Chapter 2: The Mint Tea Line

The metallic groan of the room sinking faded from Osman's ears, replaced by the thunder of his own heartbeat. In the darkness, his fingers found that cold coin buried deep in his pocket—the only tactile marker left after the regression. In his previous life, the shattering crash of that sparrow hitting the glass played on loop in his mind now, deafening and inescapable.

He hadn't been imprisoned. He'd been pushed off a cliff. Omar—the heir cast out of the family—had to live like a shadow from here on. He drew a deep breath. The air was thick with the damp salt tang of the Arabian Sea, the last exhalation before the Djinn woke.

He knew the only way to stay alive was to find the door to the truth before dawn.

Pre-dawn Dubai hadn't yet baked under the sun, but the luxury districts already blazed with light. Osman had changed into a faded kandura, blending in with a crew of day-hire servers. He wound through the narrow alleyways of the old Arabian quarter until he stopped before a private estate built from glass and granite.

This was The Osman Family's turf—Fatima's domain—and tonight's Iftar dinner was being hosted here. He pulled his cap low and scanned the crowd, hunting for that familiar silhouette: Rashid, the man who spun webs in the Black Market. Osman's fingers trembled—not from the cold, but from the storm he could feel rolling in.

Inside the banquet hall, myrrh smoke curled lazily beneath the cold glow of crystal chandeliers, wrapping the room in something sacred and suffocating at once. The elite murmured to one another, their laughter clipped and careful, as if afraid to wake some invisible force. Osman carried his tray and slipped through the gaps in the crowd like water through cracks in stone.

His gaze skimmed past the ladies in their expensive diamond necklaces and locked onto the corner. Rashid held his glass in one hand, those murky eyes circling Osman with zero restraint—a shark that'd caught the scent of blood. Osman forced his racing heart into check and kept up the charade of menial service, really just gathering intel.

Osman drifted over to the beverage station and reached for a freshly poured cup of Mint Tea. The moment his fingertips brushed the glass, something wrong hit his nose. Top-grade mint should taste clean and sharp, but this had a rough, earthy astringency laced in—like mud and rust. Osman's brow furrowed. Every alarm bell in his head was screaming.

This wasn't premium groundwater. It was unfiltered, industrial sludge. For a flaw like this to show up at the Iftar dinner of a top-tier conglomerate—it wasn't an accident. It was either a trap or a middle finger. He stared at that dark-green liquid as if it were a riddle wrapped in danger, with some massive conspiracy lurking behind it.

Osman didn't set the cup back down. He raised his hand. His voice wasn't loud, but it was enough to freeze the conversations at three tables in a row.

He looked up and said, flat as a blade: "That tea's off."

The words came out hoarse, wrapped in a calm that brooked no argument. The other servers blinked, then caught on—and the easy, lazy atmosphere snapped taut like a wire. Osman looked at that dark-green liquid again, a dangerous riddle in a cup. He knew the second those words left his mouth, there was no turning back. He'd have to face whatever tentacles were hiding under the surface.

The head waiter in his black uniform let out a cold laugh, sizing up Osman's rough robe from top to bottom.

The waiter sneered: "Who the hell do you think you are, insulting the hospitality of the Sheikh's house? Get your ass out to the kitchen and stop making me look bad."

A dozen pairs of eyes snapped to him—some dripping with contempt, others sparked with curiosity. Osman felt those gazes pricking his back like needles, but he didn't flinch. He knew that in this moment, silence was complicity, and what he needed was exposure. Even if it cost him everything, he had to stand here and point at the hole everyone else was choosing to look away from.

Osman met the waiter's stare and let the corner of his mouth curl.

Osman said, steady as stone: "Out in the desert, there are no secrets—only prices. Pride's dried your tongue out worse than sand, brother. Inshallah, that throat of yours will pay for what it said tonight."

The proverb landed hard, cutting through the hall's chatter like a bell. The waiter's face went from contempt to fury in a heartbeat, but he didn't move—there were too many big shots standing nearby, all watching with amused interest. Osman knew he'd made his mark. The real predator was out there in the dark, waiting for the bait to walk into the web.

Rashid stepped out of the shadows, moving with lazy elegance, his glass swaying gently in his hand. He wasn't angry—not even a little. Instead, he slid closer to Osman with something like genuine curiosity, his expensive cologne smothering the faint metallic tang of blood that clung to the hall.

Rashid murmured: "Kid, your tongue's on fire, but your brain clearly hasn't finished growing yet. This isn't the bazaar. Don't try to sell me your little market-trick routine."

Osman didn't flinch. He stared straight into those murky eyes and saw the fear buried deep—fear of forces neither of them fully understood, fear of what Osman represented standing here right now. Rashid tried to bulldoze him with authority, but Osman could feel it: the intimidation was hollow, propped up by something much more desperate underneath.

Rashid pulled a wad of rials from somewhere and slapped it into Osman's palm.

Rashid narrowed his eyes. "Take it. Shut up. Habibi, that's the going rate for your silence. In this city, a voice is the priciest commodity there is—and I'll pay top dollar for the quiet kind."

The bills were cold under his fingers and reeked of Rashid's palm sweat. Osman looked down at the wad and let a thin, humorless laugh escape him. This wasn't money. It was a curse—dirt they were shoveling over the truth. Take it, and he was an accomplice. Refuse it, and he was a target. There was no third door. He just had to walk forward with his chin up.

Osman pushed the money back, jaw set. "I don't need to sell my silence, and I don't need your charity. I know what's behind that door, and I know who's trying to seal its mouth. That 'body' of yours? It's not a metaphor, Mr. Rashid."

The smile froze on Rashid's face. Those cocky, plaything eyes went knife-sharp in an instant and locked onto Osman. The temperature in the hall dropped so low the air itself seemed to solidify. Osman felt his heart hammering so hard it wanted to burst through his throat, but he held on to that faint, barely-there smile—willingly poking the Black Market king right where it hurt.

Across the room, Fatima stood with a cup of untouched tea, her eyes tracking Osman through a cold, unwavering stare. The earlier conversations flashed through her mind. Osman's memories had stuck—not just stayed, but sharpened, as if the regression had etched every detail deeper.

Fatima murmured to herself: "He's back. Inshallah, everything's about to change."

Her voice was so quiet only Sara, standing just behind her, could catch it. Sara gave the tiniest nod, a flicker of unease crossing her eyes. They both understood: Osman showing up meant the balance had shattered, and the night ahead was the overture to blood and chaos.

Fatima's fingers white-knuckled the rim of her cup, waiting to see what Osman would do next while keeping a wary eye on the shadows stirring at the edges of the room.

Zayd materialized at the outer edge of the crowd out of nowhere, his beard trembling, his voice low and commanding.

Zayd barked: "Boy, stop disrupting the order. The tribe's eyes are on you. Even an ant knows when to stop crawling. You're being reckless, Osman."

Osman turned to Zayd, a thread of exhaustion in his voice. "Elder, order is just a tool the strong use to hold the weak in place. If there's poison in that tea, staying quiet makes you a co-conspirator. I'm not trying to bother anyone. I just want to drag the truth into the light—even if it costs me my life."

Zayd went quiet for a moment. Something complex crossed those cloudy eyes—disappointment in the boy, yes, but a flicker of approval he couldn't quite hide. He knew Osman was right. The truth, more often than not, was scarier than death.

Rashid's smile died completely, replaced by something raw and lethal. He'd figured it out: Osman was a variable—one you couldn't buy, couldn't scare into shutting up.

Rashid's voice came out wet and low: "Since you're so hell-bent on the truth, I'll help you 'see' it. Maybe, before you turn into an actual corpse, you'll learn just how valuable silence really is."

A chill shot up Osman's spine. Behind Rashid, two massive bodyguards had already shifted into position, silently cutting off every exit. The lights in the hall seemed to dim. The myrrh smell turned cloying, almost aggressive. Osman gripped his tray tighter, the metal edge biting into his