The wet concrete of District 4 smelled of rusted iron, damp seaweed, and cold fog rolling off the railway tracks. By 3:15 AM, the streetlights were reduced to orange halos cut through by the haze.
Hunza walked with his hands shoved deep into his oversized jacket pockets, his broad right palm resting against the thick wax-sealed envelope in his inner pocket. His left shoulder still throbbed with a sickening, dull heat where Big Mark’s pipe had caught him, but he kept his tempo steady—heavy, deliberate steps that barely clicked on the slick cobblestones.
He knew he was being followed.
It wasn't a sudden realization; it was a slow calculation. Two minutes after leaving the harbor perimeter, he had heard the faint, rhythmic scuff-click of worn sneakers trailing twenty paces behind him. Whomever it was, they knew these narrow back alleys far better than he did.
Don't panic, Hunza thought, his thumb tracing the rough hem of his pocket. You're slow. You can't outrun them. So don't try.
He turned down the narrow alleyway behind the abandoned cold-storage warehouse—a dead-end lane leading toward the railway footbridge. The mud here was thick and greasy, mixed with rotting fish scales and crushed ice discarded by the morning crews.
"You took a wrong turn, kid," a rasping voice echoed from behind.
Hunza stopped. He didn't turn around right away. He took a slow, deep breath, letting the icy air fill his lungs, calming the rapid hammer of his heart.
Bismillah, he whispered under his breath.
When he finally turned around, two men stood blocking the alley mouth. They weren't dressed like Old Man Rashid’s couriers or Big Mark’s heavy enforcers. These were district scavengers—desperate men who hunted night-couriers for quick cash drops. The taller one held a heavy brass wrench; the shorter one had a rusted folding knife flicked open, its blade glinting under the distant streetlamp.
"Drop the satchel and hand over Rashid's brown envelope," the man with the knife hissed, taking a slow step forward. "Do it fast and you walk out with all your teeth."
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Hunza didn't draw a weapon. He didn't drop into a stance. He put on his wide, habitual, vacant smile and let out a sudden, awkward laugh that bounced strangely off the damp brick walls.
"Ah, brothers," Hunza said, rubbing his neck with his uninjured hand, his posture looking slouched, lazy, and completely defenseless. "You really picked the wrong guy tonight. Look at me—do I look like a high-value courier to you? I'm just a guy who got lost looking for the late-night noodle stall."
The man with the wrench sneered. "Cut the crap. We saw Rashid give you the District 4 drop. Give it here!"
He rushed forward, swinging the brass wrench in a downward strike aimed directly for Hunza’s head.
Hunza didn't leap back. His 90-kilogram mass made jumping backward on slick mud a recipe for falling flat on his spine. Instead, he dropped his center of gravity—bending his knees deep, letting his heavy belly rest low over his thighs, anchoring his feet into the mud like twin pylons.
The wrench whistled through the air, missing his ear by two inches.
As the attacker’s momentum carried him forward, Hunza drove his broad shoulder straight into the man's chest. It was like running full-speed into a sacks-of-rice pallet. The sheer kinetic force of Hunza’s weight hit the attacker mid-stride, knocking the breath clean out of his lungs with a wet whoosh.
The man flew backward onto the mud, the brass wrench flying from his grip and splashing into a puddle.
Before the second man with the knife could react, Hunza didn't pursue the fallen attacker. He took one heavy, lateral step, planting his broad right foot squarely on the fallen wrench, pinning it deep into the mud so it couldn't be retrieved.
He looked at the knife-wielder. Hunza was breathing heavily, sweat stinging his eyes despite the freezing air, but his wide smile never wavered. His eyes remained deathly still, unblinking, and cold.
"I've got twenty minutes to reach the tea house," Hunza said, his voice quiet, steady, and devoid of fear. "If I'm late, I lose two thousand pesos. And right now... my wife needs that money more than you need my teeth."
The man with the knife looked at his partner groaning on the muddy floor, then at Hunza—this short, stocky, smiling wall of a boy who hadn't even raised his hands to fight properly.
A quiet, terrifying realization hit the scavenger: this wasn't a scared kid taking a shortcut. This was a man with nothing left to lose and everything to protect.
The knife-wielder backed away slowly, dragging his groaning partner up by the collar, before turning and sprinting back out toward the main street.
Hunza didn't celebrate. He stood alone in the dark, muddy alley, his chest heaving, his left arm numb from pain. He pulled the brown envelope from his pocket, checked that the wax seal was intact, and tucked it securely back inside.
He raised his eyes to the cloudy night sky, letting out a long, foggy breath.
Thank you, Allah. Just a little further.
He adjusted his hoodie, wiped the mud from his sneakers, and continued his heavy, deliberate walk toward the railway line.