Stalking debtors. Most of his life these days involved elaborate cat-and-mouse games of stalking debtors. Sure, there was the occasional actual thief, but mostly it was men coasting on their fathers’ coattails without realizing dear old father had snagged that coat on credit.

He did not miss the day-to-day of shopkeeping, but sometimes he missed the stability … until he was surrounded by armed men, negotiating the terms of a vase plus his own life. Humiliating, certainly – but such was the price of feeling alive.

He didn’t used to be like this, but he could hardly remember the old him. That him had died with Baba.

Sure, Aslan still looked after his sister. He still mumbled the occasional prayer to Allah, half-hearted instead of habitual. But where his father once sat was occupied instead by a burning need for... something.

A something he had no guarantee even existed, any more than a way to bring his innocent father back. Any more than he could chase away the thoughts of ‘what if?’ every time he saw his remaining flesh and blood. What was done was done, and what was left was them.

Them, and whatever rush he could chase in lieu of the same old visions.

He heard a crash, felt his heart leap up his throat, and swallowed thickly before finishing turning a knob. Was this going to be the day he found her mid-murder? Would it be the hapless maid? Some boy? The milk man? If the victim escaped, what then?

Aslan smiled back up at his sister, like he hadn’t just been contemplating life-or-death situations.

“Ah, much of the same,” he said, closing the door and peeling off his fake mustache. “How was your day?”