Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 37: Smoke And Mirrors.

Night cloaked the shooting range in an inky blackness, punctuated by the pinpricks of distant city lights. Zayn, a solitary sentinel, cut a looming silhouette against the canvas of targets.

Flick. Spark. Inhale. Smoke tendrils, like whispers of death, danced from his cigarette and the gun barrel after each precise shot.

This wasn't mere practice; it was a relentless pursuit of mastery. Each metallic clang of the bullet hitting the target echoed the symphony of gunfire erupting the cavernous range. His breaths came in short, focused bursts, mirroring the rapid click of the reloading mechanism.

His movement was a silent mantra: "Aim, target, shoot." A sudden clang ripped through the silence as the metal door banged open, revealing a figure shrouded in shadow, clad in a flowing Djellaba.

The figure stood framed against the dusty twilight, a single ray of light catching a glint of metal at their hip. Dark hair, like a raven's wing, cascaded down their shoulders as they strode purposefully into view. Zayn's finger tightened on the trigger, his heart racing against his ribs.

The mesmeric tattoo that snaked down his neck before disappearing beneath the cloth seemed to writhe in the moonlight, its design a cryptic language Zayn couldn't decipher.

The man ambled towards the target Zayn was fixated on, stopping just beyond firing range. With arms folded, a sly grin stretched across his face. "Ready to test your skills on a moving target?" His voice, a low rumble, left a dangerous edge.

Zayn couldn't help but admire the audacity of the man. Interrupting his intense practice session? "Tempting," he muttered, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He couldn't shake the image that flashed in his mind - the flowing robes, the cryptic tattoo.

"Muslim," his mind supplied, though he dismissed it quickly. But this was a warzone, not a place for snap judgments.

The man, unfazed by Zayn's curt reply, sauntered closer and held out his hands, palms up. "Offering?" he inquired, his voice smooth as desert sand.

Zayn raised an eyebrow. This guy had guts. "A smoke from a fellow traveler, perhaps?" the man continued, a sly glint in his eyes.

Zayn studied him, suspicion warring with a strange sense of inquiry. He tossed his pack and lighter towards the man. "Thanks, brother," the man said, lighting the cigarette with a practiced flick.

Curiosity niggled at him, Zayn finally broke the silence. "Who are you?"

The man took a long drag, a puff of smoke curling around his face as he exhaled. "Azhar," he said, a hint of a smile spreading across his face. "And you?"

Zayn met his gaze, his voice steady. "Zayn." A pause. "Shaque's blood runs deep." It was a sinister message, a way of revealing his lineage without spilling all the beans.

Azhar chuckled, a low rumble that sent a shiver down Zayn's spine. "New here, I see. Well, I was new myself ten years ago. But hey, look how far I've come." A dangerous spark ignited in his eyes.

"Can't judge a book by its bloody cover," Zayn muttered, finger tightening on the trigger. He aimed, bravado radiating from him. Azhar's smooth voice cut through his posturing.

"The Shaque sends his prized pupil," Azhar countered, a sly glint in his eyes. "The Lord of the Shaque must think highly of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Zayn demanded, smoke curling from his lips.

"Shadow Pact ain't no charm school," Azhar explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Here, it's kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest, not tea and crumpets."

Zayn surveyed the range, his eyes taking in the fortified walls and the barred windows. It was indeed secured, designed to keep enemies out and secrets in.

"Looks like a secure fortress," Zayn conceded, his fingers hovering near the trigger.

"Pull that trigger, you're a dead man walking," Azhar countered, a plume of smoke curling from his nostrils as he tilted his chin towards the gun.

Zayn's bravado crumbled. He finally took a good look at the weapon, his heart sinking as he realized it was pointed directly at him. With a defeated sigh, he lowered his own gun and turned to face Azhar. "Distracted me," he muttered, a touch of annoyance in his voice.

Azhar's smile widened. "Distracted? In this game, kid, there's no such thing."

"Game?" Zayn echoed, confusion etched on his face.

"Mafia," Azhar chuckled. "Master this place, hone your skills..."

"DNA's my teacher," Zayn interjected, his eyes nervously darting around.

"Master," Azhar corrected gently. "The lord of the Shaque wouldn't have sent you here if you weren't special. Shadow Pact ain't for rookies."

"You trained here?" Curiosity flickered in Zayn's eyes.

Azhar gave a curt nod. "Chosen, like you." A shadow settled across his face, a glimpse of something dark lurking in the depths of his eyes. "Why the civilian clothes?" Zayn pressed, oblivious to the sudden secrecy that shrouded Azhar.

Azhar's smile returned, but this time it sent shivers down Zayn's spine. "Terrorist, remember?" he said, his voice dropping to a low growl.

"So, what's the catch?" Zayn's voice was a low rasp. The revelation that Azhar wasn't some corporate stooge like the Shaquille sent shivers down his spine. Here, in this den of shadows, identity was a cloak, a shield against the harsh realities of the Shadow Pact.

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