Chapter 1- The Boy the World Abandoned

Some children are born into a world that has been waiting to love them.

Others enter a world that has already forgotten what it means to be human.

And then there are children like Haider.

Children who never get the chance to discover what kind of person they could have become before the world begins deciding what they must become.

### 1\. A Night of Rain

Bangladesh. A government hospital. A stormy night.

Rain hammered against the hospital windows.

Thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the old building's windows as water streamed down the walls outside. The power flickered occasionally, and the corridors smelled of disinfectant, damp clothing, and exhaustion.

Inside the maternity ward, a young woman lay on a hospital bed, gripping the sheets beneath her.

She was alone.

No husband waited outside the delivery room. No mother held her hand. No relative paced anxiously through the corridor.

There was nobody to comfort her.

The only person who had ever promised to stay beside her was already gone.

Her husband had been a Bangladeshi military officer. He had died during a dangerous rescue mission after helping save the country's Prime Minister from Pakistani forces. He had stayed behind so that others could escape safely.

The mission had succeeded.

The Prime Minister had returned home.

The newspapers had praised the fallen officer. Television presenters had called him a national hero. For a few days, people had spoken about his courage and sacrifice.

Then the headlines changed.

The country continued moving.

And his wife was left behind.

She had married him for love, despite the objections of his family. She had been a poor woman without influential relatives or a family name that commanded respect. His parents had never accepted her, believing their son deserved someone from a more prestigious background.

When he died, they blamed her.

They told her that she had brought misfortune into their family. They accused her of ruining their son's life and refused to offer her shelter.

Even after learning that she was carrying his child, they remained unmoved.

She had begged them to reconsider.

They had closed the door.

Since then, she had survived by cleaning other people's houses and selling flowers on the streets. Some days, she earned enough to eat. Other days, she went to sleep hungry.

But she had continued.

For the sake of the child inside her.

Now, as another wave of pain passed through her body, she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Allah..."

Her voice trembled.

"Please..."

She had no strength left for long prayers.

She simply wanted her baby to live.

Outside, lightning illuminated the hospital courtyard.

A nurse hurried to her bedside.

"Stay with us. Take a deep breath."

The woman tried.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the bed.

She had imagined this day countless times. She had imagined holding her child in a warm home, introducing him to his father through old photographs, and telling him stories about the man who had loved them both.

She had imagined a difficult life, perhaps.

But not a lonely one.

Not this.

Another contraction came.

The woman cried out.

And then, beneath the relentless sound of the storm, a newborn's cry filled the room.

For a moment, everything else seemed to stop.

The nurse lifted the baby carefully.

"It's a boy."

A boy.

Her boy.

The woman turned her head.

"Let me see him..."

The nurse placed the newborn in her arms.

He was small, warm, and restless. His tiny hands moved against the blanket as he cried.

The woman stared at him.

Then she smiled.

It was not a strong smile. She was too exhausted for that.

It was simply the smile of someone who had finally received the one thing she had been waiting for.

"Assalamu alaikum," she whispered.

Peace be upon you.

The baby continued crying.

She laughed softly through her tears.

"You don't even know how to answer me, do you?"

She touched his cheek.

His skin was warm beneath her fingers.

For the first time in months, she did not feel entirely alone.

"What should I call you?" she murmured.

She had thought about his name long before this night. She wanted a name that sounded strong without being harsh, a name that could belong to a child who would grow up with kindness in his heart.

"Haider."

She spoke the name again, as though she were introducing herself to him.

"Your name is Haider."

The baby gradually quieted in her arms.

She looked toward the ceiling, where the dim hospital light flickered.

"Allah, please protect him."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Let him live a good life. Let him grow up to be a good man. Let him never feel as alone as I have felt."

She lowered her face and kissed his forehead.

"And if I cannot stay beside him..."

Her voice broke.

"...please let someone love him."

For a little while, she continued holding him.

Then her breathing became irregular.

The nurse noticed immediately.

"Doctor!"

The room changed in an instant.

Medical staff rushed to the bed. The newborn was gently moved away while the doctors worked to stabilize his mother.

Haider began crying again.

His mother heard the sound.

She tried to turn her head toward him.

She wanted to hold him one more time.

She wanted to tell him that he was loved.

She wanted to promise that she would always be there.

But her body no longer obeyed her.

The rain continued beating against the windows.

The doctors worked desperately.

And the woman who had fought through poverty, rejection, and loneliness to bring her child into the world slowly lost her strength.

Her eyes remained fixed in the direction where she had last seen her son.

Then, just as the storm reached its loudest, her hand fell still.

The room fell quiet.

A nurse stood motionless for a moment before lowering her eyes.

The newborn continued crying.

Haider had been alive for only a few minutes.

And already, he had lost the only person who had ever promised to love him.

### 2\. A Name Without a Family

The storm ended before sunrise.

Water dripped from the hospital roof as the first pale light of morning spread across the city.

Inside the maternity ward, Haider slept beneath a clean blanket.

He did not know that his mother was gone.

He did not know that his father had died serving his country.

He did not know that somewhere in Bangladesh, his grandparents were alive and had refused to accept him.

He knew nothing about sacrifice, prejudice, poverty, or the strange cruelty with which adults sometimes treated one another.

He was simply a baby.

And like every other baby, he deserved a chance.

Several days later, after the necessary paperwork had been completed, Haider was transferred to a government adoption center.

His mother's name appeared in his records.

His father's military service appeared in the documents attached to his case.

But no family member came forward to claim him.

The center contacted the relatives it could identify.

The answer remained the same.

They did not want him.

The officials eventually closed the case and registered him as another child requiring long-term care.

His mother's belongings were few. Among them was a small piece of cloth that had been kept with his hospital documents.

There were no expensive toys.

No family heirlooms.

No comfortable home waiting for him.

Only a name.

Haider.

The name his mother had whispered before she died.

It was the first thing he had ever been given that belonged entirely to him.

He would grow up knowing that name, but not the full story behind it. He would not know the family name his father had carried, nor understand why the people who should have protected him had turned away.

For years, his world would consist of the adoption center's walls, its crowded rooms, and the children who came and went.

Some children were adopted.

Some were transferred elsewhere.

Others remained long enough to stop asking when their families would arrive.

Haider was one of those who stayed.

Yet he was not an angry child.

Not at first.

He smiled easily. He shared his food when another child was hungry and helped younger children reach shelves that stood too high for them. If someone fell while running through the courtyard, Haider was often the first to offer a hand.

When the caretaker asked him why he kept helping people who sometimes treated him badly, his answer was simple.

"Because they need help."

He did not know much about his religion, except what he had been taught about Allah, prayer, and treating others with kindness. The older he grew, the more he held on to those teachings.

Whenever he felt frightened, he would quietly pray.

Whenever he missed a mother he could not remember, he would ask Allah to keep her in peace.

And whenever another child left the center with an adoptive family, Haider would watch from the courtyard.

He would smile and wave.

Then he would return to his room.

He never wanted to make another child feel guilty for being chosen.

But at night, when the lights went out, he sometimes wondered what it would feel like to be chosen himself.

To have someone wait for him.

To hear someone call his name because they were happy he had returned.

To belong somewhere.

He did not ask for wealth.

He did not dream of becoming famous.

He wanted a family.

A small, ordinary family.

One that would let him grow up without wondering why he had been abandoned.

And when he finally met a man who appeared willing to give him that future, Haider believed his waiting was over.

He could not have been more wrong.

### 3\. The Man Who Promised Him a Home

The man began visiting the adoption center when Haider was six years old.

He was well-dressed, polite, and patient. He spoke respectfully to the staff and never raised his voice around the children.

Unlike some visitors, he did not immediately ask which children were available for adoption.

Instead, he watched them play.

He learned their names.

He brought small gifts and spoke to them as though their thoughts mattered.

Haider noticed him because the man returned several times.

On his third visit, he found Haider sitting beneath a tree in the courtyard, watching two younger children play with a broken toy.

"Why aren't you playing with them?" the man asked.

Haider looked up.

"They only have one toy. If I play too, someone might get upset."

The man glanced at the children.

"You could take turns."

"They already tried. They started arguing."

"And you decided to stay here?"

Haider nodded.

The man sat beside him.

"You're a considerate boy."

Haider looked down, slightly embarrassed.

"I just don't like fighting."

"Most people don't like fighting."

"Some people do."

The man chuckled.

"That's true."

They sat together for a while.

Then the man asked, "Would you like to go somewhere new?"

Haider's eyes lifted.

"Somewhere new?"

"Somewhere you could study, learn new things, and have people looking after you."

"Like a family?"

The man paused for a fraction of a second.

Then he smiled.

"Something like that."

Haider's face brightened.

"Would I have my own room?"

"Perhaps."

"Would I be allowed to keep my name?"

"Of course."

Haider looked toward the other children.

"Can I come back and visit them?"

The man rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Once everything is settled."

For the rest of the day, Haider could hardly stop thinking about the conversation.

That night, he quietly made a prayer.

He thanked Allah for the possibility of a new beginning.

He asked for his mother's forgiveness because he sometimes forgot her face, even though he had never truly known it.

And he prayed that wherever his father was, he would somehow know that his son was trying to become a good person.

The man continued visiting.

Little by little, Haider began to trust him.

He told the man about the other children, about his fear of being left behind, and about how he sometimes imagined what his mother might have looked like.

The man listened.

He seemed to understand.

One afternoon, Haider asked him a question that he had been carrying for a long time.

"Do you think my mother loved me?"

The man looked at him.

"Why wouldn't she?"

"Because she left me here."

The man was silent for a moment.

Haider continued, his voice quiet.

"I don't remember her. I don't even know what her voice sounded like."

He rubbed his fingers together.

"Sometimes I think if she had stayed alive, she would have come to get me."

The man studied the boy's face.

"Your mother gave you life, Haider. That means something."

Haider looked up.

"Then why didn't anyone else want me?"

The man did not answer immediately.

Perhaps he had prepared himself for questions about the child's future.

Perhaps he had expected gratitude.

But he had not expected that simple question.

Finally, he said, "You deserve a better life than this place can give you."

Haider's eyes began to shine.

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes."

"Then..."

Haider hesitated.

"Can I go with you?"

The man smiled.

"Pack your things. We're leaving tomorrow."

For the first time in six years, Haider fell asleep believing that someone would be waiting for him in the morning.

The following day, Haider packed his belongings into a small bag.

He had very little to take.

A spare set of clothes.

A worn notebook.

A few small things he had collected over the years.

Before leaving, he said goodbye to the children he had grown up with.

One of the younger boys wrapped his arms around Haider.

"Are you coming back?"

Haider returned the hug.

"Of course."

"Promise?"

Haider smiled.

"Promise."

He climbed into the vehicle beside the man.

As the adoption center disappeared behind them, Haider watched the streets pass through the window.

He wondered what his new home would look like.

He wondered whether he would have a bed of his own.

He wondered whether anyone would ask him how his day had gone.

For a while, he was too excited to feel afraid.

Then the buildings became fewer.

The road grew quieter.

Tall walls appeared in the distance.

Behind them stood a large compound surrounded by security cameras, reinforced gates, and armed guards.

Haider leaned toward the window.

"Is that where we're going?"

"Yes."

"Is it a school?"

"Something like that."

Haider looked at the guards.

"Why does a school need so many people with guns?"

"Security."

The vehicle passed through the gates.

Haider watched the compound carefully.

Several buildings stood around a central courtyard. Uniformed personnel walked between them, and a group of children stood in a straight line beneath the supervision of an instructor.

Nobody was laughing.

Nobody was playing.

The children looked tired.

Some stared at the ground.

Others watched the adults with expressions that seemed far too serious for their ages.

Haider's excitement slowly faded.

"Can we go back?"

The man glanced at him.

"What?"

"I don't like it here."

"You haven't seen anything yet."

"I want to go back to the adoption center."

The vehicle stopped.

The man opened the door.

"Get out."

Haider remained seated.

"Please."

The man's expression hardened.

"I said get out."

Haider climbed down.

An attendant approached with a clipboard.

"Is this the transfer?"

"Yes," the man replied.

"Name?"

"Haider."

The attendant checked the document.

"Age?"

"Six."

A mark was made on the page.

"Transfer accepted."

Haider frowned.

"Transfer?"

Nobody answered him.

He turned toward the man.

"What does that mean?"

The man adjusted his sleeve.

"These people will take care of you."

"But I want to go home."

"This is your new home."

Haider shook his head.

"No. I want to go back."

The man crouched in front of him.

For a moment, he wore the same warm expression Haider had come to trust.

"Listen to me. These people are your new family."

Haider stared at him.

"My family?"

"Yes."

"But I thought you were going to help me find one."

The man's smile disappeared.

"I did."

Haider did not understand.

He grabbed the man's sleeve.

"Please don't leave me here."

The man removed his hand.

"You'll understand when you're older."

Then he stood and walked toward the vehicle.

Haider froze.

For a few seconds, he could not believe what he was seeing.

The man had promised.

He had listened to Haider's fears.

He had told him that he deserved a better life.

He had made him believe that he would finally belong somewhere.

"Wait!"

Haider ran after him.

The attendant caught him around the waist.

"LET ME GO!"

The man kept walking.

"YOU PROMISED!"

His voice echoed across the courtyard.

The vehicle door opened.

"PLEASE! I'LL BE GOOD! I WON'T CAUSE ANY TROUBLE!"

The engine started.

"PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!"

The vehicle drove away.

Haider struggled until the attendant forced him to stop.

He stared at the closing gates.

He could not understand what he had done wrong.

He had been polite.

He had listened.

He had trusted the man.

Why was he being abandoned again?

The attendant dragged him toward the building.

Haider turned his head for one final look at the entrance.

The gates closed.

That night, he cried until he had no strength left.

He prayed because he did not know what else to do.

He asked Allah why people kept leaving him.

He asked whether his mother had felt as lonely as he did.

And, for the first time, he wondered whether the world was truly as kind as he had always hoped.

Nobody answered.

The next morning, an instructor opened the door to his room.

"Get up."

Haider wiped his face.

He stood.

"Follow me."

Haider followed.

He had no idea where he was going.

He only knew that he had to survive another day.

### 4\. Welcome to the Killer Hunter Association

The Killer Hunter Association had existed for years.

To the outside world, it did not exist at all.

It had no public headquarters, no official recruitment campaigns, and no visible presence in ordinary society.

Its members operated through concealed networks, corrupt intermediaries, and facilities that did not appear on normal records.

Its purpose was simple.

Create human weapons capable of completing missions that ordinary operatives could not.

The Association did not recruit children because it wanted to help them.

It selected them because children could be shaped.

The youngest candidates were often taken from vulnerable backgrounds. Some had no living relatives. Others had families who could be manipulated, threatened, or persuaded to give them up.

Poverty made them easier to acquire.

Isolation made them easier to control.

And the absence of people willing to search for them made them disappear almost without consequence.

The Association called its candidates investments.

Its instructors called the process selection.

The children would eventually learn the word that described it more accurately.

Exploitation.

Haider knew none of this.

He was six years old, and he believed he had been sent away because he was unwanted.

The building where he was kept had no decorations. The corridors were clean, the doors were heavy, and the windows were too high for children to look outside comfortably.

He was given a plain uniform and assigned a room with several other boys.

One of them sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.

Another was crying quietly beneath his blanket.

A third looked up when Haider entered.

"What's your name?"

"Haider."

"How old are you?"

"Six."

The boy frowned.

"You're younger than me."

Haider did not answer.

The boy looked toward the door.