the black vow

The rain had been pouring since noon. On the small TV in the corner of the 24-hour mamak, the news anchor looked pale. Sweat on her forehead despite the aircond. "Breaking news from KL Police. 3 missing persons reported tonight. All last seen near abandoned buildings in Bukit Bintang. All 3 are women. Age 20-28. Citizens are advised to stay indoors and avoid walking alone." Aimaara Daneesha turned the volume down with her umbrella tip. Another case. This city was rotting from the inside and nobody cared. But she had a deadline. And deadlines didn’t care about missing girls. Raindrops soaked the streets of Kuala Lumpur, turning the evening into something ugly and grey. Neon lights reflected on the wet road like blood. People ran, splashing through puddles, desperate for shelter. Car horns blared. But one woman walked calmly, holding a cream-colored umbrella. Aimaara Daneesha. 25 years old. Interior designer. And a liar. Because she didn’t design pretty cafes anymore. Not since the client called her work "too feminine to be taken seriously" and fired her on w******p at 2 AM. With a "seen". Her heels clicked against the wet pavement. Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound was the only thing keeping her sane. She stopped in front of a shop with peeling paint and a flickering sign. *Libreria Aurora.* This was the only place that didn’t ask her to smile. 3 years since Mama died from cancer. Chemo bills drained everything. 3 years since Papa vanished without a trace. The police said "declared dead". But there was no body. No closure. Just silence and questions she wasn’t allowed to ask. After that, bookstores became her mosque. Her therapy. Her hiding place. A small bell chimed the moment she stepped inside. "Ting..." The smell hit her first. Old paper, wood polish, and Mr. Rahman’s hazelnut coffee. It smelled like home. "Assalamualaikum, Mr. Rahman." "Waalaikumussalam, Aimaara." The old man looked up from behind the counter. His eyes were tired but kind. Lines on his face deeper than last month. "Long time no see. Where have you been?" "New project." She gave a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Only got time to come today." He just nodded and started pouring her usual without asking. The gurgle of the coffee machine was comforting. "Like usual?" "The usual." She took the warm cup. The heat burned her cold fingers. God, she needed this. Only in this bookstore did she truly feel at peace. Wooden shelves reaching the ceiling. Dust dancing in the yellow light. The sound of rain hitting the zinc roof. Tap Tap Tap But tonight felt different. The air was heavier. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Unknown number. `Address sent. Mansion job. 8 AM tomorrow. Mont Kiara. Don’t be late. Don’t ask questions. Cash.` No name. No logo. Just coordinates. Her stomach twisted. She needed this money. For Mama’s grave upkeep. For rent. For not drowning. The last 2 months she survived on Maggi and pride. She forced herself to focus and started picking books for reference. Architecture. Shadows. Gothic design. Anything to get her mind off the fear. Then her eyes caught it. On the counter. An old wooden box. Covered in dust but the lock was new. Shiny. "New items?" Mr. Rahman nodded, wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked nervous. "Just arrived this morning. From an old house that was auctioned in Damansara. Owner died. No family. Estate sale." "Who bought it?" "Some company. They just dumped this here. Said to sell what can be sold." Aimaara approached the box. Inside were yellowed books, an antique pocket watch that had stopped at 3:17, and several worn-out files tied with string. The string was red. Like blood. But one file caught her attention. A black leather file. No title. No name. Only a silver embossed symbol in the center. Two overlapping letters. F and H. Her heart started beating faster. Strangely... Her hands were trembling. As if the file was calling to her. Like it knew her name. She picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. Cold. Like it had been in a freezer. The leather strap was stiff. She pulled it open with shaky fingers. Inside, the first thing she saw was a photo. A man. Standing with his back to the camera. Wearing a black suit. Tailored. Expensive. His face was scratched out with a knife. Violently. Deep grooves. But on his wrist, visible under the sleeve... A scar. A crescent moon. Aimaara’s breath caught. The coffee in her hand almost spilled. That scar. She knew that scar. Papa had the exact same one. From the kitchen accident when she was 7. He told her "daddy got this saving mama’s cake". "Police declared him dead 15 years ago." she whispered. Her voice cracked. Beneath the photo was a single piece of paper. Coordinates. And one word written in red ink. The ink looked fresh. *FAHREN.* Her blood ran cold. Ice in her veins. That name. She’d heard it in her nightmares. In Mama’s last feverish words before she died. "Stay away from the Fahren, sayang... they collect debts in blood..." Her hands shook. The file almost fell. Ting... The doorbell rang. Both of them looked up. The air in the store changed. Got colder. A man walked in. He didn’t get wet. Not one drop on his black coat. Like the rain was scared to touch him. Like he walked through it, not in it. Tall. At least 6’2. Shoulders that looked like they carried bodies. His hair was neat, black, and damp only at the ends. Expensive cologne. But underneath it, something else. Gunpowder. Metal. Death. His face was calm. Too calm. Like a lake before a tsunami. But his eyes... Grey. Like storm clouds right before lightning strikes. They scanned the room in 2 seconds. Books. Mr. Rahman. The broken mug. Then stopped on her. On the black file in her hands. They locked eyes. For a few seconds, the entire store felt silent. Even the rain stopped. Even her heart stopped. Mr. Rahman dropped the coffee pot. It shattered. Brown liquid everywhere. "Ah! Maaf... maaf encik..." The man didn’t even blink. Didn’t even look at the mess. He walked closer. Each step was silent. Predator. _Step. Step. Step._ "Excuse me." His voice was low. Deep. It vibrated in her chest and made her knees weak. It was the kind of voice that gave orders and people died following them. "That file... may I see it?" Aimaara gripped the file tighter without realizing. Her knuckles turned white. "Why?" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. Defensive. The man didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took out a black card from his leather wallet and placed it on the table with two fingers. Like he was placing a death sentence. *EMMEER FAHREN* *Chief Executive Officer* *Fahren Holdings* The letters were embossed. Like the symbol on the file. Aimaara looked at the card, then back at the man in front of her. Fahren. The same name on the paper. The same name in Mama’s last words. "You know this file?" Emmeer still didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to her lips for half a second. Then back to her eyes. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was memorizing her. Like he was deciding how to break her. Instead, he said softly, "Some secrets..." He leaned in. She could smell him now. Winter and blood and something expensive. "...are safer left unopened." Aimaara’s heart beat faster. For some reason, she felt this meeting was no coincidence. This was fate. Or a trap. "How do you know my name?" she asked. Her voice shook. Emmeer’s jaw ticked. A muscle jumped. "Because I’ve been looking for you, Ms. Daneesha." Her blood froze. "And for that file. For 10 years." Outside, tires screeched. Loud. Too many. Then three gunshots. _BANG. BANG. BANG._ Glass cracked. A spiderweb on the window. "Down!" Emmeer moved faster than human. He tackled her to the floor, his body covering hers. Heavy. Warm. Terrifying. He smelled like a graveyard. Books fell from the shelves around them. _Crash. Thud._ "They found you too fast." he hissed in her ear. His breath was hot against her skin. "Run with me, Aimaara Daneesha. Or die here with the books." Through the broken window, she saw them. 3 black cars. No plates. Men in masks getting out. Holding guns with silencers. And they were all looking at her. Mr. Rahman was hiding under the counter, praying. Whispering ayat. Emmeer pulled back. His grey eyes were furious now. At her. At the situation. "Give me the file." "No." She clutched it to her chest. "Tell me why they want me." Emmeer stared at her. For one second he looked almost human. Tired. Then he did something she didn’t expect. He smiled. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of a man who had killed and slept well after. "Because the moment you touched that file..." He grabbed her wrist. His fingers were cold and scarred. Like chains. Like handcuffs. "...your name was already on my hunt list." He yanked her to her feet. "And on someone else’s kill list." The front door exploded inward. Wood splinters flew. "Run." _The moment her fingers touched the black file, Aimaara Daneesha’s fate was sealed._ _And there was no going back. No matter how much she begged._ *TO BE CONTINUED...*