Chapter 5

The Sharif Villa was a monument to the unyielding dominance of the Sharifs, the undisputed leaders of Al-Arba'a Al-Kibar. Today, the air hummed with the collective prestige of Al-Waha's elite. It was a double victory: Adnan Sharif's 80th birthday and the formalization of the Sharif Group's permanent partnership with the Najm Group. A fleet of luxury vehicles choked the driveway, spilling out the city's power players, each carrying tributes to the patriarch. The Salehs presented a bottle of Safwa Wine, its deep crimson liquid valued at eight million dollars. The Mansours followed, unveiling "Shawk Al-Ward" by Zaki Al-Abyad, a masterpiece worth twelve million dollars. The Hashemis offered a Waqt Al-Farah Watch, a timepiece costing eight point eight million dollars. Khalid Ghazi stood among the crowd, clutching a Farah Wallet he had spent a small fortune to acquire, his presence silent and hopeful as he waited for a moment of recognition from the man at the center of the storm. Adnan Sharif sat on a gilded chair, his face a mask of practiced benevolence, surrounded by his kin, including the aggressive Issa Sharif and the stoic Nour Sharif. The celebration shattered when the heavy oak doors of the villa exploded inward. The wood splintered with the force of a battering ram, and a massive object skidded across the polished marble floor, coming to a halt in the center of the ballroom. It was a coffin, black and imposing, weighing a full hundred kilograms. Tariq Al-Farsi stepped through the dust. He wore a mask that obscured his features, but his muscular frame radiated a pressure that made the guests' breath hitch. He ignored the gasps and the sudden silence of the music. "A gift for the birthday of the great Adnan Sharif," Tariq said, his voice a low, cold vibration that carried to every corner of the hall. "I am here to announce your impending death anniversary." Adnan Sharif's face contorted, the mask of the patriarch slipping to reveal the predator beneath. He stood, leaning on his cane, his eyes narrowed at the intruder. "Who are you?" he shouted, his voice cracking with age and indignation. "How dare you bring such filth into my home on this day?" "I am the one here to take your life," Tariq replied. He didn't raise his voice, yet it felt like a physical blow. Issa Sharif, unable to stomach the insolence, stepped forward. He was a man in his twenties, fueled by the arrogance of his lineage. "You think a mask makes you a ghost?" Issa sneered, closing the distance with a stride full of unearned confidence. "This is the Sharif Villa. You will reveal yourself before I have you flayed." Issa reached out, his hand clawing for the edge of Tariq's mask. Before his fingers could graze the surface, Tariq's hand moved—a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track. He seized Issa's arm at the shoulder. There was no struggle, only the sickening sound of muscle tearing and bone snapping. With a single, brutal wrench, Tariq tore Issa's arm clean from his torso. Issa didn't even scream at first; the shock held the sound in his throat. Then the blood geysered, and a howl of pure, primal agony ripped through the ballroom. Issa collapsed, his face turning a ghostly grey before he fainted from the sheer trauma. The guests recoiled, a wave of terror washing over the room. Tariq turned his gaze back to Adnan Sharif. The old man's legs trembled. The aura radiating from the masked man was not just violence—it was the weight of a mountain. "Kneel," Tariq commanded. The word was a decree. Adnan Sharif felt his knees buckle. It wasn't a choice; the pressure exerted by Tariq's presence forced his body to comply. The patriarch of Al-Arba'a Al-Kibar hit the marble floor with a dull thud, kneeling before the man with the coffin. The guests stood paralyzed, watching their sovereign humbled by a single word. Tariq stepped closer, looking down at the shaking old man. "Ten years ago," Tariq said, "the Buhayrat Al-Azhar fire consumed the Farsi villa. Thirty-eight lives were lost in those flames. Thirty-eight souls who had done nothing but exist as an obstacle to your greed." Adnan's eyes bulged. "The Farsis? Who... who are you? There were no survivors!" "Admit your sins," Tariq said, his voice merciless. "You can't do this!" Adnan barked, trying to find his lost strength. "Do you know who we are? Do you know my son, Zayd? Do you know the power of the Sharifs?" "I know only that you are a dead man," Tariq replied. He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a thin, shimmering needle wire. In a movement as fluid as water, the wire looped around Adnan's neck. Tariq didn't hesitate. A sharp tug, a flash of silver, and the patriarch's head was severed from his shoulders before his scream could leave his throat. The head tumbled into the black bag Tariq had produced from the coffin. The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat before the screams erupted. Guests scrambled for the exits, trampling over the Safwa Wine and the twelve-million-dollar painting. The Sharifs stood frozen, watching the masked man pick up the black bag and walk out of the ruins of the banquet as calmly as he had entered. Tariq did not look back. He drove to the Al-Farsi Graveyard, located at the ruins of his family's former villa in the suburbs. The wind hissed through the overgrown grass as he approached the grave of Yusuf Al-Farsi. He placed the black bag, heavy and wet, against the cold stone of the tombstone. He pulled a flask from his pocket, pouring a stream of liquid onto the earth. "Grandfather," he said, his voice solemn and devoid of the coldness he had shown the Sharifs. "The first head is yours. I will ensure this family finds its peace. And I will retrieve Azhar Al-Qamar Ala Al-Jabal. It will return to where it belongs." He stood there for a long time, the only sound the rustle of the leaves, before turning to leave. Back at the Dar Al-Malik, Tariq stripped away the blood-stained clothes and stepped into the bath. The hot water washed away the scent of iron and the soot of the past, but the fire in his eyes remained. The scene at the Sharif Villa, meanwhile, had descended into a nightmare. The celebrities had fled, leaving the family to stare at the headless corpse of their leader. Nour Sharif stood over the body, her face white with rage. "Has Zayd been called?" she roared at the trembling servants and younger family members. "Yes, Lady Nour," a man stammered. "He is on his way from the Jabal Military Zone." "Then we wait," Nour said, her voice shaking with a mix of fury and fear. "No one moves. No one cleans this blood until Zayd sees what has been done to his father." The night grew colder. From the direction of the Jabal Military Zone, the rhythmic thrum of rotors approached. Several helicopters, painted with the insignia of the “Gharb Border,” descended onto the villa's grounds. Zayd Sharif, the fourth son of Adnan, stepped out of the lead helicopter. He was a middle-aged man in a crisp military uniform, his eyes like flint. He strode into the ballroom, his boots clicking on the blood-slicked marble. When he saw the headless body of his father, he fell to his knees. "Father," Zayd whispered, his voice thick with a burgeoning rage. "I was too late. I am sorry." He looked up, his face a mask of lethal intent. "I vow, by my rank and my life, that the one who did this will suffer for an eternity before they are allowed to die." Nour Sharif appeared at his side. "Zayd." "The surveillance video," Zayd said, his voice dark and hollow. "I want it now." Nour nodded, signaling a technician who had been waiting in the shadows. A screen was brought forward, showing the grainy footage of the masked man entering, the casual way he had dismembered Issa, and the terrifying efficiency with which he had decapitated Adnan. Zayd watched it three times, his eyes fixed on Tariq's movements. "He spoke of the fire," Zayd said. "What were his exact words?" "He said it had been ten years since the Buhayrat Al-Azhar fire," Nour recounted. "He mentioned the thirty-eight lives lost. He spoke as if... as if he were one of them." Zayd's jaw tightened. He stood up, waving a hand dismissively at the chaos around them. "A survivor. A Caden survivor. We thought we had purged them all, but one crawled out of the ashes." "What do we do?" Nour asked. "Bury my father simply," Zayd instructed, his voice cold and focused. "Do not make a spectacle of it. I will go to the Al-Asimah immediately to investigate the records of every Caden survivor. If he is alive, he has a name. And when I find that name, I will erase everything he loves before I take his head to replace my father's." As Zayd prepared his departure for the capital, the weight of the coming storm hung over Al-Waha. Tariq Al-Farsi had struck the first blow, but the Sharifs were far from broken, and the hunt for the man in the mask had only just begun. ════════════════════════════════════════