Chapter 1: Missing, Maybe Dead

The sound of the neighborhood mosque cut through the buzz of the rusted fan as Kofi came out of his flat and slammed the door behind him. The stairwell smelled of piss and rain, and still it was the quietest place to think.

He dialed Bhushan again.

The line rang. Then:

The number you are trying to reach is currently switched off.

He stared at the screen. Jaw tight.

“Kofi?” Kojo came out, shirtless, brushing his teeth with a finger. “Bro. Don’t tell me he vanished.”

“Tell you what?” Kofi snapped, eyes glued to the dead screen. “He ran off mid-deal, disappearing up his own ass.”

Kojo spit a streak of foam over the rail. “Shit. That bastard ran away?”

Kofi turned back “He’s gone. No phone. No signal...”

Kofi climbed back upstairs, passing Kojo on the landing.

Inside the flat, the fan swung lazily overhead. On the floor, Raisa sat cross-legged in front of a plastic crate, her hijab scarf wrapped tight over her hair. A sewing kit was open beside her, along with a half-dozen folded packets of plastic. Each one was nearly filled with soft white drugs powder pressed in.

Even under the tube light, Raisa looked luminous. Raisa was unmistakably Bangladeshi. Pale gold skin, the kind that caught light like silk. Her features were sharp but delicate, straight nose, full lips, and dark, kohl-lined eyes that missed nothing.

Raisa was striking in a quiet, effortless way.

There was something calm and surgical about the way she worked, her hands moving with precision, her jaw set in quiet focus. She looked like someone who never forgot a detail, never made the same mistake twice.

She didn’t glance up when Kofi came in.

“Bhushan’s not coming, huh?” she said, almost to herself.

Kofi smashed the wall. “Took the advance and disappeared.”

Raisa looked at him “You gave him how much?”

Kofi frustratedly said “Thirty.”

Raisa clicked her tongue. “That was the club’s Friday drop?”

Kofi nodded. “Acid, coke, MD. All of it.”

She sealed a packet with a tiny flame, then slid it into a tin lunchbox.

Kojo walked in, wiping his mouth with a towel. “We should’ve used Asif. He’s a punk, but he shows up.”

“Asif’s on bail,” Raisa said.

Kofi ran a hand over his face. “I’ll have to return the money. Which means no product, no cash, and nothing for rent.”

Raisa didn’t look up. “We’re already a week behind.”

“Landlord called this morning,” Kojo added. “Said next time he’s bringing cops.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Kofi muttered.

“You gonna pay him with words?” Kojo reacted

Kofi stood, agitated, pacing. “Bhushan had no reason to bail. We’ve worked three drops with him, clean. He had a girl in customs.”

“Maybe someone else gave him a better offer.”

“Or maybe,” Raisa said softly, “he’s dead.”

The room froze.

Kofi turned. “Say that again?”

She finally looked up, holding the needle between two fingers. “Zara. Girl from Mira Road. Did weekend drops for that Kandivali crew. Got paid on Thursday. Didn’t come back on Friday. Last ping from her phone was near Sion.”

“That’s where they found her dead body,” Kojo said. “Slashed, teeth gone. Plastic bags over her head.”

“Zara didn’t use,” Raisa said. “She was clean and Careful.”

Kofi stared at her. “You think someone’s targeting runners?”

“I think Bhushan had people above him,” she replied. “Someone else wanted his route”

....

Inside the Bedroom at Late Evening

The bedroom was barely more than a box with a mattress and a barred window. Rain tapped the pane like fingernails. Kofi sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

The rusted fan clattered overhead.

Behind him, the door creaked open. Barefoot, Raisa stepped inside. She didn’t speak. Just closed the door softly and came to sit beside him.

“You did what you could,” she said quietly.

Kofi didn’t look up. “I backed the wrong man. I put everyone at risk.”

“You made a call. That’s what a man do. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“I gambled thirty grand on Bhushan,” he said bitterly.

Raisa rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re not alone in this.”

“I feel like I am.”

“You’re not,” she said, more firmly now. “You’ve kept us afloat through worse. Remember that Haji Ali drop? You stood in front of those thugs alone while I was stuck on that street with half the product. You didn’t blink.”

He let out a shaky breath. “I’m not that guy anymore.”

“You’re exactly that guy,” she said, turning his face toward hers. “You just need to breathe.”

He looked into her eyes. The rain cast slow-moving shadows across her face.

Something softened in him. Their lips met eachother. It was a union of worlds when her rose-pink Bengali lips met the deep, rich black African lips.

She smooched his upper lip and brushed her thumb accross his eyebrows. “You’re always carrying the weight. Let me carry some.”

Kofi leaned forward, resting his forehead to hers. The tension drained from his shoulders in a slow, aching exhale.

Their lips met again—tentative, searching. Then deeper. She was feeling his raw breath within her

She pulled her hijab scarf loose, and he unbuttoned her top, slow, as if undressing something sacred.

His hand slid to her waist. Hers to the back of his neck. The kiss grew heavier, more urgent. The storm outside faded under the sound of their breaths, their bodies drawn together like iron and heat.

Then—

Buzz.

The phone ringing.

It is a missed call. Followed by a message.

They both looked at it.

One message. Unknown number.

New number. One message.

“Meet me behind Masjid Cafe. 15 minutes. Come alone.”

Raisa read it and said “Bhushan?”

“No,” Kofi said. “But someone’s watching.”

---

15 Minutes Later at Masjid Cafe, Back Alley