My eyes locked on the four masked men, the rope-blade still hanging from my hand.
“Is this the government still trying to put me on the ground,” I asked, voice low, “or is this Malik Radwan’s idea of a warm welcome?”
They didn’t answer. Just glanced at each other—quick, silent.
I knew that look.
They weren’t here to talk.
“Fine,” I said, letting the rope drop. My stance lowered, my blood settling into that cold, steady rhythm I hadn’t felt in years. “If you’re not ready to talk… be ready to die.”
They moved first.
The first one lunged with a baton. I sidestepped, caught his wrist, and twisted until I felt the sharp crack of bone giving way. His scream cut short when my elbow smashed into his jaw, sending him into the wall.
The second came in high with a knife. I caught his arm mid-
