The call to Fajr rose from somewhere across the valley—low, steady, ancient.
Another followed from the opposite side of the city, then another—voices layered over rooftops and minarets, bouncing between hills like they were chasing the last of the night away.
It slipped in through the open window, soft but unmissable. The sound of Sarajevo waking up.
Tarik stirred first. He always did.
I stayed where I was, one arm flung over my eyes, waiting for the pain in my ribs to settle into something I could walk with.
The apartment was still dark, except for the sliver of pale blue light leaking in through the window. Outside, the city was cold and quiet. Inside, the silence felt heavier.
Tarik moved toward the bathroom with sleepy purpose. I heard the faucet run. The splash of water as he made wudu.
I sat up slow. My whole body ached—back, ribs, jaw. My eye throbbed. One side of my shirt was still stiff with dried blood. I hadn't bothered changing last night. Just crashed hard and hoped I wouldn't dream.
I peeled it off carefully, wincing as the fabric pulled at dried cuts. The cold air hit my skin, sharp and clean. I tightened the wraps around my ribs, fingers working in silence. I'd gotten good at it—binding pain until it passed for control.
I stayed seated on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head down, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
Tarik began to pray. His voice low. Measured. Whispered verses filling the space between us.
I didn't look up.
Didn't move.
Just listened.
And for the first time all night, the quiet didn't feel like it was trying to crush me.
By the time Tarik finished, I was already halfway dressed—black t-shirt, dock pants, hoodie over. My work boots sat by the front door, laces loose, waiting.
He moved around the room like he was still half-asleep but didn't want to admit it. Collar wrinkled. Tie crooked. That preppy white button-down never looked like it belonged on him, but he wore it like he didn't care. Blazer slung over the back of the chair. School crest stitched above the pocket—like they needed to mark him to prove he belonged.
His cleats hit the floor with a soft thud. He bent to shove them into his FK Sarajevo duffel, along with his team kit—jersey, shorts, shin guards. The bag was worn at the seams, zippers held together with prayer.
"You seen my blazer?" Tarik muttered, voice low, jaw tight.
I reached over, pulled it off the back of the chair, and tossed it his way.
He caught it one-handed, barely looked up. "You're a gift," he said flatly, like it cost him to say anything decent.
"K-keep b-better track of y-your s-stuff."
He didn't grin like usual. Just yanked it on over his uniform and shoved his arms through the sleeves hard, like even the fabric had pissed him off. The school crest flashed clean against his chest. Too clean for this house.
He didn't say anything else. Just kept moving, quick and clipped, like if he slowed down he might break something.
I grabbed my own bag off the chair—gym clothes packed, gloves tucked in the side pocket. Shoved my wrist wraps in on top, then zipped it shut.
Tarik finished zipping his own bag and stood up, rubbing at his face.
"You sleep?"
I shook my head.
"Didn't think so."
We didn't say much after that. Just moved—quiet, practiced. Stepping around each other in the tight space like we'd done since we were kids. Like we knew where the other would be before we got there.
Same blood. Same room. Two completely different lives heading out the same door.
Our parents were still asleep. At least, that's what we told ourselves.
The living room light was off, but our mother was curled up on the couch again—knees drawn to her chest, blanket from the hall closet barely covering her.
Before we left, I grabbed another one and draped it over her shoulders.
Tarik glanced over, pulled on his shoes, and muttered,6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk3GtSt0psV
"Let her freeze."
I didn't answer. Just tucked the blanket a little tighter, then followed him out the door.
Ajla was already waiting by the Jeep, leaned against the passenger side with a cigarette between her fingers. Leather jacket, black jeans, scraped-up sneakers. Same as always.
Tarik didn't say a word when he saw her. Just yanked the door open, threw his bags in, and climbed into the backseat like the whole world had pissed him off. He slammed the door hard enough to make the Jeep rattle.
Ajla arched an eyebrow, smoke curling from her mouth.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡynI2jvTHXW
"Well, someone's in a mood."
He didn't look at her. Didn't even blink.
She turned to me as I came around to the driver's side. "I heard you and your dad going at it last night."
I didn't answer.
She took a slow drag from her cigarette, eyes scanning my face like she was trying to figure out which bruises were fresh.
"Sounded bad."
"W-wasn't gg-great."
She nodded once. No sarcasm this time. No teasing.
Just quiet.
She dropped the butt to the ground and crushed it under her heel. Then she opened the door and got in without another word.
We pulled out of the lot, the engine loud in the still morning.
Ajla flipped open the glovebox and rummaged through it like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
"You ever think about taking him and getting your own place?" she asked, like she was commenting on the weather.
I glanced at her. Raised an eyebrow.
"Don't look at me like that," she said. "You work full time. You fight like a beast. You could swing it. And you know I'd go. We could do it together. Give ourselves something better."
I didn't answer.
She snapped the glovebox shut a little harder than she needed to. "Right. Of course you're not leaving. You're gonna keep rotting in that hellhole for your mom. The same woman who won't even look at you most of the time."
My jaw locked. I kept my eyes on the road.
"Do it for Tarik," she muttered. "He's more important than she is."
"I c-can p-protect T-Tarik," I said.
She laughed—dry, sharp, no humor in it.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXUVPGEVPoF
"Right. You're doing so well protecting yourself."
The estate gates came into view up ahead—tall, wrought iron, glinting silver in the morning light.
Ajla called it a castle once. She wasn't wrong.
Tarik was out of the Jeep before I could fully stop—backpack slung, hood up, shoulders tight. He didn't say a word. Didn't look back.
Just walked through the gates like he didn't want to give the morning a single second more of us.
Ajla whistled low. "Two lives. You think he ever gets confused which one is real?"
"At l-least he h-has an-another l-life," I said.
She leaned back in her seat, arms crossed. "Touché."
We pulled off again. The ride to the site was quiet, except for the hum of the road beneath us.
My phone buzzed.
Notice: Site inspection scheduled for 12:00 PM. Chief Executive Officer Mr. Imran Begović and Chief Financial Officer Ms. Lamija Begović will be on-site to review container discrepancies. All team leads are expected to be present and prepared with updated documentation.
I turned the screen toward Ajla.
She read it, exhaled through her nose, and muttered,6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡreS9MzIh0T
"Of course."
"P-problem?" I asked.
She laughed once, no humor in it. "No. Just need to emotionally prepare for Princess Ice Veins showing up and dragging every single one of us."
I raised an eyebrow.
"She doesn't like me," Ajla added. "Too loud. Too blunt. Too... I don't even know. She just looks at me like she doesn't like what she sees."
"Sh-she's h-hard on e-everyone."
"She buys you designer jeans and takes you out to lunch weekly."
Fair.
She crossed one leg over the other and stared out the windshield, tapping her fingers against her thigh.
Then, after a beat—quieter:6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTgfLVIGbMA
"Imran can stay, though."
I glanced sideways with a smirk. "S-seriously?"
She shrugged. "Just because I'm bitter doesn't mean I'm blind. That bloodline is amazing. Even their dad is sexy."
"Th-that's d-disgusting."
She laughed. "Are the baby Begovićs that beautiful too?"
I didn't answer as I pulled into the lot and parked.
Ajla stretched like she was preparing for war.
"Lunch later?" she asked.
"C-can't," I said. "G-going out w-with I-imran and A-ayub."
She blinked. "Oh. Right. Family bonding."
"S-some-thing like th-that."
She wagged her eyebrows. "Mr. Selimovic be fine as hell too."
"I th-think L-Lamija would f-fight you f-for h-him."
She laughed. "God, I hate that bitch."
I didn't say anything, but my jaw tightened.
Ajla noticed. "What? She makes my job hell."
"Try not to get fired," I muttered, reaching for the door.
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue.
We climbed out of the Jeep, boots hitting gravel, bags slung over shoulders. The air was cold—concrete dust, diesel, and the bite of river wind cutting through the yard.
Ajla peeled off toward the admin wing, already pulling her hair up.
I headed for the loading bays, the weight of the day settling over my shoulders like it always did.
And the gates shut behind us.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Ajla thinks Lamija is the problem. Too perfect, too polished, too in control. But Lamija isn't the one who's going to break her.
She hasn't met the girl who undoes him with a look.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfjBvIPiKhv
The one who never had to beg to be let in.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXW4RXv80vv
The one he would burn the whole city for, if she asked.
But she will.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSvNriQmljv
And when she does, nothing will taste right again.
-Ash&Olive
6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQqKOYf3QzZ
