Chapter One: What He Hides in Silence
Abid clicked his mouse with the same absent rhythm he used to tap out his prayers. It was muscle memory at this point: right-click, assign ticket, reply with a template, escalate. The small room smelled faintly of old curry and burnt dust from the heater that hadn't been cleaned in two winters. His children were screaming upstairs, some argument over Minecraft. His wife, Samina, was standing in the kitchen doorway, reading aloud from a list on her phone.
"Milk, bread, eggs... oh, and can you pick up those protein bars Kabir likes? The chocolate ones, not the peanut butter. You always get the wrong ones."
"Haan, haan," Abid murmured, not looking up from the screen. (Yes, yes.)
"Aur suno," she continued, brushing her dupatta back over her shoulder. "Teacher ne bola, humko zyada closely monitor karna chahiye Kabir ko. Uska focus utna strong nahi lag raha." (And listen, the teacher said we need to monitor Kabir more closely. His focus doesn't seem strong.)
He nodded again, eyes tracking a spinning blue wheel on the screen. "Theek hai. I'll talk to him tonight." (Okay.)
But he wouldn't. He'd be too tired, too wrapped up in whatever background radiation pulsed under his skin these days. It wasn't depression -- he knew that ghost too well. It wasn't even desire. It was something quieter, deeper. Like a voice he'd forgotten how to hear whispering inside him.
He closed another ticket. Then another.
---
Maghrib came, and with it, the soft orange haze of sunset bleeding over the terraced rooftops of Beeston. Abid wrapped a scarf around his neck and walked the few blocks to the masjid. The air bit at his hands. Inside, the carpet was warm beneath his feet, the imam's voice wrapping around his bones like a balm. He prayed with the others -- rows of men, silent and reverent, all kneeling in a choreography that was both familiar and increasingly surreal.
When he left, the streets were nearly empty.
At the corner, just past the halal butcher shop, a hooded man brushed past him -- not violently, but close enough to make him flinch. Their shoulders touched. The man didn't stop, but a small rectangle of paper was left in Abid's hand like sleight of hand magic.
A business card. Matte black. No name. Just a silver QR code shimmering faintly under the streetlight.
Abid looked back. The man was gone.
---
That night, Samina went to bed early with a headache. The kids were glued to their devices. Abid sat alone in the dim living room, the TV playing a muted cricket recap. His phone was warm in his hand.
He stared at the QR code.
"Mat kar. Bas bhool ja. Stupid hai yeh," he whispered to himself. (Don't do it. Just forget it. This is stupid.)
But he scanned it anyway.
It opened a messaging app he didn't recognize. The UI was dark and elegant, minimalist.
One contact.
Anonymous: I've been watching you.
He froze.
Anonymous: You're not afraid of being seen. You're afraid of being known.
Abid's hands shook. He glanced upstairs, as if someone might hear the beating of his heart.
He typed, Who is this?
No response. Not right away. The silence was heavy.
Then:
Anonymous: Do you want to be a good man, Abid? Or do you want to be free?
