Name: Amir Rustamov
Ethnicity: Russian (Tatar Muslim)
Age: 28
Profession: Tribal Leader / Cybersecurity Expert
Background: Hailing from the rugged steppes of Dagestan, Amir Rustamov was born into leadership. With roots deep in tribal tradition and a mind sharp as a blade, he commands respect with nothing more than a glance. Raised by warriors, he speaks little but when he does, his words carry weight. After years of defending his people from threats—physical and digital—he now studies Cybersecurity not because he needs a degree, but to master every layer of control in a connected world.
---
Personality Traits:
Bold & Confident: He walks into a room and the air changes. People lower their voices, their eyes follow him.
Cold & Ruthless: Mercy is a luxury. Amir plays the long game, and weakness disgusts him.
Playful & Mischievous: With a smirk that confuses and disarms, he teases with precision—never cruel, but never warm either.
Indifferent to Women: Flirting bores him. Emotions are tools. But then there's her…
---
Relationship with Gul (his Nikah wife):
Gul is from Peshawar, a quiet biology student who once found herself in danger during a protest gone wrong while visiting Moscow. Amir, in his rare moment of visibility, rescued her—coolly, violently, efficiently. He married her in nikah to protect her honor before she could even understand what was happening. Then silence.
Gul ran away, overwhelmed by his intensity. She thought he didn't care. But Amir watches everything. He knows where she is. He's in the same university now—not because of her, never that weak—but because he wanted this place for his own reasons.
Still, his presence lingers like a stormcloud behind her. He doesn't chase. He waits. And when their eyes meet across a corridor, she feels it: she's married to a man far too powerful, far too composed, and she doesn't know if she should fear him… or something else.
...….
Amir Rustamov
Leader of the Zeyrek Tribe, North Caucasus
In the shadow of the snow-capped peaks, where wolves hunt in silence and men are born into conflict, Amir Rustamov is more than a leader—he is a force.
His people don't vote. They follow. Because he doesn't command with speeches—he leads with silence, action, and a stare that burns hotter than gunpowder.
Amir was just 19 when his father was assassinated. The tribe fragmented, some doubting a boy could lead. Within a month, those voices vanished—some left, some were buried in the frozen soil, and the rest swore loyalty on their knees.
He rebuilt what others had scattered:
Smuggled medicine into besieged villages.
Hacked into enemy communication lines and rerouted drones.
Traded with foreign militias without giving up an inch of pride.
Defended women and children even if it meant sending his men into fire.
Tough decisions?
Amir doesn't flinch. When one of his own betrayed the tribe, he made the man dig his own grave. Gave him water, let him pray—and then ended it without a word. Justice, not cruelty.
Mercy?
Only for the innocent.
Loyalty?
Unshakable. But once broken, it's gone forever.
At night, around the fires, the younger men tell stories of his cold eyes—how he once walked into a rival camp unarmed and left with their leader's tongue. How he's never once raised his voice, yet men move faster when he enters a room.
---
But there's a twist: Amir is not a brute.
He's a strategist. A reader of ancient Islamic texts. A chess player. A digital ghost in government systems. A warrior raised on tea, Tasbih, and code. He laughs sometimes—low, rough, and rare—and when he does, even that feels like a threat.
He prays with quiet dignity. Fastidiously clean. Sharp black coats, clean beard, and always a ring on his finger—one his mother gave him before she died, one Gul now notices every time he types silently in the university computer lab.
To the tribe, he is Amir.
To enemies, Rustamov.
To Gul, he is a riddle too dangerous to solve—but one her heart keeps whispering about in the silence of her thoughts.
...
Scene: University Cybersecurity Lab — Group Assignment
Gul sits at a wide lab table, clearly uneasy. Her biology course had been mistakenly mixed with an IT project due to a glitch in the system. The department didn't fix it—they said "You'll learn something new." She's now awkwardly grouped with Amir Rustamov, her silent, unreadable husband.
He hadn't said a word about their nikah. Not here. Not anywhere. But today, she's paired with him—again. She types quietly, stealing glances. He doesn't look at her. Just stares at the code on the screen, cold, still, focused. His sleeves are rolled just enough to show the scar on his forearm.
Two British students from another group stroll by—laughing too loudly, lingering too long.
"Hey, you lost, love?" one of them smirks, leaning too close to Gul. "You're in the wrong department, unless you're planning to short-circuit the system with your smile."
Gul freezes.
Before she can even reply, a cold voice slices through the air like a blade:
"Move."
The air shifts. The room quiets. Amir hasn't raised his voice. He didn't even look up—just said the word flatly, like it wasn't a suggestion.
The Brit frowns. "Chill out, mate. We were just talking."
Now Amir looks at him. Slowly. His eyes—gray, unreadable, full of history—meet the guy's. No threat in his voice. No aggression. But something much more dangerous.
"You talk again," he says calmly, "you won't finish this semester."
No anger. Just fact. The other students sense it. The British guy chuckles awkwardly, shrugs, and walks off, muttering.
Gul stares at Amir, speechless. He doesn't turn to her. He simply goes back to the screen, types something, and says under his breath—without looking:
"Tell me if anyone touches you."
That's all.
Her heart pounds, but she nods silently. Something burns in her chest—fear, safety, maybe both. She realizes something now: he may not say much, but Amir sees everything. Watches everything.
And God help anyone who thinks she's unprotected.
....
Scene: Cybersecurity Lab — After the Encounter
The classroom settles. Whispers fade. The British guys are gone. But Gul still feels the heat in her cheeks, her throat tight. She stares at the screen, the open PDF with technical terms she can't pronounce, let alone understand.
Words like "firewall hierarchy," "packet sniffer," "intrusion protocol" blur together. She grips the edge of the desk. She's a biology student, not… this. She had never even opened command prompt before.
Gul glances sideways. Amir sits next to her—calm, unreadable. He hasn't looked at her since the warning he gave those guys.
He types fast. Code fills his screen like another language. His profile sharp under the cold lab light. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed.
Then, suddenly, he stops.
Without a word, he turns to her.
She stiffens.
His gaze rests on her for a few long, silent seconds. Heavy. Calculating. He says nothing. Just studies her face—her fingers fidgeting with her sleeve, the panic in her eyes, the way her lips press together trying to look composed.
Finally, in that deep, steady voice:
"You don't understand any of it."
It's not a question. It's a fact.
She feels her throat close.
"No," she whispers. "I… I don't."
He nods once, eyes narrowing slightly. Not in judgment. Just analysis.
Then, unexpectedly—he turns his laptop towards her.
"You'll learn."
Still no softness in his voice. No comfort. But there's no mockery either.
Just certainty.
"Start here." He taps a file titled: 'Basics for Non-Tech'.
A file he clearly made.
A file he knew she'd need.
She blinks.
He leans back, arms crossed, still watching her—but not like she's useless. Like she's a piece of a strategy. A mission. His mission.
"I won't let you fail."
Three words. Cold. Calm. Unshakeable.
She doesn't know whether to thank him or cry. But in that moment, one thing becomes clear:
He might be terrifying.
He might be silent.
But he's the only one in the room… who's truly on her side.
...…
Scene: Cybersecurity Lab — Later That Hour
Gul sits a little straighter now. The file Amir gave her is simple, step-by-step. It's in plain language—surprisingly gentle for a man who speaks like ice cracking in the dark.
She scrolls down, reading about IP addresses and firewalls. She's never felt so aware of someone's presence before. He hasn't spoken since. But she feels him beside her—still, steady, unreadable.
Her eyes squint at a diagram showing data packets and encryption layers.
Pause.
She doesn't understand. Her mind blanks again.
She doesn't even have to say it.
Amir speaks, low and calm, without turning:
"Think of it like a letter. Your data is the letter. Encryption is the lock. Firewall is the guard at the gate."
She blinks, surprised.
"Okay," she nods softly. "That… helps."
She reads again. Stops at the phrase "TCP handshake." What? Why is the internet shaking hands?
He speaks again, sensing her pause.
"Two computers. One knocks. Other answers. They agree to talk. That's the handshake."
No eye contact. Just calm explanation. As if teaching her was something he'd do even if the world burned outside.
She listens. And listens more.
Another pause.
She mumbles, "This port thing… 443, 80—what are they?"
He finally turns to her. Slowly.
His face is close now. Eyes serious, voice like dusk in the mountains:
"Every house has a door. Some are locked. Some open. Ports are doors. 443 is secure. 80 is not."
Silence.
Gul looks at him.
"You're… good at this."
He doesn't smile. But there's a flicker in his eyes. Something close to amusement.
"I know."
She almost laughs. Almost. But doesn't.
Instead, she goes back to reading, fingers no longer trembling. And he goes back to coding—but now, his chair is slightly tilted her way. Watching. Guarding.She still doesn't understand him.
But she's starting to trust that he'll never let her drown.
...
Scene: Late Evening, Cybersecurity Lab — After Hours
The room is quieter now. Most students have left. Just Gul and Rustamov remain—screens glowing in the dim lab, fingers typing, minds whirring.
She's halfway through the document now, a little proud of herself. But her head aches, her eyes tired.
Then—
Without a word, Amir Rustamov stands. Walks out.
Gul blinks. Did he leave?
A few minutes pass.
He returns.
He sets something down beside her.
She looks.
A simple cup of chai. Steam rising gently. The scent of cardamom hits her nose.
Next to it… wrapped in paper towel, still slightly warm…
Peshawari metaye.
Golden. Soft. Sprinkled lightly with crushed pistachio. Real. Not imported from some fancy UK shop.
She stares at it. Then at him.
He sits beside her again, as if nothing happened. A black coffee in his own hand. No explanation.
She finally blinks out of her shock and whispers in Pashto, voice trembling with surprise:
"Da sa da…?" (What is this…?)
He doesn't look at her.
"Tea."
She smiles—actually smiles—and says softly, almost laughing:
"Da metaye cha rawarawalay di? Russia ke hum da?"
(Who brought these? Even in Russia you found metaye?)
Now… a flicker of something in his expression. The tiniest twitch at the corner of his lips.
"Connections."
One word. Delivered like a spy in a warzone.
She holds the cup gently, staring at the metaye like it's a miracle. Her eyes sting for a moment—but she blinks it away.
He didn't bring it to impress her. He didn't even bring it as a gesture.
He brought it because he knows her.
Where she's from. What comforts her.
Even if he says nothing… he sees everything.
As she sips her chai and breaks a piece of the metaye, she looks at him again.
Still silent. Still cold.
But maybe not so unreadable after all.
....
Scene: Gul's Dorm — Night
She stares at the screen.
Grade: A+
Gul gasps. Covers her mouth. Heart racing.
She did it.
She passed the Cybersecurity module. The one she thought would drown her. Not just passed—aced it.
She jumps up, holding her phone, twirling slightly in her small room, unable to stop smiling. The world feels light. Her chest fills with air she didn't realize she was holding all semester.
But then—
His face flashes in her mind.
Rustamov.
His quiet commands. The way he explained ports and firewalls without mocking her.
The tea.
The metaye.
The way he just knew what she needed.
Her smile falters.
"No," she whispers to herself. "No, that doesn't mean anything."
He never asked how she felt. Never comforted her. Never apologized for the way his silence made her feel so small, like she didn't belong in the same world as him. He was… too much. Too big. Too cold.
She sits back down. Opens her planner.
New semester. New courses. No more tech electives.
And most importantly—
"No more Rustamov."
She tells herself again and again:
> I passed because I worked hard.
Because I pushed myself.
Not because of him.
But deep down—she knows.
Without him... she never would have tried.
...…..
Scene: A Highland Village, Late Night — Rustamov's Territory
The wind bites. Sharp and dry. The hills sleep under the moonlight, but not the men of Rustamov's tribe.
They stand in a circle—armed, tense, eyes flicking toward their leader.
A dispute. One of the outer families tried to smuggle stolen weapons through Rustamov's land. Against code. Against his direct orders.
The guilty man—Bekmir, twice his age—kneels in the center. Bloody lip. Still defiant.
Rustamov stands a few feet away, tall in his black wool coat, the silver karakul hat of a leader settled on his head. No emotion on his face. Only silence.
One of the younger guards murmurs, "Should we wait for the council?"
Rustamov's voice is ice and steel:
"I am the council."
No one dares speak again.
He steps forward. Each bootfall crunches the gravel. Slowly, deliberately.
Bekmir growls, "You'd turn on your own for control, Amir?"
Rustamov crouches—eye level now. Calm. Colder than snow.
"I don't care about control. I care about order."
Then softly, almost gently:
"And you broke it."
Bekmir spits at the ground between them.
Rustamov doesn't flinch. He just stands again, gives a single nod to his second-in-command.
A silenced gunshot echoes once.
Bekmir falls, face in the dirt.
Rustamov turns without emotion.
He wipes a speck of blood from his sleeve with a white handkerchief. Tosses it to the fire.
"Bury him. Deep. Don't mark it."
The men obey instantly.
There is no hesitation in Rustamov.
Because he doesn't rule his tribe with speeches or threats.
He rules it with order, discipline, and the knowledge that no one—no one crosses him and walks away untouched
....
Scene: University Tech Lab – Mid-Afternoon
The hum of machines. Fingers clacking on keyboards. A buzz of low conversation.
Rustamov sits at the far end, sleeves rolled halfway, focused on lines of code on his screen. His jaw is tight. His presence alone commands a radius of silence around him.
He doesn't speak unless necessary.
He doesn't laugh.
He doesn't flirt.
But that doesn't stop them from trying.
Sophia, confident and loud—British, bold, used to being noticed—walks toward him with a sway in her step. She leans over his desk casually, arms crossing just enough to draw attention.
"You're always so serious, Amir," she says, voice light like honey. "Maybe you need someone to loosen you up a bit?"
He doesn't look at her.
She tries again, inching closer, placing one hand lightly on his arm.
And that's when he moves.
Not violently.
Just fast—controlled.
He grabs her wrist, fingers firm, not hurting her—but warning her.
His voice is glacier-deep, emotionless:
"Touch me again and you'll lose that hand."
The room falls quiet.
She stares at him—offended, stunned.
He stands.
Taller. Broader. Heavier with silence.
He doesn't shout. He doesn't curse.
He just looks at her, dead in the eye, and says:
"I don't belong to your world. And you don't dare enter mine."
Sophia stammers something—then backs off, face flushed, retreating with wounded pride.
He returns to his seat like nothing happened. Picks up his black coffee. Takes a sip.
Not a flicker of emotion in his eyes.
Because Rustamov doesn't entertain weakness.
Not in others.
Not in himself.
...…..
Scene: University Garden – Late Afternoon
Rust-colored leaves drift in the breeze. The campus is quieter now. A few students lingering. Laptops open. Books in laps.
Gul sits on a stone bench under an old tree. Her books are open, but her focus isn't sharp. She's bundled in her shawl, tucked in thought. The air is crisp, almost cold.
Rustamov appears from behind her, quietly as always.
She senses him, glances back, startled. He holds something out.
A scarf. Dark, soft. New.
"You left this," he says simply.
Gul stares. She knows she didn't. He bought it. She doesn't call him out.
She just reaches to take it—his hand brushing hers for the briefest second. The touch is electric, but he's already stepping back, face unreadable.
"You're cold. Don't be foolish."
She doesn't reply.
Instead, she wraps the scarf around herself, her fingers slightly trembling.
He sits down beside her—not touching, not looking directly at her.
Just being there.
After a moment, he pulls out a small pack of roasted almonds. Hands it to her.
Gul can't help it—she gives a small smile. The tiniest one.
Sophia watches from across the garden.
Her lips part slightly.
Confusion crawls up her face.
The same man who nearly broke her wrist for touching him... sits beside this girl like the whole world isn't watching.
She turns to a friend beside her, whispers, "Who is she to him?"
No one answers.
Because no one knows.
Except maybe Rustamov himself.
And he's never been the kind to explain.
...…
Scene: Garden Bench – Afternoon, Just Before Sunset
Gul takes a slow breath, still holding the scarf tightly around her neck. She looks down at her notes, but her mind isn't on them. Instead, it's on the quiet man beside her. The same man who once made her feel small, but now... now, there's something different. Something almost tender.
She hesitates. Then—gathering the courage—she speaks, voice soft but sincere:
"Thank you."
Rustamov doesn't look at her immediately. He simply nods, like it's nothing.
Then, from her bag, Gul pulls out her phone. She hesitates a moment longer before showing him her grades.
A moment of silence follows. He doesn't need to see them—he already knew. He already sensed the change in her. But she shows him anyway. Almost as if she's testing herself, testing if she can be seen by him—truly seen, not as a project but as a person.
"I passed… I did it."
Rustamov glances at the screen, then meets her eyes for the first time today. No words. But there's something in the way his eyes flicker—perhaps pride, perhaps recognition of the struggle she went through, but still, he remains his cold, quiet self.
Then, without a word, he offers her the pack of almonds again.
She accepts it, her fingers brushing his hand again. It's brief, but it feels different now. Not a cold gesture. Not a command. Just... shared space.
They sit in silence.
She pops an almond into her mouth. Chews slowly. Her eyes, out of instinct, sneak glances at him. Just a flicker, then she looks away quickly, pretending not to notice how close he is.
Rustamov doesn't mind the quiet. He doesn't need to fill the space with words. He's comfortable in this moment, his mind sharp, always alert, but now, it's softer, something he doesn't often show. The sound of their shared breaths in the evening air is enough.
Time seems to stretch. The world around them fades.
She steals another glance. He's watching the trees sway, his fingers lightly tapping on the pack of almonds. But his gaze shifts to her briefly, and for a moment, she feels as though he's listening to her without words. As if he knows exactly what she needs without her asking.
And they stay like that—just the two of them, in perfect, unspoken harmony.
Until a soft breeze pushes the last few golden leaves from the tree, and Gul realizes she doesn't want this moment to end.
.....
Sophia, watching from a distance, tilts her head, confused and somewhat intrigued.
"How?" she whispers to herself. How is he like this with her?
The leader. The cold, ruthless man who commands respect, who's feared by everyone else. Yet with Gul... there's something different.
Sophia doesn't understand it. Not yet.
...…..
Scene: Library Courtyard – Early Evening
Gul walks across the stone courtyard, arms full of books, scarf pulled tighter around her neck. The late light glints off glass windows, and students pass here and there, the hum of chatter scattered like leaves.
But she feels it again—the eyes.
The same group of guys from before. UK lads, loud in their laughter, always watching, always smirking when she walks by. Today is no different—except their gaze lingers longer, bolder. One even starts walking toward her.
She freezes.
Heart tightening.
And then—
Rustamov.
Already there.
Leaning against the stone column beside the bench. As if he had been watching all along. Hands in the pockets of his dark coat, expression unreadable.
He doesn't speak.
He never has to.
The approaching boy pauses, hesitation creeping in. And Gul sees it—the shift in his face, the way he looks past her now, directly at Rustamov, who stands like a storm wrapped in stillness.
But the fear hasn't left her yet. Her fingers tremble as she walks closer to Rustamov. She stands beside him, heart thudding.
She doesn't dare look up.
And then—gathering courage—her fingers reach toward his.
Barely touching.
Her small hand inches toward his colder one.
She's afraid he'll pull away. That he'll flinch. That she's gone too far.
She's ready to retract—when he moves first.
He doesn't pull.
He turns his hand, palm open, and wraps his fingers around hers.
Firm. Solid.
The message is loud—without a word spoken.
She is not alone.
Across the courtyard, Sophia watches. Leaning against a balcony rail. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp with jealousy, confusion, burning hatred.
The same man who had recoiled from her… the man who warned her without a blink… is now holding Gul's hand,in public, like it's a declaration of ownership.
Sophia's lips twist.
But she says nothing.
Because deep inside, she knows: no one crosses Gul—not as long as Rustamov is near.
...….