Chapter 12: someone that goes by "Mutakamel"
4th June 2026
As Tariq and Harith run after him—
"After him, Harith! We can't let him get away!"
The clown keeps laughing, despite the terrible injury on his insides and the stab wound on his ribs. The blood that should be flowing is slowed down, distorted, and held back unnaturally by his Disposition.
The clown bursts out of the wedding venue through the emergency door.
BAM!
The door slams open as he escapes into the outside.
Tariq moves ahead of Harith—his speed noticeably superior.
The door behind them is then struck by Harith's electric outburst, leaving behind a trail of cemented dust in its wake.
The streets outside are dark, lit only by yellow streetlights stretching into the distance like dim sentinels.
The clown runs ahead, his shoes squealing with every frantic step.
Each squeak isn't just noise—it feels like a signal, a rhythm of chaos itself.
People in his path are shoved aside as if space itself refuses to stay stable around him.
When Tariq enters the same path, the crowd reacts differently.
Hands grab at him.
Pulling.
Holding.
Dragging him down with a stubborn, collective resistance—like the street itself wants him stopped.
Tariq slows.
Just slightly.
Enough to feel it.
Then—
A car horn echoes somewhere in the distance.
Not once.
But sustained.
Growing louder.
Like something is accelerating toward inevitability.
Tariq's body shifts.
He forces his way forward.
Muscles tense.
He rips free from the crowd's grip with raw physical strength, sending hands slipping off his shoulders and arms.
Without hesitation, he slams a pressure cooker down in front of him and switches it on.
Tink.
Tink.
The sound is small at first.
Almost innocent.
But it doesn't stay that way.
Steam begins to whisper inside the metal body.
A faint vibration crawls across its surface.
The lid trembles… faster… faster…
Like something inside is begging for release.
Tariq doesn't look away.
From nowhere, he summons two oversized wooden rolling pins—one to his left, one to his right—hovering horizontally like extensions of his will.
The pressure cooker begins to scream in silence.
Metal rattling.
Steam building.
The entire object shaking violently under invisible force.
"Now!"
The lid detonates upward in a violent burst of compressed steam—
PSHHHHHHHHH—!
And Tariq is gone.
Launched skyward like a cannon shot made of heat and pressure.
At the exact same moment, the rolling pins sweep outward, striking the surrounding crowd with controlled, sweeping force—clearing space without chaos, like a calculated reset of the battlefield.
The car horn reaches its peak.
Then—
A sudden attempt to correct direction.
Too late.
CRASH!
Metal meets brick.
Glass shatters outward like frozen rain.
A plume of black smoke crawls up the wall as the vehicle collapses into silence.
Meanwhile.
Harith is still behind Tariq.
He spots smoke rising ahead… and a mass of people standing in its path, blocking the route completely.
He lifts his head.
Tariq is already airborne.
"I'll be taking a different route as well."
Harith breaks into a much faster sprint, a trail of blue electricity following behind him like burning residue in the air.
He launches himself onto the wall on his right, his foot sticking to it as if gravity briefly stops applying to him.
He moves across it like a spider, skipping over the crowd beneath him.
Harith drops back to the ground.
He passes a disco entrance where two tall guards stand motionless.
Then—
Without warning, they attack him.
Harith dodges the first strike from Guard 1. The wind of the punch brushes across his face.
"You know, I'd have enjoyed a fight like that."
He speaks calmly as his fist begins sparking with crackling electricity.
"But I ain't got no time to waste around here."
He ducks another punch.
As Harith is about to strike back, Guard 2 kicks him in the chest. The impact forces a sharp grunt out of him.
Harith recovers instantly.
He drives his fist into Guard 2.
Electricity transfers on impact—clean, precise.
The guard collapses unconscious.
(I didn't want to kill him. I can't… so I'll knock them out cold.)
Guard 1 doesn't retreat.
He rushes forward again, chaining punches and kicks in rapid succession.
Harith blocks and dodges each attack until—
he deliberately allows contact.
ZZZZZZGGGG!
Guard 1 collapses unconscious.
An invisible grid of blue and white electricity flickers faintly around Harith's body.
Harith sprints again.
He pushes through the crowd, forcing space open through movement alone.
People shout behind him—some angry, some confused, some stunned by the electricity trailing him.
Then—
He collides with someone familiar.
Harith steps back, rubbing his head.
"Are you alright?"
The person speaks in a calm, almost gentle tone.
"It's nothing."
Harith replies.
He looks up.
Gray, almost spiky hair.
Beige-toned skin.
(Wait… this hair… this skin color… do I know him?)
And Mutafakir thinks the same.
(Black hair… purple and green hair tie… it's him. That same guy from before.)
Memories flash—
Mutafakir breaking into Tariq's house to steal a Disposition powder.
"And who're you?"
Harith asks, stern.
"The name's Mutafakir. It's a pleasure meeting you."
Harith stares at his hand for a few seconds—
then slaps it away.
Mutafakir rubs his hand, unbothered.
"Can't be trusting people nowadays… and you've definitely distracted me! I was supposed to be running after that clown, but of course someone gets in my way…"
Harith prepares to leave again.
"Hold on. Do you by any chance know where is… Mi'na Khraba's marriage?"
Harith freezes.
His back still turned.
"Now listen here," Harith says.
"If you're here to cause trouble and mess around, you should go home. Because if you don't, you're not leaving here with your soul inside your body."
The threat hangs in the air.
Both fists already sparking with electricity.
"Woah, woah, woah! I am not here to cause any trouble, I swear!"
Mutafakir raises his hands.
"In fact, I am here to join you. Be by your side."
"Oh, so you suddenly wanna be 'on my side'?"
Harith mocks him.
Harith turns fully around.
His expression is serious now.
The usual playful Harith is gone.
"Who sent you, 'Mutafakir'?"
"Let me guess…"
A small, dangerous smirk curls on his face.
(This guy is way too hostile… does he know I broke into Tariq's house?!)"
Mutafakir thinks, slightly sweating.
"Was it someone that goes by the name… 'Mutakamel'?"
(He knows Mutakamel?! How?!)"
On another side.
Mutakamel sits in silence, listening to everything.
When his name is spoken—
he pauses.
"So… this man called Harith mentions my name."
He leans back slightly.
"Very well."
He begins dialing a number using his badly drawn arrows.
One arrow lifts the phone.
Another dials.
Once the call connects—
"Shagahf. I've got an extra bounty for you."
Mutakamel looks at a photo of Harith inside a freshly created book made by Asma.
"Do your job properly, and I'll give you whatever you desire."
"Another challenge, huh?"
The voice on the other side replies with a smirk.
"Call it done, fam. Can't disappoint our clients now… can we?"
To be continued…