Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 38: Protected By Death.

Azhar smirked, the scar on his cheek twisting with amusement. "No suits or orders here, kid. We carve our own paths. Discretion is our god, anonymity our weapon."

Zayn nodded, a slow burn of understanding replacing his initial confusion. He stubbed out his cigarette, the hiss echoing in the space. "Thanks for saving my ass, Azhar. Guess that makes us...friends?" A hesitant smile played on his lips.

Azhar chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Friendship's a luxury we can't afford, kid. Here, we're family. But I wouldn't mind yours. You've got a good head on your shoulders, and that reptilian tattoo...it's impressive." His gaze shifted to the inking on Zayn's arm.

Zayn's heart raced in his chest. A casual gesture, a glance at his tattoo, and suddenly the world tilted on its axis. His hand flew to his neck, the half-smoked cigarette clattering to the floor. "Mog did this?" he forced the words out, voice laced with a tremor he couldn't control.

Azhar's smile widened, unknown to Zayn's sudden distress. "Mog, yeah. Best damn tattoo artist in the Pact. Though technically, she goes by Imogen back at the Shaque. Lord Maximus is on some fancy vacation, so she should be chilling in her quarters."

Zayn's mind raced. Imogen, here? Living a double life within this very organization.  "We get our own apartments?" he managed, his voice barely audible.

Azhar chuckled. "A semblance of freedom, yeah. But make no mistake, the Shaque owns us all. We're just...leashed a little looser. Ever thought of breaking free, Zayn?"

"The Shaque operates under a veil of secrecy, Zayn," Azhar said, his voice low. "Survival is paramount, but trust is earned slowly. Answers will come as you prove yourself."

Zayn dipped his head in a curt nod, a sigh escaping his lips. They walked in companionable silence, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on concrete and the occasional murmur. Finally, Zayn broke the quiet.

"What about family?" Zayn inquired, his forehead furrowed.

Azhar's smile vanished. "Most here are orphans, Zayn. The Shaque becomes your family, your only loyalty."

A pang of sympathy lanced through Zayn. "I'm sorry," he offered, the words hollow in the space.

Azhar threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Save your pity, kid. You damn near killed yourself back there. Lack of focus won't help you chuck a grenade."

Zayn's hand reflexively reached for his pocket, emerging with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He offered them to Azhar, who took a stick with a grunt of thanks. As Zayn lit his own cigarette, a tendril of smoke curling into the air, a new worry gnawed at him.

"Grenades..." he muttered, the implications sinking in. "This goes beyond guns, doesn't it?"

Azhar didn't answer. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

"Do you have any family left?" Zayn pressed, his voice gaining a touch of desperation.

"Had," Azhar corrected, his eyes hardening. "The Shaque demands complete loyalty. All ties are severed."

"So, you never see them?" Zayn persisted.

"Once, maybe twice in a lifetime," Azhar replied, his voice devoid of warmth.

"Maybe they don't even know who you are," Zayn ventured, a flash of hope in his eyes.

Azhar's eyes narrowed. "The rules are clear, Zayn. Identities are secrets, protected by death."

Zayn's breath hitched. Death. The harsh reality of his situation slammed into him. He stared at Azhar, who continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Did your folks just drop you out of the sky, then?"

Zayn shook his head, a wave of sadness washing over him. "No. Orphanage walls since I was six months old. My parents... I always assumed they were dead."

Azhar studied him for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. "No need to dwell on it now, kid. It's in the past. The Shaque is your family, and I'm your brother."

Zayn managed a weak smile, a pang of loneliness echoing in his chest.

They reached the top of the stairs and headed down the hallway towards Zayn's room. As they rounded a corner.  A tall man with a shaved head and a grim expression blocked their path.

"Stoney," Azhar greeted with a curt nod. He introduced Zayn, but the Stone's gaze remained fixed on him.

"New meat," Stoney grunted, his voice gravelly. Then, his eyes narrowed, and a flicker of recognition ignited in their depths. "Wait a minute..."

Stoney took a menacing step forward, his hand reaching for something concealed beneath his jacket. Zayn's heart lurched. What did this man recognize? Could it be the tattoo, a mark that transcended the walls of the Shaque? Or something else entirely?