The morning sun filtered through the kitchen windows, casting a soft glow on the dining table where Omar Azdar sat with his parents. His mother, Elif Azdar, was dressed in a flowing deep blue gown, the fabric shimmering like ocean waves under the light. Her long dark hair was tied neatly into a bun, a soft elegance about her that contrasted with her firm tone. Omar's father, Arham Azdar, sat at the head of the table, his crisp black suit tailored to perfection, the silver cufflinks catching the light as he reached for his glass of orange juice.

Omar, meanwhile, sat in silence. His black long coat draped over his broad shoulders, the grey sweater beneath it barely visible. His blue-green eyes—striking, yet clouded with frustration—stared blankly at the untouched plate before him. His hair, slightly tousled, was cut at a medium length, falling naturally around his face, framing his features in a way that was effortlessly striking—neither too short nor too long, just enough to give him a rugged yet refined look. But something about him was off. He wasn't eating, his fork idly pushed scrambled eggs around the plate. His mood darkened the atmosphere.

Noticing this, Arham lowered his glass and studied his son for a moment. His brows furrowed as he broke the silence, “What’s the matter, son?”

Omar’s gaze shifted from his plate to his father. His chest rose and fell as he took a deliberate breath. “I’ve told you before,” he said, voice low but edged with defiance. “I don’t want to go to your college. I want to study abroad.”

Elif reached out, her hand soft but firm as she placed it over Omar’s. Her eyes, gentle yet concerned, met his. “But dear, you’re our only son, now. We’ve given you everything... we don’t want you so far away from us.”

Omar looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable before his lips curled into a small, almost sinister smile. “Hmm. Okay. But know this—there will be consequences.”

Arham’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” His voice was steady but carried a weight of caution.

Omar stood up slowly, adjusting the collar of his coat as he shot his father a knowing glance. “You’ll find out soon enough, father,” he said with a wink, his voice dripping with arrogance.

Without another word, he left the dining room, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall.

The morning haze still clung to the air as Omar walked through the college campus alongside his best friend, Zain. The two strolled past the expansive playground, the distant sound of laughter and conversation drifting toward them. Zain, shorter but equally sharp, shot him a side glance, a smirk forming on his lips.

“I thought you wanted to study abroad,” Zain teased, his voice laced with mockery.

Omar’s face twisted in irritation, his jaw clenched. “Shut your mouth, or I’ll make sure you never open it again,” he growled, eyes flashing dangerously.

Zain chuckled, unbothered by his friend's temper. “Calm down, man. Look around,” he said, gesturing at the campus. “You own this place. You can do whatever you want here. Abroad? You won’t get this kind of power.” As he spoke, a group of girls walked by, their conversation fading as they noticed Omar.

Omar’s demeanor shifted instantly, his anger replaced by a flirtatious smirk. He glanced at Zain, his voice dropping into a lower, smooth tone. “Eyes, eyes, eyes…”

One of the girls, her expression unimpressed, turned toward him. “You won't get them.” she snapped, her words cutting through the air.

Omar’s smile remained intact, a dangerous mix of charm and confidence in his eyes. He stepped closer, he playfully teased, “What’s your name? Is it honey? Because you’re so sweet.”

The girl smiled, her eyes locking with his, showing she wasn’t one to be easily swayed. “I’m Marwa,” she replied, her tone steady but playful.

Omar’s smile deepened, his flirtatious nature shining through as he studied her face. “Hmm… Marwa,” he repeated, as if savoring the sound of her name. “I’m going to ask you a question,” he continued, his voice lowering, taking on a softer, more insistent tone. “If you get it right, fantastic. But if you get it wrong…” He leaned in slightly, his grin widening, “you’ll have to give me your contact.”

Marwa tilted her head, her amusement clear as her eyes glinted with interest. “Alright, go ahead. Ask your question.”

Omar slid his hands into the deep pockets of his coat, every movement exuding confidence. His voice was smooth, as if the answer was obvious, yet laced with teasing. “What’s your phone number?”

Before Marwa could respond, Zain, unable to contain himself, let out a stifled laugh, turning away to hide his amusement. The moment seemed perfect, light and playful, until it was abruptly interrupted.

A group of older boys appeared from behind, they approached and surrounded Omar, Zain, and the girls.

Omar’s demeanor shifted instantly. His confidence remained unshaken, but his smile disappeared, replaced by a sharp, assessing look as he raised an eyebrow at the tallest boy, a large, broad-shouldered senior who stood directly in front of him.

The boy grinned down at Omar, a gleam of arrogance in his eyes. “We’re seniors,” he said, his voice, carrying authority. “And we’re here to rag you, newbies.”

Omar’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing into slits as he straightened his posture, refusing to be intimidated by the group of seniors. “Rag us?” he repeated, his voice calm, yet cold as ice. His gaze locked on the tall, fat boy at the center of the group. “What if I rag you? Do you even know who I am?”

The group of seniors exchanged glances before breaking into mocking laughter. The fat boy smirked, pulling out a wooden ruler from his back pocket. He stepped forward, holding it out toward Omar. “We don’t care who you are,” he sneered. “Take this. Measure the entire playground with it, then tell us how many feet it is.”

Omar’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. He took a deliberate step forward, standing inches from the fat boy. His eyes, cold and piercing, stared into his with unsettling calm. “But I want you to know me,” Omar said, his voice steady, almost a whisper. “Because I can make this day your last in this college.”

The seniors, still amused, stood their ground, though some of their smiles faltered at Omar’s unwavering confidence.

Omar didn’t blink. Instead, he turned his head slightly toward Zain, his tone casual. “Zain, what’s the name of this institute?”

Zain, who had been watching quietly, glanced at the seniors and then back at Omar. “Azdar Educational Institution.”

Omar nodded, his eyes never leaving the fat boy’s face. “Hmm... And what’s my name?”

Zain’s voice was quiet, yet it sliced through the tension like a blade. “Omar Azdar.”

A sudden silence fell over the group. The seniors’ expressions shifted, their confidence draining as realization slowly dawned. The fat boy’s smirk faded, his face paling as he took a step back. “Y-you’re lying,” he stammered, disbelief flickering in his eyes.

Omar’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. “I’ll prove it to you,” he said, pulling his ID card from his coat pocket. He held it out, letting the light catch the official insignia of the Azdar family name emblazoned on it.

The fat boy’s eyes widened, his arrogance crumbling. The rest of the seniors took a collective step back, their faces pale with shock. “We’re sorry,” the fat boy muttered, his voice trembling. “We didn’t know...”

Omar’s eyes darkened, his smile never reaching them. “Apology rejected,” he said smoothly, extending his hand. “Give me that ruler.”

The fat boy hesitated but, under Omar’s unrelenting gaze, reluctantly handed over the ruler. Omar held it for a moment, inspecting the piece of wood as if weighing its worth. Then, with a sharp snap, he broke it into several small pieces, his actions slow and deliberate. He handed the shattered pieces back to the seniors, one by one.

“Now, here’s what you’re going to do,” Omar said, his voice dangerously soft. “Take off your shirts. Tie them around your heads like fools. Then, measure the entire college with these broken pieces while saying, loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘We are the mistakes of our parents.’”

The seniors’ faces turned white with shock. They exchanged nervous glances, “But... we can’t do that,” one of them protested weakly.

Omar chuckled, “You’ll do it,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If you want to stay here and study. You don’t have a choice.”

The seniors stood frozen, paralyzed by the gravity of their situation. Slowly, reluctantly, they began unbuttoning their shirts, their hands shaking with humiliation. The girls who had been watching the scene unfold gasped, quickly turning away, covering their eyes as they hurried off, unwilling to witness the unfolding spectacle.

Omar crossed his arms, watching with satisfaction as the seniors tied their shirts around their heads. The sight was enough to draw the attention of other students, who began gathering around, whispering among themselves. The seniors, red-faced and defeated, started their humiliating task, stumbling across the grounds, their voices trembling as they repeated the degrading chant Omar had instructed.

“We are the mistakes of our parents…”

Omar and Zain followed behind them at a leisurely pace. Zain chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Man, you really did it,” he muttered.

Omar’s smirk grew wider. “This is only the beginning,” he replied.

But their victory was short-lived.

A stern voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd. “What’s going on here?”

Omar turned, his smile fading as he saw his father, Mr. Arham, approaching with long strides, his face etched with displeasure. The senior boys immediately stopped in their tracks, their heads hung low in shame.

Arham’s gaze locked on Omar, disappointment clear in his eyes. “What are you doing, Omar?” he asked, his voice filled with restrained frustration.

Omar met his father’s gaze with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m teaching them manners,” he said smoothly, taking a step forward, his tone playful. Then, lowering his voice so only Arham could hear, he added, “By the way, this is just the beginning.”

Arham’s expression hardened, but before he could respond, Omar turned away, walking off, Zain in tow, his presence leaving an undeniable ripple in the atmosphere.

Arham stood still for a moment, watching his son walk away. A deep sigh escaped him as he turned to the humiliated seniors. “Get up,” he said sternly, “put your shirts back on and go to your classes.”

The seniors scrambled to obey, their faces flushed with embarrassment. They quickly dressed and hurried away, their earlier arrogance crushed beneath their humiliation.

As the crowd dispersed, Arham remained, staring after his son’s retreating figure. His heart heavy with unease.

The soft glow of the TV screen flickered across the dimly lit lounge. Elif and Arham sat side by side on the couch, the muted news casting shadows over their faces. Elif’s gaze drifted from the screen to her husband, who sat with his arms crossed, eyes distant and lost in thought.

Sensing his unease, Elif gently placed a hand over his. Her touch was warm, grounding him back to the moment. “What’s on your mind?” she asked softly, her voice carrying the quiet concern of a wife who had seen the storms in her husband's heart many times before.

Arham exhaled a long, weary sigh before forcing a small smile. “It’s Omar,” he began, his tone betraying the heaviness he’d been carrying all evening. He paused, gathering his thoughts, the tension in his face deepening. “He’s... changing. I can see it. He’s becoming more distant, more defiant.” He stopped again, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “I don’t want him to end up like Hassan.”

The mention of their elder son brought a painful silence between them. Elif’s hand tightened slightly over Arham’s as she searched his face, her heart heavy with a shared grief. “Hassan...” she murmured, her voice soft yet filled with the ache of a mother’s loss. “It’s been two years, and not a word.”

Arham’s lips tightened into a thin line, his brows furrowing. His emotions shifted from sorrow to frustration. “I don’t want Omar to leave us the way Hassan did,” he continued, his voice rough with restrained anger. “We raised them both right, yet Hassan... he abandoned us, left without any explanation. Didn’t even have the decency to contact us, not once.”

Elif’s eyes clouded with sorrow as she recalled her last conversation with their eldest son. She could still hear the echo of his voice, the pain buried beneath his words. “Do you remember what Hassan said before he left?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “‘I’m doing this for you,’ he told us, ‘even if you end up hating me for it.’”

Arham’s expression darkened, his fists clenching at the memory. “Yes, and I do hate him,” he snapped, his voice sharp. “He disobeyed me, threw away everything I planned for him. He made his own decisions, as if our wishes meant nothing. And now? He’s vanished. We don’t know where he is or what he’s involved in. How could he do this to us?”

Elif sighed deeply, her heart aching for both of her sons. “I’m his mother,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “I know he’s in trouble. I can feel it. A mother always knows.”

Arham’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face tensing, “I don’t want Omar to make the same mistake,” Arham said, his voice thick with desperation. “I can’t lose him like we lost Hassan. Not again.”

Elif squeezed his hand, her voice soft yet firm with conviction. “We won’t,” she said. “But we have to trust him, Arham. Trust that he’ll find his way back to us.”

The weight of their loss hung between them, and neither dared to break it until the glow of the television shifted.

On the screen, a figure appeared—Axen—his picture plastered next to CCTV footage. The video showed him killing someone mercilessly, a man cloaked in a black hooded robe. The figure’s face was obscured, except for the red eyes glowing beneath the veil and a thin, cruel smile. Arham reached for the remote, unmuting the broadcast.

The reporter’s voice cut through the air: 

“It happened once again. The latest footage confirms what many have feared—Axen is no longer the superhero of Remaan. This is now the third video capturing his violent crimes, targeting innocent civilians. The city is divided, with some still defending him, claiming he once saved their lives, while others label him a murderer, a danger to Remaan itself.”

Arham’s expression hardened as he switched off the TV, the screen going black. He turned to Elif, his voice filled with contempt. “I hated him from the beginning,” he muttered. “Mr. Robis and the others were right all along—Axen’s no hero, and they’re the real protectors of the city.” He glanced at his wife, shaking his head. “Anyway, it’s late. Let’s go to sleep.”