The air in the room didn't just feel heavy; it felt crowded, as if the unsaid words between the two men were taking up all the physical space.
Inaya looked from Faqair's hardened expression to Danish's forced composure, her curiosity slowly turning into a vague, nagging unease.
"When did you come, Faqair?"
she asked, her voice small against the sudden silence.
Faqair didn't grant her a glance. His entire being was locked onto Danish, his eyes narrowed and piercing, like a predator gauging a threat.
Danish didn't flinch. He stared back with a defiant, cool stillness. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the frantic thrum of Inaya's heartbeat.
Without breaking eye contact, Faqair's voice dropped to a low, dangerous rumble. "Did you close your door?"
Inaya blinked, the question catching her off guard. Then, the realization hit her like a cold splash of water. The front door. She had left it unlatched. "Oh I forgot."
Only then did Faqair turn his head toward her. The hardness in his eyes softened just a fraction, replaced by a teasing, almost patronizing glint.
"You're so irresponsible,"
he murmured,
though the smile playing on his lips didn't quite reach his eyes.
Inaya's brow furrowed. "Why are you here, anyway?"
"Can't I come?" he replied, his tone shifting back to a deceptive casualness. He tilted his head toward Danish. "If strangers like him can come, surely I can."
"I'm not a stranger," Danish cut in, his voice sharpened by offense.
He straightened his posture, trying to reclaim some authority in the room.
"She's my friend."reclaim some authority in the room. "She's my friend."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees as Faqair snapped his gaze back to Danish.
"Did you ask her if you're her friend?"
The question wasn't an inquiry; it was a challenge, a reminder of a boundary Danish was clearly crossing.
Danish opened his mouth to retort, but Inaya, desperate to bridge the widening rift, stepped between them. Her eyes fell on the floor, where a kitchen knife lay glinting under the overhead light.
"Why is this knife here?"
Faqair let out a dry, short laugh that lacked any real mirth.
"I just accidentally bumped into Danish. He was holding it, and it slipped from his hands."
He made it sound like a clumsy mishap, but the way he said "slipped" suggested
something much more deliberate.
"Oh." Inaya nodded slowly, wanting to believe him.
The tension was suffocating. "Let's… let's just have some fruit."
She grabbed a plate of freshly sliced fruit's , setting it on the table with a determined click.
They all sat, a trio of jagged edges trying to fit into a circle. The atmosphere remained stiff, the silence punctuated only by the distant sounds of the neighborhood.
Faqair reached out, his fingers hovering over the plate before he picked up a slice of apple. "Inaya, did Miss Meher buy these?"
"No," Inaya said, trying to offer a smile.
"Danish brought them."
Faqair's hand froze. Slowly, with agonizing deliberation, he set the apple slice back onto the plate as if it were poisoned.Why?"
Inaya asked, her confusion returning.
"I'm not in the mood to eat anything right now,"
he said quietly. His attention shifted to the TV, where a loud, rhythmic bass was thumping through the speakers, vibrating in the floorboards. Without asking, he grabbed the remote and clicked it off. The silence that followed was deafening.
"Why?" Inaya asked again, her frustration bubbling up.
"Don't you like music?"
"I like music," Faqair said, his voice flat. "But I don't like noise pollution."
Inaya sighed, looking at the black screen.
"Yeah, the volume was a bit loud."
"A bit?" Faqair raised a skeptical brow, his gaze sliding back to Danish.
"Actually," Danish admitted, leaning back with a sigh of mock exasperation, "I was the one who increased the volume."
Faqair shot him a glare so sharp it could have drawn blood. "Did I ask you?"
Danish didn't look away this time. He just exhaled, a weary sound. "I accept my mistakes."
"Like you did years ago, right?" Faqair's voice was a whip-crack, dripping with an old, bitter history.
Inaya's head whipped toward Faqair. "What mistake? What are you talking about?"
Before Faqair could let the secret slip, Danish stood up abruptly, his movements jerky. "Nothing. It's nothing."
Faqair just smirked, a dark, knowing expression that said more than a thousand words ever could. He watched Danish with the smug satisfaction of a man holding all the cards.
A few minutes of agonizing quiet passed, the air thick with things left unsaid.
"I think I should get going," Danish said, smoothing his shirt.
"Yeah," Faqair replied, the word coming out almost too quickly, too eagerly.
Danish looked at him, his jaw tight. "Aren't you coming?"
"It's none of your business when I leave."
"Okay, bro… chill," Danish muttered, though there was no warmth in the slang. He turned to Inaya, forcing his features into a polite mask.
"Bye," Inaya said, trying to regain some sense of normalcy. "Visit again."
Danish forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. "No, I was just passing by."
He began to adjust his sleeves, his movements slow and methodical, his eyes roaming the room one last time. It wasn't the look of a guest saying goodbye; it was the look of a surveyor taking notes.
"I had some work to do nearby. I don't think I'll have anything to do here in the future."
His tone was smooth, almost oily, hiding a depth of intent that made the hair on the back of Inaya's neck stand up.
"That sounds great," Faqair muttered, his voice trailing him to the door. "You should go now. I live nearby I can leave later."
Danish stepped out, and the moment the door clicked shut, the heavy, suffocating pressure in the room seemed to evaporate.
But outside, the mask fell away instantly.
As Danish reached his car, his face hardened into a mask of cold, calculated precision. He climbed into the driver's seat, the silence of the vehicle a sharp contrast to the house. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number with practiced speed.
"Did you finish the task I assigned you?" he asked, his voice devoid of the "friendliness" he had shown Inaya.
A woman's voice crackled through the speaker, professional and detached. "Yes, sir. It's done."
"Good," Danish said, a dark shadow crossing his eyes. "I'm done here too. Only Meher's house is left."
"Do you want me to go there?" she asked.
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across Danish's face as he stared at the house he had just left. "No. I'll go there myself."
"Okay, sir."
He ended the call, the silence of the car settling over him like a shroud as he shifted into gear and drove away into the deepening twilight.
To be Continued.....