Burned Borders — A Standalone Story Adapted from Silence Called Me by Zyphar Animas
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Story Chapter Name: Three Sides of Midnight
Book name : Silence Called Me
Series name: Sigil of Silence
Sequence : Book 1 of the series
Author: Zyphar Animas
Editor: Nimo Verin
Publisher: Print & Digital
Published: 2026
ISBN Ebook: 9789843588944
ISBN paper back: 9789843588470
Burned Borders
Prague, Czech Republic
Prague feels like a relic queen — dressed in baroque stones, cobbled lies, and the kind of beauty that always hides a blade.
Inside Václav Havel Airport, the air was colder than outside.
Polished hospitality, or psychological play.
That didn’t matter to Rasheed Dameer.
He was still sweating.
Stood in line for immigration.
Shoulders squared. Collar stiff.
Yet sweating quietly under designer wool.
He flew Business Class.
Stylish beard, six-foot height, strong build, and fair skin.
The kind of man no one questions unless they have a tip.
He carried a genuine Turkish passport.
A confirmed return ticket.
A full week’s booking at a five-star hotel in the city.
It was his first time in Prague.
He expected efficiency.
A stamp, a nod, the usual game.
Even on the flight, he’d been calm — trading small jokes with the stewardess.
Asked for a second coffee.
He’d smiled. Meant it.
That was before he saw the two British passengers get pulled.
They had no hotel reservation.
Just a “summer trip.” But they didn’t last long.
The immigration officer—built like border fences—took their passports and disappeared behind the glass.
The Brits made a few calls.
Twenty minutes passed.
More officers arrived.
The two men were guided upstairs with the kind of silence that comes from protocol.
Rasheed saw it unfold, and beneath the cashmere, his nerves started to leak.
The room was tightening.
The questions got smaller, faster.
Like needles sewing up a net.
He wasn’t afraid of being caught.
He was afraid of being read.
Unlike his name, Rasheed Dameer’s background was complicated.
His real name was Rasheed Farish.
A boy from the ash-grey edge of Rafah, Palestine.
By the time he hit thirteen, life was already nomadic.
His parents shielded him until the world decided otherwise.
First his father—months later, his mother—all his shields taken by IDF.
After that, there was no prayer.
Just motion.
He moved away from wherever the last thing happened.
Rasheed became a refugee with no anchor, no God but survival.
He drifted until he found shelter at a refugee camp in Rafah — international aid, local chaos.
Barely survived there before slipping out with a few others to North Sinai.
That too fell apart fast.
From there, he fled to Lebanon.
There, the rules changed.
He learned weapons.
Learned to aim.
Hezbollah tried to draft him—but he wanted to burn on his own ground.
So, he returned to Gaza.
What waited there wasn’t war — just survival.
Hamas was not in shape for a real fight.
Most days meant crawling through tunnels, dodging drones, trying not to die.
By dusk, success just meant staying alive.
Now and then, they’d hit an IDF unit or launch a few rockets toward places like Sufa or Magen—that was the war.
Nothing more.
Rasheed wasn’t afraid to fight.
He needed leverage.
After a few months underground, he knew:
Gaza wouldn’t be freed with ration cards and slogans.
He watched as fighters waited for arms that rarely came.
Watched as they shared three-day-old bread and promises.
He’d crossed three borders by then.
He could see it—the other side.
They needed more fuel for the real fire.
And it was more important to have someone of their own in the supply line than to keep shooting rockets from the tunnels.
At first, Hamas didn’t like the idea.
Some called him a deserter.
But Rasheed had already made his mind.
From then on, he became a mover.
A courier.
Some untipped border guards called him a smuggler.
But he was the man who dealt in things governments tried to block—and desperate men were ready to die for.
He went back to Lebanon.
Then Syria.
Then Iraq.
Nearly twenty years burned between borders—he had no flag, just followed the motion of deserts.
Shady trails, mountain passes, dead riverbeds.
Rasheed had cheated death more times than any bar girl’s fake smile.
He built a different fate than half the men who moved like him.
Rasheed had something more than his fellows—a fair skin.
Border guards had patterns.
The darker the skin, the rougher it went.
And Rasheed was the kind they wouldn’t flag first.
So he passed—more often than he should have.
He took whatever work kept him breathing.
Garden cleanup.
Tire shops.
Patch jobs.
Money didn’t last.
Names didn’t stick.
No matter where he landed, stability refused him.
Lost in those memories, Rasheed stepped up to the counter.
Passport in hand.
Return ticket ready.
Hilton confirmation.
He looked like a man who should be waved through.
And it worked.
The officer glanced at the pages, gave a neutral nod.
—Welcome to Prague, sir.
He smiled. Stamped his entry.
But the real check happened before that stamp even landed—not the ticket, not even the hotel.
It was the Amex Platinum tucked inside the back page of his passport.
That’s the real visa in today’s world.
The smile got warmer.
The nod more practiced.
Rasheed said nothing.
Moved clean.
Collected his bag, grabbed a prepaid taxi, and rode toward the Hilton.
Rasheed stayed across vivid cities, loud capitals, dead zones trying to look alive.
But this was his first Hilton.
And they nailed it on the first shot.
Every element in the room reflects purpose.
The power socket sat exactly where a hand would reach beside the bed.
Most hotels lined up two water bottles on the same shelf—Hilton split them smart: one near the minibar, one within arm’s reach from the bed.
But it was the lights that earned his silent nod.
Plenty of them—none aimed at his face.
The ambience had layers.
Designed to reflect, not to scare the senses with awareness.
The concept was engineering through comfort.
Rasheed was already thinking about installing the same setup in his Lake Van bungalow.
Now, his life was wrapped in velvet.
But a few years back, one bad hour could’ve erased him without a name.
He shouldn’t have made it this far.
If it weren’t for fate—or whatever god lived in the eyes of Commander Kamran.
Rasheed was running freight across the fault lines, Turkish-Iraqi-Iranian border.
No names, no licenses, just dust and instinct.
The chaos fit him.
When Iraq’s dogs came sniffing, he slipped into Iran.
When Iran got loud, he drifted to Syria.
A mile here, a footstep there.
He walked borders like hallways.
Slept with steel under his pillow and one eye open.
Never blinked too long.
The wars were already burning—Iraq, Afghanistan.
Then Syria caught flame.
And with it, the dead roads came alive.
Not with armies.
With merchants.
They moved quietly. Purpose wrapped in dust.
Twenty thousand dollars for a family to vanish into safety.
That was the new tariff.
The smugglers ran the night.
The broken paid to breathe.
And Rasheed—he ran routes like he’d built them.
He moved ghosts for money.
He read fear like wind—adjusted for it.
And for the first time in his wrecked little history, he hit six figures.
By that time, hardship had taught him what money actually values.
So he didn’t waste it.
Instead of burning, he kept flipping it into bigger plays.
Built leverage instead of luxury.
Early on, he was in the dirt—field operator, last man out.
But smart moves changed the layout.
He started pulling strings instead of crossing lines.
And when the time came—he secured Turkish citizenship.
Officially, on paper, Rasheed Farish became Rasheed Dameer.
He gave up half his fortune for the transformation—and slept easy every night.
He still remembered the years he bled for others—risking his neck while middlemen took the lion’s share.
When it was his turn to sit in the chair, Rasheed did things different.
Moving a family out of Syria ran twenty grand.
Five went straight to the border guards—non-negotiable.
From the fifteen left, ten went to the field guy.
Rasheed pocketed only five.
At first, the rivals laughed.
But soon, their best men started crossing over—joining Rasheed’s network.
Within a year, he’d moved two thousand five hundred families across borders.
At five grand profit per family,
it wasn’t hard to see how fast a border rat like Rasheed turned into a cash king.
After that, Rasheed bought a royal bungalow in Lake Van—near the district of Tatvan, Türkiye.
He could’ve picked somewhere louder—Antalya or Istanbul.
But Tatvan had proximity to the border.
And from there, his business ran smoother.
Work never stopped.
Finding clients were easy.
War had turned the region into a marketplace of mixed blood.
Everyone needed something to move out, in or within.
Türkiye’s authority had two rules.
Whatever you earn, pay the cut to the treasury.
And whatever you’ve done elsewhere, clean your shoes before reaching home.
Rasheed respected rules and business runs smooth.
That’s how Rasheed Farish became Rasheed Dameer—and rooted himself deep inside Türkiye.
Men from every flag crossed through Tatvan.
Restaurants, hotels, bars—Rasheed had eyes in all of them.
Finding wealthy prospects was never a problem.
On ground, he had loyal hands.
None of his clients ever left dissatisfied.
And soon, referrals flooded in.
That’s how it happened.
By then, Saddam Hussein had already been executed after Iraq’s fall.
Around that time, that Iranian Kurdi named Baharram Gazi stepped into the story.
Said he needed a major parcel moved from Baghdad to Cyprus via Türkiye.
Baharram’s crew would move it from Baghdad to the Turkey border.
But once it entered Turkish soil, they needed a trusted player to take it across the Mediterranean to Cyprus.
Baharram had done his homework.
Every question he asked nearby came back with one name—Rasheed Dameer.
But Rasheed’s main game was people, not parcels.
And certainly not the large ones.
He’d done that only twice.
Once on request from General Suleiman himself.
Another—during the Syrian conflict, to deliver a sealed container from Damascus to Tehran.
Iranian request. Government level.
Both jobs nearly killed him, though both paid in gold.
Still, Rasheed wasn’t a fool to gamble his future just for profit.
Without clearance from the top, moving a package through Türkiye wasn’t his game.
He advised them to find someone else.
Besides, Baghdad sat close to Iran’s border.
If it was their own package, why not drive it straight into Iran and handle business there?
Why they wanted to skip the easy route and push it through Turkey into Cyprus—that raised real questions.
And Baharram himself felt more shady than a border night.
Saying no was the right move.
A week later, Baharram returned.
This time, he didn’t come alone.
And what Rasheed saw nearly stopped his breath.
The man walking in beside him—was Commander Kamran Gazi.
A face from the past.
From when Rasheed was nothing but a dirty rat, trying to outwalk the border patrols. Back then, he’d once been caught fleeing the Iraqi force—slipped into Iran and landed straight into Kamran’s grip.
Commander Kamran hadn’t done what others would.
He didn’t shoot. Didn’t jail.
Listening his name, Commander just asked one thing,
— Have you ever fought for Hamas?
Rasheed had hesitated. Nodded once.
Then Kamran asked about his real work.
Rasheed laid it out.
Even then, Kamran showed him kindness.
He handed food.
A blanket.
Spared him from the cold.
That wasn’t the last time.
Rasheed kept getting caught in Iran.
Each time, Kamran saw him, smiled, and ordered his release.
As word spread, the kindness spread.
So did Rasheed’s name.
In his whole life, only few people matched the selflessness of Commander Kamran Gazi.
Now, after many years, he met him in a foreign land under strange terms.
Yet Rasheed treated Kamran with respect.
Kamran said that after retiring, he wanted to serve the Ummah.
Baharram Gazi, his younger brother, was working on Kamran’s behalf.
Helping Baharram would both please Kamran personally—and serve the Ummah.
Rasheed wasn’t fully sold on the Ummah part.
But disappointing the retired Iranian commander wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.
Even so, with this job, he was helpless.
Kamran took a long moment, his brow drawn.
Thoughtful.
Then finally, he said.
— I wanted you to take the job on your own terms, Rasheed. That’s why I hadn’t shown you this earlier.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out something that didn’t belong in this decade. A black letter.
In this era, no one writes letters.
And even if they do—they’re not supposed to be black.
Unless it came from his old organization—the kind that still bleeds memory like war wounds.
With trembling hands, Rashid opened the letter and broke down in tears.
He had no idea that Hamas still remembered him.
It was from the commander of their military wing.
It called Kamran’s cell an allied organization and asked for support.
And near the end, it carried the line that flattened every argument:
The Father wished this.
Rasheed knew too well—the Father meant only one man: Israfel Haniyah—the father of all Hamas fighters.
Though they had killed him like cowards, his will still burned in every fighter’s vein. And Rasheed was no different.
He hadn’t returned to Gaza since the day he left.
But he’d sent black funds, moved supplies, helped their people whenever he could.
Unless it was something truly critical, Hamas never asked for money or specific items. They don’t put weight above what someone could bear.
Each man gave what he could—and they planned based on what arrived.
All these years, Rasheed had done his part.
No thanks, no contact.
He assumed they had moved on.
Forgotten him.
But they hadn’t.
That realization slammed through his ribs like memory with teeth.
And now, after the black letter, there was no question left.
He drifted back to the present.
Iraq was on fire again, and this parcel run wasn’t cheap.
When Rasheed mentioned the cost, Kamran just waved it off.
— Money isn’t the issue, he said. —Spend what you need. Just make sure it reaches Cyprus.
Nothing more had to be said.
Rasheed’s connections with Türkiye authorities were still intact.
A little extra money, a few nudges through old hands—he got permission for a truck to run all the way to the Mediterranean.
From there, a lighter ship had already been prepped.
The container was loaded under his own watch.
He stood by it until the parcel crossed into Cyprus.
He never felt the need to inspect what was inside.
He was carrying it because of Kamran.
Because of that letter.
Because loyalty still had a meaning to him.
Only at the very end—when handing it off to Baharram’s people—a damaged corner of the container caught his eye.
He bent to repair it.
The panel had cracked slightly.
And that’s when he saw it.
Bundled stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills—filling the container wall to wall.
He understood, instantly, why Kamran had chosen him.
No one else could’ve delivered this.
Anyone else would’ve peeked, then disappeared.
Rasheed needed money— but he wasn’t a thief.
Not with this.
He would’ve been afraid to transport it, yes.
But once he saw it—he was glad he hadn’t looked earlier.
When the container was confirmed received, Kamran didn’t come in person.
He called.
Declared Rasheed his own blood.
Said he’d never need to worry about money again.
Whatever Rasheed needed—he should ask directly.
That was the bond now.
Rasheed had planned to keep running his small trade—shifting goods across border lines.
But like everything else—even war started winding down.
Governments got smarter.
The smooth hands were gone.
The paths hardened.
Business began to collapse.
With no options left, Rasheed sought out Kamran again.
And Kamran, honest as ever, admitted the truth.
The container Rasheed had delivered—the one filled with American dollars—had been stolen from thieves.
It started long ago, in Baghdad.
Back when Saddam Hussein knew the walls were closing in, he gave orders to a trusted circle—hide this cash, and don’t let it fall into foreign hands.
After his execution, those loyalists made a different plan.
They’d keep the money.
Their problem? Moving a container that large without being noticed.
Whispers made their way to Baharram.
His people seized the container.
Then reached out to his older brother—Commander Kamran.
By then, Kamran had already left the force.
With quiet blessing from the higher circles, he had formed his own group—a jihadi cell, born from war, shaped for the days to come.
Kamran had paused longer than usual after the Cyprus run.
Something had shifted.
He’d secured a fortune.
A container of clean hard cash that now breathed new life into his newly formed group. Maybe fate wanted it that way.
With that one drop, Kamran went international.
Opened new networks.
New cells in multiple countries.
He’d already built support structures quietly—now he made it formal.
He wanted Rasheed to be part of it.
Officially.
But Rasheed never had any taste for covert attacks, suicide blasts, or the theater of religious blood politics.
That playbook was overused with too many actors.
Even the enemies could predict it by now.
When Rasheed declined, Kamran didn’t press.
Instead, he told him the real plan.
This wasn’t about slogans.
It had started the day they murdered Kamran’s mentor—Hasem Soleimani.
That death had rewired something inside him.
He left the army early—not because he was finished, but because he had a bigger war to wage. One that didn’t wear uniforms.
Rasheed had heard a hundred ideas dressed up as resistance.
But this—this was different.
Kamran wasn’t chasing martyrdom.
He was chasing justice in a language the world had forgotten.
He described how the Zionist-allied states not only crushed the weak but also took pride in assassinating senior officials of opposing states—then grinned about it on international media.
They boasted of precision strikes, “neutralizations,” high-value kills—as if human lives were red marks on a spreadsheet.
And what came after? Nothing.
No consequence.
After every atrocity, they lived the rest of their lives in luxury and ease.
Cocktails in the Riviera. Beachfront properties in Malta.
Smiling on panels, talking about “regional stability.”
They marketed death—then profited from peace.
If one of their own took a hit, they threatened to flatten cities.
Dared the world to blink.
And that’s why small states stayed silent.
One retaliation meant full annihilation.
That was the imbalance Kamran wanted to recalibrate.
His target was surgical:
Track down the devils who committed crimes during office and now lived their retired lives fat with immunity.
Strike them—hard, clean, and without warning.
Whenever and wherever chance allows.
He wouldn’t hit active generals or draw attention.
He’d go for the old wolves—the ones everyone forgot.
And not just kill them—humiliate them.
Deliver deaths so obscene their own allies wouldn’t have the words to describe it.
He would move slow. Precise.
Leave enough space between each death that the enemy couldn’t trace a pattern.
It would be done in such a way that retaliating instantly for the deaths of retired officials would become expensive for the enemy.
But the message would land.
One by one, they’d fall.
And those still in office—they’d feel the shiver.
Not from explosions—but from imagination.
It wasn’t about war anymore.
It was message delivery.
Loud and lasting.
Rasheed listened—and found the logic cold, tight, and unarguable.
Kamran didn’t ask him to fight.
He asked him to keep doing what he did best:
Move resources. Handle people.
Build bridges no one else could see.
Rasheed opened new fronts—business facades with real functions underneath. Money flowed again.
Fire, now taking shape in the name of LLCs.
He wasn’t directly involved in Kamran’s operations—but he knew every cent he touched added momentum to that dark machine.
He didn’t mind.
It started making sense.
Kamran liked what he saw.
Gave Rasheed a larger role.
Pulled him into the international arena alongside his younger brother—Baharram.
That’s where the friction began.
Though Rasheed never liked Baharram.
He’s a giant. Six-foot-something.
Always wears a long black robe. Sharp black beard.
Moves like a vulture in a mosque.
He spoke slow and theatrical—as if he was the voice of ancient prophecy.
But behind the robe and cadence, Rasheed could smell the dark desires.
How a man like Kamran shared blood with him—it didn’t add up.
Still, Rasheed kept his own discipline.
His job was simple—meet with donors and sympathizers across other Muslim nations.
Raise funds. Gain access. Open doors.
When religious chatter got too thick, Baharram took the stage.
When it got technical—logistics, arms, man-movement— Rasheed led.
And it worked.
Slowly, Rasheed reentered the world of commerce—small but sharp.
Every piece of access he gained—he used.
But he didn’t forget Gaza or those who needed fuel in the real fight.
Through this new structure, he helped his homeland more effectively than he ever could underground.
And that brings him back in Prague now—attending another one of these business-tinged negotiations.
Baharram would arrive through a separate channel.
Kamran said this wasn’t just another meeting.
It was important enough that he’d wanted to come himself.
The hosts, it seemed, had requested two names specifically—Baharram and Rasheed. So Kamran was bound to send them.
Considering the potential outcomes, the commander sounded almost euphoric.
He thinks the future of the entire Ummah might shift through these two men.
If they succeeded, he’d welcome them back as Gazi.
Rasheed no longer hungered for money, but his discipline had not dulled.
The meeting was at sundown, but he took the first flight in.
Rested a bit, then stepped out to scout the location.
The meeting point sat near the banks of Prague’s lifeblood—Vltava.
A giant tourist zone carved into the rise beside the river.
He followed the slope up from the water, climbing toward a patch of old buildings and a church—where one of the buildings had been converted into a theater.
Near the gate, tickets were being sold for a play titled, All Cats Are Grey.
Fitting.
A little higher, a stone-paved path that climbed straight to the walled tower—an old keep.
No way to see what lay behind it.
The gate was shut for now.
But their meeting was set for that castle.
Even if he couldn’t yet see inside, Rasheed liked the place.
The garden’s symmetry.
The wet air from Vltava.
He walked the perimeter slowly, noted every entry and exit, then returned to the hotel before evening.
Baharram was supposed to arrive by now.
They’d be staying at the same hotel.
They’d head to the meeting together.
The concierge confirmed it.
Baharram had checked in.
Rasheed had no interest in seeing him.
He sent a simple welcome text to acknowledge his arrival—nothing more.
But Baharram didn’t text back.
Instead, he came knocking.
That self-inviting instinct was one of the many things Rasheed hated about him.
With the chill of a serpent, Baharram asked,
—Where were you so early boy? Other meeting?
Rasheed didn’t bother hiding his contempt.
—Yeah. Went to see the pretty girls of Prague. That part doesn’t work for you, so why do you care?
Baharram grinned.
—Well then. Maybe tonight will change that. Where we’re going—plenty of pretty girls. You won’t need to go anywhere else. Just wear something decent.
—So we’re going to a party tonight? Rasheed said, voice clipped. —Funny how you keep your cleric act but melt like wax when it comes to girls or alcohol. I’ve seen you drunk in more than one negotiation. You’re a fraud and you know it.
The insult didn’t draw much reaction.
Baharram knew the boy’s worth.
From beginning to end, Rasheed had been crucial.
Experienced. Sharp.
Dangerous in a room full of diplomats.
And above all, loyal.
He had delivered the container when others would’ve vanished with it.
No, Baharram didn’t mind Rasheed’s mouth.
He understood the kid didn’t like him, but they still had to work together.
And truthfully, Baharram enjoyed it.
He was no saint either.
Murder. Rape. Drugs. Assault. Name it.
Every act punishable by death—he had committed it in Iran.
But his brother’s position in the government had protected him each time.
And once he’d become part of the state’s deeper planning, all consequences vanished.
Even Rasheed had no idea how many girls Baharram had ruined.
And no one ever would.
He killed every one of them after.
Carefully.
Burned the bodies himself.
Made sure nothing was left.
He was a big man—strong since youth.
He liked inflicting pain.
Especially on the weak.
Especially if they were soft, female, and scared.
That lust had led him to a circle of black magicians.
At first, he dismissed them as religious theater—just another costume like himself.
But over time, the real ritual pulled him in.
Through them, he learned hypnotism.
Mastered it.
He followed every rule, every rite.
And gained powers others only whispered about.
But he never used them for anything but his own pleasure.
Still, that knowledge and those connections had brought him here—to this rare opportunity.
If the object at tonight’s meeting was real, if the promise held even a fraction of truth, they were about to meet His highness the Nexivar.
The one Russell Cruth, black magic’s own prophet, had spoken of.
Baharram had thought the Nexivar was a myth.
Just another invented demon.
But whoever carried that name had managed to convince every circle of the black arts that he was real.
That took power.
And tonight, they’d see it.
If the item they wanted truly existed—then nothing would stop them.
Baharram had no interest in ruling the world.
That part could go to his brother.
He just wanted those things:
More flesh. More girls.
More pain to enjoy.
Power meant he wouldn’t have to sneak anymore.
Wouldn’t have to hide.
Wouldn’t have to burn the evidence.
He could’ve come alone tonight.
Rasheed wasn’t needed.
But the host had insisted.
So he’d brought the boy.
As he thought it through, he smiled.
He’d even had a special outfit tailored for tonight’s meeting.
Rasheed said something snappy behind him—Baharram didn’t listen.
Just walked out of the room.
He had an hour.
And he was going to take his time getting prepared.
***
Central Prague
Czech Republic
Rasheed was always early—never by accident.
The driver flashed headlights—two sharp pulses in the dark.
Signal received, Rasheed glided into the car, cold silence between him and the street.
His hand drifted close to the custom GRP Nightwalker strapped low at his side.
Some men grow out of paranoia; Rasheed wore his like a badge, memory forged by too many meetings that turned into gunfights.
Now, he played the game in nicer suits, but never walked in naked.
Hosts could bark for formal checks, ask for weapons at the door—custom, not trust. Rasheed obeyed the rituals, but the gun always made it past the velvet rope.
Baharram slid into the backseat a few minutes later, wearing the same confident sneer that said he enjoyed the theater of danger.
The car ghosted through back alleys, eating the night, headed for a fortress rising like a crowned monster above the Vltava.
Rasheed’s paranoia was a sixth sense—mapping exits, tracing every shadow, reading every twitch of the driver’s knuckles.
Trust was a word; survival was a reflex.
Still, as Baharram settled beside him, some rare crack in the armor let a smile slip.
Baharram noticed, eyebrow cocked, voice teasing:
—So? Everything locked and loaded?
He tipped his head at the holstered gun, finding Rasheed’s stubborn habit more amusing than threatening.
In their world, meetings didn’t always end in blood, but habits never retired.
The night washed Prague in movie lighting—shadows from a thousand years played across fortress walls, every stone humming with stories no one wanted to tell.
Their destination shimmered ahead—a turreted fortress, windows pulsing gold, spires clawing at the night.
Up close, the place felt half-myth, half-nightclub—a sleeping titan dusted in light.
The driver skipped the main road, cut down a slit of alley, ducked them behind two faceless buildings, and pulled up at a twenty-foot wooden gate.
Baharram stepped out, nodded to the guards; Rasheed followed, eyes always sweeping, counting bodies, calculating threats.
Inside: chaos uncaged.
Drums hit the chest, floors shook with dancers—thousands howling, sweating, writhing beneath light that felt closer to fever than celebration.
Bouncers flanked the hall, fire in their mouths—liquor exhaled over flame, torching the ceiling with fireballs.
The crowd screamed, moved harder, darker, feeding off the spectacle.
Fifty feet above, ancient arches floated in smoky air, columns holding up the weight of centuries.
Rasheed and Baharram navigated through the melee—headed for deeper shadows, where poker chips clacked, ice hit glass, and desire thickened like perfume.
At last they reached the door—thick, ancient wood that looked like it remembered every secret ever whispered in Prague.
The bouncers dropped them and disappeared, leaving Rasheed and Baharram at the threshold, uncertainty crawling up their spines.
They barely had time to knock before the door creaked open.
A soldier stood there.
Long hair, eyes like rain, silent as a tomb.
He didn’t speak.
Just lit a torch and started walking, expecting them to follow.
The path sloped down, steeper with every step, every torch barely cutting the black.
Darkness won the war; the flame only showed them how deep they were sinking.
Walls sweated with cold.
The air felt heavy, pressed in on the lungs.
Every few meters, another weak torch flared, but the shadows ate the light before it hit the ground. They were being led somewhere far below the city’s old bones.
At last, a table appeared—wide, almost ceremonial.
A chandelier hung low, its lights splitting the world into weird colors that made the eyes ache.
From above, a single beam of warm light marked the center like an interrogation.
As they closed in, two empty chairs waited for them—perfectly placed, invitation and command.
Across the table, in a blue suit sharper than most men ever wore, sat a robot.
The soldier who’d brought them melted back into the dark, duty done.
Rasheed felt a twist of disappointment—after all the show, the masks, the fortress, the buildup… he was here to meet a machine?
But then the voice cut the air—calm, almost too gentle, every word sliding across the table like oil on glass.
—Welcome, friends. I appreciate your arrival on such short notice.
The tone was perfect—rich, human, no hint of static.
—Mr. Gazi, please, the chair to my left. Mr. Farish, to my right.
Rasheed leaned in, searching for wires or tells.
No man hides this well.
But the jaw moved—subtle, mimicking a human smile, almost like the machine was amused at being watched.
Words dropped like honeyed bullets—too smooth to trust.
—Greetings, honored guests. Please, help yourselves to a drink.
Pause, letting the invitation sink.
—You may call me The Maker. Because making things… is my profession. My obsession. How I make them? Irrelevant. What I make, and why—that’s what brings us together tonight.
The steel face caught the chandelier’s fractured light, voice sliding through the room like a secondhand smoke—almost real, almost warm, almost impossible.
Rasheed half-believed he was speaking to a man with bionic upgrades—until the eyes gave it away.
Nobody alive ever watched this closely.
He poured himself a drink, glass clinking quietly.
Beside him, Baharram followed suit—nerves hidden behind the ritual.
For a moment, the table held three creatures—one forged in shadow, one in oil, and one born from the hunger to build what no human could control.
Then the host began again, voice smooth enough to make murder sound polite:
—Mr. Baharram, you operate under an extremist banner. If you don’t mind, please—why did your mission require extremism to achieve its goals?
Baharram let the question hang, calculating the cost of every syllable before he spoke:
—Our resources are limited, Mr. Maker. Whether money or firepower, we’re always the underdogs. We chose asymmetrical warfare because we had to.
Rasheed read the subtext—there were a hundred ways to answer that question, but none of them risked it.
Not when the floor belonged to Baharram.
The Maker’s face—steel and circuitry—offered nothing.
No frown, no approval, just silence that asked for more.
Then:
—Even if I take your answer as partly true, another question remains. Are you truly less resourced than your enemies? Some nations, perhaps. But if united by faith… Your coalition may, in fact, possess more wealth than you admit. What you lack—what cannot be denied—is technological strength.
He let it hang, tone sharpening to a lesson.
—The Judeo-Christian alliance can kill you from across the world—drones, rockets, missiles—operators working from their kitchens. And when you fight back? You use their designs. Their technology. Sometimes borrowed, sometimes stolen, but never born from your own soil. Not from Asia. Not from Africa. Have you noticed?
He flicked his gaze at Rasheed’s sidearm:
—Even the Nightwalker you carry—American made. A bit of irony, isn’t it?
Rasheed felt the compliment sting.
The Maker pressed on, now full professor:
—Their bloc dominates your skies and seas—drones, jets, missiles. On land: rifles, tanks, artillery. Everything reduces to two forces: Velocity. Detonation.
Then he lowered his tone—voice honeyed, words sharp:
—Now imagine a world with no guns, no bombs, no cannons. Would you still fear the Judeo-Christian alliance?
Baharram’s answer snapped back, loaded and blunt:
—We do not fear them even now, Mr. Maker. But if those tools vanished—we’d carve through them. Stack their bodies like compost for our fields.
The Maker held the pause, gaze steady, alloy face unreadable, like a teacher letting a wrong answer float in the room:
—Mastering speed and fire, they plundered the world, made themselves a superior race. Their allies polish these inventions until nothing can touch them.
His tone went clinical, almost bored:
—The atomic bomb—apex of this game. Nuclear energy harnessed for speed, for violence, for power.
Then his alloy jaw turned—almost a smile, something inhuman, almost kind.
—So tell me, Mr. Baharram: If there were a technology—something that made your enemy’s bullets physically unable to reach you—what would you say to that?
The question hung, honey-dripped, barbed, and dangerous.
Baharram and Rasheed exchanged a look—the kind of glance men give when a storm is about to break but neither wants to name it out loud.
If a weapon like that existed, both knew, it’d be a miracle and a curse.
The Maker’s tone sharpened, dipped in velvet sarcasm:
—Don’t just talk it out, Mr. Dameer—or should I say, Mr. Farish.
He didn’t wait for a reaction.
—Draw the weapon from the left side of your jacket. Then fire a few rounds right at my head—let’s be clear about what’s on the table.
Rasheed felt the flick of embarrassment, but didn’t let it show.
Modern tech could sniff out metal anywhere, nothing to hide.
He drew the pistol with a steady right hand, voice quiet:
—You really want me to shoot you, Mr. Maker? What if I aim for something else?
The Maker smiled with calculated grace:
—That chance will come, Mr. Farish. But first, make your point—right here.
He tapped the side of his own steel skull, mock-inviting.
Rasheed glanced at Baharram—a silent, steady nod: go ahead.
Rasheed leveled the pistol, aimed where an ear would be on that mirror-bright skull.
Two shots, close and quick.
Click. Click.
Nothing.
No recoil, no bullet.
He’d checked the gun before coming—this was no misfire.
The weapon just…refused.
The Maker leaned forward, chin resting on five stainless fingers, eyes sparkling with inhuman amusement.
—I’ve heard your trigger discipline is impeccable, Mr. Farish.
He gestured, almost lazily, toward the flame.
—Before you blame the machine, try the torch to your right.
Rasheed didn’t hesitate—turned, found the burning torch, squeezed the trigger.
Thup.
The Nighwalker whispered into silence.
The torch shattered—flame raining in sparks.
Even in the thick dark, Rasheed’s shot was dead-on.
The Maker watched the embers, voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous lull:
—Don’t worry about the fire, Mr. Farish. Now, please—try shooting me again.
Rasheed did.
Click. Click. Click.
Three times—perfect pulls.
No shot, no sound, nothing.
At first, Rasheed thought it was a mechanical fault.
He turned—fired three shots behind him.
Thup. Thup. Thup.
The Nightwalker barked bullets, sharp and obedient—each one hitting stone with a muted thud.
Rasheed lowered the weapon, pulse tight.
Something here was wrong on a level no training covered.
The Maker’s eyes—cold, always calculating—slid over both guests.
His words dropped slow, surgical:
—Thank you, Mr. Dameer—Mr. Farish, if you prefer. Apologies for the inconvenience. But this experiment was not truly for you. It was for Mr. Baharram Gazi—a man who honors strength as others honor gods.
The tone drifted from sermon to riddle, floating above the table like a spell:
—Picture this, Mr. Gazi: Your enemies arrive, locked and loaded—rifles, grenades, cannons, everything pointed at your heart. They lift their weapons—Nothing fires. No bullets, no thunder, no death. Just panic. Just silence. That’s when you—exactly as you dreamed—can turn them into compost for your sacred soil. How does that sound, Mr. Baharram Gazi?
Baharram’s eyes flared, hunger burning through whatever mask he wore.
—That would be magnificent, sir. Generations have prayed for a miracle like this. I’d give anything to see it—field test, battlefield, anywhere.
He didn’t notice he’d started calling the robot “sir.”
The Maker noticed—and smiled.
The blue suit, the steel frame, swayed in pleasure.
—There’s one problem, Mr. Gazi. You may wound your enemies at the front, but you cannot kill them all at once. If they hit you from every angle—multiple strikes, all at once—how do you protect your own?
Baharram grinned, something wicked leaking through:
—I’m sure, sir, you’ve already solved that.
The Maker inclined his head, savoring the power:
—Indeed, Mr. Baharram. The answer is terror—pure, uncut terror. When ‘Little Boy’ fell on Hiroshima, the whole world trembled beneath America’s heel. Since then, many have reached that threshold. But nobody dares cross it again. Why? Because fear never leaves the bone.
He leaned in, voice like poison silk:
—If you want to reach that throne, you must wield a fear so deep, your enemies tremble at the thought of standing against you.
As The Maker spoke, Rasheed finally saw the shape of it—this machine wasn’t dreaming of defense.
It was dreaming of mass murder, wrapped in strategy.
If The Maker ever knew what it meant to be human, he’d know—not every disagreement needs blood. Not every dispute is a war for extinction.
Patience, forgiveness, compassion—those could end wars before a trigger gets pulled.
But Rasheed knew: men who lack those virtues will always leave the killing to machines.
And The Maker—cold, unbothered—was built for a world where human life is just a number on the board.
He caught the look in Baharram’s eyes—already sparkling, hungry for annihilation, ready to drink mass murder like wine.
Rasheed couldn’t help but press:
—Suppose you really have such a weapon. Why give it to us? Why not sell it to the US or NATO, Mr. Maker? They’d make you a goddamn legend.
The question didn’t faze the steel creature.
Instead, something almost like a smile creased his faceplate—an echo of amusement, but with no warmth behind it.
—Mr. Farish, your logic and sense of justice do you credit. But that’s why we have conversations like this—to kill the misunderstandings before they get you killed on the battlefield. Perhaps that’s why my honored partner insisted you be here tonight.
He tipped his alloy head, voice turning slow and theatrical:
—There are two reasons you were chosen as the first to receive this invention, Mr. Farish. First—developed nations already have enough weapons to rule every table. Even if our invention pleased them, they’d lock it away, shelve it, stop it from ever changing the game. Second—we don’t see enough motive, or courage, in them to actually use it. But you—Palestine, Xinjiang, the whole battered Middle East—your fires never go out. We’ve seen you at work—seen you cut throats with your own hands. You have the hunger. The will. That’s why you’re the right candidates to wield something that will change the world.
Before The Maker could savor the silence, Baharram jumped in, hungry, his voice nearly trembling:
—You see everything, sir. We’re honored by your trust. Show us the second weapon—right now.
The Maker’s steel fingers tapped a rhythm into the table, as if unlocking a code only machines could hear.
He waited, let the silence settle, then turned almost reverent:
—This next revelation… we dedicate to Mr. Farish. He’s the rational one—the man who only believes in proof. But to use this weapon, to develop it, there’s a truth you’ll have to swallow: there are forces the human mind can’t grasp. Not everything is logic. Not every answer is proof. So let me step aside—let the only voice explain what reason never will. My Honorable Partner. His Highness the Naxivar.
The Maker lifted his hand—fingers arched in a gesture that was half invocation, half surrender—toward the chandelier, as if announcing a god no room could hold.
Rasheed and Baharram both stared, breath caught.
They expected a man, a demon, something wearing flesh.
Instead—the chandelier floated off its chains, drifting across the table like it Just decided to ignore gravity.
Light bled from it—red, blue, orange, every filament rimmed with fire, every plume a lantern alive.
And as it crossed the table, the shape resolved—a colossal owl, wings layered in flame, feathers aglow, each motion a miracle of living color.
For one perfect moment, both men stood locked in place—frozen, powerless, the owl’s eyes closed like sealed vaults.
Then it opened them—orange and yellow burning under cobalt brows.
A gaze that didn’t see flesh, but history.
And the voice—not sound, not breath.
Just presence, rolling inside their skulls, carving words onto their bones.
!—Welcome, guests!
The greeting wasn’t spoken.
It arrived—already alive inside their heads.
!—Spare your precious time from futile attempts to understand me! Instead, focus on the grand task about to commence!
No one moved.
No need—because the voice made muscles forget how.
For Baharram, who’d studied the old arts, the arcane, the forbidden, the magnitude of what stood before them crashed through in an instant.
This wasn’t a trick. Not some desperate illusion.
This was the one they whispered about in rooms where every candle burned for survival.
His Highness the Naxivar.
Baharram forced himself to bow, every word thick with worship:
—My gratitude, Lord, for granting me this place among your lowest servants. My life is blessed—accept my homage, accept my loyalty.
He pressed his hands together, eyes closed, the surrender of a zealot who’s seen his god step from myth into fact.
The owl’s voice swept through their chests, clear and thunderous:
!—I have already claimed you, Baharram, as my most beloved disciple!
Then the eyes turned.
Not just eyes—a head swiveling, a blade in motion, landing on Rasheed.
!—But your companion…
The owl’s voice curled, velvet and sharp.
!—I must take on a brief journey! Look at me, Rasheed!
Rasheed met that gaze, something old and wild tightening every nerve in his body.
He saw it—hidden under the riot of feathers, a third eye, not painted, not illusion.
Alive.
Focused.
Waiting.
It opened.
A bolt of white fire shot through Rasheed’s skull—dizziness, black stars, his whole body failing to respond.
Arms numb, legs useless, eyes dragging shut against his will.
He tried to push back—but the world went out.
Just darkness, and the echo of a laughter stitched into his bones.
Rasheed’s eyes snapped open.
He was low in the grass, hidden, silent.
The jungle around him breathed—thin trees, sharp leaves, the kind of wild that feels alive at midnight.
His whole body ached with old weakness.
He pushed himself up, limbs leaden.
Branches parted, rail lines shimmered just ahead—elevated tracks, splintered wood, steel cutting across the horizon.
Recognition hit—sick, brutal, absolute.
He knew this place.
Sinai’s edge.
The border.
Across those tracks—the hard line into Egypt.
Years ago, he’d been here before.
He’d tried to cross.
And the price was slaughter.
He saw it now, felt it break over him like a fever—a memory crawling out of the sand, cold and venomous.
They’d been ambushed—ruthless Israeli border patrol, twenty-two souls caught out in the open.
Men, women, children—refugees escaping Gaza’s endless nightmare.
On those rails, the women were raped—screams hammered into the cold steel, the world watching and laughing.
Soldiers on both sides—Israelis jeering, Egyptians smiling with dead eyes—no one lifted a finger.
Rasheed had been a boy—too young to process, but old enough to know it was evil.
After the violence, the soldiers murdered everyone.
Men, women, children—slaughtered and dumped under sand like trash.
Except him.
Maybe death forgot to collect his name.
Uncle Ayyub caught four bullets—stood his ground, bought seconds for Rasheed to crawl away into the weeds.
He didn’t get far.
Egyptian patrol found him, dragged him up, didn’t hurt him—just handed him to a border station.
He escaped.
No heroism, just desperation.
Now, years later, Rasheed stood in that same graveyard—body weak, memory vivid as blood.
This time, bodies lay stretched along the tracks.
He stumbled forward, boots sliding on gravel, climbing up to the line.
He saw the guards.
The same faces from that night, twisted and ruined, foam bubbling from their lips.
Smoke rose thick, bitter, choking the sky.
The stench of burnt flesh carved its way down his throat, set his lungs on fire.
He watched—no flames, no mercy.
Just flesh dissolving in acid, silent, relentless.
The smoke swallowed him, filled his chest.
He choked, coughed, gasped for air, arms flailing, chest crushed tight.
Suffocating, helpless.
Suddenly, the smoke broke—and Rasheed snapped back, lungs filling with cool air, warm shadows licking at the edges of the room. His breathing eased, a single tear running down his cheek before he could swallow it.
From across the table, a hand offered a tissue.
He took it, wiped his eyes—and froze at the sight of steel fingers pinching the paper.
Reality hit.
The owl was gone.
The room, the table, the air—still belonged to Mr. Maker.
Beside him, Baharram sat rigid—eyes wide, fear cutting straight through the bravado.
A voice dropped in, dry and mechanical, but with that strange human resonance:
—I do apologize, Mr. Dameer.
The Maker even cleared his throat—faux-human, but almost convincing.
Rasheed’s eyes drifted to the table.
Where the entity had perched—now, only a fire extinguisher.
Sleek. Stainless steel.
Not the garish red, but something designed—almost beautiful.
Its polished surface caught the light and threw back the robot’s own metallic mask.
The Maker’s gaze tracked back and forth, voice measured, every syllable weighed for impact:
—That experience was necessary, gentlemen. To explain what comes next. Let me be clear—I am not opposed to peace. But I believe in balance, in symmetry of power. And today’s world? That symmetry is shattered. Where humanity should have risen—one civilization—they’re still tearing each other apart for oil, for gold, for sand, bark, skin. Why? Because the few who have the technology, drunk on power, still act like savages. They are my enemies. And they are yours. It’s time we come together—and finish them.
He paused, like a master storyteller letting the next card hang above the table.
—To fix this, I reversed the laws of velocity and detonation. What you witnessed—was just one piece. But let’s circle back: even if you win the open war, your enemies still hold weapons you can’t touch—tools that outnumber and outclass you. For a while, I was at a loss too. Until I met my Honored Partner—His Highness the Naxivar. He’s occupied elsewhere now—called to something even bigger. But truth is, He’s wrestled with this problem for millennia. Time means nothing to Him. And yet—He never broke the puzzle. Not until He found something.
Mr. Maker leaned in, eyes shining with cold theater:
—A substance. A rare element—one that does not exist on this planet. But it can solve this planet’s most toxic problems.
He paused, polished fingers resting on the table.
—This element—mix it with any liquid, and in one minute and ten seconds, the whole batch turns to acid. The more organic material in the mix, the hotter it burns. But—drop it into pure drinking water? It goes quiet. Barely alkaline, just another bottle on the shelf.
His smile held—machined, exact.
—Now—let a living creature drink that water, let it hit the bloodstream—and within sixty seconds… that blood turns to acid. Mr. Farish, you just lived it.
He let the silence sprawl—letting them taste the cost, the magnitude.
Baharram’s face twisted—a devil’s delight wrapped around a splinter of dread.
The power thrilled him.
The question of control left him cold.
Rasheed’s mind raced—what happens if the balance tips?
What’s the price when the kill switch can burn the world?
The Maker read them, offered comfort with that honeyed, mechanical calm:
—Don’t worry, gentlemen. The raw element could end all humanity. That’s why I refined and stabilized it—sealed here in this canister.
Both men recoiled—the fire extinguisher on the table now radiating danger, its stainless skin holding the line between genius and genocide.
Tat. Tat. Ta.
The Maker laughed—if metal can laugh—sharp, dry, a sound cut from wire.
—Mr. Farish, Mr. Gazi—tell me: among your enemies, ever notice any common patterns? Anything that binds them?
Rasheed paused, mind grinding for clues.
Baharram didn’t hesitate:
—Of course, Mr. Maker. They’re all pure bastards.
Tat. Tat. Ta.
That metallic laugh again, echoing down the table.
—Yes, Mr. Gazi. But I mean in their daily lives. Their habits, their food, their routines.
Rasheed started to see the shape of the game—every faith has its rituals, its blood taboos. But in the end, all drink water. So what marks the target?
The Maker offered a nudge, voice tightening like a snare:
—Let’s say you want to unleash death through water—but spare your own. What if you tailor the bioweapon—it only activates when it detects a specific substance in the bloodstream? What’s that marker—that only your enemies would carry?
Baharram leaned forward, eyes alive with revelation:
—Swine, Mr. Maker. Those bastards are all pork-eaters. Infuse the weapon—let it trigger as soon as it finds pig fat in their blood.
Baharram’s lips curled, contempt dripping like acid—the kind of hatred he wore like a badge. But The Maker just watched him, unmoved:
—If we used that trigger, Mr. Gazi—yes, some Christians or Hindus might die. But your true enemies—many of the Jews—could walk away untouched. Understand: pork is as forbidden to them as to you. The Kosher law is no less strict than your own—and the ones who matter most, the orthodox, never break it. Exceptions? Always. But the ones who run the game, they’re as clean as you. You, for all your sins, refuse pork. So do they.
Baharram’s face twisted again, anger to hope, searching for a new answer:
—Well, Mr. Maker, they’re all drunks. You know it. Trigger the toxin on alcohol—let it burn when it hits the blood.
The Maker nodded—approving, but his voice stayed cool:
—You’re getting closer, Mr. Gazi. But alcohol—it isn’t just a drink. It’s medicine, it’s ritual. It slips into wounds, into veins—and more than a few of your own drink when no one’s watching. You risk everyone.
Baharram bit his tongue, frustration leaking into the pause.
Rasheed watched, half-amused—he’d seen enough holy men with whiskey on their breath to know the risk.
Baharram pressed on, desperate:
—If someone like me, or one of my people, stumbles into this—what then? Is there a cure? An antidote, Mr. Maker?
Maybe, he thought, that’s why the faith calls alcohol forbidden—maybe it was all preparation for this.
The Maker’s answer landed heavy:
—Not yet. If your people are anywhere near the kill zone, keep them away. I keep searching for an antidote, but for now—the only safety is distance. The upside: the element’s not permanent. Once in the wild, it burns hot for twenty-four hours—
then self-destructs, leaves no trace.
Baharram’s face soured—the predator disappointed, unable to watch the feast.
—So I won’t even get to see them die?
His tone dropped—bored, almost petulant, wanting spectacle with his slaughter.
The Maker’s response was pure business:
—Sadly, no, Mr. Gazi. But the canister is safe, as long as you don’t break the seal. It can’t mix with air unless the nozzle is twisted, like a fire extinguisher. To keep it alive, I built an atomic power cell—keeps the mix stable forever, until you’re ready. And we’ve already chosen a remote test site—I expect Mr. Farish, can handle the delivery.
Rasheed weighed it out in silence.
A package like this—he could get it across any border, no matter the risk.
The real question: should he?
He knew what this was.
It wasn’t just another smuggle; it was a wager on who got to rewrite the rules of power.
And if he refused?
The game would still play on—another set of hands, another devil to carry the canister.
He didn’t back mass killing. But in his world, power always hunted weakness—and pulled the trigger without blinking.
Deserts, mountains, jungles—he’d watched the strong shoot the weak for fun.
Miss a shot at the powerful, and all that suffering meant nothing.
So Rasheed chose the smart move:
Step in with the first strike—then watch where the water runs next.
The Maker motioned to the table, his tone the color of ice:
—This canister is just the start. We’re already building smaller versions—same kill, tighter fit. And soon, we’ll drop the activation delay—from over a minute to milliseconds. When it’s done, you’ll have pocket-sized bombs that turn flesh to acid, vaporize bone. Inorganics will blow like any standard shell.
His eyes held longer than necessary.
—You met His Highness the Naxivar. This compound is so ruthless, even beings of pure spirit—like Him—would be erased on contact. Now imagine what it’ll do to everything else.
No emotion. No hunger.
Just the math of annihilation.
Baharram leaned in, voice alive with fever:
—Can we…test this one? Just a field run, sir?
The Maker smiled with machine certainty:
—Of course, Mr. Gazi. This canister is your proof. Starting next year, you get two units a month—deploy them where you please. But—our patrons have a request:
The first test goes live in Eilat. Israel’s coastal city. The site sits at a crossroad—Jordan, Saudi, Egypt, all in reach. Eilat’s famous for its beaches, resorts, its flow of bodies from every border. Taba, King Hussein Airport, Aqaba—every crossing, every lane, Mr. Farish, you know them better than I do.
The Maker’s gaze drilled through the table:
—For your debut, we’ve arranged a fundraising event. Eilat’s every corner will be under 24-hour surveillance—generous partners will watch the test, live. Pull this off, and you get full financial backing—research, deployment, ops, everything. Commander Kamran Gazi gets his funding too. So, gentlemen—let’s begin. There’s work to do.
There was no edge in his voice, no need for conviction. He spoke the way one does when the conclusion is settled and the rest is just execution.
For him, the world wasn’t chaos or chance. It was a system.
And the numbers were already in.
If you enjoyed Burned Borders, you can continue exploring the world of Silence Called Me, the first novel in the Sigil of Silence series by Zyphar Animas.
As a standalone story, Burned Borders offers a complete glimpse into the life of Rasheed Dameer, but it is only one thread within a much larger tapestry of geopolitical intrigue, hidden alliances, dangerous missions, and unforgettable characters. The world of Silence Called Me stretches across continents, bringing together operatives, smugglers, intelligence officers, idealists, and predators whose choices shape events far beyond their own borders.
If Burned Borders left you wanting more, you can continue the journey through the full novel and discover how Rasheed’s path intersects with the larger conflicts and mysteries that define the Sigil of Silence universe.
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Story Summary
Burned Borders is a standalone story adapted from Silence Called Me, following the extraordinary journey of Rasheed Dameer, a man forged by war, displacement, and survival. In Burned Borders, Rasheed arrives in Prague carrying a legitimate passport, a successful business, and the appearance of a man who has finally escaped his past. Yet Burned Borders quickly reveals that the past never truly releases those shaped by conflict.
At its heart, Burned Borders traces Rasheed’s transformation from a young Palestinian refugee into one of the most capable border operators in the Middle East. Through the events of Burned Borders, readers witness years of hardship, smuggling routes, shifting allegiances, and dangerous choices that gradually transform Rasheed from a survivor into a respected international operator. Every border crossed in Burned Borders leaves a mark on him, shaping the instincts and discipline that define his character.
What makes Burned Borders particularly compelling is the relationship between Rasheed and Commander Kamran Gazi. Throughout Burned Borders, loyalty proves stronger than profit, stronger than politics, and stronger than fear. A single act of compassion from Kamran changes the course of Rasheed’s life, creating a bond that continues to influence his decisions years later. As Burned Borders unfolds, that loyalty pulls him into a new mission that reaches far beyond simple business or logistics.
The tension inside Burned Borders grows steadily as Rasheed reunites with Baharram Gazi, a man he neither trusts nor respects. Their journey leads them toward a secret meeting in Prague, where Burned Borders shifts from a story of borders and survival into something darker and far more dangerous. Every conversation, every warning, and every uneasy alliance pushes Burned Borders closer to its central revelation.
As Burned Borders reaches its climax, Rasheed finds himself confronting forces that challenge everything he understands about power, warfare, and reality itself. The mysterious figures known as The Maker and the Naxivar introduce ideas capable of reshaping the future of nations. Through these encounters, Burned Borders expands from a personal story into a geopolitical thriller filled with hidden agendas, technological terror, and world-changing ambitions.
What distinguishes Burned Borders from a conventional thriller is its combination of character history, political intrigue, and escalating mystery. Burned Borders is not merely about weapons, conspiracies, or secret organizations. It is about a man who has spent his life crossing borders only to discover that the most dangerous boundaries are the ones separating morality from necessity, loyalty from obedience, and survival from destiny.
By the end of Burned Borders, Rasheed Dameer stands at the threshold of a conflict far greater than anything he has faced before. The choices presented in Burned Borders carry consequences that extend beyond one man, one mission, or one nation. As a standalone story adapted from Silence Called Me, Burned Borders delivers a complete narrative while opening the door to a much larger world of secrets, power struggles, and hidden wars.
Beta Reader Reactions
★★★★★
“Burned Borders completely surprised me. I expected a geopolitical thriller, but Burned Borders delivers something much deeper. Rasheed Dameer feels like a real man shaped by war, loyalty, and impossible choices. By the time Burned Borders reached Prague, I was completely invested in his journey.”
—Mick Anthony, Phuket
★★★★★
“Burned Borders reads like a standalone novel packed into a single story. The refugee history, the border-running years, the political intrigue, and the mysterious meeting in Prague all fit together naturally. Burned Borders introduced me to Rasheed Dameer and immediately made me want to read more of the Silence Called Me universe.”—Jeo Alma, Istanbul
★★★★★
“Few stories balance character development and suspense as well as Burned Borders. The chapter starts as a personal story about survival and gradually transforms into a chilling international thriller. Burned Borders feels like the beginning of something much larger, and Rasheed is the kind of protagonist readers remember.”—Christin Graham, London
Critical Review
One of the greatest strengths of Burned Borders is its ability to function simultaneously as a character study and a geopolitical thriller. While many stories rely on action to introduce a protagonist, Burned Borders takes a more layered approach by allowing readers to understand Rasheed Dameer through history, hardship, and experience before placing him at the center of an unfolding international conspiracy.
Throughout Burned Borders, borders operate as both a physical and symbolic motif. The story repeatedly explores crossings—between nations, identities, loyalties, and moral boundaries. Rasheed’s transformation from a displaced refugee into a sophisticated international operator gives Burned Borders an emotional foundation that extends beyond the mechanics of espionage and political conflict.
The narrative structure of Burned Borders is particularly effective because it escalates naturally. What begins as a grounded story about immigration, memory, and survival gradually expands into a larger examination of power, technology, ideology, and extremism. Each revelation in Burned Borders broadens the scope without losing sight of the central character, ensuring that the story remains emotionally anchored even as its stakes become global.
Another notable achievement of Burned Borders is its treatment of loyalty. The relationship between Rasheed Dameer and Commander Kamran Gazi provides the emotional core of the narrative. Rather than relying on simplistic political alignments, Burned Borders explores how personal bonds, gratitude, and shared history can influence decisions that carry enormous consequences.
As a standalone story adapted from Silence Called Me, Burned Borders succeeds in delivering a complete narrative experience while simultaneously opening the door to a much larger fictional universe. It introduces major characters, establishes ideological conflicts, and presents questions whose consequences reach far beyond the final page. The result is a story that works both as an independent thriller and as a compelling entry point into the broader world created by Zyphar Animas.
Audiobook: an audio adaptation of Burned Borders is planned for future release as part of the growing Silence Called Me audiobook collection. Stay tuned for updates and future listening editions.
Characters Featured Burned Borders
This chapter is part of the Sigil of Silence narrative universe and features a set of recurring and intersecting characters inlcuding:
For readers who wish to explore deeper background, psychological profiles, and full narrative dossiers, each character name can be followed through their dedicated profile pages.