Saifullah could not see because of the cloth covering his head. He heard the sound of a mechanical gate moving as the vehicle eventually stopped.

This was not a registered KhAD detention or interrogation centre; instead, it was one of a dozen private residences in the city’s outskirts where renegade officials would hold hostages until the ransom was received. In addition, these facilities were utilised to temporarily detain and assault vulnerable women who had been taken from different parts of the city and its environs. There was no official documentation of the occurrences. The women were forced to assist the police whenever they were called because most of what happened was recorded on camera.

Robust hands hauled him out and dragged him into a room where he was uncuffed. His hands were fastened to a ceiling-mounted rope as he was stripped naked and repeatedly struck with a whip and stick. No one responded to his screams and demands as to why he was being tormented.

Wounded and battered, he was unable to stand and hung limply from the rope that was fastened to his hands. After that, he was dragged into a room, forced into a chair, and had his hands bound to the chair from behind.

He narrowed his eyes to take in the view after the capture hood was removed forcefully from his head. A table lamp pointed towards his face, while a dim, blinking ceiling bulb illuminated the room. The floor was a chilly concrete slab, and the walls were empty. There was an overpowering sense of dread and menace in the room.

Eventually, he was able to discern a startling and unsettling image.

Khalid was a junior officer in the Operations Department of KhAD. The left side of his face was a disorganized palette covered with burn scars, featuring a mottled red and brown pigmentation. The cartilage in his left ear had melted and fused into a contorted protuberance. His neck contractures caused a noticeable slant to his head.

Stolen story; please report.

“You will confess to your crime, Saifullah,” Khalid remarked sternly.

“Sir…. I am not a murderer…. I have no criminal record.” With his teeth broken and his tongue and lips lacerated and swollen, Saifullah spoke with considerable difficulty.

“We have proof that connects you to the murder. Your agony is made worse by your denial.” There was an oppressive air of threat and dominance about him.

Khalid gestured to the masked men who were standing behind Saifullah. Their motions were swift and methodical as they connected wires to his private parts and started giving electric shocks. His terrifying howls and cries resonated in the room. After every electric jolt, he would slump forward in his chair.

Using a carefully folded handkerchief, Khalid sometimes dabbed at the intermittent trough of tears that seeped out from the corner of the marred lids of his left eye; the cloth devoured the tears but could not completely conceal the wrath beneath.

“Saifullah, I have been posted to the north on short notice. This is one thing I have to do before going.”

Khalid’s entire body exuded a frigid, unwavering thirst for vengeance; his wounds were more than merely physical; they represented his innate need to exact revenge, to subject Saifullah and his entire family to the sort of suffering that could quell the memories of an earlier humiliation.

“I have run out of time to extract a confession and get your signature on it,” he said firmly, tearing up some sheets of paper. “When I’m in town another time, I will go after your daughter”. There was poison in every word he said, a reflection of some throbbing reminder from his past, which had severely damaged his self-esteem and conviction in his invincibility.

Suddenly, there was a loud blast followed by automatic gunfire. Khalid looked stunned for a brief moment and then gestured to the two men to go out as the gunfire continued. One of them returned after a short while and nervously exclaimed, “We have two intruders!”

“Destroy them!” Khalid replied grimly. The agent departed after a hesitating pause. There was another explosion and then a dead calm. With a sigh, Khalid raised an AK-47, pointed it towards the door, and pulled the trigger.

Bekobod lay lifeless in a puddle of blood in the passageway leading to the room, his eyes flickering rapidly before they opened wide. Khalid turned off the overhead light and aimed the table lamp towards the door. Next, he knelt on one leg beside Saifullah’s chair, aiming the rifle at the door again.

Regardless of whether it was his man or the enemy, he fired a burst at the door.

Groaning, the person lay on the ground, having been shot in the thighs. After kicking the invader’s rifle away, Khalid bent over and took off the mask.

“Whoa! What a waste,” he cried out upon seeing Shireen’s expression.

Then he jumped up, took out his revolver from the holster and aimed at Shireen’s face.