A man walked through the palace halls dressed in black trousers and a long coat woven in shades of dark blue and crimson. His face was covered with layers of makeup, concealing his true identity so well that no one could guess who he was. In one hand, he carried a pistol; in the other, a strange nail cutter. Unlike any ordinary tool, both its ends were sharpened to cut.
One by one, he injured every guard that tried to stop him until he reached Ajal's chamber—calmly trimming his nails as he stepped inside. But Ajal wasn't there.
Suddenly, a surge of power struck at him. It was Ajal, launching his attack. The intruder swiftly dodged. He fired his pistol in retaliation, yet Ajal slipped behind a pillar for cover. The tyrant king then advanced again, his powers ready to strike, but the man was no longer standing where he had been. In the blink of an eye, the intruder appeared behind Ajal, pressing the pistol coldly against the back of his head.
Ajal seized the weapon, spun around, and landed a brutal punch. The man crashed to the ground, his pistol skidding across the floor. Before he could recover, Ajal unleashed his power.
Ajal's ability was terrifying—when he used it, his victim was electroshocked, their nerves and muscles hijacked as if their body no longer belonged to them. For a brief window, Ajal could control them like a puppet.
Under his power, the man's own fists turned against him. He struck himself again and again until blood streamed down his face. His trembling hand then reached for the fallen pistol, lifted it, and pressed the barrel to his temple. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, Ajal's control broke—the time limit on his power had expired.
"I was only testing the boundaries of your ability," the stranger said, wiping blood from his mouth. His lips curled into a devilish grin. "Impressive… but now, it's my turn."
He snapped his fingers and lunged toward Ajal, drawing the peculiar nail cutter from his coat pocket. With a quick slash from the red-marked side, he cut a single strand of Ajal's hair before retreating to a safe distance.
This was no ordinary nail cutter. One side, marked in dark blue, worked like any common tool, trimming nails with ease. But the side etched with red was enchanted. When it sliced even a strand of hair or a clipping of a nail, half the victim's power would be transferred into the wielder, leaving the other half behind.
Now, armed with part of Ajal's own might, the stranger turned the tyrant's gift against him. Ajal's body stiffened—his movements no longer his own. The man smiled wickedly, pressed the pistol back into Ajal's hands, and gestured for him to pull the trigger.
______
"Are… are you Azam? Tell me, please," Haman pleaded, his voice breaking, the word please carrying a desperate weight.
The man stepped closer. He placed one hand gently against Haman's cheek and with the other, he grasped the hand on which Haman wore a ring. His voice was calm, almost haunting:
"You know, Haman… this ring you wear—it belongs to me."
The sound of his voice struck Haman like lightning. This voice… it's Azam's. Could it really be him?
The man slid the ring off Haman's finger, pushed him back slightly, and spoke with a cruel edge:
"You truly are a fool. Anything taken beyond its limit becomes destructive. Your heart, oh Haman… your heart is far too soft. I like it. I like it very much. But this same softness will one day destroy you. For now, I'll leave. When your heart grows stronger, I'll return… and when I do, I'll keep it safe with me. Remember this—your heart is my trust in your hands. Take care of it… until I come back. Goodbye, Haman."
With that, he walked away.
Soft flakes of snow fell onto Haman's cheeks, melting slowly against his skin. His eyes remained wide, frozen in disbelief, as if invisible ropes bound him to that spot. Time itself seemed to halt. His mind echoed with one question—Had he really been so blind? So foolish? Had his friendship only ever been betrayal?
Tears welled up, heavy and endless, streaming down his face and disappearing into the snow like drops swallowed by the sea. At last, his strength gave way. Haman collapsed onto his knees, the snow cold beneath him, and cried out in anguish:
"He was right… I really am a fool. I should have died that day—the day I was shot."
______
The night had deepened. The snowfall had finally ceased. Haman sat in a chair beside the tall window of Hamail's house, staring at the sky. His eyes were so hollow, as though everything had been stripped away from him. His body still lived, but his soul seemed long dead. When a man is forced to endure endless trials, he eventually loses the will to live.
"I've examined Samad and Zahir thoroughly. They're fine—just unconscious. They'll wake up soon," Hamail said, sitting across from him, his eyes fixed on Haman. But Haman remained silent, offering no reply.
"Something happened? You seem unusually quiet," Hamail asked, searching Haman's eyes.
"That green haloed man… when he revealed his face, it was—" Haman's voice faltered.
"It was who?" Hamail pressed, concern clouding his gaze.
Haman covered his face with his hand, his voice heavy as he spoke:
"It was Azam. My friend."
Hamail froze in shock, struck silent, unable to form words.
"But still… I refuse to believe it was truly him. It can't be. It has to be someone else. Isn't that right?" Haman looked at him almost pleadingly, as though seeking his approval.
"Your state reminds me of mine when my brother died. I too couldn't accept it… I kept telling myself it wasn't true. But he was gone. I wept, yet cruel time doesn't care for our emotions—it simply strips us of what we hold most dear. Time doesn't heal wounds. It only forces us to learn how to live with them." Hamail spoke while staring at the snow gathering outside the window.
"How did your brother die?" Haman asked, momentarily forgetting his own sorrow as he felt the weight of Hamail's grief.
"Your dear friend Samad killed my beloved elder brother." Anger surged across Hamail's face as he said the words.
_______