In a warehouse near the edge of a jungle, a 17-year-old boy was tied up, both hands and feet bound by gang members. He was the son of Dhaka City's police commissioner.
One of the gang members muttered, "We should just kill him now."
"No, not yet," another replied. "We've already sent our demands to his father. If he doesn't release our boss, we'll send his son back in pieces."
They locked the boy in a separate room, posting two guards outside the door. Suddenly, one of the guards noticed his partner lying unconscious on the floor. Before he could react, a hand gripped his shoulder from behind—then everything went black.
It was Farhat.
Silently, he unlocked the room and freed the commissioner's son. But as he turned into the warehouse's main hall, he found himself face to face with the entire gang.
Their leader smiled smugly and said, "I knew someone would come to rescue the boy. But now that you're here, you're not leaving alive."
He raised a gun and fired.
In a split second, Farhat pulled out a small dagger and deflected the bullet mid-air. Shocked silence filled the hall.
Without hesitation, Farhat hurled the dagger—embedding it deep into the leader's skull. He collapsed instantly. The gang members froze in disbelief.
Farhat calmly said, "I guess you don't remember who I am."
The rest of the gang charged. Bullets flew in every direction, but Farhat dodged them effortlessly. Someone hurled a grenade from above. Farhat kicked it back toward the attacker, who was blown apart instantly.
Farhat moved like wind—one after another, he struck down the attackers with lethal precision.
Suddenly, three gang members held the commissioner's son at knifepoint. "Stop now or the boy dies!" one of them shouted.
In a blur, Farhat appeared between them. Before they could react, their throats were slit, one by one.
He returned the boy safely to the commissioner, who was overwhelmed with gratitude. After handing him the agreed payment, the commissioner said, "I owe you more than just money."
Farhat didn't respond. He simply nodded, exited the building, and rode off on his bike.
Later that evening, he stopped by a pharmacy to buy some bandages and medicine. He returned to his small, empty apartment—silent and dimly lit.
Farhat treated the wounds he had sustained during the fight. Blood from a minor gash still stained his combat knife. He carefully washed it, making sure not a single trace remained.
Then, in the kitchen, he quietly cooked a simple meal and ate alone.
The silence said it all—this man lived a life of solitude.
After cleaning up, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
And then... the memory came.
He was standing on a stage at a military ceremony. Dressed in full uniform, Farhat stood tall and proud—until someone stepped up and began unpinning each of his hard-earned badges, one by one.
Each badge removed was a wound deeper than any bullet.
He stood there, stripped of honor, humiliated in front of his peers.
Back in the present, Farhat closed his eyes—not from sleep, but to silence the past.