The Crimson consigliere

​The skyscraper’s glass walls shuddered as thunder rolled over Seoul. Inside the penthouse, the air smelled of expensive cologne and cheap fear. ​Ariz stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection ghostly against the rain-streaked glass. He didn't look like a killer. In his charcoal-grey three-piece suit, he looked like a young billionaire. On his wrist, his watch ticked with a soft, rhythmic click. ​Behind him, Chairman Park—the man who controlled half of Korea’s shipping lanes—was on his knees. ​"I’ll give you anything," Park sobbed. "Ten million dollars. Twenty. Just leave the files alone." ​Ariz didn't turn around. He adjusted his cufflinks, his fingers moving with the calm grace of a pianist. ​"You spent thirty years building this empire, Chairman," Ariz said. His Korean was perfect, but his voice carried a weight that didn't belong to his youth. "I dismantled it in thirty minutes. Do you really think your money has any value to me?" ​"Who sent you?" Park gasped, clutching his chest. "Was it the Italians? The Russians?" ​Ariz finally turned. His dark eyes were like two voids—empty of mercy, full of intent. He leaned down, placing a single black card on the desk. On it was a crimson embossed seal. ​"In Seoul, they say the Reaper wears a scythe," Ariz whispered, his voice sending a shiver down Park’s spine. "But here I am, wearing a suit. My name is Kaim. And your empire just became my footstool." ​As the Chairman’s eyes went wide with the realization of his doom, Ariz walked toward the private elevator. He didn't look back at the ruin he had created. He had a flight to catch. ​[Six Hours Later: Allama Iqbal International Airport, Lahore] ​The humidity of Lahore wrapped around Ariz the moment he stepped into the arrivals terminal. He pulled his aviator glasses down, his eyes scanning the crowd. He was home—a city of dust, heritage, and the blood of his father. ​He wasn't just a student anymore. He was a weapon returning to its holster. ​As he walked toward the exit, a commotion broke out. Three men in leather jackets were cornering a woman near a black sedan. One of them gripped her arm, his face twisted in a sneer. ​"Listen, Zoya," the man growled. "The Council doesn't like being sued. Drop the case, or your father’s software house burns tonight." ​The woman, Zoya, didn't flinch. Her eyes were sharp, her posture defiant despite the danger. "Then let it burn. I’d rather be a lawyer in a ruin than a slave in a palace." ​The man raised a hand to strike her. ​Snap. ​The sound of a suitcase handle locking into place echoed through the pavement. The man’s hand stopped mid-air as he felt a cold, metallic grip on his wrist. ​Ariz stood there, looking bored. He hadn't even dropped his briefcase. ​"You have a very loud voice for a man with such a weak grip," Ariz said in effortless Urdu. ​The thug snarled, trying to pull away, but Ariz’s hand was like an industrial vice. "Who the hell are you? Get lost, kid!" ​Ariz stepped closer, his shadow falling over the three men. The temperature seemed to drop five degrees. ​"I am the answer to the prayer you haven't prayed yet," Ariz said, his voice dropping to a deadly, calm tone that made the thug’s blood turn to ice. "You have three seconds to let go of her. At one, I break your wrist. At two, I take your breath. At three... well, you won't be around to hear three." ​The thug looked into Ariz’s eyes and saw something that didn't belong in a crowded airport. He saw a predator. ​"One," Ariz counted. The bone in the man's wrist began to groan. ​"Okay! Okay! Let go!" The thug stumbled back as Ariz released him with a flick of his wrist. The three men scrambled into their car, the tires screeching as they fled the scene. ​Silence fell over the sidewalk. Zoya adjusted her blazer, her breath coming in short gasps as she looked at the stranger in the expensive suit. ​"You... you shouldn't have done that," she said, though her eyes were filled with curiosity. "They work for the Council. They’ll come for you." ​Ariz picked up his briefcase and gave her a small, polite nod—the perfect mask of a gentleman. ​"Let them come," Ariz replied, his eyes momentarily flashing with the fire of Kaim. "I’ve spent ten years learning how to greet guests like them." ​He turned and walked toward a waiting taxi, leaving the fierce lawyer standing in the dust of his departure. ​The Crimson Consigliere had arrived. And Lahore would never be the same.