Shadow And Light

The storm chewed at night. Rain slammed the roof, thunder barking over it all. A man pushed through the door, shoulders hunched, face swallowed by shadow.

He hadn't been home in months. The sofa sagged under him as he dropped down, letting out a long breath that felt heavier than it should've. His eyes dragged across the walls. Familiar, but empty. The place still smelled like his father somehow.

Then—something off. A faint glow. A door cracked open.

That door was never supposed to move. His father once swore it was sealed, locked by hands older than them.

His chest pulled tight. He drew a pistol and crept closer. The hallway bulb barely worked, flickering against the dark. The air turned sour, wet, like something rotting.

And there it was—a figure, crouched low.

"Hey," he barked, moving quickly. He circled. Nothing. Empty space.

Click.

The metallic snap froze him. He spun. Another man stood there, gun up, aimed at his head. For a moment, no words—just two sets of eyes still holding.

"Who the hell are you?"

The stranger's reply was quiet and steady. "The owner of this house. The old man's gone, so I came back for what's mine."

His throat went dry. "Owner? I'm his son. This house isn't abandoned. So tell me—what are you doing here?"

The stranger's mouth curled into something like a smirk. "That saves me the chase. I was looking for the culprit. Seems the culprit walked straight to me."

Confusion broke across his face. "Culprit? I've done nothing. You're the one sneaking around here."

A short laugh, sharp. "Don't play dumb. You being here is proof enough."

He snapped back, "Proof? My father told me this room was locked—sealed by you. How would I even know it existed?"

The man's tone dropped low. "Locked, huh? Stop with the lies. Tell me instead—what did those women… those kids… those men do to you? Why did you and your father cut them down?"

His stomach knotted. He couldn't move.

The lights kicked on.

And the nightmare spilled out.

Corpses. Everywhere. Men, women, children. Heads lined across the desk, trophies. Bodies crammed into fridges. Blood still wet, stench crawling down his throat until his knees wobbled.

His hand shook around the gun. Breath ragged.

"You killed them!" the stranger's voice broke into a roar.

Darkness crashed back down.

From that darkness, the story began.

Far away, across the desert, another city pulsed alive—Alitera. Bright, young, noisy. Days hot, nights cool. A king on the throne, peace running in the streets.

A man in a white three-piece suit bent to press coins into a beggar's palm.

The city thrived. Money flowed.

More beggars rushed him. His manager shoved forward to block them.

"Wait," the man said. He waved him back and gave to them all, smiling as if he meant it.

This was Akira, head of the Akira family. Richest in Arabia, but known more for giving. A fifth of his fortune went into charities. People whispered his name with respect, sometimes love.

But kindness draws eyes.

Among the crowd, a man stood still. Tall, built heavy, black suit, glasses flashing. A mask across his face. He lifted a walkie-talkie, whispered into it, and disappeared.

They called Alitera the city of kindness. A place where no beggar would be left behind. That was Akira's dream.

His driver's voice broke the thought. "Sir, time to get Ren?"

Akira smiled. "Yes. Let's go."

The car pulled up outside the kindergarten. Ren waited at the gate, five years old, shoes scuffed, eyes wide. When his father stepped out, every child rushed toward him. Ren tripped on a stone, but Akira scooped him up before he hit the ground. Both laughed loud enough to draw smiles from the teachers.

People said Ren would inherit TAF, carry his father's shadow.

The car rolled back to the mansion—the grandest in Arabia.

Inside, light lived. Ren ran into his aunt Naomi's arms, then to Aya, his mother, who rested her hand on her swollen belly. Another child almost here.

They ate. They teased. They laughed. A house of warmth.

But where light burns, shadows creep.

Night laid itself across Alitera. Kids still played, laughter drifting through the streets. The city shone.

Far away, a thin beam cut the dark.

Through a scope, a man in a black coat watched the mansion.

He spoke into his walkie-talkie. "Target still inside. No TAF seen leaving. Do we move? Over."

A cold voice answered:

"Not yet. When it's time… it will be fatal. Over."

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