When identity survives death, faith collides with reason, and a returned man must discover who he is, this Metaphysical Thriller enters the space between life, memory, and existence.

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Story Chapter Name: Spectrum of silence
Book name : The Merchant of Silence
Series name: Sigil of Silence
Sequence : Book 2 of the series
Author: Zyphar Animas
Editor: Nimo Verin
Publisher: Print & Digital
Published: 2026
ISBN Ebook: 978-984-35-8933-0
ISBN paper back: 978-9843589187

Read “Spectrum of Silence,” a free-to-read standalone Metaphysical Thriller chapter, specially restructured from The Merchant of Silence—Book Two of the Sigil of Silence series by Zyphar Animas—to be enjoyed as a complete standalone story.

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Light flickers through the silk—beige, almost gold.
Slipping in and out behind floor-to-ceiling glass, playing old games of shadow. The ceiling fan overhead spins slow, lazy. Cool air kisses my skin like an old love I’d forgotten. And just like that—I know. I feel it in the marrow.
I exist.
In this beautiful, absurd little world.
Thanks to my Lord.
Again.

Usually, when I’m pulled back—whether I want it or not. I still feel everything. The way day folds into night. The smell when seasons shift. Even the weight of nearby footsteps—pretending to pass unnoticed—I sense it all. I don’t sleep. I archive. And every time I rise again, the memories crawl up with me. Except this time.
From the moment I burned to ash until now—blank. There’s nothing.
No clues. No continuity. No whisper of a single soul. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone. But I’m awake now. And I’ll find out everything. Soon.

Something dangles over my nose. I reach up—a woman’s purse. Stylish. Soft. Definitely not mine. But the trigger wasn’t the bag. It was what lay inside.
Two petals. Right on my face.

I pick them up, rub them between my fingers. They weren’t fresh. And it wasn’t their first time with me. Someone’s brought them before. But when? Where?

The moment I reach for the memory, pain splits my skull. Like a steel rod jammed straight in. I clench my teeth—and growl, somewhere between a curse and a scream.

It helps. For about three seconds. Then it hits again.
Twice.
Thrice.
Breathing doesn’t help. Blinking? Pointless.
My eyes are wet. But after the third shot—silence. The pain doesn’t come back. I breathe out, slow. Let the shiver run. Let the memory reform. And then—I laugh. Loud enough to startle myself. Because now I remember. Penang Island.

There was a girl. She brought those Blood Orchids to buy me time. But something hits before the transaction is finished. An attack. Didn’t matter. Those orchids, in blood-red spectrum, summoned by silence, find me anyway. And do exactly what they’re meant to do.

Just two petals. Not even a full bloom. That’s the part only my Lord could script—not with thunder or rage, but with the quietest, deadliest mercy. Two bloody petals, slipping through chaos, surviving the burn, outliving killers. Waiting—for this exact second. Not enough to save a life—but enough to bring back the one who never needed saving.
That’s the trick. Not resurrection. Permission.

No plan. No defense. No science will work—when my Lord decides to flip the hourglass, everything falls. It doesn’t matter what they scheme. Doesn’t even matter what I want. When He wants me to rise, silence calls my name—I burn back alive. Hah… hahahaha. Let the silence sing again.

Seeing through the glass, Petronas pride stand tall—unmoved. No doubt—I’m in KL.

My mind flicks to Macro, to Tommy—did they make it out with the rest?
I try to sit. Feels like something jabs through my chest. This pain isn’t divine. This is human—raw and physical.

I force myself up. Take a look at the vessel. Gunshot. Bullet still lodged. I get up anyway.
Another hit near the lower abdomen—a blade, polished steel. Assassin’s favorite bitch—stiletto. Both wounds are dry, sealed by time or luck. But if I pull the knife wrong, it’ll reopen the old negotiations with death.
The bullet needs trained hands. That’s for later.

Across the room: an open first-aid kit. What kind of killer leaves bandages with a corpse? Either they didn’t care if I lived, or figured I wouldn’t. Doesn’t matter. I pick it up. I can deal with the blade. That’s enough.

I step into the bathroom—and freeze. The man in the mirror—I know that face. Though we never got the chance to talk. I keep working on the wound, letting the pain anchor me, distract me from the deeper question.
I saw this face before the blast. He was outside. Alive.

When my body broke apart—did my Lord drop me into this one? If that’s true, I should be feeling his memories. But there’s nothing. No echo. No residue. This body is blank.

Only two ways that happens:
One—a newborn, fresh out of the womb. No memories yet.
Two—a dead man. Nothing left to remember.
And this isn’t a child’s body.

Everything about it—the wounds, the bullet in the chest—tells the truth. This man was gone for good. And now I’m inside what’s left. I wrap the wound tight. Should hold through light movement. The bullet… that one stays for now. As long as I can walk, I’ll ignore it.

Back in the main room, something catches my eye under the couch. I reach down and pull it free—a Nightwalker. Kitted with an AI viewfinder and suppressor. This beast doesn’t even whisper when it fires. A weapon of true silence. I tuck it behind me.

Blood everywhere on the couch. Top cushions drenched, soaked through. I’d dropped near the bathroom—so this isn’t my blood. I run my fingers through it. Nothing. Bring it to my nose. It smells like it should—iron, sour—but nothing more.
Wait. It just hits me.
I close my eyes and reach inward. Nothing.
I can’t feel the currents beneath the sound.
Can’t taste the air flowing around me. Can’t hear the world breathing.
All I can feel is the presence inside—the infinite Darkness.

Could pain block it? Unlikely. My senses aren’t muscle and nerves. Even buried beneath Al Madam’s sand, drifting in vapor, I could feel the movements of the world. I was never disconnected. But now—nothing.

That cold feeling creeps in. Truth, in its barest form. He took them. My Lord stripped me of all access.

The senses that made me more than human—gone. Reclaimed by His will. A sound at the door—soft, measured. Heavy footsteps. Someone big, moving slow.

I don’t need divine sight to know what that means. I slide sideways, press myself against the wall. Draw the Nightwalker. Flip off the auto-target. That toy’s for amateurs. I don’t need help hitting targets. Even in this body—I could shoot anyone’s ass in the dark. That doesn’t come from instinct. That’s training.

The visitor tilts his head, scans the room. Looking for where I fell. Trying to guess if I’m still there. I break his innocent curiosity. First shot—clean through the hip joint, from behind.

He drops hard, right where I’d been sprawled a minute ago. His eyes snap to the barrel. Surprised. Maybe shocked. Mumbling to say something, but nothing comes out.

I pick up a small stool. Sit beside him. Let’s see if we can handle this like shit buddies.
He can’t move below the waist, but—tries to touch me.
Why? No idea.
I raise the gun again. That’s enough.

His voice finally breaks loose.

—Everyone’s in the basement.

And that’s all I need. The Nightwalker answers next—thup—or something like that. Whatever. It punches clean between his eyes. Perfect.
No drama. Just precision. Nice weapon.

I scan for a phone—nothing. Room already stripped. Even the busted safe in the wardrobe is cleaned out. Useless.

That leaves only one direction: the basement.

I move to the door. Lock melted and warped. Burn scars on the floor suggest a gas cutter. No time for forensics.

I head for the emergency stairs next to the elevator. The wound whispers under my ribs. I ignore it. More important things to feel now.

I make it down the stairs—not as fast as before, but fast enough. Emergency exits aren’t supposed to open into an exposed space, I take the gamble. Crack the red door slowly. No sound. Slip through. Let it close just as quiet.

As expected, I come out behind the elevator shaft. Lean forward. Take a look. A black van parked by the lobby. Three men stand beside it—talking to someone inside.

Which means—all three outside are expendable. The Nightwalker agrees. Thup-thup-thup.

Three soft bits drop them all, flawless rhythm. Now—if the one inside’s green, he’ll get out to check. That’s when I shoot him below the knee. Ask questions.

If he’s smart, he’ll stay low. Hide under the seat. But he does neither.
I step in closer. Find him inside—wounded bad. Slumped across the middle seat. Legs open. Bandage pressed between them like a kid waiting for a medic. Moaning through the pain. Lucky bastard took a bullet and lived.

I give him a smile.

—One round left, bro. With all due compassion, you need to start talking. Who, what, why—give me everything. I laid the others down nice and quiet just so I could listen to you. Stay silent, and that bandage learns a new kind of pain. Sound fair?

His eyes go wide—same look as the first one. Tries to melt into the seat. Mouth shaking. Strange.

I thought I looked decent in the mirror. No idea why they all react like I’m fresh out the grave. To be honest—dim lights, three new corpses, silent basement… I’ve seen haunted houses with better vibes.

Phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He reaches for it—eyes still locked on me. I can’t let that happen. Thup.

The round punches through his hand, shatters the phone, buries itself deep in his thigh. He screams. Loud. That hand won’t be leaving his pocket again.

I lift a leg, aim loose at his bandaged spot.

—Fire up. I don’t have all night to babysit.

He breaks. I see it.
Mouth twitching. Voice trying to come out. But then—another phone rings. Not his. Then another. And another. Feels surreal—like the dead are getting called back.

Before I can process it, a voice speaks behind me.

—Are you alright, sir?

My heart hits the ribcage. Feels like the bullet in my chest just split open. Didn’t hear him approach. With my senses cut off, I didn’t even know I wasn’t alone.

I turn, hand on my heart.
A local Malay kid. Dressed like staff. Neat nameplate reads: Rigan. He clearly knows me.

So I speak like I know him too.

—Yeah, Rigan. I’m good. You see how they got in? And how the hell did they make it up to my apartment?

Rigan shakes his head in both directions, voice soft but urgent.

—Not sure, sir, how they come. I was in central security room. Watching camera, I see two men carry someone out from your apartment.

He pauses, waiting for it to sink in.

—The security guys think maybe it’s some friend prank. But me… I know, sir—your room never has friends visit. Since long time Jenny madam was staying, then last week another madam come. That’s it. I feel something’s off. I call our supervisor, Masud sir.

He leans forward, still catching his breath.

—We rewind camera. See clearly—they come in two cars. One car leave, the other stay. These people go to your apartment. That first car is still outside, near alley. Driver looking around like he’s watching our building. Masud sir go to catch him with two guards. I come down, hide, watch them from corner. Now I see you—so I come.

He pauses. Fidgets. Then asks, almost whispering:

—Should we call police, sir?

Poor kid’s rattled. No doubt about it. But cops would just tangle things. Not now.

I tell Rigan to skip the cops—just bring Masud here.
He nods, slips off toward the gate.

I get back into the van, press my leg up against the bandage. Raise the gun again—this time aiming at what he probably values most.

—Ten seconds, bro. That’s all I can offer.

But he doesn’t even let me count to three. Starts talking—mumbling at first, then it turns into real words. And I listen. Carefully.

Every word he says just twists the story tighter.
Name’s Khursheed . Built like a rhino. Running with his crew for Rasheed Dameer—an old war buddy. Fine. Let them have their loyalties. But then he says Marisha—and her sister—are being held at their compound. That changes everything.

Her sister vanished off the map. No wonder she ended up in these guys’ hands. But Marisha? She was supposed to be in Phuket. How the hell did they find her here?

He says they picked her up from a Zamuk nearby. A Zamuk?
What the hell was she doing there? She was under Xanier Cheng’s protection. And Papa Cheng doesn’t bend easily—in my case, he couldn’t. Even if he tried.
But all that thread ends at one question: where is this compound?

I pressed harder into his bandaged wound—slow, heavy. He starts howling—a full performance. Still no location. Bastard’s just wasting time.

Outside the van, I catch movement. Basement gate—two guards coming in, Rigan with them. Another man hauls a lanky suspect like he’s dragging a dead frog.

As they get closer, the man holding the suspect speaks up,

—This pig—he was with them, bae. I stare at the man, waiting for a clue to identify him.

He doesn’t have a nametag. Nothing to work with.
But he’s fast on the draw, steps forward and offers,

—Bae, I’m Machud. Building supervisor. You call me local small brother, boss.

He looks less worried and more… hurt.

Masud—who spells his name as Machud—frowns hard and shakes his head.

—Since last year you come back from Penang, bae—you change too much. What happen to you, ah?

He glances at the blood smeared across me like it personally hurt his feelings. Drops the lanky guy to the ground like he’s made of plastic, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

I step closer, put a hand on his shoulder.

—I’ll explain everything later, Masud. Right now, I need your help.

He freezes, then perks up—like I just offered him a bar fight and a pay raise all at once.

—Whaaat help, bae? You say now, we pull full SWAT style. I tell you. We pull all bastard from root!

The energy is loud, but I’ll take it. At least I won’t have to babysit the cleanup.

I nod.

—There’s one left in my apartment. We need to clear this crew—quietly. But the problem is, none of them are talking. No one’s giving up the address I need.

Masud claps once, practically bounces.

—Aaaah, small thing, bae! Oye chik, give me the stick!

One of the guards tosses him a night baton. Masud grabs it like a lifelong dream just came true and starts hammering the lanky guy’s knees without hesitation. The screams are pure. Turns out Masud speaks fluent Malay, even if he beats people in Deshi style.

The lanky one cracks. Starts mumbling an address between sobs. Even fumbles out his phone and drops a GPS pin.

Masud lights up like he just scored the winning goal at a village tournament.

—See, bae? Dis bastard tell me everything! Dis place you go with those slick bat, in the jungle. You beating those egg balls of man.

Well, busting any guy’s balls was never in my playbook. I just take the phone. Try not to react.

Ah—golf? Now I get it.
He’s pointing at Mine Resort & Golf Club.

Can’t remember ever playing golf, but I know the area. There’s an apartment block behind the mall. Beyond that, thick stretch of jungle. Pin lands right in the heart of it.

I glance around.

—Masud, any clue where my car is? Didn’t see any keys in the apartment.

In KL, no one lives without a car.
It was a shot, but a good one.

Masud raises one arm, points toward the gate like a showman.

—There, bae! You brought this one—kailla haingaroar. So beautiful. You never take key up. Key stays in our desk. You ask, we give.

Rigan takes the cue, bolts for the security office, comes back with the keys. Masud sweeps the cover off with a flourish, like he’s unveiling a bride.

Now I finally figure out. What the hell a kailla haingaroar actually is.

A polished black Range Rover.
Private plate. Spotless. No dust.
I tap unlock.
Lights blink. Doors open—ready.

—Who do you use to handle bodies? I ask.

Masud scratches his chin, then flashes that wolf grin.

—Our guy Mike. You member? He handle mess before. I call, he fix. You go.

I have no clue who this “our guy” Mike is. Doesn’t matter—options are thin, time’s thinner.

I nod.
Let him handle the carnage. I hand him the Nightwalker, auto-target on—just in case. Told him to keep it for protection.
Then I slide into the Haingaroar and drive.

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North-South Expressway
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Dash lights up the date—six months since Penang.

Six months since the blast.

No wonder the mirror didn’t know my name. Memories still aren’t fully synced. They’ll come—no point forcing it. Instead, I focus on what I do know.

Rasheed Dameer tracking down Marisha? Not exactly a genius move—but not impossible either.

We weren’t hiding in Phuket. We moved in daylight. Anyone with a grudge and enough time could draw that line from her to me. What gets me is the nerve. Even after I drew the line, Rasheed sent his own crew. Kidnapped her?

That wasn’t just bold. That was suicidal.

Now the question isn’t if he dies.

It’s how loud.

But the part that sticks—how did Rasheed’s crew get past Papa Cheng? He doesn’t make mistakes. Either Rasheed got lucky, or someone turned the lock for them.

Another thread tugs—Penang, the girl who showed up. Macro, the rest of my team. I should’ve checked on them. But with Marisha so close, they all fade out.

And here’s another catch: even if I drag her out, she won’t know this face. How does Marisha react to a stranger who calls her by name? What do I say? Burned in an explosion, face rebuilt, six months missing? Sounds like cheap pulp. Even the doorman Rigan wouldn’t buy it.

Reach the mall faster than expected. Mine Mall’s closed by now, but security just waves me through. That kind of SUV doesn’t ask for ID.

I swing the road toward the resort, then cut left—there’s a route to the apartment complex. Headlights off, moving by instinct. Find the lane—it dead-ends at a canal. Across the water: low complex with red-tiled, pitched roofs.

Malaysia doesn’t need snow roofs. Someone here couldn’t let go of their winter—dragged it with them from homeland.

I take the Rover as close to the trees as possible. No more wheels from here. There’s only one trail through the green—narrow, half-overgrown. I take it.

Fifteen meters in, the trees open up—cleared patch at the center. A bunker door. Heavy steel. Keypad lock. Numbered.

Didn’t bring a hacking kit. Didn’t need one.

There’s a simpler trick with these things: read the residue. Keys most recently pressed leave traces—oils, heat, texture wear. I just have to listen to what the metal remembers. I’ll try that first. If it fails, I’ll find the vent and crawl in the hard way. But I never get that far.

The door clicks open as I approach—like it’s been waiting for me.

And what steps out? A damn mammoth.

Muscle sculpted like granite, built for war. Looks like a rejected boss fight from a Middle Eastern killhouse. Square jaw, crooked nose, neck thick as an anvil—Afghan, no question.

Which means one thing:

Stubborn as hell, even dumber when mad. He’s holding a pistol, but in that fist it looks like a spoon in a thunderstorm.

I raise my hands, taunt him—call out his animal. He tosses the gun aside and grins—challenge accepted. He’s all in now.

There’s nothing between us but blood and bone. He’s confident, of course. Built like a monster, he assumes fists will do the talking.

I don’t like killing unless I have to. Prefer to know why before I cut the cord. But this time, there’s nothing left to say.

The Nightwalker’s with Masud, which leaves me only the stiletto tucked in my belt. The thing’s flat. Sized to vanish inside a palm. My instincts aren’t with me—not the way they used to be. And yeah—squaring off with a beast like this, maybe I should feel fear. But I know technique that cuts deeper than strength ever could. No poet ever needed a golden pen. Time to write my answer.

He charges like a bull, leading with the right. Predictable.

Same hand he used to hold the gun—every brute loves his strong hand. Last second, I pivot—matador clean, slip behind him. Left hand up, blade in play.

Slide the steel under his arm, right where artery meets tendon. He grunts, swings his left hand back for my hair. That’s fine. I let him.

The instant his fingers tangle, my right hand takes over. Blade in, up through the other armpit—fast, surgical, no words. Both cuts bypass pain—go straight for bloodflow. His heart’s still pumping, but nothing’s reaching the arms. They’ll hang useless in seconds. Muscle without wiring.

One last move—blade down, right into the lower spine. Nerve junction.

That’s the kill switch. I press it in, then step around to face him. He’s still on his feet.

Not for long. The knees go first—give out without warning. He drops hard, confused.

Staring at his arms as blood pumps from both. Chest heaving. He tries to push himself up, tries to command the body—nothing answers. Mouth opens—wants to curse, but instead just pours blood, heavy and thick.

Then he folds. Neck twists, body crashes sideways. He might bleed out in minutes. Or he might get lucky—survive with nothing but regret and dead limbs.

I step past him.

Into the bunker.

A round chamber, multiple corridors in different directions. Second hall on the left—door ajar, light and motion spilling through. That’s my path.

Last weapon—gone. Left the blade buried in the giant’s back. That means I’m walking into the next room unarmed.

Inside, pacing slow circles, is Rasheed Farish.

Ex-Hamas. Now just another burnout with a price tag.

He spots me—and freezes. Eyes wide. Behind him, Marisha’s slumped in a chair,

head tipped back, eyes closed.

She’s not sleeping. No one sleeps like that. Drugged, most likely.

I step in.

Rasheed’s already wired, but he hasn’t tasted real fear yet.

—Here you are, Rasheed, you could’ve been the chosen one. Instead, you smuggled guns, then signed up for a shitty war. I let it go once. Warned you. You could’ve walked away clean.

I step closer.

—But now—you made it personal.

He was already running hyper before I even stepped in. Now his body just gives up—he folds to the floor, clutching his stomach like it’s splitting open from the inside. Maybe it is.

I watch him convulse, then grab a water bottle off the table, hold it out.

—Wash your face. Sit somewhere you won’t faint.

He drags himself across the floor, splashes water on his face, gasps for air.

I move to Marisha.

Check her face, neck, wrists. No bruises. No signs of physical torture.

She’s still wearing the dog tag I gave her—my name.

What I was, once. There were iron cuffs on the ground—the kind meant for hanging someone by the wrists. The marks on her arms matched up, red and angry.

I felt the burn of rage climb my spine. Held it down. Behind me, Rasheed spoke, eyes still shut.

—I didn’t do that. I swear. I didn’t even know she was here when I arrived. I just unchained her, sat her there.

His voice shook. Nothing rehearsed.

—Khurram—he called his people, but they never picked up. That’s when I knew. You’d already gotten to them.

He meant the crew that hit my apartment.

—They’re dead, I said. No drama. Just facts.

Rasheed mumbled a prayer—hands raised like he was begging for divine mercy. Or maybe martyrdom.

Bullshit. If those punks get to be martyrs, we owe sainthood to every stray dog in a garbage pit. He looked rattled, but didn’t argue.

Got to his feet, slow and shaky, but still vertical. He’s seen me before. Twice.

That should’ve been enough warning for anyone with half a brain. And yet—here we are.

I didn’t want to kill him if I didn’t have to. I asked,

—What did they give her?

—Not sure, he said. — They were trying for intel. Maybe a truth serum. But it wasn’t me—I came after they dosed her.

He was trying hard to distance himself. Didn’t want to get sucked into another storm. Fair enough.

I couldn’t carry her, not with these wounds. Rasheed looked like he’d struggle with a schoolbag, never mind a woman half-conscious.

I guessed we’d need to wait until Marisha woke on her own. So I nodded toward the exit and walked him out. Saw a bench in the hall earlier. Good enough.

Once Rasheed was steady, I’d dig in. Start pulling answers. This time, no threats. Just questions. Sometimes, understanding a man gets you more than breaking him.

Rasheed slumped into the seat like gravity had finally caught him. Didn’t wait for a question.

—They told me KL would be quiet. A break. Instead, you wiped out my whole crew. Now how the hell am I supposed to explain that to high command? You left me alive—twice. Any man with half a gut would think I’m working with you.

He had a point.

Truth is, Silence never gave me the green light to take him out. But trying to explain that kind of spiritual calculus to a man running on panic would be wasted.

I offered him something colder:

—So what—you think I made a mistake letting you live?

I lean in closer.

— If that’s what’s keeping you up at night, I can fix it right now.

That landed. He realized too late that gratitude might’ve been the better play.

Before the panic flares again, I rest a calm, steady hand on his shoulder. Give him half a smile.

—Honestly? You don’t strike me as someone who builds evil by design. Until Eilat, I figured you were just a product of proximity. Caught in the wrong wave.

That one hits harder than I mean it to.

—You know about Eilat? he whispers. — My Lord, grace me…

—I know a lot of things, Rasheed. I know you did what you had to do. Not more. Not less. What I still don’t get is how a survivor turns himself into a pawn.

He glances up. Not sure if he sees accusation or sympathy.

And then—he cracks open something rare.

—I don’t know your race. Your religion. And honestly, I never cared. When those bastards started gunning us down, something broke. I’m not even that devout—but I had to stand. Not for God. For the ones we buried.

I walked in with open eyes. No one forced my hand. Finally—something raw. Something real. I’ve seen the headlines about Rasheed Farish. But the man himself? I never bothered to know him.

Now, with nothing but time, I ask:

—You keep switching borders and nationalities. Never thought you’d stand with any side. What do you call yourself? What’s your flag?

He doesn’t flinch.

—A Muslim. That’s my side—and my flag.

—Well then, I say, — looks like we’re practically in-laws.

He blinks.

—What do you mean? What do you know about my sister?

I laugh.

—Easy, boy. Just a joke. The girl you’ve got on that chair? Muslim. Russian passport, but still.

—She’s Russian? I thought she was Turkish.

Rasheed actually looks surprised.

—Though… that would still makes us family. I’ve got Turkish papers.

He smiled for the first time. Something in him relaxed. He knew I wasn’t here to kill him—at least not yet. He leaned in—almost curious. Maybe even interested in me.

I kept things rolling.

—Earlier—you called them bastards. You mean the ones from Eilat?

His eyes darkened.

—Not just Eilat. All of them. Americans. Brits. Euro trash. And the nosy Chinese too.

—Chinese? I raised a brow. — Thought they were on your side—at least on paper.

He scoffed.

—Bullshit. They only fund us to box in Indians. Same play with the Pakis. But in Xinjiang? You should see what they do to Muslims in their own cities. Or in Myanmar. It’s genocide, and nobody blinks. If I survive this, I’ll burn their cities to ash myself.

He meant it. Not a flicker of doubt in his voice.

—Seems like there’s a lot of geopolitics tangled in all this, I said. Maybe your holy war’s just economics dressed up for idiots. Didn’t think you’d fall for that game.

—You don’t get it, he snapped. — It’s always been about me—about us. Those bastards are begging for hellfire. We’re just delivering what they asked for.

—Ugh. And here I thought you had a rational mind, I said, leaning back. — But you’re just parroting the same fundamentalist garbage as every other fanatic. The ones you call bastards—the Jews, the Christians? Your own book calls them Ahl al-Kitab—People of the Book. You’re allowed to eat with them, marry them, trade with them. And here you are, convinced you’re better just because you think you own the truth?

Rasheed didn’t blink.

—Of course we’re better.

—Poor soul, I muttered. —You feel better believing those Jews and Christians you kill already have seats reserved in hellfire. But did you ever read the full burn list? All disbelievers—they’ve got a place in the furnace, sure. Four, five, six—pick your floor. But the seventh? The dirtiest, the deepest? That one’s reserved for you and your righteous brothers. That’s where the worst go if they die without forgiveness. Can you guarantee a death certificate stamped clean?Are you really sure your last breath will be soaked in tauba?

—No, he said. — There’s no guarantee.

—Then why the fuck are you out here digging holes in other people’s floors, when your own ceiling could collapse any minute?

He hesitates.

—This… is part of seeking forgiveness. You wouldn’t understand.

—Try me, I say. — You really think the people you’re burning in hell—God’s going to light the fire just to settle your score? You’re killing His creations, Rasheed. You think He’s going to high-five you at the gate? What makes you so sure He’ll spare you?

He swallows.

—I don’t know. I just… did what I could. You’re confusing me. You’re the devil.

—Sure, I say. — And he lives in every crack of human mind. But after all this blood and smoke, I thought you’d have figured something out by now. Guess I expected too much.

He’s out of depth now. Can’t keep pace—not with logic, not with guilt.

He knows it. He sits silent for a while, eyes lowered. The kind of silence that feels like something fell apart inside.

Then finally asks,

—If not faith, then what do you think this fight is really about?

I shrug.

—It’s exactly what it looks like. Your war isn’t about faith. It’s just geopolitics dressed up in holy cloth.

—How much do you even know about us? he asks.

— Enough. Israel didn’t kill your people because they ran out of condos. They could’ve resettled in the U.S.—one state in the Midwest has more space than they’ll ever need. They just want that land because they believe it’s holy—a gift from God, theirs to reclaim, brick by bloody brick. They want every inch under their flag. Israel uses violence not just to crush you, but to drive you out. The logic’s simple: make your neighbors take you in. Turn you into a refugee problem. That way, they can claim the land is empty—take the rest with clean hands. The British wrote this playbook. Riddled with guilt after World War II. Desperate to repay the Jews—but didn’t trust them enough to live next door. So they handed them Palestine like a poisoned gift, then walked away.

Rasheed’s eyes narrow.

—You sound like PLO. Some of them used to say the same things. Tried to fix this politically.

—Glad you’re finally hearing something that doesn’t make you gag.

I shoot back, smirking.

—After the ’70s, I continue, — ambition met opportunity and the game changed. Britain and the U.S. saw Israel as useful—a wild dog planted in the oil fields. Let it bark, and the rest of the Middle East stays in line. Out of fear, your neighbors run to the West for protection. And they happily sell it—for a price.

— What price? Rasheed presses.

— Oil. Minerals. Cheap contracts. Until the day we stop running on crude, this arrangement isn’t going anywhere.

He leans in, curious now. Engaged.

—If not armed resistance, how else are we supposed to fight?

—I don’t have all the answers, Rasheed. But I do know this: you don’t find the way until your boots are in the dirt. Your high command says the disbelievers deserve to die. But when a believer does the same thing? Suddenly, the rulebook changes. Meanwhile, the Western alliance brands your faith as terrorism—so they can justify wiping you off the map. But when they’re defending their own?That’s a different set of rules. Don’t you see it? Both sides—the fanatics in your camp and the power-brokers in theirs—are paddling the same damn boat.

He stays silent, I keep going.

—Ever pay attention to what Western elites do with their money? They pour fortunes—sometimes everything they own—into education and research. That’s how Oxford grows. That’s how MIT and NASA survive. Even the bombs you’re dodging today were funded generations ago by visionaries who invested in knowledge, not rage. Now look at your side. Your rich Habibis? Too busy showing off cars, collecting women, chasing pleasure. They forget all that wealth they’re burning through came straight from the ground—free. And when it’s gone, they’ll be right back to fishing with nets and dragging camels across desert sand.

Rasheed gave a crooked smile.

—You talk like the devil, but your words aren’t all poison. Still, not all of us are like that. Some of our neighbors have given up more than they could ever afford—just to keep this fight alive. If they hadn’t, we’d have collapsed long ago.

He sat up straighter, trying to reclaim a little dignity.

—And let’s not forget—whoever holds the wealth makes the rules. We don’t have the luxury to wait for some prince to donate his yacht. We fight because there’s no other choice.

I nodded.

—I get it. But you know as well as I do—whatever Commander Kamran or that clown, The Maker are plotting, it’s going nowhere. A stillbirth wrapped in flags.

—So what? Rasheed snapped. — You want me to give up? Join politics? Preach peace in a war zone?

I grinned.

—No, Rasheed. I want you to wake up—before you die for someone else’s fantasy. You’re staking your life on weapons that don’t even belong to you. And the people who build those weapons? They’ll drop you the second the market shifts. Or worse—they’ll arm your enemies instead. Turn your war into a sales pitch.

He falls silent.

—In that world, I say, — what are you going to do?

Rasheed rubs his hands together.

—Nothing, I guess. We’d be helpless. But if we pull back now—play nice, do what’s ‘rational’—we’ll get erased before anyone even hears us. I believe in this fight. Still… I can’t deny what you’ve said. When I get back, I’ll bring it up with the Commander.

I raise an eyebrow.

—Your loyalty’s impressive, Rasheed. But you won’t be standing beside them for long. That operation? It’s already sinking. I’m telling you now—when that ship goes down, I want you off it. Ever think maybe your commander isn’t doing this for freedom? Maybe it’s not about faith at all. Maybe it’s just about power—and profit.

Rasheed looks shaken.

—You’re twisting my head. I don’t even know what I believe anymore.

—People with eyes can still be blind, Rasheed. And the blind? They live forever in the dark. So here’s the deal: you die here, like the others. I torch the whole facility—girls and all—and your body becomes just another nameless pile nobody ever finds. You don’t need to go back to them. Go dark for a while. Lay low. When I’m done, you can resurface. Honor their graves with flowers. Say a few words over that idiotic robot. You fought for your people’s freedom—go back to your war if that’s what moves you. But cross that river quietly, Rasheed. You’ve made enough to disappear. Use it. Buy yourself a second chance.

Rasheed lets out a dry laugh.

—Even if I disappear, they won’t let me be, Mr. Caesar.

I tilt my head.

—Interesting. I don’t recall ever giving you that name.

—You didn’t have to, he said. — Mossad asked about you more than once. But you carved it into my memory the day you wiped my whole squad. Last time was deep in Iraq. Somewhere between Ari and Baishur. We were moving a shipment. You slit Baharram Gazi’s throat right in front of me. I found your dog tag on the ground—half of it. And today, I saw the rest—hanging around your girlfriend’s neck.

I can’t help smiling,

—That’s a long story, Rasheed. Not one for today. When the time comes, I’ll give you everything. Until then, just call me Elijan. Names change with time, I said. —The less you know, the longer you live.

He nodded.

—Fine. I’ll stay off the radar when it comes to these fanatics. But when the time’s right, I’m going back to my own ground. You coming after me for that?

—You’ve got every right to fight for your people, I told him. As long as you’re not making new enemies for me, I won’t be one for you.

He looked up.

—Need any more intel from me?

—I know what I need. But if you want to share your side of the story, go ahead. I could understand Eilat. But the retired old men—why kill them like that?

He took his time. Then, finally, he talked.

From the beginning to now—his journey, the truth about who he was before the mask. Most of it lined up with what I’d already pieced together from Macro’s reports, and some things I’d picked up on the ground. But Rasheed filled in the cracks.

He confessed—he’d been trying to get out. The machine didn’t let him. But now, he wanted help escaping it.

And in that moment, I needed his help more.

—You used to run people across borders, I said. — Can you move someone safely—quiet, to a specific spot?

—Depends who it is.

—The girl. The one in coma. Whatever happens—she goes home. Whether she wakes up or not.

—That’s hard. Moving someone like that trips every alarm. Medical, security, customs—all of it.

—I know, I said. —Hard isn’t impossible. Right?

He went silent, thinking it through, then spoke.

—She looked familiar when I first saw her. Still can’t place it. But people like her… they don’t die easy. She’s probably survived worse. We’ll need a charter.

Medical clearance. Clean documents. It’s a mess—but I can do it.

—I’ll arrange what you need. Take my car—seats fold down—you can lay her out like a stretcher. Drive straight to Komak HQ. Park in the basement, find the director. I’ll give you the name and pass codes. He’ll handle the rest.

—You want me to deal with Papa Cheng? Sounds like you’ve got history with him. Don’t tell me you’re tangled up in his shady empire?

I raised an eyebrow.

—Just like you and me right now. I help you vanish, you help me finish my job. Does that make you my partner in crime?

Rasheed laughed.

—No thanks. I’m happy to play my part and leave. After this, I’m heading back to Türkiye. Unless someone’s really desperate, no one’s tracking me down easy. If you ever need me—send a message. For now… we’re done here.

—That’s fine. But you’ll have to put your issues with the Chinese on ice for this job.

Rasheed shrugged.

—When it’s business, I can work around personal issues. And I’ve got my own car parked close. No need for yours.

—Fine. I’ll send you the details—where to drop her, who to call if anything goes wrong.

We don’t shake hands. No promises. But there’s an understanding.

Earlier, I clocked the bunker’s stash—heavy weapons, blocks of explosives, the full buffet of destruction.

Rasheed works fast, rigging the place with timed charges, making sure the past will burn. His way of closing the book. It works out. Saves me the trouble of setting fire to the past.

We get to work—load Marisha’s sister into Rasheed’s car. Marisha herself—still unconscious—into mine. After that, we just nod and go our ways. I decide not to tell Marisha about her sister—not yet. I still don’t have the full picture on her. And the girl herself hasn’t given Marisha the truth, not even close. No reason to drag Marisha into this world of blood and bones. She’ll learn soon enough her sister made it home. I’ll be watching when she does.

Rasheed says she’ll wake up in under an hour. We’ll be somewhere safe by then.

Still, I wait here for a reason.

Ten minutes pass.

Then—the blast. Nothing cinematic—just enough to shake my car’s frame. Through the windshield, a flare—quick, bright, done. The bunker’s gone. Time to move on.

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You have just read “Spectrum of Silence,” a specially restructured standalone chapter from The Merchant of Silence—Book Two of the Sigil of Silence series by Zyphar Animas.

A man returns from the ashes with no memory of the road back, carrying a name that no longer fits cleanly and a life that seems to belong partly to someone else. What follows moves through faith, identity, violence, loyalty, and the uneasy space between what a person believes and what the world has taught him to believe.

If Spectrum of Silence has stayed with you, the larger story continues in The Merchant of Silence, where the boundaries between power, belief, death, and human choice become harder to separate.

The full book is available from Amazon and major bookstores worldwide. Direct access and exclusive discounts are also available through the link below.

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Story Summary

“Spectrum of Silence” is a Metaphysical Thriller built around the impossible return of a man who should be dead. After awakening in Kuala Lumpur with no memory continuity and a body that does not feel entirely his own, Elijan is forced to confront a question more disturbing than survival: what remains of a person when identity, memory, power, and even death itself no longer behave as they should?

His search for answers leads him back into the violent world he thought he had left behind. Marisha has been taken. Rasheed stands on the other side of the conflict. Yet their confrontation becomes something stranger than an interrogation. Politics, faith, extremism, Palestine, Israel, Western power, economics, and personal guilt collide as Elijan begins dismantling the certainty that once defined Rasheed’s life.

What emerges is the deeper force of this Metaphysical Thriller: resurrection does not restore the past. Elijan has returned, but he is no longer exactly the man who died. His extraordinary abilities are gone, his identity has become unstable, and the meaning of his survival remains uncertain. Between death and life, faith and reason, memory and identity, he must decide what kind of man he is now.

Critical Review

“Spectrum of Silence” operates most effectively as a Metaphysical Thriller because its supernatural premise is not treated as an endpoint. Resurrection is merely the opening disturbance. The chapter’s real subject is the philosophical instability that follows: if a man returns without the continuity of his former identity, what exactly has returned?

The narrative gives this question physical form through Elijan’s altered existence. His body, memory, name, abilities, and history no longer align cleanly. He survives, but survival itself becomes ambiguous. The loss of his extraordinary abilities is particularly important because it removes the convenient distinction between the exceptional being he once was and the ordinary human he must now inhabit. His return therefore becomes less a restoration than a forced reconstruction of self.

The chapter’s confrontation with Rasheed provides the intellectual counterweight. What begins as an encounter between opposing forces gradually becomes an examination of ideology, faith, political violence, economic power, and personal disillusionment. Elijan does not simply overpower Rasheed; he forces him to examine the machinery of belief that has shaped his life. The resulting dialogue gives the Metaphysical Thriller a second dimension: the supernatural questions surrounding Elijan are mirrored by psychological and moral questions surrounding Rasheed.

Structurally, the chapter also refuses to isolate metaphysics from geopolitics. Resurrection, intelligence operations, religious conviction, violence, and international power exist within the same narrative field. That combination is what gives “Spectrum of Silence” its distinctive character. The supernatural is not an escape from reality; it becomes another lens through which reality is interrogated.

The strongest thematic achievement lies in the chapter’s treatment of identity as something unstable rather than permanent. Elijan’s return does not answer who he is. It makes the question harder. His former name carries history, his new existence carries consequences, and his relationship with the people around him is shaped by versions of himself that may no longer exist.

That is where the Metaphysical Thriller ultimately finds its weight. The chapter is not asking whether death can be defeated. It asks what happens when death gives someone another chance—and that second life no longer belongs to the person who first lived it.

— Nimo Verin, Editor

If Metaphysical Thrillers that explore identity, death, faith, consciousness, and the hidden forces behind human choices draw you in, there are more stories waiting inside the Sigil of Silence universe.

The complete The Merchant of Silence is available on Amazon and at your preferred bookstores worldwide. We are everywhere the story can find you.

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