Blood For Blood

by Tahreer khayal

Rain lashed against the broken windows of the crumbling house as thunder cracked through the sky like gunfire. The stench of whiskey, rotting wood, and old blood hung heavy in the air. It had soaked into the walls. Just like the pain.

She hadn’t moved in hours. Curled in the corner of the room—knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her trembling frame—she waited. Not for rescue. Not for her father. Just… waited.

Because that’s all she’d ever learned how to do.

Wait for silence.

Wait for pain.

Wait for someone to finally end this.

A creak in the floorboard.

Heavy boots crushing broken glass downstairs.

Her breath caught.

They were here.

The front door hadn’t even made a sound when it gave in, but she knew someone was here. This wasn’t the drunken chaos of her father stumbling in. No slurred curses, no broken bottles, no women giggling behind him.

This sound was different. Purposeful. Precise.

Deadly.

Dark silhouettes spilled into the house like shadows come to life—guns drawn, voices sharp and low. Her heart pounded like a war drum inside her ribs.

And then—he stepped in.

Black suit soaked with rain, jaw sharp as a blade, eyes like winter steel.

Cold. Calculating. Commanding.

She didn’t know who he was… but she knew what he was.

Danger.

He scanned the room until his eyes landed on her—so small, so broken, forgotten in the corner of a man’s filthy hideout. She couldn’t speak. Her throat tightened. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Behind him, a man muttered, “Boss, no sign of her father. Looks like the bastard ran.”

The man didn’t flinch. He kept his gaze on her like a sniper lining up a target.

Then he spoke—his voice low, sharp, cruel.

“This is the daughter?”

“She was left behind,” another voice answered.

A pause.

His lip curled. Not in pity.

In disdain.

Then he said the words that made her blood freeze.

“He took my brother’s life. So I’ll take his.”

She didn’t breathe. Her nails dug into her arms.

He raised his gun.

Was this it?

But instead of pulling the trigger… he lowered it.

“No,” he said. “Killing you would be mercy.”

He turned to his men.

“Bring her.”

⸻

– Earlier That Day –

The sky was clear that morning. No storms, no wind.

Yet something still felt… wrong.

She remembered lying on her old mattress, sketching a dream on the cracked ceiling with her eyes—a quiet home, soft music, freedom. But the silence around her was unnatural.

Too still. Too calm.

No smell of alcohol. No women. No blood.

Her father hadn’t touched the vodka bottle all day. No parties. No threats.

No gambling men yelling from downstairs.

He walked past her room once—didn’t even look at her. Just kept walking.

That’s when she knew.

He was planning something.

Something bad.

She remembered gripping the edge of her mattress tightly, the way her mother once held her hand before she left forever.

The silence wasn’t peace.

It was a warning.

She wished she’d run.

But where could she go?

To be continued!

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