Chapter 1: The Rain at Shia Mosjid
The rain in Mohammadpur didn't feel like a blessing that night. It felt like needles.
Rimon stood near the edge of Japan Garden City, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. He didn't wipe the water from his eyes. He didn't move. He just stared at the two people in front of him, illuminated by the flickering yellow glow of a nearby streetlamp.
Araf was breathing hard, his fist still clenched, his face twisted in a mask of toxic triumph. "What's the matter, Rimon? No comeback? No 'Lazy Genius' magic tonight?"
Rimon felt the dull throb in his jaw where the first blow had landed. He could have ended this in seconds. At 5'11", with the explosive agility honed from years of playing "Khep" football in the muddy trenches of Keraniganj, he could have put Araf on the pavement before the guy even blinked.
But he didn't. He couldn't.
Because Sneha was standing right there.
She wasn't stopping it. She wasn't screaming. She was just... watching. Her eyes, the same eyes that had looked at Rimon with simulated warmth just weeks ago, were now cold, flickering with a strange mix of guilt and defiance.
"I promised her," Rimon's voice was a low rasp, barely audible over the downpour. "I promised I wouldn't touch you."
"A promise?" Araf laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. He stepped forward, shoving Rimon's shoulder. Rimon stumbled back, his boots skidding on the slick, oil-stained asphalt. "You're a joke. You thought you could just slide in and take what's mine? You're just a street kid, Rimon. A 'Lazy Genius' with no future. Look at her."
Araf grabbed Sneha's hand, pulling her closer. She didn't pull away.
The pain in Rimon's chest was sharper than the cold rain. He remembered the video calls. He remembered the "I love yous." He remembered the way she'd talked about escaping Araf's toxicity. He had been her counselor, her protector, her secret lover—all while he knew, deep down, she hadn't truly let go of the shadow. Seeing the chats on her ID had been a slow poison; seeing them together now, under the shadow of the mosque, was the final execution.
"Sneha," Rimon said, his voice finally breaking. "You told me you were done. You told me you loved me."
Sneha looked away, her voice muffled by the rain. "I... I tried, Rimon. But it's two years. You don't understand. Araf and I... we have a history you can't touch. Just go home. Please."
Just go home.
The words hit harder than Araf's fist.
Rimon looked at the girl he had been ready to give everything to. He looked at the pills she'd bought, the pregnancy scares she'd shared with her doctor in those hidden chats, the intimate videos she'd sent to him while still calling Araf's name in the dark. He had tried to save a person who didn't want to be saved.
Araf swung again—a wild, telegraphed hook. Rimon didn't dodge. He took the hit to the chest, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He felt the cold mud splash against his jeans as he went down on one knee.
"Stop it, Araf!" Sneha finally cried out, but there was no conviction in it.
Rimon stayed down for a moment, his head bowed. The water dripped off his nose, mixing with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. In that moment, something inside Shoaib Bashar Rimon simply... went out. The warmth he'd carried for her, the passion he had for the game, the light he'd tried to keep alive—it all flickered and died.
He stood up slowly. He didn't look at Araf. He didn't even look at Sneha.
"We're done," Rimon said. It wasn't a shout. It was a cold, final fact.
He turned his back on them. He heard Araf shouting something behind him, some final insult about his family or his lack of money, but the sound was drowned out by the thunder.
Rimon walked. He walked past the Shia Mosjid, past the tea stalls where people huddled under plastic sheets, past the rickshaws struggling through the rising water. Every step felt like he was shedding a layer of his soul.
He pulled out his phone, his fingers numb. With a few mechanical swipes, he did it.
Block. Block. Delete.
The digital ghost of Sneha vanished from his life, leaving behind a void so vast it felt like a physical weight. He reached the edge of the bridge leading back toward Keraniganj, the dark water of the Buriganga churning below.
He thought about the football in his room. The ball he hadn't touched properly in weeks because he was too busy chasing a girl who was chasing a ghost.
Football is a lover, not a tool, a voice seemed to whisper in the back of his mind—not a real voice, just a memory of a dream he once had.
Rimon looked down at his hands. They were shaking. His country didn't have a system. He didn't have a scout. He didn't even have a clear path to his next meal. He was just a 20-year-old kid with a broken heart and a bruise on his jaw.
But as he crossed into the darkness of Keraniganj, leaving the lights of Mohammadpur behind, the silence in his head was suddenly interrupted. It wasn't a screen. It wasn't a beep. It was just a feeling—a cold, calculating gaze watching him from the depths of his own consciousness.
Rimon didn't know it yet, but the Last Kings were watching. And they didn't like what they saw.
He reached his front door, soaked to the bone. He didn't wake his mother. He just went to his bed, lay down in his damp clothes, and stared at the ceiling.
January 2025 was over. And so was the old Rimon.