Kazaf: The upside down

Kazaf stood at the edge of the rooftop, looking out over the sprawling city. The lights blinked like stars, but his mind was far from peaceful. The weight of the night had settled on his shoulders, a reminder that his life was not as ordinary as it appeared.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, scanning the screen. A message from his mother.

"Kazaf, be careful. I sense danger."

He frowned. His mother, Alaca, was never one to speak in riddles, but there was always an underlying truth to her words. She had been more on edge lately, ever since they'd moved to the city. Something about his past was catching up with them, and he could feel it in his bones.

"Danger…" he muttered to himself, turning his gaze back to the horizon.

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Kazaf."

He turned sharply, seeing Asma standing by the rooftop door, her silhouette outlined by the warm glow of the streetlights. Her long, dark hair was pulled back, her eyes sharp and calculating, yet there was something vulnerable beneath the surface.

He didn't hide his surprise. "Asma. What are you doing here?"

She walked toward him, her heels clicking against the stone. "I could ask you the same thing. It's late. You're not usually one for late-night thinking."

Kazaf shrugged, trying to keep his emotions in check. As much as he admired Asma, there was always something about her that made him cautious. Her beauty, her intelligence—it all came with an arrogance that both intrigued and frustrated him.

"I needed to clear my head," he said, his voice low.

"About what?" Asma asked, her gaze narrowing. "You've been distant lately. Something's off."

Kazaf hesitated, not wanting to share his worries. But with Asma, it was always hard to hide the truth. She had a way of seeing through him, piercing through the walls he built around himself.

"Just family stuff," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's complicated."

Asma raised an eyebrow. "You've never been one to keep secrets, Kazaf. What's really going on?"

Kazaf looked at her, studying her face. Her beauty was undeniable, but it wasn't just her looks that captivated him. There was something about her strength, her presence that made him feel both drawn to her and afraid.

Before he could respond, a sudden crash echoed through the alley below, followed by a guttural shout. Kazaf's instincts kicked in, and he immediately turned toward the sound, his body tensing.

"Stay here," he ordered Asma, his voice sharp.

But Asma was already moving toward the door. "No, I'm coming with you."

Kazaf hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. He wasn't about to let her out of his sight, not when danger was so close.

They rushed down the stairs and out into the alley. The night air was cold, biting at his skin as they rounded the corner. The scene before them was chaotic—two men were engaged in a brutal fight, their fists flying, each trying to overpower the other.

Kazaf's eyes narrowed as he recognized one of the attackers. A cultivator, his movements too precise to be human.

"Damn it," Kazaf muttered under his breath. "What is a cultivator doing here?"

Asma's eyes flicked between the two fighters. "You know him?"

Kazaf didn't answer, instead taking a step forward. The cultivator was stronger than he had anticipated, using his energy to push his opponent back. Kazaf could feel the power emanating from him, but it wasn't the type of energy he was familiar with.

The fight was not one he could ignore.

"You stay back," Kazaf told Asma, turning toward her with a stern look.

But Asma ignored him, stepping forward to stand beside him. "I'm not some helpless woman, Kazaf. I can handle myself."

Kazaf gave her a quick glance, his jaw tight. He wasn't about to argue, not now. The cultivator before them had noticed their presence, and his eyes narrowed.

"You shouldn't be here, halfbreed," the cultivator growled, his voice thick with disdain. "This is not your fight."

Kazaf's heart raced. The insult stung, but he kept his composure. He had heard the term "halfbreed" used before, usually by those who looked down on him. His mixed blood was a constant reminder of how some viewed him.

"Move," Kazaf said, his voice low but dangerous.

The cultivator sneered. "Make me."

In a flash, Kazaf was on him, his movements faster than the eye could follow. He reached the cultivator in a blur, knocking him to the ground with a swift strike to the chest. The cultivator groaned, clearly stunned.

"You should learn to show respect," Kazaf muttered, his breath steady. He had no time for this. Not now.

But before he could move, the other man, the one who had been fighting the cultivator, stood up and raised his hands, signaling for peace.

"Enough!" he shouted. "We don't need to fight."

Kazaf turned to face him. The man was older, dressed in dark, tattered clothes, and his eyes were full of pain. But there was something about him—something that made Kazaf pause.

"Who are you?" Kazaf demanded.

The man's gaze flicked to Asma before he answered. "I'm just a messenger. I came to warn you."

Kazaf's frown deepened. "Warn me about what?"

The man swallowed hard, clearly nervous. "Your mother… she's in danger. There's a storm coming, Kazaf. And you need to prepare."

Kazaf's heart skipped a beat, and he turned to Asma. Her eyes were wide with concern, but he could see the same resolve in her gaze. This was no coincidence. His past, the one he had tried to outrun, was finally catching up with him.

And he wasn't sure he was ready for what lay ahead.

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