Beginning: The Quiet Life of Zain (Expanded)
Zain's footsteps echoed on the dirt road as he walked, the weight of the morning still pressing against his chest. The city was just waking up, the streets still sleepy, the quiet hum of early traffic far off in the distance. Zain didn't mind the silence. In fact, he preferred it.
His home, tucked away on the outskirts of the bustling city, was a small wooden shack. It was far from what people would call a 'home,' but to Zain, it was all he had. The wooden walls creaked with age, and the roof often leaked when it rained, but it had character. It had a soul. Zain had made peace with it.
Inside, the walls were bare, save for a few old photographs that hung crookedly, reminders of a life long past. There was no electricity, no phone, just a single candle that he would light when the sun dipped behind the horizon. The small bed in the corner was neatly made every morning, as was the routine. Zain didn't need much — just the basics.
The stillness of his house mirrored the stillness inside him. He often found solace in the simplicity of life.
But Zain wasn't just about solitude — he took great care of himself, both physically and mentally. His days started early, not with a loud alarm or the rush of the modern world, but with the sound of birds and the rustling of leaves. A healthy breakfast — usually a bowl of oatmeal with fruits — was followed by his daily workout. It was a routine he followed without fail. His body, lean and strong, showed the signs of years of disciplined effort.
Zain had a deep love for silat, an art form that connected his body, mind, and soul. He practiced it every morning, moving gracefully through the fluid, precise motions that had been passed down through generations. Each strike, each stance, was about balance — not just in the body, but in life. His movements were slow at first, a calm fluidity, but as the day began, his motions would pick up pace, reflecting the quiet storm inside him.
The mental focus needed for silat had sharpened his mind as well. Zain was intelligent, his mind clear and sharp. He didn't need fancy gadgets or distractions to stay connected with the world — he had his thoughts, his training, and his routines. The stillness of his life gave him a certain clarity that many others, lost in the noise of their busy lives, couldn't comprehend.
"Zain, you still haven't fixed the roof, have you?" His neighbor, an old woman who lived two houses down, often called out to him from her porch.
Zain would smile, tipping his head slightly, a quiet acknowledgment. "I'll get to it soon," he'd reply. And he always meant it. He just never found the urgency in things like that. It wasn't that he was lazy — far from it. He was just a man who preferred the slow pace, the quiet, and the simplicity of his own company.
Zain's Journey to the City
The morning sky was still tinged with the soft pinks of dawn as Zain prepared for his journey. The wooden floor of his home creaked under his feet as he moved about, his quiet routine unfolding like any other day. But today, there was a subtle sense of anticipation in the air — a familiar, almost comforting pressure that weighed on him.
With a deep breath, he opened the small wooden chest at the foot of his bed and pulled out his old, well-worn sneakers. They were the only pair he had, a trusted companion for every step he took. His fingers traced the frayed laces, a small smile tugging at his lips. This was how he started his day — simple, steady, with a quiet confidence.
After a quick stretch, Zain slipped his feet into the sneakers, the familiar, comforting fit offering him an almost meditative calm. He adjusted his wristwatch, a basic one, and took one last look at the small, quiet house that he would leave behind for the next several hours.
It wasn't much, this little life of his. But it was enough.
Zain stepped outside and closed the door behind him with a soft click. He didn't bother with a bag or any distractions — there was nothing he needed except the road ahead.
The morning air was cool against his skin, and the ground beneath his feet was soft from the night's dew. He began to walk, each step measured, each breath deep and even. The city was still far off, hidden behind the thick layers of trees and hills. Zain knew the path well — 30 kilometers in all. It wasn't a journey many would consider easy, but it was his way of life.
The first few kilometers always felt the same. His feet moved steadily along the gravel roads, and the quiet sounds of nature surrounded him. The chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the soft hum of the wind against his face were all he needed to start his day.
As the road stretched on, Zain's pace picked up. His strides grew longer, his breathing deeper. He wasn't rushing, just settling into the rhythm of it. With every step, his muscles warmed, the coolness of the morning giving way to a slow, growing heat. Sweat began to bead on his brow, but Zain didn't mind. It was part of the process — part of the quiet discipline that defined him.
The world around him slowly began to change. The dirt roads turned into paved streets, and the trees thinned out, giving way to distant views of the city skyline. The sounds of the countryside faded, replaced by the faint hum of traffic and the distant murmur of a world waking up.
Zain kept his pace steady, his focus unwavering. There were no shortcuts, no rushing through the journey. He could already feel the weariness creeping into his muscles, but he didn't stop. He had done this many times before. The city was still far, but it was always within reach.
By the time the first rays of sunlight pierced through the buildings, Zain was entering the outskirts of the city. The concrete jungle loomed ahead, but he wasn't distracted. The world around him might have been changing, but he remained the same — calm, collected, steady.
As Zain crossed the main avenue, the towering buildings loomed like glass giants, each one reflecting the golden sheen of early sunlight. His footsteps echoed against the pavement as he passed a group of people lined up outside one of the high-rises — men and women in their best attire, eyes filled with hope and nerves, waiting for a chance at employment.
Zain didn't pause.
He never did.
Their world, full of resumes and briefcases, was not his. His life moved at a different rhythm — quieter, leaner, sharper. He walked past them, his expression unreadable, the low hum of the city brushing past his ears like an old song.
He passed a row of shops, his feet moving on instinct now — his route to his employer's home always the same. There was a bookstore on the left, a coffee shop that always smelled better than it tasted, and then… the old jewelry store. Gold & Grace.
He glanced sideways out of habit, expecting the usual: the glass window lined with glittering bangles, chains of yellow gold catching the light, and the old shopkeeper usually sipping his tea behind the counter.
But this morning, something was off.
The glass door was ajar.
That never happened.
Inside, the lights flickered erratically, and the display cases were shattered. Zain slowed down. Movement — too quick, too jerky — caught his eye through the glass. Three figures in dark clothing, masks over their faces, were shoving gold into black bags. One of them kicked over a stool. Another pointed a gun at the terrified shopkeeper, who sat hunched behind the counter, shaking.
For a second, Zain just watched.
He could've kept walking. It wasn't his business. But his feet were already turning, body already moving before his mind caught up.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped in.
Three heads snapped toward him.
"What the hell—?"
The one nearest to him lunged forward, raising a crowbar. But Zain was faster. His body moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd trained every day of his life. His silat instincts kicked in — not as something learned, but something lived.
He caught the man's wrist mid-swing and twisted sharply. A sickening crack echoed through the store as the crowbar clattered to the ground. Before the man could even scream, Zain drove a powerful elbow into his jaw, sending him sprawling across a shattered display.
The second man rushed him from behind, knife in hand. Zain ducked low, pivoted, and delivered a sweeping leg kick that knocked the man's balance. In one motion, he grabbed the attacker by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The drywall cracked.
The third one — the one with the gun — stood frozen for a moment. Zain turned his full attention toward him now. Sweat dripped from the masked man's brow as he raised the weapon, but his hands were trembling.
Zain took a step forward.
"Don't come any closer!" the man barked, panic choking his voice.
Zain didn't listen.
In two strides, he was within reach.
The gun fired — once.
A loud crack.
The bullet grazed Zain's left arm, tearing through his sleeve. But he didn't stop. Pain flashed across his face, but his eyes burned with unshaken focus. He grabbed the barrel of the gun, twisted it out of the man's grip with both hands, and delivered a punishing knee to the man's gut.
The robber dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
The silence that followed was heavy — broken only by the slow drip of blood from Zain's arm and the whimpering of the shopkeeper behind the counter.
Zain exhaled slowly.
His broad chest rose and fell under his simple, sweat-dampened T-shirt. His long hair clung to his forehead, a few strands curling near his sharp jawline. He looked like a ghost of some forgotten warrior — dropped into a world that no longer knew what to do with his kind.
He walked over to the counter and helped the old man up gently.
"You okay?"
The shopkeeper nodded, eyes wide in disbelief.
"W-Who are you?"
Zain didn't answer. He merely picked up the gun, emptied the magazine, and placed the weapon on the counter.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked back outside — the city's noise swallowing him once again.