Twisted In Dark (on going-slow update)

Prologue

| Prologue |

Five Years Ago

Blood beaded on the sleeve of my suit like dark, wet rubies.

I watched it, detached, as my men finished their work. The warehouse floor was a revolting canvas of betrayal, painted in the only color these fools understood. The air was thick with the copper stench of it, and the silence that followed the final gurgles was more profound than any scream.

I turned and settled on a rough wooden crate, my gaze drifting over the still forms. So thrilling, I thought, the cold thought forming with crystalline clarity. This was their destiny. I was merely the architect.

They should have considered the consequences before trying to ooze my father’s secrets to the jackals in the opposition. Politics is the dirtiest game. You play dirty, or you die. They were lucky. My father’s restriction—his plea for discretion—meant I granted them a quick end. No artistry. No drawn-out symphony of pleas. If not for him, I would have conducted a masterpiece.

To me, pain has a melody. And theirs, though cut short, was satisfying.

Call me a sadist.
Yes. Muhammad Aaheel Aarzam is a sadist. And it is fucking pleasing. I love this shit.

My inner beast stirred, hungry to have participated, but I had made a promise. I would not let my father down this time. So I watched, a silent monarch, as my subjects carried out the sentence. Payment was distributed, and orders were given: vanish from the city, from the country. Become ghosts.

"For my assurance," I said, my voice flat in the cavernous space.

Raisur, one of the hired blades, grinned as he stuffed a wad of cash into his jacket. "Boss. Tension not. No one will ever know we existed."

I cracked an eyebrow in disdain, a silent epitaph for his naivety, and took my leave.

The night air outside was a slap, cool and clean, a stark lie compared to the butchery within. As I slid into the back of the waiting sedan, I looked at the man behind the wheel. Not just a driver. My brother in all but blood.
"Abhar. Have an eye on them. All of them. Until their plane leaves the continent."

Abhar’s sharp eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "Why, big brother? Don't you trust them?"

"Business should never mix with blind trust," I recited, the lesson bone-deep. "Anyone can betray you. At any moment."

I leaned back, the leather sighing beneath me. The scenario was clean. No evidence, only whispers. Yet, vigilance was a habit that kept you breathing. "No, I don't trust them," I growled. "But I trust you to do what I've asked. Implicitly."

His smile turned genuine, though edged with the same darkness that lived in me. "Cool, brother. You trust me with your life."

Son, family is in its entirety. They will always have your back.

My father’s voice echoed in my skull. I offered Abhar a half-smile, reaching forward to pat his shoulder. Family. It was the only ledger that mattered. For now, I would call a truce with my own nature. But it was temporary. I will be back. This city, this legacy, would be mine entirely. The pleasure I took in the dark wouldn't stay behind closed doors forever.

Everything has its right time, Aaheel.

"Take me to the airport," I ordered.

"Mom wanted to see you," Abhar ventured, his tone losing its edge.

"Fuck. I don't have time for this." The words were a beast's snarl. "Take me, or I'll drive myself."

He surrendered, pulling the car away from the curb. The direction: the airport. The finality of it slammed into me. Fucking hell. My mother’s face—a portrait of gentle grace—flashed behind my eyes, and I viciously shoved it away. Seeing her would fracture my resolve. She was the only angel living in the hell our ancestors built. A hell I was born to rule.

My fist clenched until the knuckles whitened. The greatest pain wasn't the exile; it was the act of leaving her. But I had no choice. To protect them, I had to disappear. To become a ghost myself for… Christ, who knew how long?

Slamming my fist against the door panel, I cursed again. That’s why I couldn’t see her. The ache was a physical vise around my heart. To face her with the blood of five men still cooling in a warehouse would destroy the image she held of me—her loving son. It was a beautiful lie.

I am the monster. I was then. I am now. I always will be.

"You're not going through immigration like that, are you?" Abhar’s voice cut through my turmoil. He gestured at my blood-speckled sleeve and tossed a neatly folded bundle of casual clothes into the backseat.

I looked at the clean fabric, then back at my stained hands. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. "No, brother. I'm not."

I changed into the moving car, shedding my skin of violence for one of anonymity. When I was done, I caught Abhar’s eyes in the mirror again. His smile was still there, but it couldn't hide the deep, familiar pain of separation in his gaze.

"Brother," he said, the single word heavy with everything unsaid.

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Author's Note

This story is a work of fiction, a tapestry woven from imagination and set against a backdrop inspired by the dynamism and complexity of Bangladesh. While it touches on themes of power, family legacy, and intense romance, it is not intended as a representation of any specific individuals, families, or events.

The characters, especially Aaheel, operate in a heightened, dramatic reality. Their moral compasses are their own, shaped by a world of extreme pressures. This is a journey into darkness, passion, and the transformative, often terrifying, power of obsession.

Thank you for stepping into this world. I hope it grips you as much as it has gripped me.

—D.A