Title: Shadows of Blood
Rain lashed against the cracked windowpanes of a modest two-bedroom house nestled in a forgotten alley of a sprawling city. That house once rang with laughter—his laughter. But now, it was only a memory blurred by time and smeared in pain.
Rahil was born to a single mother, Zubeida, a seamstress known for her kind heart and relentless strength. She worked day and night to provide for her son, keeping him away from the filth of the slums. But the city had its way of swallowing dreams whole and spitting out monsters.
As a child, Rahil was clever and brave, with a spark in his eyes. But hunger dulls the brightest lights. When he turned fourteen, he dropped out of school. Books couldn't feed his belly. So he started running errands for local thugs—first it was just delivering packages, then watching out for police, and finally, holding knives to throats.
By the age of twenty-five, Rahil was unrecognizable. A name whispered with fear—Raaz, the masked terror of the streets. He led a crew of ruthless men who specialized in high-stakes robberies, never leaving a trace. He never stayed in one city too long, always moving, always hiding.
But fate had its own sense of irony.
The Setup
They scouted the house for two days. It was modest, not flashy. The man living inside rarely left, and the curtains were always drawn. The information was reliable, and Rahil trusted no one more than his source, Kaala.
The plan was simple: in and out within twenty minutes, no noise, no witnesses.
The Night of the Robbery
Dressed in black, faces covered, they approached the house. The rain helped drown their footsteps. Rahil's heart thumped harder than usual, a strange unease curling in his chest.
He pushed open the old wooden gate. It creaked just like he remembered.
Too late to turn back now.
They kicked open the door and burst in, weapons drawn.
"Hands up! No one move!"
There was a scream. A woman’s.
Rahil’s stomach clenched. That voice—it wasn’t just familiar. It was etched into his bones.
One of his men grabbed the woman and shoved her into the corner. She struggled.
"Please, don’t hurt me! There’s nothing here! Just leave!"
Rahil’s blood turned to ice.
He turned to look at her. The woman’s face was partially hidden by shadows, but her voice... and those trembling hands…
"Ammi?" he whispered.
The woman froze. Her eyes widened.
"Rahil?"
Time stopped.
But Kaala didn’t.
He moved behind her, yelling, “Boss, she saw our faces! We gotta end this!”
“No!” Rahil screamed, but the shot had already rung out.
The bullet hit her chest. She staggered, eyes wide in shock, then fell backward.
Rahil ran to her, tearing off his mask, grabbing her hand.
"Ammi! No no no, please! It’s me, Rahil! I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was you!"
She coughed, blood trickling from her lips.
“Rahil… my son… you came back…”
And then her eyes lost their light.
The Aftermath
The crew panicked. Kaala stared at Rahil, horrified.
“You said this was a trader’s house!”
“It was!” Kaala stammered. “This is what I was told, I swear!”
Rahil didn’t speak. He just stood there, his hands soaked in his mother’s blood.
His world, already dark, collapsed into pitch black.
They fled the house, but Rahil didn’t get far.
That night, he walked into a police station, his mother’s wedding ring in his hand, and said, “I killed Zubeida. Arrest me.”
The officers knew the name Zubeida. A kind woman who stitched clothes for nearly the whole neighborhood. When they realized who her killer was, silence filled the station.
One constable whispered, “That’s her son… she always said he’d come back one day.”
In Prison
Rahil was sentenced to life in prison. His name vanished from the streets. Raaz the robber was gone. Only Rahil remained—a ghost in an orange jumpsuit, haunted by a single moment of unknowing cruelty.
He spent his days in silence, sewing clothes, like his mother used to. Every shirt he stitched, he whispered her name. Every night he dreamt of that scream. That final look in her eyes. That small smile when she realized her son had returned.
He never sought forgiveness. How could he? He had killed the only person who had ever truly loved him.
Ten Years Later
A journalist visited the prison to do a story on infamous robbers who had reformed. He sat across from Rahil, now thinner, older, eyes sunken.
“Do you regret it?” the journalist asked.
Rahil smiled faintly.
“She waited for me all her life. And I came… but as a monster. I don’t regret getting caught. I regret leaving her in the first place.”
The journalist was silent.
Rahil leaned forward.
“You want a quote? Here’s one. No matter how far you run, you always come home. The question is—who are you when you do?”
Conclusion
Outside the prison walls, the city had moved on. But in a small house in Gali No. 4, neighbors still placed flowers by the broken gate. A tribute to Zubeida, the woman who raised a son with love, and lost him to the darkness.
And to Rahil—who returned, not for redemption, but to learn the most painful truth: sometimes, you are your own worst fate.
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