Malik sat on a crusty old bench, legs stretched out, arms draped along the back, head tilted just enough to make it look like he was relaxed. Taking in the view. But no. He wasn't admiring the Shams.
He was staring at Faqir.
Burning a damn hole into the side of the man's head.
Meanwhile, Faqir just kept his eyes glued to the horizon, acting like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Like if he looked anywhere else, the world might fall apart.
So, of course, the silence got heavy.
Not awkward, but again, heavy.
A match between the two, waiting on who'd crack first.
And sure enough, Malik gave in.
He let out this long breath, leaned forward just a little, and asked:
"You ever think about choices?"
Faqir chuckled, but not like it was funny. More like it was stupid and painful.
"All the time... I'm too old not to."
"I mean, like… ones that cut. End lives."
Faqir sighed through his teeth.
"Yeah. I've made a few of those."
Silence again, though only for a little.
Malik put his elbows on his knees.
"If you had to trade your life… for Yusuf's. No second chances. No promises of glory or peace or any of that. Just you, dead. Him, alive. Are you doing it?"
Faqir didn't answer at first.
He exhaled slow, blinked his eyes, and nodded.
"I'd want to say yes."
Malik squinted at him.
"But it isn't about want. It's about can. Can I do it knowing he might hate me for it? Knowing he might not even know what I gave up?"
Malik's jaw clenched.
Faqir finally looked at him.
"You're not asking about me, brother."
Malik didn't deny it.
"You got something eating at you, burning behind your heart. And you think a sacrifice might fix it."
Faqir tapped his knees.
"I can't tell you if it's worth it. Maybe it is. Maybe it's just another rock in your belt while you're drowning."
Malik blinked, and Faqir shrugged.
"Only you know what you're willing to lose."
Just then, Yusuf stepped out from behind some half-busted crate, brushing dust off his sleeves like he hadn't been eavesdropping the whole time.
He looked at the two of them.
"How'd you know there was gonna be a sandstorm in my dad's battle?"
Faqir's eyebrow lifted slightly, but he didn't say anything.
He just turned his head the tiniest bit toward Malik. Waiting.
Malik, meanwhile, looked at Yusuf with that unreadable, tired expression he wore too well.
"Storms... They follow certain patterns. When you've been around them long enough, you start to notice them."
Yusuf squinted, not quite buying it but not ready to call it out either.
"Huh," he said after a beat. Then, with a half shrug, he turned and jogged off.
Faqir watched him go, then looked at Malik.
Malik looked back at Faqir.
"You think he bought it?"
Faqir gave a shrug smaller than the last.
"I don't know, man. Maybe."
Sighing, Malik stood up, joints stiff, and looked down at Faqir.
"Don't thank me yet."
Not offering a reply, Malik turned and started walking.
Behind him, Faqir called out, voice light:
And from farther off, Yusuf echoed, waving both arms like a flag:
Malik lifted a hand without turning back.
He just kept walking.
He lived it. Breathed it. Burned in it.
A dream that wouldn't fade.
A dream that latched onto the inside of his skull.
A dream that looped, again and again, spiraling into itself like a snake devouring its own tail.
Every detail. Every scream. Every drop of blood.
The smiles, the laughter, the screams—the silence that came after.
A dream that wouldn't end.
A dream that refused to end.
Over and over and over. Many, many times over. Repeating mistakes, correcting them more and more. Tens of thousands, connecting. Hundreds of thousands, overcoming them.
Millions of spins around the same ruined star. A hundred million missteps walked backwards, dragging time by the throat. Correcting. Rewriting. Adjusting. Hoping. Failing. Exhausted. Shaken. Anguished; a heart smashed to pieces...
And still, he kept going.
At some point, it stopped mattering.
And with it came the rot.
Agony. Terror. Turbidity. Ruin. Hatred. Madness.
He became exhausted in ways language couldn't express.
He shook without moving. His soul twisted like cloth wrung dry. His mind—contorted, decayed.
There were screams inside his chest. Echoes of voices that were long dead, buried beneath an unfathomable number of blinks. His heart? That wasn't a heart anymore. Just shards. Jagged and blood-slick, clinking inside a ribcage like glass.
There was still something.
A flicker. A single, stubborn wish that refused to die.
He wanted to save them. No matter how many times he failed. No matter how many worlds burned into ash. Even if they never knew. Even if not a single soul ever realized what he was doing.
Malik wouldn't forget.
That was his curse, the curse of the Stranger.
Time could reset, but his memory didn't.
So while the others laughed again, loved again, died again...
Only he remembered everything.
The way Faqir looked at him that day, broken.
The way Safira screamed as Corruption took her.
The way Nasir's hand slipped from his shoulder and fell limp.
The way Duban called him a monster.
Even knowing all that? Going through it?
He still wanted to save them.
Even when their weeping eyes turned on him in hate, even if their swords struck first—he still wanted to save them.
Nothing they could do could crush him.
He'd gone through worse. But...
Something else did hurt him.
Right... He was the cause.
His being here was what made them Fall.
The catalyst. A stumbling domino. A walking fucking tragedy.
Nasir Al-Sultan chose to go to all-out war because of him.
If he hadn't been here, hadn't interfered, they wouldn't have Fallen into Al-Ayan's trap.
They would've fought. Sure. Skirmishes, betrayals, politics—nothing new.
But they wouldn't have Fallen.
Corruption wouldn't have caught them in ITS grip.
If not for him, they would've lived longer... Maybe suffered more. Maybe clawed at the 'rebels' till the end of days. But they wouldn't have become... this.
Malik had made the "lesser evil" choice.
And that—that—was what broke everything.
Yes, this could've happened with someone else. That was true.
This could've been an inevitable outcome for the militia. That was true.
But it was also true that he was the one who resulted in this outcome, not someone else.
Let the world burn slowly instead of all at once?
Walk away and live in exile, hunted, alone?
Let assassins come for him every other night while pretending it didn't matter?
Was he supposed to leave Safira to die? Watch his DISCIPLE fall into madness? Ignore her tears? Abandon Faqir, Nasir, and Duban—just to preserve the illusion of peace?
Was he not supposed to try?
Was trying the mistake?
Honestly… Even now… Even after every blink, every rewind, every heartbreak…
Malik had no answer to give.