Ruthless Ties

Chapter 2: Zayaan

The orphanage in Hunza, known as Khushhal Basti—a place where hope was born from despair—had forged a bond between three boys that no one could break. Zayaan, Arslan, and Kian had grown up together there, finding each other amid the chaos of their lives. In that cold, stone building with barely enough warmth to go around, they became more than just friends. They became brothers, their only family, bound by the unspoken promise to never leave each other behind.

The scars of their past weren't visible to most, but they were carved deep into their souls.

Zayaan had never known a real family—his mother died when he was too young to remember, and his father, little more than a shadow in his fragmented memories, abandoned him before he could even walk. 

Kian's aunt, overwhelmed by her own struggles, had left him at the orphanage, unable to care for herself, let alone a child.

Arslan, meanwhile, was the product of an affair—a truth that left him discarded and unwanted. 

They had all come from nothing, but together at the age of 13, they'd started an empire—Black Hand. Today, this name is whispered in every corner of the world, feared by businessmen and politicians alike. They owned cities, controlled the streets, and ruled from the shadows. They weren't just a mafia; they were a force, an invisible hand that controlled more than just the economy—they controlled lives.

The dimly lit basement echoed with the sound of water dripping, each drop falling like a steady drumbeat in the heavy silence. The concrete walls seemed to absorb the man's ragged breaths, trapping him in a claustrophobic prison of fear. A bare bulb swung from the ceiling, casting shadows that twisted and danced as if mocking the captive's terror. In the center, tied to a heavy metal chair, the man's eyes were wide with fear, darting between the three figures who stood around him like wolves circling prey.

Kian lounged against the wall, a cold grin playing on his lips, twirling a switchblade between his fingers with a dangerous grace. "So," he said in a voice as casual as if he were ordering a drink, "are we going to do this the easy way, or the... fun way?" His smile widened, eyes gleaming with a twisted amusement that promised anything but mercy.

The captive's breath quickened, his face pale under the weak, flickering light. He opened his mouth to speak, but before the words came, Arslan stepped forward, his presence commanding silence.

"Let's cut the crap," Arslan's voice was low, almost gentle, but with a steel edge that froze the captive in place. "We both know you're not walking out of here unless you give us what we want." He crouched down, bringing his face inches from the man's. "And I'm very good at knowing when someone's lying."

The man's chest heaved, his wrists straining against the ropes as he stammered, "I-I don't know what you want! I swear—"

Kian chuckled softly, pushing off the wall. "Ah, swearing already? How original. I love it when they get religious—like it's going to help." He moved closer, his smile widening. "I love it when you beg the invisible man upstairs for help—makes our job so much more entertaining."

Arslan shot him an irritated look. "Kian, enough."

"Just trying to lighten the mood," Kian said, shrugging. "It's getting a little... grim in here, don't you think?"

Zayaan, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. His cold, predatory smile sent a shudder down the captive's spine. "This isn't about making him comfortable," he said quietly, his voice carrying a sinister calm. "It's about making him talk." He drew a long, wicked blade from his belt, the steel catching the dim light. "And if you think you're getting out of this without giving us every detail, you're stupider than you look."