22.El desafío del mal

The living room was filled with laughter and empty conversation as Ibrahim settled casually onto the sofa, his legs spread as if he possessed the very air around him. A low-budget movie flickered on the half-silent television screen, casting an unpleasant neon glow on the walls.

His friends were scattered around him—some watching the obscene movie, others engaged in noisy gossip, all equally careless with their words.

It was then that Ibrahim saw him.

Zayan passed silently through the hallway, his head slightly bowed, not noticing that a gaze had been fixed on him.

Ibrahim's smile appeared like an unsheathed knife.

"Zayan, my dear older brother," he called in a cloying voice, heavy with feigned affection. "Come on, come in. Join us."

Zayan hesitated on the threshold, his fingers trembling as if he were debating whether to flee or obey. But something inside him—perhaps the desire to avoid trouble, perhaps the fear of causing more—pushed him to take a step inside.

"What's wrong, bhai ?" Ibrahim asked softly. "You haven't sat with me properly since I arrived."

He stood up, put his arm around him like a rope around his neck, and led him to the center of the room.

Zayan tensed.

The pungent scent of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke permeated Ibrahim's shirt. The air grew thick. Zayan held his breath.

Ibrahim turned to his friends, all grinning like hyenas.

—Guess what, guys. My innocent little brother got married.

The reaction was immediate. Whistles, laughter, and applause erupted like wildfire.

"And that's not all!" Ibrahim continued, his smile widening. "He's going to be a dad! Imagine... Zayan and his son in the same class, sharing a lunchbox."

The laughter grew louder, louder, crueler.

Zayan's jaw tightened.

Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.

"I'm grown up," he finally said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "I don't play anymore. I take care of my wife. And my responsibilities."

Ibrahim burst into exaggerated laughter, almost spilling his drink.

"Did you hear that?" he shouted, laughing. "Zayan thinks he's a man now!"

One of the friends snorted. Another imitated Zayan's soft voice, like a child pretending to be a soldier. Then they began surrounding him, throwing personal, grotesque questions like poison darts.

"What's going on here?" a voice broke through the hubbub with lightning precision.

All heads turned.

Muntaha stood in the doorway like a flame in a storm. Her veil was perfectly placed over her head and face, but her eyes... her eyes burned with a serene fury. Her hands were clenched, her chin held high. She wasn't trembling.

Zayan moved without thinking.

He freed himself from Ibrahim's arm and crossed the room toward her, like a tide returning to the sea. His fingers clutched at the sleeve of her robe, searching for anchor.

Muntaha's heart sank at the sight of the filthy environment.

Ibrahim leaned back on the sofa, his eyes shining with cynicism.

"Well, well," he muttered, swirling his glass listlessly. "I thought he came to protect you. But it turns out he's the one hiding behind your dupatta . Watch out, he'll be asking for your bracelets soon."

The group broke out into another round of vulgar laughter.

Muntaha took a step forward. His voice was tempered steel.

—Ibrahim, perhaps you've forgotten that Zayan is your older brother. If you can't respect him, at least have the decency to keep quiet.

Ibrahim's smile faltered for a moment.

One of his friends tried to laugh, but it came out tense, almost scared.

Muntaha did not stop.

—You wonder if Zayan is man enough. You learn to behave like one first.

The silence was absolute.

Ibrahim's jaw tightened. The smile returned to his face, but sharper. More dangerous.

"Careful," he said softly. "Don't cross your boundaries."

"I'm in them," Muntaha replied, without lowering his gaze. "But it seems you've forgotten yours."

He turned around, leading Zayan out of the room.

But behind them, a low, dirty voice murmured:

—She's got fire. I won't deny that. I'll bet she's pretty too...

Another laugh followed.

Gross. Disgusting.

Zayan shuddered. Muntaha tensed his back.

Ibrahim didn't laugh this time. His gaze turned dark.

"Nothing special," he muttered coldly, throwing his half-empty can onto the table.

The closest friend gave a crooked smile.

—You say that because it's beyond your reach.

The words fell like a challenge.

Ibrahim's eyes shifted toward the hallway.

He didn't blink.

"Out of my reach?" he repeated, his voice like poisoned honey. "Please. If I wanted... I could have anything."

Another of the men leaned toward him, his tone dripping with malice.

—Then prove it. Unless you're just a big mouth.

Ibrahim pressed his fingers against the edge of the sofa. For a second, no one spoke.

Then, very slowly, with a smile more cruel than before, he whispered:

-A week.

—Just wait and see.

The room fell into a thick silence. Even the most intoxicated of them froze.

Because in that smile...

There was not a shred of humor left.

Only darkness.