Evan didn't panic. He checked the mirror again.
Still there.
Same black R15.
Same helmet.
Same distance.
Confirmed. He was being followed.
He pressed the accelerator—left turn, sudden right, then into a tight road near Tejgaon rail crossing. A shortcut. A trap.
He hit the brakes near a construction site, dust clouding the air. Before the biker could react, Evan jumped out of the car and melted into the shadows beside a half-built wall.
Seconds later, the bike rolled in.
Too confident.
Evan's body moved before his mind could catch up.
Bang! A flying kick knocked the biker sideways.
The man tumbled but recovered fast, drawing a silver knife in one hand and a retractable baton in the other.
"Trained," Evan muttered.
He didn't hesitate.
He launched forward. Blocked the blade. Swung his elbow into the man's neck. A grunt.
The biker retaliated with a roundhouse kick—Evan ducked, swept his leg. The biker fell but rolled back like a gymnast.
This wasn't some street thug.
Evan pulled off his jacket, wrapped it around his forearm as a shield.
"Who sent you?" he snapped mid-fight.
No answer. Just an attack.
Fist to ribs. Boot to shin. Blood on both faces now.
Evan's back hit a wall. The biker swung the baton again—this time, it hit.
Hard.
Evan saw stars. But he didn't fall.
He grabbed the baton, twisted, disarmed the man, and slammed his knee into his gut.
The biker collapsed. Breathing heavy. Trying to crawl.
Evan, bleeding from his lip and temple, dragged him up.
"You done?" he growled.
Still no reply. Just a defiant smile.
He cuffed the biker's hands behind his back with steel cable from the trunk and dumped him in the backseat. Then, with one hand on the wheel and the other pressing a bleeding wound, he drove.
Not to the hospital. Not to the police.
To his place.
His real place.
A small, empty building behind an old ice factory in Narinda. Looks abandoned. It isn't.
The basement door creaked open, the smell of rust and dust pouring out.
It looked abandoned—until the lights flickered on.
Three monitors glowed in the dark. One curved, displaying satellite maps and coded files. The others showed security feeds and a paused frame of a convoy—the night his father died.
Papers littered the desk. Photos. Torn reports. Bloodstained notes. Behind it, a wall-sized board was crammed with faces, maps, red threads, and questions scribbled in bold:
"WHY?"
This was no ordinary room. This was where Evan hunted ghosts.
To the side, a steel chair bolted to the ground. Chains hung beside it.
He dragged the biker in, tossed him down.
"This isn't a police station," the man muttered.
Evan said nothing.
He just locked the door behind them.
The biker gave a dry laugh. "As expected. Not the police station… your secret hideout instead. Classic Baydoun behavior."
Evan didn't flinch. Just walked over, switched on the monitors—screens flickered to life, showing surveillance feeds, files, names.
"You've been watching me," Evan said quietly.
The biker smirked. "Always."
Evan turned, eyes sharp. "Then you should've known better than to come alone."
"Yes," the man replied without hesitation. "That's why I didn't come to kill you. I came to help."
Evan stepped forward, voice firm. "Save the act. I've seen this game before. Stop trying to live. No one walks out of here but me."
"I'm Musad," he said, quickly, earnestly. "You don't know me, but your father did. I was one of his juniors… but more than that—I was his shadow. He didn't trust many, but he trusted me."
Evan's eyes narrowed. "Then why did you attack me?"
"I didn't," Musad replied. "You started it fast. I barely had a chance. I defended myself… then stayed silent on purpose. I wanted to check what you'd do.
Evan's jaw tensed.
Musad's voice dropped lower. "After that night in 2009, I vanished. They were after me too. I had information they couldn't risk getting out. I've been in hiding since."
Evan's fists clenched. "Then why come out now?"
Musad looked straight at him. "Because they're weakening. The ones who killed him—they're still out there, but they don't have that back up anymore. Since the fascist regime has ended. And I thought… maybe this is my time. To repay the man who gave me everything."
He looked at Evan for a long moment. "For Mr. Baydoun. My mentor. My brother."
Evan didn't speak.
Musad continued, voice heavy now. "And you… I've watched you all these years. From the shadows. Every step. Every move. Just to see if you'd give up."
He smiled, soft and sad. "But you didn't. Just like him. Baydoun sir never backed down. And now… his son's walking the same fire."