The rain fell hard over East London, relentless and cold, hammering the pavement until the streets gleamed like shards of broken glass. Neon signs buzzed above shuttered storefronts, their light flickering weakly in the storm.
Ali kept his hood low and his backpack pressed tight against his shoulder. Each step echoed too loudly, bouncing off brick walls and empty alleys. Tonight, the city didn't feel asleep. It felt like it was watching.
He had grown up with the whispers. Everyone had. The empire of *KH* stretched across the boroughs like a spider's web—untouchable, faceless, lethal. Drugs, guns, crooked politicians, and worse—all strings pulled by hands no one dared name aloud. Crossing them meant one thing: disappearance.
A sound behind him.
Ali froze. One footstep, deliberate and heavy, splashing through water. Then another. He quickened his pace.
The shadows moved faster. A figure lunged out of the alley, fist smashing into his ribs. Pain exploded through his body and drove him to his knees. He gasped, copper flooding his tongue. Another blow snapped his head sideways, and stars blurred across his vision.
Panic clawed at him. He staggered, pointing desperately toward a figure on the street ahead—a police officer, badge flashing in the light.
"Help!" Ali shouted, his voice raw.
The officer's eyes flicked to him, then to the men circling. His jaw tightened—but he turned away.
A chill sank deep into Ali's bones. The truth hit him harder than the fists. The city wasn't broken. It was bought.
The attackers laughed, closing in. Their shadows bent with the neon glow, circling like vultures. Ali's fists trembled as he raised them. He was no fighter, but he wasn't ready to die. Not here. Not like this.
I need help.
One name came to him through the blur of pain and rain: *Rizwan*.
A ghost. A legend. Whispers claimed he had toppled syndicates in Karachi, dismantled cartels overseas. Some swore he'd burned empires to ash with nothing but will and precision. No one agreed on where he came from, only that when Rizwan moved, even shadows bent away.
Ali ducked a swing, blood stinging his eyes, and bolted down the slick street. Sirens howled far off, but they weren't for him. His lungs burned, his chest screamed with every step, but fear drove him faster.
Then he heard it.
Engines. Deep, heavy, growling like predators in the storm.
Headlights tore through the rain as *fifteen black Rolls Royces* slid into view, their presence a declaration, not a coincidence. Doors opened with mechanical precision. Men in black poured out, silent, efficient, dangerous.
And from the center car, a figure stepped into the storm.
Rizwan.
Immaculate despite the downpour. His stride slow, deliberate. His eyes dark and calculating, scanning the street with the composure of a man who owned it.
Ali froze, chest heaving. Relief tangled with dread in his gut. If Rizwan had come, maybe there was hope. Maybe survival was possible.
But looking at him, Ali realized something else: Rizwan wasn't just a man. He was the storm the city had been waiting for.
*Cliffhanger: Who exactly is Rizwan, and what will his arrival mean for Ali?*