Bring Him Home
1455 Words
The lavish palace doors opened slowly under Daniel's hand.
It was supposed to be a home.
The same red carpet stretched across the marble floors. The chandeliers still shimmered faintly. The faint scent of Siraj's cologne—the minty, citrusy scent he'd started wearing a few months earlier—still lingered in the air.
But the boy wasn't here.
And Daniel felt this absence like a knife between his ribs.
He didn't take off his coat.
He didn't summon the staff.
He just walked.
His sweet son was absent.
Slow, mechanical steps carried him through the hallways. His fingers glided along the wooden banisters of the staircase—the same banisters Siraj used to jump on when he was younger, pretending to be an anime warrior.
He passed the library where they had once argued over whether Siraj should read Daniel's manga.
He passed the kitchen where Siraj had once emptied an entire bottle of chili flakes into Daniel's food, only to see him horrified.
He passed the training room where Siraj had thrown his first real punch, and Daniel had laughed proudly until he was bruised.
Then he reached Siraj's bedroom door.
It was still locked.
It was still locked.
Daniel stood in front of it for a long moment.
His hand shook slightly as he reached for the doorknob—then he turned.
The room froze in time.
The bed was unmade, the blankets still twisted from the night he'd been away.
One of his jackets hung carelessly over the chair.
His sketchbook—which no one was allowed to see—was open on the desk.
Daniel entered, slowly, cautiously, as if delving into someone else's memories.
He sank down onto the edge of the bed.
His hand touched the pillow. It was cold.
"You were just here..." he whispered into the silence. "A few days ago. Breathing. Angry at me. And I left you like that."
Daniel's Inner Monologue
I should have knocked.
I should have gone to his room that night. Apologized. Tell him I didn't mean it. That he meant more to me than this entire empire.
Why didn't I? Why was it so hard to talk?
I thought we had time. But apparently we don't.
I thought... he'd forgive me eventually. That I'd make it up to him. Someday.
Daniel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands.
"I let you down..." he said, his voice breaking. "Again."
A single frame on the nightstand caught his eye.
A picture of them together.
Siraj, maybe ten. Sitting on Daniel's shoulders, smiling, his face smeared with cotton candy.
Daniel had a rare smile.
And now...
Siraj was lying on a hospital bed, tubes in his veins, and a silence hung over his chest, perhaps growing more distant with each second.
"Come back..." Daniel whispered to the room. "Please. Wake up. Scream at me. Hate me. I don't care. Just... come back."
The palace had never felt so quiet.
So cold.
Full of everything left unsaid.
...........
Seven days had passed.
Seven days of sterile walls, beeping monitors, and the suffocating smell of disinfectant.
Seven days of watching Siraj's chest rise and fall with the machines.
Seven days of waiting for eyes that never opened.
But now Daniel had had enough.
The hospital room was dim, Siraj's pale face illuminated only by the blue light of the monitors. Tubes trailed from his arms. His chest rose shallowly. His lips were pale.
Daniel stood beside him, wearing gloves and a jacket stiff with cold salad.
"We're leaving."
The doctor blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"I'll take him. Today."
"Mr. Daniel," the doctor's voice turned sharp. Your son is in a coma. He's stable now, but barely. Moving him is life-threatening.
Daniel's jaw clenched.
Keeping him here is life-threatening.
He needs care. Devices. A sterile environment. Security—
"Security?" Daniel laughed bitterly.
The doctor's voice rose.
"We have guards!"
"Not mine."
"Mr. Daniel—!"
"He's going home!" Daniel slammed his hand on the metal tray, causing the machines to clink. The doctor shuddered.
The nurses behind the glass froze.
"You think I'm going to let them finish what they started?!" Daniel growled. They stabbed him in the school.
"He's a child in critical condition—"
"He's my child," Daniel cried, his voice cracking. "And I'm not going to leave him behind another closed door to die!"
The room fell silent.
The tension was intense—like the moment before a war began.
Daniel was breathing heavily. His chest was tightening. His eyes were bulging—and watery.
And then, finally...
The doctor sighed.
"If you sign the discharge against the doctor's advice, we can't stop you."
"I've already brought the paramedics. The equipment. Everything he needs. I've hired a special surgical team. His room is cleaner than this wing. We're done here."
Later that night - The Palace
The convoy arrived in the darkness.
Siraj was wheeled inside in a wheelchair with IVs and oxygen, wrapped in thick sheets. Nurses swarmed around him like bees. A special intensive care unit had been set up in the east wing—clean, glowing, waiting for him alone.
Daniel walked beside the gurney the entire time, his eyes sharp, his hand hovering protectively over his son's chest—as if willing him to rise.
When they laid Siraj on his bed, surrounded by the monitors and the warmth of the palace, Daniel finally sighed.
He sat in the chair next to him. He held out his hand.
"You're home," he whispered. "He'll never touch you again."
His voice was cracking.
"I'll kill every one of them if they try."
Siraj didn't move.
He didn't tremble.
He didn't blink.
But Daniel stayed there. Watching. Guarding. Regretting.
Until dawn crept over the palace walls.
Six days ago
The warehouse smelled of gasoline, sweat, and rotting metal.
Midnight hung heavy on the sidewalks—silent but tense, like the air before a thunderstorm.
Inside, they laughed.
Six men. They did it.
They stopped Siraj.
They twisted the knife.
They thought they were safe now.
They thought Daniel wouldn't touch them in the hollow of their shadows.
They were wrong.
It started with the lights.
Everything went dark.
A scream. A curse. Flashlights flashing, panic flaring.
Then came the first sound—footsteps.
Slow. Heavy.
Measured, like a countdown to judgment.
"Who's there?!"
"Check the south side!"
It was too late.
The door exploded inward.
And Daniel entered.
The coat was blazing behind him. Gloves clenched on his fists. No words. No mercy.
"What was this?!"
The first man lunged. It was he who stabbed Siraj.
One twist of Daniel's body—a c***k—his elbow to his jaw. The man fell like a sack of bricks.
The second came from behind.
Daniel bent down, caught his arm as he swung, and slammed his knee into his ribs so hard that a scream erupted.
"It was a child."
Daniel's voice was low. Raging. A raging rage dripped from every word.
"He said no. And yet you did it."
A third man pulled a knife.
Daniel didn't back down.
He kicked a table, slamming it onto the man's knees. As he collapsed, Daniel grabbed him by the collar and slammed his head against a metal bar—once. Twice. Until he fell unconscious.
The others tried to run.
A Big Fatal Mistake
Daniel leaped over the boxes, grabbed the fourth by the back of his shirt, and hurled him against the wall.
"Fifteen years!"
A punch.
"Son!"
Another punch.
"You wanted to break him?!"
The man choked on blood and collapsed.
The last two cowered in a corner. They held up their hands, their eyes wide open, their legs trembling.
"We didn't stab him! We just..."
Daniel stepped forward.
"Just watched him? Hold him? Just laughed?"
They couldn't answer.
He didn't hit them.
Not yet.
Instead, he reached for his earpiece.
"Now."
A rumble outside. Black vans. Sirens.
His men charged in.
Well-armed. Well-trained. Silent. Competent.
The remaining two were forced to surrender.
"Take them all," Daniel said coldly. "Interrogate them. Break their silence."
One of the men groaned.
"You can't do this—!"
Daniel turned, his eyes shining.
"You touched my son. You should have thought twice before doing that."
He leaned closer.
"You should be grateful I let you breathe."
Later - Back at the Palace
Daniel stood in front of the security room's surveillance screens.
The live feed showed all six, bruised and unconscious, locked in interrogation cells.
Siraj still lay in his medical room, pale and still. But safe.
Daniel's fists were bloodied, his knuckles raw.
But for the first time in a week, his breathing slowed.
His heart steadied.
- Writer
