Three Sides of Midnight — A Free Chapter 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

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The club throbbed, sound and color bleeding through every wall.
Awadi was all in—mesmerized by Yanni.
Yannis Chryssomallis, the legend, on stage, real and unfiltered.

Habib had hyped the music, but this?
Seeing Yanni live wasn’t even on Awadi’s list.
The set built slow—“The Rain Must Fall” faded out, Yanni stepped back, wiped the sweat, and slid into “Nostalgia.” For those minutes, nothing else mattered.

He and Habib drifted—lost in the music, time folding in on itself.
For a little while, the reason for coming vanished completely.
It took a waiter tapping their table to snap Awadi back.
He scanned the club—nothing out of place, nothing screaming for attention.

Still, caution edged his voice:

—Are we sure we’re in the right place, Habib?

Habib, all charm and steady nerves:

—Of course. If we weren’t, would the night be this good?

Awadi shrugged, kept his voice low:

—Maybe. But we’ve been here a while. Nobody’s giving us a second look.

Habib leaned in, eyes glinting:

—You’re only seeing the top layer, my friend. Look left—roadside bar. See that couple in the corner? Wedged right between them—our old friend, Mr. Luther King. Watching us like a lion watching gazelle. And that’s not all. By the alley entrance—see the guy posted up? He’s been clocking us since we walked in.

Awadi let out a breath, impressed:

—You’re sharp tonight. I spotted the guy, but without you I’d have missed King. The one by the alley entrance—the way he stares, feels like he’s waiting for a sign. Should we approach him?

Habib shook his head:

—No. If we were meant to do more, they’d have told us. Our orders were simple—show up, sit tight. That’s what we do. Nothing more.

***

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Patong Beach Road
Phuket, Thailand

I was standing outside the hotel, smoke curling in the morning air, waiting for Marisha. She came back—after sending Tataliya home in a cab.

We went in together, hand in hand. No rush, no words needed.
First thing she asks,

—You got a T-shirt and some shorts I can borrow? I need a shower and a change.

I dug out the softest shorts I had, a half-decent tee.
She vanished into the bathroom and took her time—no rush, no pretense.
When she finally stepped out, she raised her arms, spun once.

—How do I look in your clothes?

I couldn’t help it—

—Honestly? Didn’t know oversized could look that good on anyone.

She rolls her eyes, grinning.

—Alright, cool it, Professor Flirt. Get the food out. I’m starving.

We ate together.
Talked about nothing, everything.
Laughed like we’d done this for years.
Then she looked at me, voice soft.

—I should close my eyes for a bit. If not, I’ll wake up looking like a vamp. Let’s just relax.

As soon as we hit the bed, she curled up, head on my chest, and just… slipped under.
Deep, undisturbed sleep—gone in seconds.

And me?
Couldn’t decide what to do.
Do I watch her face?
Lose myself in the feel of her body pressed against mine?
Or let myself drown in that lilac scent tangled in her hair?
Didn’t want to close my eyes.
Didn’t want to lose a second.
Just kept looking—memorizing every line.
But the mind always folds eventually.
Somewhere in that quiet, I must’ve drifted too.

When I woke up, sunlight was spilling through the window.
Already 1 p.m.
She was still asleep.
Still curled on my chest.

My right arm was dead—completely numb.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.

I let it go numb, just to keep her there a little longer.
Didn’t want to wake her.
Didn’t want anything to break the spell.

From the next room, I could hear my crew’s voices—back from wherever the night spit them out.
God, I’m grateful for those idiots.
Pallab must’ve told them Marisha was in my room.
Not a single call, not one knock.

That’s real friendship: know when to disappear.
But even a perfect stretch of morning has to end.
She stirred, yawned, blinked up at me.

—Good morning, sunshine.

I grinned, voice still rough.

—Good morning, beautiful. You used my body for a mattress—I can’t feel a thing from the neck down.

She laughed, rolled off me.

—Best mattress I’ve ever had. Out cold all night. Thank you, Mister Mattress.
—First time I’ve ever woken up to something this worthy.

I meant it. Every word.
She shot me a crooked grin.

—With lines like that, who needs therapy? I’ll freshen up, then head out.

She vanished into the bathroom, left me lying there with a full-blown storm beating in my chest.

When she came out, she started packing—folded her clothes into a shopping bag, still rocking my T-shirt and shorts.
She said she’d head back to her hostel just like that—no costume change.

I tried to talk her into breakfast, into staying a little longer.
No luck.
Said she needed to check on Tataliya.
Needed to get back soon.

That’s when it hit me—we hadn’t even swapped numbers.
How the hell did I let that slip?

We exchanged contacts—Telegram.
Her profile photo?
The kind that makes you forget your name for a second.
She was already beautiful, but that picture—pure fire.

I couldn’t help it.
Started laughing.
She shot me a look—dead serious.

—What’s so funny?
—Usually, girls post those kinds of photos for attention. But you? You don’t need it. So why that pic?

She stared right through me, face set.

—Why do you guys always think women do everything for your attention?We’re human too, you know. Maybe I just posted a photo I liked. Maybe it’s about what feels good to me, not you. Honestly, for a so-called modern guy,
your attitude’s pretty damn primitive.

She was right.
I felt it hit—hard.
I tried to walk it back.

—Yeah, I didn’t mean it like that. Not really.

She wasn’t having it.

—Oh, I know exactly how you meant it.

Face still cold, she turned away.
And I knew—I couldn’t let it end like this.

I pulled her into a hug—tight, silent, hoping it said what my mouth never could.
It helped. A little.

She said she’d be in touch.
Grabbed a cab.
And just like that—she was gone.

I walked back in; found the boys camped in the lobby, waiting like they hadn’t moved in hours. They said they saw us earlier, but kept their mouths shut—didn’t even swing by to break balls or crack a joke.
That’s real privacy, the kind you only get from people who’ve been in the trenches with you.
I thanked them—properly, no bullshit.

They all agreed:
No one in our circle had ever been with a woman like her.
They crowned me Romeo on the spot, declared the whole day was my treat—drinks, street food, the lot, all on them.

What followed?
Full chaos—shopping runs, street snacks, quick trims at the barbers, café gossip, everyone telling wild stories from the night before.
No rules, no brakes.

A couple hours in, my phone buzzed—Marisha checking in.
She made it back fine.
Tataliya, too—safe, even apologized for last night’s meltdown.

The rest of the day, Marisha and I kept texting—back and forth, nonstop.
The boys kept giving me shit—watching me grin at my screen, fingers tapping, giggling like an idiot.
Every five minutes, the boys chimed in:

—When’s the next date, Romeo?

I told them straight:

—Tonight. She’s coming back. We’re spending the night together.

They went nuts—hyped, proud, already planning to disappear before sunset. Pub, beach, anywhere but the hotel.
Rule was clear: if they did come back, nobody would knock.
If I needed anything, I’d call.

By late afternoon, we’re at Starbucks—sandwiches, coffee, all of us half-wrecked and wired.

Then Marisha texts again:
She wants flowers.
Meet her tonight with a bouquet—said it feels classic, romantic, like the old movies.
That’s when I started thinking—
A girl like her, who moves this fast, who burns this hot—wants flowers?
There’s something there.
The boys didn’t hesitate.

—She likes you, man. That’s why. Don’t fuck it up.

Fine.
Challenge accepted.
Only one problem:
Where do you even buy flowers in this chaos?
Pallab says they’ll head out soon, I can roll with them toward the clubs.
Maybe I’ll find a shop on the strip.

That was the plan—pick up something nice, come back, wait for Marisha.
Said my goodbyes at the edge of pub zone, then started the hunt.
And kept hunting.

Hours vanished—one street, then the next, every damn corner of Phuket.
Not a single flower.
Last shot—Banzaan Fresh Market.
Dead end.

Stalls locked up, shutters down, nothing but the smell of old fruit.
Time was bleeding out.
From the side alley, I could cut through to Bangla Road—center of the red-light zone, all neon and madness.

Why not try?
If any vendor—beer, booze, condoms, whatever—was selling flowers, maybe I’d catch a break and pull off this miracle.

***

---

Bangla Road Street Bar
Phuket

King’s been parked at this curbside dive, eyes locked on the neon glare of “Suzie Wong” across the street.

The two Arab bastards ditched the big meet—now they’re getting cozy at the bar, throwing back drinks like tourists with nothing to hide.
If they’d stayed tucked inside the resort—big, quiet, clean—he’d have closed them out easy. Two bodies, zero witnesses, cleanup on aisle five.

But out here? Open air, bodies everywhere, too many eyes and way too much phone footage.
Taking a shot from across the street? Stupid.
Dragging them out dead?
Try explaining that to Phuket’s finest—or to Ramani’s crew, who’ve got more on their plate than covering for some foreign kill squad.

Every scenario runs through his head—none of them clean.
He needs to get the Arabs out, but “Suzie Wong” isn’t just another bar.

It’s Papa Cheng’s turf—the Mandarin kingpin.
Guy owns half the dirty nightlife between here and Singapore.
You fire a gun in Cheng’s house, you’re the one who disappears. Fast.
No body, no headline, not even a rumor.

No choice—King calls in Ramani.
Orders his boys to make some noise.
The play? Fake a scandal:
Arabs get too wild with the girls, cross the line, Ramani’s boys drag them out for “discipline.”
That’s the cover story—messy, but good enough for tonight.

Car’s already idling in the alley.
Once the Arabs are in the van, they’re warehouse-bound—Kamala Bay, bodies gone, no trace.

King checks his phone.
Ramani’s crew: five minutes out.
Then—curveball.

Who the hell is this new kid, looking fresh out of med school, sliding in with the Arabs? They’re talking, laughing, like old friends.

No report on this guy, no photo in the files.
The Arabs pass him flowers—what the hell is that? Lovers?

King’s seen it all—Arabs, Mossad, the whole rainbow—but this is a first.
Ramani’s guys text: in position.
King stands, keys in hand, brain locked on the street.

What the fuck is going on at this table?
What’s the real play here?

The plan’s about to go live, but King’s gut says nothing is as simple as it looks.

***

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Suzie Wong
Bangla Road, Phuket

—Evening, gentlemen. Mind if I sit for a moment?

The newcomer’s voice carried no rush.

—Name’s Caesar. I’m here to talk about the flowers.

Awadi shot Habib a look—polite, but his guard up.
Habib played it smooth:

—Good evening, Mr. Caesar. No need to apologize. But are you sure it’s really just about the flowers?
—That’s right.

Awadi motioned to the open chair, keeping things easy.

—Please, have a seat. Join us for a drink.

Caesar’s answer was a small, practiced smile and a gentle shake of the head.

—Appreciate it, but time’s short. I need the flowers. If it’s all right, I’ll settle your bill instead. Thought handing over cash might feel… improper.

Habib leaned forward, tone low but curious:

—We don’t mind. We brought the flowers for someone anyway. May I ask—why do they matter so much to you?
—Let’s just say it’s for someone out of options.

Both Arabs paused, watching him.
They’d seen Caesar circle the place, sizing up the table before finally walking in. Awadi switched to their own language, voice barely above a whisper:

—What do you think, Habib? Should we hand over the flowers?
—Of course, Habib answered.—That’s why we’re here. Maybe Darius is close—watching, waiting to move. Why else would this guy, of all people, step up for these flowers?

Awadi nodded, his own decision falling into place.

—Whether you’re right or not, he’s the only one who’s taken notice. There’s a link. Let’s pass them on—see what happens.

He turned back to Caesar, polite smile fixed.

—Very well, Mr. Caesar. Since you insist, the flowers are yours. We brought these orchids from our own country. You won’t find local orchids with this kind of scent. These are different. Take a sniff—see for yourself. The fragrance is unique.

Caesar accepted the offer, a quiet seriousness in his eyes.

—Thank you for trusting a stranger, he said.—The scent caught me as soon as I approached your table. But I didn’t expect it was coming from the flowers.

Curious, Caesar lifted the orchids closer, drew in a deep breath.
That’s when it all flipped—fast, deliberate, no way back.

If it had been anyone but them, maybe it would’ve worked out.
But the Arabs got caught clean, mouths open.

The second Caesar inhaled, his eyes snapped back—breath locked, body seizing. He dropped—crashing to the floor, shaking like a man hit by a live wire.
Panic erupted.

Security rushed in, but the target shifted fast—no one gave a damn about Caesar.
One guard snapped, voice sharp as a blade:

—What did you two do to him? He was fine when he sat down.

The Arabs tried to talk—tried to explain—but the staff weren’t listening. Guards closed in, rough hands grabbing, already dragging them toward the exit.
Awadi kept his head, forced his voice steady:

—At least get him to a hospital.

The pushback bought a few seconds, maybe more.
By the time anyone bothered to check Caesar, he was barely conscious.
Two guards scooped him up, hauled him away.
But the noose just tightened.

As soon as security let go, five or six Thai muscle—hard faces, local thugs—slipped in from outside.
They talked quick with the staff in Thai, then one stepped forward, voice dark:

—Money. Now.
—What money?

Awadi shot back.
No answer—just fists and force.
They were yanked toward the alley, every “friend” in the bar suddenly gone.

No help from the guards—just cold smiles, the kind that says “not my problem anymore.” Shoved out back, they hit the dark alley behind the club.

Waiting there—Sergeant Luther King.
He didn’t waste a second: a quick spray in their faces, chemical bite sharp in the air. As their senses dropped, bags went over their heads, hands found their pockets, bodies started to fold.

Awadi’s world started spinning, black closing in.
Last thought—they came to catch Sergeant King.
But King set the trap before they even landed.

Betrayed. But by who?
Not Habib—he watched him get bagged, same as him.
Nobody else knew about this move.
Only one option left: Darius himself.

Every ghost story was a lie.
They came looking for justice—and walked straight into a cartel’s jaws.

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You have just read “Three Sides of Midnight,” a free chapter from Silence Called Me, the first book in the Sigil of Silence series by Zyphar Animas.

If you enjoyed this chapter and want to continue following Caesar, Marisha, Luther King, Awadi, Habib, and the many intertwined lives that shape this international thriller, you can read more from the novel here:

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Story Summary

In Three Sides of Midnight, a quiet morning in Phuket begins with laughter, exhaustion, and the lingering warmth of a night neither Caesar nor Marisha is ready to forget. What starts as a simple day together slowly unfolds into something far more dangerous, revealing why Three Sides of Midnight stands as one of the most pivotal chapters in Silence Called Me.

Throughout Three Sides of Midnight, Caesar finds himself pulled deeper into Marisha’s orbit. Their conversations grow more personal, their connection more natural, and the distance between strangers continues to disappear. Yet while one side of Three Sides of Midnight follows romance, another follows surveillance, hidden agendas, and men who are already moving pieces across Phuket without realizing how closely their paths are about to intersect.

As Three Sides of Midnight unfolds, Caesar embarks on what should have been a simple mission: finding flowers for Marisha. What appears romantic on the surface becomes the thread that quietly binds every major storyline together. The search leads him through crowded streets, late-night markets, and the neon chaos of Bangla Road, where the events of Three Sides of Midnight begin converging with deadly precision.

Meanwhile, Three Sides of Midnight follows Awadi and Habib as they wait in Phuket, unaware that Sergeant Luther King is already tracking their movements. Hidden beneath the music, nightlife, and tourist crowds, a separate operation is taking shape. The tension inside Three Sides of Midnight grows from the knowledge that every character is moving toward the same destination while seeing only a fraction of the larger picture.

The brilliance of Three Sides of Midnight lies in how these seemingly unrelated journeys collide. Caesar searches for flowers. Awadi and Habib carry rare orchids. Luther King prepares his operation. Each thread feels separate until Three Sides of Midnight suddenly pulls them together in a single moment that changes everything.

What makes Three Sides of Midnight memorable is not simply its suspense, but its balance between tenderness and danger. One moment explores friendship, affection, and anticipation. The next reveals deception, manipulation, and violence hiding beneath the surface of Phuket’s nightlife. Few chapters in Silence Called Me shift so naturally between romance and geopolitical intrigue while maintaining the same relentless momentum.

By the end of Three Sides of Midnight, nothing remains simple. A gift becomes a weapon. A chance encounter becomes a trap. A search for flowers becomes the catalyst for betrayal, abduction, and unanswered questions. As the chapter closes, Three Sides of Midnight leaves readers with the unmistakable feeling that every event was connected long before any of the characters realized it.