Again!....The tension in the room hung thick, like a dense fog that refused to lift.
Miraz stared out the window, his gaze distant as the moonlight softly bathed his bandaged face, highlighting the sadness that had quietly settled in. His jaw clenched, and his voice emerged low, almost fractured.
"But… even this game discriminates against me," he murmured, the words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken pain.
Shams glanced up, confusion clouding his expression.
"What do you mean?" he asked, unable to fully comprehend the weight of Miraz's statement.
Miraz didn't look at him. He simply kept his eyes fixed on the silent world outside the cracked glass.
"Everyone heard the sound," he began, his voice trembling. "Everyone…"
He paused, as though the very thought of it was too much. His next words came out in a whisper, barely audible.
"Except me. Why?"
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Miraz let out a bitter sigh before answering his own question with a sad smile.
"Because of my identity. Because I'm the grandson of a rajakar."
The word landed like a curse. The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of its meaning crushing the air between them.
Shams remained silent, his mind racing, but his voice refused to come. For the first time since Miraz had awoken, he was truly speechless. There were no words, no clever responses to erase the burden that weighed on Miraz. It was a pain, a legacy of shame that no amount of rhetoric could undo.
After a long pause, Shams finally took a deep breath, the air around him thick with the realization of what Miraz was carrying. His voice, when it came, was calm but thick with the weight of his own unspoken truths.
"Miraz…" he began, the words carrying a depth that wasn't there before. "You think I have everything. Talent, brains, popularity… a future."
Miraz turned slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes despite himself.
Shams gave a bitter smile, his eyes distant, as if recalling some painful memory.
"But the world isn't kind to everyone. Especially not here. In Bangladesh, there's one rule—if you don't have power, background, or wealth… you don't get to survive. And I don't have any of those."
Miraz furrowed his brow, confusion knitting his features.
"What do you mean? You seem like the kind of guy who's always winning," he said, still struggling to understand.
Shams leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, his eyes distant as if he were reliving something long buried.
"I once tried to change the system," he said softly, his voice heavy with memory. "I thought I could make a difference. So, I ran for student council president. I had plans, dreams… I wanted to be a leader, a real politician, one who didn't lie, who didn't cheat."
His gaze turned back to Miraz, his eyes piercing through the dim room.
"But I failed."
Miraz blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes. "You… failed?"
Shams chuckled, but it wasn't a laugh. It was dry, full of irony and self-deprecation.
"Yeah. I failed. Not because I wasn't good enough, but because the game was rigged from the start. They used money, connections… lies. I didn't stand a chance."
Miraz was silent. He hadn't expected that. He had always seen Shams as the golden child, the kind of person who seemed destined for success. To hear that he, too, had faced failure… it shifted something in Miraz.
"I thought you were one of those golden kids," Miraz muttered, still processing it.
Shams shook his head, a faint smile crossing his lips.
"I'm human, Miraz. And no human is perfect. But that failure… it burned me. Made me think I had no place in this world. Until Battle for Growth."
Shams leaned forward again, his eyes locking with Miraz's. There was a fire in them now—a resolve that hadn't been there before.
"Maybe it's not just about fixing the country. Maybe it's about fixing ourselves too."
The room fell into silence again. But this time, it wasn't empty. It wasn't oppressive. It was full—full of shared understanding, of mutual pain.
Two broken boys. One scarred by a legacy he couldn't escape. The other by betrayal and loss he couldn't outrun.
But maybe, just maybe… this game wasn't the end.
It was the beginning.
Shams spoke again, his voice quiet but unwavering. Miraz, lost in his thoughts, couldn't help but think to himself: We have to change this nation. We have to change it for the better.
Shams's voice broke through the silence, his words heavy with purpose. "What happened to us… We can't allow anyone else in this nation to suffer the same fate. We have to rewrite our destiny, with our own hands. This is our chance."
Shams extended his hand towards Miraz, a gesture of both trust and challenge. His eyes were steady. "Come. That's my condition. You have to stand with me. Together, we will dominate the Battle for Growth."
Miraz smiled, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes. "That's your condition?" he asked, his voice steady now, despite the gravity of the moment. "Well, if you hadn't given me that condition… I'd still have to change my fate. I need to clear my name, clear my grandfather's name, and pay the debt I owe you. The debt for saving me. It's how I do things. I pay my debts back."
Miraz shook hands with Shams, his face thoughtful, but sincere. "Okay… again, thank you for saving me."
Suddenly, a loud growl echoed from Miraz's stomach.
Grrr... Grrr...
Miraz's face flushed slightly. "Umm... I'm hungry," he muttered to himself.
He stood up, ready to leave. "I should go. I've got work to do."
Before he could take a step, Shams stopped him, gripping his hand firmly. "Wait. Have breakfast with me."
Miraz hesitated, then tried to pull away. But Shams held on, his grip tightening just a little. "Didn't we just become friends?" he asked, his tone playful but insistent.
Miraz fell silent, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the atmosphere. A strange, awkward silence filled the room.
Shams, sensing the tension, nervously laughed. "Ha! Haha…" he chuckled, trying to brush off the discomfort, but it only seemed to make the moment more awkward.
Then, Miraz broke the silence, a loud laugh escaping him. "Hahahaha… Just friends? I think we'll become more than that in the future. Like brothers."
The room seemed to lighten, the tension evaporating into the shared understanding that, perhaps, they were both on the brink of something new—a journey not just for a country, but for themselves.