school gate.

(What the hell…?)

A chill ran down his spine. He nearly vomited.

He turned to Amina—only to see her facing a sinister old man with white hair, blood-stained red suit, and a smug, villainous expression.

The man spoke.

“Now, Ms. Amina… the final step to freeing yourself from this cruel world is to stab that pen into your eyes.”

Amina trembled, but she obeyed. Tears welled up as her hands moved toward her face.

(What the actual hell is she doing?!)

Harith panicked.

(Earlier—when I tripped, I touched her. That should’ve left enough of my Glitchricity on her. If I’m fast enough…)

He extended his finger and fired a quick voltage shot.

A tiny spark zapped her, jolting her body just enough to drop the pen.

Amina stood frozen, breath heavy, trying to process what had almost happened.

(I did it… wow, I actually pulled it off.)

Harith turned to the old man, his fists now crackling with electricity.

His voice was low and furious.

“You killed all these people… for what? Do you actually—”

He clenched his fists tighter.

“—enjoy taking innocent lives?”

The man laughed mockingly.

“What’s with this heroic act, kid? You think your words matter?”

He turned to a student nearby—frozen in terror.

“Hey, kid. Join your friends.”

He tossed a pencil at the boy’s feet.

“Face it—you’re just another cog in the machine. Miserable paycheck-to-paycheck existence. If I were you, I’d stab my eyes out and get it over with.”

The boy looked up, shaking.

“Y-you’re right… I’ll obey…”

He picked up the pencil and aimed for his eyes.

Harith shouted.

“NO! WAIT, DON’T—!”

He ran toward the student—but it was too late. The boy collapsed lifelessly, blood pooling beneath him.

Harith froze, a tear sliding down his cheek.

“You…”

He looked up, voice breaking.

“I’ll never forgive you. Even if you were to make a camel pass through the eye of a needle.”

He charged forward, electricity crackling.

To be continued…