Night
Sleep did not come easily.
Ayaan lay on the narrow cot, staring at the darkened ceiling as the oil lamp burned low in the corner of the room. Every breath pulled lightly at his ribs, reminding him that his body was still broken—but the pain was not what kept him awake.
It was the name.
Kashifuddin.
He had heard it only once that day, spoken calmly, without weight or ceremony. Yet it echoed in his mind as if it had been carved there.
Ayaan closed his eyes.
A different room surfaced in his memory. A different night. His father, older, quieter, sitting beside him after a long day.
"My name wasn't always just a name," his father had said.
"It used to mean things I don't talk about anymore."
Kashifuddin.
The same name.
Ayaan's chest tightened.
"That doesn't prove anything," he whispered into the darkness.
Names repeated. Coincidences existed.
They had to.
But his mind did not stop there.
Another memory followed—one his father had shared only once, and never again.
"I had a brother," his father had said, staring at nothing.
"Masleuddin."
Ayaan's eyes opened.
Masleuddin.
The broader man. The one who stood beside Kashifuddin without question. The one whose presence felt like restrained violence.
His father had never spoken of that brother with anger. Only with finality.
"We chose different ways," his father had said.
"And after one fight… he didn't live long."
Ayaan swallowed hard.
He had never asked how Masleuddin died.
Now the question felt dangerously close.
"No," Ayaan whispered. "This doesn't make sense."
He turned slightly, wincing as pain shot through his side.
He was injured. Disoriented. Far from home.
His mind was searching for patterns because it needed control.
That was all this was.
But the thought returned anyway, heavier this time.
What if this is really the past?
The room felt smaller.
If this was the past, then everything his father had told him was not history.
It was unfinished.
Ayaan remembered the way his father had spoken about those ten incidents—never in detail, never with pride.
"Some things don't turn you evil," his father had said once.
"They just make sure you're never the same again."
Ayaan clenched his jaw.
If this was the past…
Then those incidents were still ahead.
Waiting.
"What if I can change it?" he whispered.
The question terrified him more than the answer.
If he changed something—
Would the future collapse?
Would his mother still exist?
Would he still exist?
And if he changed nothing—
If he stood here and watched it all happen again, knowing where it led—
What would that make him?
Ayaan closed his eyes tightly.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he said quietly.
The lamp flickered.
Outside, footsteps passed—calm, unhurried, familiar now.
Ayaan exhaled slowly.
One truth settled in his chest, heavy and unavoidable:
If Kashifuddin was truly his father…
then staying uninvolved was no longer an option.
Morning
Dawn arrived without warning.
Ayaan woke to muted light filtering through the small window and the distant sounds of the village coming alive. His body still hurt, but the sharp edge had dulled. Enough to move.
Enough to stand.
He sat up slowly, breathing through the discomfort, and for the first time since waking in this place, his thoughts felt clear.
Not calm.
Clear.
Outside, voices passed. Footsteps. The sound of a bicycle chain.
Ayaan stepped out into the open air.
The village looked ordinary in daylight—mud walls, narrow paths, people beginning their routines. Yet after last night, he saw it differently.
Every movement felt deliberate.
Every silence felt chosen.
Kashifuddin stood near the road, adjusting the bicycle. Masleuddin was beside him, speaking in a low voice.
They looked exactly as they had yesterday.
But Ayaan did not.
He watched Kashifuddin closely now—the way he stood, the way his gaze moved, the way people instinctively made space around him.
Familiar.
Uncomfortably familiar.
Kashifuddin noticed Ayaan and turned.
"You're awake early," he said.
Ayaan nodded. "I couldn't sleep."
Kashifuddin studied him briefly, then looked away.
"Good," he said. "Come with us."
No explanation.
No question.
Masleuddin glanced at Ayaan, then back at Kashifuddin. "He's still injured."
"He can sit," Kashifuddin replied.
That was enough.
As Kashifuddin mounted the bicycle, Ayaan climbed onto the back, careful of his ribs. Masleuddin walked beside them as they started down the road.
The village moved past slowly.
Ayaan's grip tightened on the seat.
He didn't know yet whether he could change anything.
He didn't know whether he was meant to.
But one thing was clear now—
If this was truly the past,
then distance would not protect him.
And whatever happened next,
he needed to see it with his own eyes.
Morning light spread slowly across the village.
Ayaan sat on the back of the bicycle, holding the metal frame tightly as Kashifuddin pedaled forward with steady balance. Every movement sent a dull ache through his ribs, but he didn't speak. Masleuddin walked beside them, eyes scanning the paths ahead.
The village passed quietly.
People stepped aside without being asked. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Children were pulled back toward doorways. Ayaan noticed it all now—how the village bent, subtly but unmistakably, around the two brothers.
They left the houses behind and moved toward the open fields.
Wide land stretched ahead, green and calm under the morning sun. For a moment, it looked harmless.
Then Ayaan saw the men.
They were everywhere.
Some leaned against trees. Others stood near the crops, arms folded, faces unreadable. A few walked slowly along the edges of the field, watching the paths that led in and out.
Masleuddin stopped walking.
Kashifuddin slowed the bicycle and brought it to a halt.
"Get down," he said.
Ayaan did.
The moment his feet touched the ground, a voice cut through the air.
"Hey."
Ayaan turned.
A man was walking toward him.
He was broad, solid, with a long scar running down the side of his face. His eyes were sharp, angry, already judging. This was Akil.
"You don't belong here," Akil said flatly.
Ayaan didn't answer.
Akil stepped closer.
"Unknown men don't just walk into this place," he continued. "Especially not injured ones."
Before Ayaan could react, Akil shoved him hard.
Pain exploded through his side as Ayaan stumbled back, barely keeping his balance.
"Akil—" Masleuddin started.
Akil didn't stop.
He grabbed Ayaan by the collar and slammed him down onto one knee.
"You think this is an inn?" Akil snapped. "You think anyone can just—"
"Enough."
Masleuddin's voice cut cleanly through the moment.
Akil froze.
Masleuddin stepped forward, his presence heavy. "He's the one from the forest."
Akil's grip loosened.
"The jungle?" Akil asked, confused.
"The one who interfered," Masleuddin said. "The one who almost died."
Silence followed.
Akil looked down at Ayaan, then released him abruptly. Ayaan stayed kneeling for a moment, catching his breath, forcing the pain back down.
Akil straightened.
"Then stand somewhere else," he muttered, turning away.
Ayaan pushed himself up slowly and moved toward Masleuddin.
That was when he saw Kashifuddin.
Kashifuddin stood a short distance away, leaning slightly against the bicycle. A cigarette burned between his fingers. He wasn't watching the men.
He was watching the field.
Smoke drifted upward, thin and steady.
"This time," Kashifuddin said calmly, exhaling, "Red Hollow crossed its limit."
The words carried.
Men stopped shifting. Conversations died instantly.
Akil turned.
Kashifuddin flicked the cigarette away and stepped forward.
"Come here, Akil," he said.
Akil walked toward him without hesitation and stopped at his side.
"This new branch leader," Kashifuddin continued, voice even, "he wanted to make a statement."
Kashifuddin turned slightly, looking down at Akil.
"He attacked your sister," he said.
The field went still.
"He murdered her."
Akil didn't move.
He didn't speak.
His hands curled slowly into fists, then loosened again.
Kashifuddin watched him closely.
"Do you want revenge?" he asked.
No answer.
Kashifuddin waited.
Then he asked again.
"Akil. Do you want revenge?"
Akil's jaw tightened, but he remained silent, staring at the ground.
The air felt heavy.
Then Kashifuddin spoke for the third time, his voice quieter now.
"Akil."
"Do you want revenge?"
Akil's body trembled.
Suddenly, he broke.
His knees hit the ground hard. He fell forward, clutching Kashifuddin's leg, his hands gripping tightly as if he might drown otherwise.
"I want revenge," Akil cried, his voice breaking apart. "I want it. I want to kill him with my own hands. Please—please let me."
Tears ran freely down his face as his shoulders shook.
"I want him dead," Akil sobbed. "I want him to suffer."
Kashifuddin did not pull away.
He placed a firm hand on Akil's head.
The crying did not stop.
"It's decided," Kashifuddin said.
He looked up at the men surrounding them.
"Red Hollow will be shown its place."
He raised his voice slightly.
"Does no one here feel their blood boil?" he asked. "A member of our Circle lost his sister. Does that not anger you?"
A murmur rose.
Fists clenched. Teeth ground together.
"It does," Kashifuddin said. "It should."
Then he raised his fist.
"Kashif."
The response was immediate.
"Kashif."
"Kashif."
"Kashif."
The chant grew louder, rolling across the field.
"Kashif! Kashif! Kashif!"
Ayaan stood to the side, silent.
He watched Akil cry at Kashifuddin's feet.
He watched men prepare for violence.
And he realized something cold and final—
This was not a meeting.
This was the beginning of a war.