Chapter 4: The Calm Before the Storm
March 21, 2026 – Eid-ul-Fitr Day
The morning sun over Keraniganj was soft, filtering through the humid haze that always hung over the Buriganga. Inside the Bashar household, the air was thick with the scent of Lachha Semai and the rich, spicy aroma of his mother's beef bhuna.
Rimon stood in front of the small, spotted mirror in his room, adjusting the collar of his crisp, Black Panjabi. He looked like the quintessential university student—clean, composed, and ready for a family day. But as he looked at his reflection, his gaze drifted down to his feet. They were clean now, but he could almost feel the phantom weight of the Keraniganj mud between his toes.
"Looking sharp, Rimon. Dhanmondi bound?"
Rimon turned to see Samantha leaning against the doorframe, a teasing glint in her eyes. She was dressed in a vibrant new salwar kameez, looking every bit the elder sister-in-law who knew too much.
"Just meeting a friend, Bhabi," Rimon said, though his voice lacked its usual indifference.
Samantha stepped into the room, reaching up to straighten his collar with a knowing smirk. "A 'friend' who makes you check your watch every five minutes? Does this friend know you're planning to run around in the dirt like a madman tomorrow?"
Rimon went quiet. Samantha was the only one in the house who knew about the relationship with Mahima, and she was the only one who didn't dismiss his return to the pitch as 'just a game.'
"It's just a neighborhood match," Rimon muttered.
"Don't lie to me. I saw Hassan and Torongo outside earlier. They looked like they were recruiting a soldier for a war, not a football match," Samantha's expression softened. "Be careful tomorrow, okay? And don't let your 'friend' see those bruises if you get them. She seems like the type to come over here and scold your mother for letting you play."
Rimon gave a rare, genuine laugh. "You have no idea, Bhabi."
Dhanmondi, 3:00 PM
The streets near Dhanmondi Lake were a sea of colorful Panjabis and sarees. The festive energy was infectious, but Rimon felt a strange, quiet stillness as he walked toward the bridge where he was supposed to meet Mahima.
He saw her from a distance, leaning against the railing. She was wearing a deep crimson saree that made her look even more intense than usual. As he approached, her eyes locked onto his, and Rimon felt that familiar surge—the Emotional Anchor tightening.
"You're four minutes late," Mahima said, her voice a low purr as she stepped into his space. She didn't wait for an apology; she reached out and took his hand, her fingers interlacing with his with a possessiveness that sent a jolt through his system.
"Dhaka traffic doesn't respect Eid, Mahima," Rimon replied, his voice softening.
They walked toward a quiet corner of a nearby cafe, the walls lined with books and the air cool with AC. As they sat, a TV in the corner was playing a sports news segment. The headline flashed: "BASHUNDHARA KINGS READY FOR SEASON RESTART." Rimon's eyes drifted to the screen. There was Rifat, wearing the professional red kit of the Kings, looking sleek and powerful during a training session at the Kings Arena. He was doing a drill with Robson Da Silva, looking every bit the professional athlete.
"Thinking about him again?" Mahima asked, her eyes narrowing as she noticed his gaze.
"He looks... different," Rimon admitted, his voice tinged with a shadow of doubt. "Stronger. Faster. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just stuck in the past, Mahima. While he's playing with Brazilians, I'm getting ready for a match in the mud."
Mahima reached across the table, her grip on his hand tightening until it almost hurt. "Listen to me, Rimon. I don't care about red jerseys or fancy arenas. I saw you in that presentation. I see the way you look at a ball. Rifat might be a 'pro,' but you... you have something they can't teach in an academy. Don't you dare doubt yourself."
Rimon looked into her eyes—her obsession was his fuel. "I have a match tomorrow. The Eid Khep match. It's going to be... intense. They're bringing in contract players. Names from the BPL-2 like **Monday Osagie** and **Chisom Chikatara** from the local circuit."
Mahima's expression shifted instantly. The supportive girlfriend vanished, replaced by the fierce, protective Mahima. "Contract players? Rimon, those guys are huge! They play for blood."
"I have to do it," Rimon said firmly.
Mahima stared at him for a long beat, then sighed, her thumb tracing the back of his hand. "Fine. But if you come to the department on Monday with a broken leg, Shoaib Bashar Rimon, I will kill you before the injury does. I'm not joking. You're mine, and I don't like my things getting broken."
Rimon smiled, leaning back. In that moment, he didn't feel the "Lazy Genius" lethargy. He felt a silent, rhythmic thrumming deep in his bones—a binding process he couldn't see.
[Sync Rate: 0.20%... Binding...]
[Condition: Host Emotional State - Peak.]
[Warning: Physical Vessel requires calibration. Assessment scheduled for March 22nd.]
Rimon didn't see the text. He didn't see the golden flicker. He just felt an unshakeable urge to stand up and run. He looked at Mahima, the girl who was now his everything, and realized that tomorrow wasn't just about football. It was about proving that the "Last Kings" weren't just a memory.
"I won't get broken, Mahima," Rimon promised. "I'm just going to show them how we play in Keraniganj."