Hello my beautiful readers!

So here is the second chapter

Enjoy!

Author's POV

On the other side

In the dimly lit basement, the flicker of a dying lightbulb cast long shadows across the cold, concrete walls. Sitting in a chair, shrouded in darkness, was a man of striking presence—he was the kind of figure whose very stillness commanded the room. His sharp jawline was illuminated every time he lifted a cigarette to his lips, the soft glow briefly revealing eyes that were as cold as ice. His expression was one of deadly calm, exuding a power that sent chills down anyone’s spine.

His features were striking, almost beautiful in a terrifying way. Thick dark hair, slicked back meticulously, framed a face that could have belonged to a model, but the sharp, cold edge in his gaze stripped away any sense of softness. His eyes were deep, the color of storm clouds, holding a darkness that felt endless, as if he had seen and done things no man should. His lips were pressed into a thin, calculated line, but there was a hint of satisfaction in the way he blew the smoke slowly into the air, savoring the moment.

In front of him, a man lay battered and broken on the floor. Blood trickled down his face, his body limp and trembling. The mafia king flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his polished leather shoe. He stood up slowly, his broad shoulders and imposing frame casting a shadow over the defeated man like a looming storm. The air felt thick with tension as he bent down, his fingers lightly gripping the man's bloodied chin, forcing him to look up.

"Tell me his name," the mafia king said, his voice dangerously low, a quiet, restrained fury underneath. It wasn't loud, but it carried weight—every word heavy with an authority that made it clear there was no room for defiance. His hand was calm, but there was a sharpness in his eyes, a coldness that promised what would happen next if the man didn’t cooperate.

The man on the floor whimpered, his lips trembling, but no words came out. The mafia king stood upright, rolling his sleeves methodically, revealing forearms laced with old scars—a silent testament to a past full of violence and power. Without warning, he delivered a crushing blow to the man’s side, a sickening crack echoing in the basement as ribs broke under his brute force.

“You think silence will save you?” he hissed, grabbing the man by his collar and lifting him to his knees with terrifying ease. The mafia boss moved with a calculated grace, his power always controlled but on the verge of unleashing devastation. His face remained composed, cold, and without mercy as he hit the man again, each strike precise, as though he had done this countless times before.

"Name. Now." His voice barely rose above a whisper, but it was enough to make the man's blood run cold. The king wasn’t just violent—he was impatient, short tempered, a predator that toyed with its prey. And there was no escape.

The man on the floor gasped for breath, broken sobs escaping his lips as blood smeared across the floor. The mafia king knelt beside him, his breath warm against the trembling man's ear as he whispered, "This is your last chance." and if you didnt tell me the name then get ready to face HAMAD MALIK'S LIVING HELL.

There was a terrifying pause, silence so thick that the dripping of blood felt deafening. And then, without another word, the boss grabbed the man’s head and twisted sharply, a brutal snap that sent shockwaves through the basement. The body slumped to the floor, lifeless.

The mafia boss stood up slowly, brushing off his suit, and calmly lit another cigarette. He stared down at the body for a moment, his expression unchanged—calm, cold, unbothered. To him, this was nothing more than a message, a routine. He was the embodiment of power without mercy, a man who controlled life and death with a terrifying indifference.

He turned and walked away, the room echoing with the sound of his footsteps, leaving only silence and a dead man behind.

HAMAD POV

I despise betrayers. The stench of their lies lingers long after they’re gone, tainting everything around them. And now, yet again, another man thought he could outsmart me. They sent him as a guard, planted like a seed of deceit in my inner circle. A spy. But they have no idea what I do to those who cross me. I don’t forgive. I don’t forget. I make sure they regret the day they ever thought of betraying me.

I could feel my patience slipping away, unraveling like a fraying thread. My voice was low, threatening, as I demanded the name—the mastermind behind this treachery. But his lips remained sealed, his eyes wide with fear, sweat pouring down his face. His silence infuriated me.

The room was dark, lit only by a dim, flickering light. Chains rattled as I circled him, his body bruised and broken from the earlier rounds of pain I had inflicted. I had warned him, given him chances to speak, to make it easy on himself. But he chose the hard way.

The instruments of agony lay before me, gleaming in the faint light. I reached for one—a sharp blade, thin but lethal. The metal glistened as I dragged it across his skin, slowly, methodically. His screams filled the room, echoing off the cold stone walls, but I felt nothing. His pain was just the beginning.

Blood pooled at his feet as I moved on, using every tool at my disposal to rip the truth from him. But still, he resisted. Fool. His eyes grew wild with terror, his breathing ragged, yet he refused to speak. He thought death would save him, would end his suffering.

But death came slowly for those who betrayed me.

The man barely lasted under my grip—weak, pathetic. He couldn’t even endure a taste of my torture before his life slipped away. By the time his body finally gave out, collapsing into lifelessness, his face was unrecognizable, and his blood had stained the floor in deep crimson pools. He never uttered the name, but that didn’t matter. I would find out who sent him soon enough.And they, too, would know what it means to betray me.

Glancing at the clock, it read 8:30 AM. The morning routine beckoned; it was mandatory to join the family for breakfast. Without sparing another thought for the dead man, I left the dingy room behind and headed to the mansion.

Seated in the car, I turned my attention to the laptop on my lap, immersed in work. The hum of the engine was the only sound accompanying the rhythmic tapping of my fingers against the keyboard. But then—suddenly—the car jolted to a halt.

Anger surged through me. "What the hell are you doing?!" I barked at the driver, glaring at him. "Can’t you drive properly?"

The driver stammered, his hands shaking slightly on the wheel. “Sorry, Baba… samne ek ladki aagyi hai. (A girl stepped in front of the car.)

My frustration flared even more—girls. I hated them, despised their presence. They were a weakness, a distraction I had no use for. My temper was rising, but just as I was about to lose it completely, there was a knock on my window.

The driver, sensing my fury, quickly offered, “Baba, let me handle this.” He had just begun to step out when a voice—soft, like a melody carried by the breeze—cut through the tension in the car.

I froze. There was something in that voice, something that stirred an unexpected curiosity within me. Against my better judgment, I rolled the window down, and what I saw left me speechless.

She stood there, a vision unlike anything I’d ever seen. Her almond-shaped eyes, a striking shade of baby blue, were captivating. Her long, natural eyelashes framed those mesmerizing eyes, enhancing their innocent beauty. Her skin was smooth, glowing as if kissed by the morning light, and her hijab, gently draped over her head, framed her face in a way that spoke of modesty and grace. In that moment, the world around me faded—there was only her.

I must have been staring because it wasn’t until her gentle voice spoke again that I snapped back to reality. “Excuse me, please,” she said softly, “Can you help us? The ambulance broke down, and the patient needs to get to the hospital urgently. Please, it's a request. Can you help us?”

Before I could respond, the driver sneered, “Hey girl, we’re late. We don’t have time for these useless things.”

I braced myself for her to lash out, expecting anger or indignation. But instead, she answered with a calm that left me even more intrigued. "Please, uncle, it's a matter of life and death. If you help someone, Allah will surely help you in every possible way. The patient’s mother is in tears—please help her.”

There was a sincerity in her voice that pierced through the walls I had built around my heart. Just as the driver opened his mouth to retort, I cut him off, my voice surprising even myself. “We’ll help.”

For a brief second, the driver turned to me, his expression one of shock. It wasn’t just that I had agreed to help—it was because a man like me, a killer, was now offering to save someone.

The girl’s face lit up with gratitude, her lips curving into a heartfelt smile. “Thank you, thank you so much! May Allah grant you everything you deserve,” she said, her voice brimming with sincerity.

Before I knew it, the patient and her weeping mother were seated in the car, and we were on our way to the hospital. Yet, even as the road unfolded ahead, my mind kept wandering back to her—the girl with the kind heart and those captivating eyes.

As we drove, I found myself growing curious, a feeling I wasn’t used to. Unable to resist, I asked the elderly woman beside me, “Who is she? The girl—do you know her?”

The old lady shook her head, her voice frail yet warm. “No, beta. I don’t know her. But when no one else was willing to help me, she stepped in. She saw my pain and came to my aid without expecting anything in return. She’s a pure soul, may Allah bless her.”

A pure soul. The words echoed in my mind, lingering far longer than I would have expected. This girl—this stranger—had not only helped someone in need but had somehow stirred something unfamiliar inside me. As the car sped towards the hospital, I couldn’t shake the thought of her.