IZZAT: THE NAME OF MY CAGE | A thriller, A tragedy, A family horror | Episode 1

 IZZAT: THE NAME OF MY CAGE

Born with wings. Buried in silence.

A thriller. A tragedy. A family horror.

I stopped dead in my tracks. A choked sound escaped my lips.

“You shouldn’t be here!”

He turned. A smile twisted his features, baring his teeth and making his dragon tattoo seem alive.

“Shouldn’t I?” he whispered.

“I’ve found you. Finally.”

A shudder ran down my spine. Yet I puffed my chest.

“You can’t. You were the one who-”

“-who had nearly died while chasing you, yes? Well, unlucky for you, I’m not dead.”

“Adn!” I hissed. “Don’t ever say that again.”

From my peripheral vision, I spotted a dupatta peeking behind the curtain of our neighbour’s house. My jaw twitched.

Khansaa. Always yearning for gossip material.

Adn coughed in front of me.

“Won’t you invite me for tea? Sister, dear.”

From his dark, thick lips, the word sister sounded like a cuss word.

“Come.” I tightened my fist, pushed him aside, and fumbled through my purse for the key.

Adn loomed behind me. His eyes boring into my head.

The padlock clicked open. My hands trembled. But before the lock could fall, a hand gripped it — thick, burnt skin.

“Such a weakling, aren’t you?” Adn tsked.

Disgust curled in my mouth.

I tore my gaze from his hands and kicked the door open. I never asked him to come in. But he trailed after me. Like a shadow. A ghost.

A ghost of my past I thought I had locked away - but it had come clawing out of its coffin.

“So, you’re working now?”

I was so drenched in my thoughts that I actually jumped when he spoke, easing himself onto the sofa.

“Easy, Ramal. I’m not going to kill you, sis. Not yet.”

He was mocking me. I knew that tone. The way his lips twitched. His eyes danced with that familiar glint.

I set my spine to steel.

“Yes. I’m working as a teacher. Objection?”

“Not that you’d listen if I had one. You just don’t have the obeying bone in your body, do you?” He cackled, then his voice dropped to a whisper.

“You’ll pay for it.”

The breath knocked out of my lungs. Tears brimmed in my eyes. I didn’t know I was trembling until he lunged toward me. Steadying me.

“Hey, Ramal. I was joking. Just kidding.”

I wrenched myself from his arms, remembering the last time he’d gripped my shoulders like that.

“Just tell me - why are you here? How did you find my address?”

“This is not how you welcome your loving brother, Ramal. You’ve changed so much.”

For a moment, he had me. The sincerity in his voice, the way he sat with hunched shoulders.

And then he said, “Look at you. Coarse hair. Lifeless skin. Bony physique. What happened to you, Rami?”

The mocking lilt was unmistakable.

“Unlike you. You’re the same, brother dear. The tattoo, the hair, the eyes, the lips… as if you just drank someone’s blood. By the way, how many murders have you committed so far? Haven’t the police caught you yet?”

His jaw clenched.

“Cut the bullshit, Ramal. I’m here to invite you. Back home.”

“And who the hell are you to think I’ll obey?”

“I’m your brother.” He took a dramatic pause.

“And I’ve missed you. A lot.”

I let out a hearty laugh. Then wiped my tears.

“God.” I sighed.

“You lot still think you can fool me?”

“And because,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard me, “Abba wishes to forgive you.”

My knees wobbled.

The door burst open. And we both snapped back.

“Ram, I’ve brought you pizza and cake. Happy Birthday!”

A flushed Iman, loaded with shopping bags, stood in the doorway, his jaw hanging open.

“Iman—”

Bile rose to my throat at the murderous look in Adn’s eyes.

I took a step toward Iman and turned to Adn, blocking my husband’s view.

“Adn, it’s you?”

Iman — stupid, stupid Iman — called out to the sleeping lion from behind me.

I bit my lips and drank in the way Adn’s muscles went taut. His fist clenched. A vein ticked in his forehead, bringing the dragon tattoo there back to life.

“You better—” I raised a warning finger.

But he beat me to it.

“Hi, Iman.” He smiled, his voice casual.

“How are you?”

“Same old, same old, bro!” Iman ducked from behind me and strolled to Adn, his arms already opening for a hug.

Blood drained from my body. Fear clogged my throat. What would Adn do—

But Adn hugged Iman back.

I inhaled a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

He smiled at me from the embrace, mouthing, “Easy.”

“Ramal, what a surprise! You invited Adn on your birthday? You could’ve told me, dear.”

Iman turned to me, beaming.

“Now let me cook something for him.”

And he headed to the kitchen.

Adn leaned back on the sofa, his right arm draped across it.

“Ah, your husband cooks? Such a sweetling. A chef, I got to know a few days ago. No wonder you chose him over us.”

I clenched my jaw. He had a way of making simple words like cooks and chef sound filthy.

“Yes. And it still bothers you, doesn’t it?” I said. After all, two can play at the game.

The mirth left his eyes, replaced by fire. He blinked. And it was gone.

“Can’t we leave the past in the past, Ramal? We really want to reconcile. You’re our blood. Our izzat. Our ghairat.”

My mouth turned salty at those words.

Izzat. Ghairat.

Words so beautiful, so precious for any girl.

But in my family, they were weapons. Tight. Suffocating. Hurled only at the females.

For males, they were stretchable as elastic. Convenient.

“You still have the audacity to call me that, Adn? Didn’t I taint your pinchful of izzat that night?”

I smirked.

He leaned forward, his fingers curling into a fist.

“Don’t make it hard, Rami. Not for us, not for you.”

Before I could hit him with another jab, a hand touched my shoulder — as if softly knocking. I turned.

Iman smiled. There was something pleading in his eyes that told me to stop.

“Adn, dude,” he said, turning to my brother,

“Freshen up before my samosas make you drool.”

Adn stood and eyed him from head to toe. Iman had changed into a loose kurta and pajama.

Adn’s predatory gaze took in everything — from his muscular shoulders to his soft smile.

They were nearly the same height, Iman inching just a bit taller. A look of disgust and envy filled Adn’s eyes.

I smiled.

An ambassador of izzat, versus the real protector of izzat, stood before each other.

My real protector had a peaceful aura around him. 

I darted to the kitchen and fried the samosas Iman had rolled.

A rich aroma filled the house — samosas, green chutney, and chai.

From the doorway, I felt Adn’s eyes on us — on me passing Iman the cups, on him setting the plates. A stunned stillness gripped his face.

It was the first emotion I’d seen completely overtake him.

And for a moment, behind that polished wall of pride, I saw my little Adn again — jaw slack, eyes wide with wonder.

The way he used to react when I told him stories under the starlit sky back home.

I almost laughed as a memory resurfaced — when I once convinced him to be a newspaper vendor so he could visit rich mansions and luxurious buildings.

His passionate nodding — as if it were the best idea in the world.

And then my laughter — shrieky, loud. The look of confusion in his black eyes.

Now I watched the bigger Adn. The man he’d become. Or the monster.

The moment he noticed me watching, he snapped the mask back on. Lips curled into a snarl.

I sighed.

Iman’s elbow brushed mine.

“Done staring at your brother?” He smirked.

“You look like you’re plotting his murder, Ram, with that furrow between your brows.”

He touched the space between my eyebrows, softly smoothing it down. 

The food was eaten in silence — with only Iman’s playful jokes fluttering like butterflies, and Adn’s rage simmering like a pot ready to spill.

When I cleared the dastarkhwan, Adn smoothed his shirt and stood.

“You’re coming home tomorrow afternoon.”

“Did I ever agree?” I folded my arms.

“No. I won’t come.”

“Ramal! Another denial and—”

“—Chill, bro.” Iman intervened. His eyes briefly cold, then softening as they met mine.

“What’s this about?”

Adn didn’t even look at him.

I said,

“Nothing. The Chaudharys are just being generous. But we’re quite normal folks, aren’t we? 9-to-5 jobs, cooking, and mild lives. So I said no. We don’t mingle with people as lofty as them.”

Iman looked at me, shook his head, then turned to Adn.

“We will come, Adn.”

I threw daggers at him with my eyes. He grinned.

“Ramal still misses you. And Amma,” he added, “but my wife better be respected.”

“She was my sister before your wife.”

Adn took a bold step forward.

“And you did what?” Iman snapped.

“Don’t make me remember that, Adn Chaudhary.”

For the first time, Iman’s voice held no softness.

The air between them was so tense, I felt it in my bones. I licked my parched lips.

“Fine.” Adn rolled his shoulders, challenge burning in his eyes.

“Your wife will be taken good care of, Iman Ali.”

And then he walked away — without even saying goodbye.

Author’s Note

Abhi to party shuru hui hai, dear readers 🤭

This was just Episode 1 of IZZAT: The Name of My Cage — a story that’s raw, gripping, and deeply human.
If it made your heart clench or your fists tighten, you're exactly where I want you to be.

Tell me — what did you feel?

Drop your thoughts, comments, or even a silent prayer for Ramal.

And if it touched you, do share it forward. Someone else might need it too. 💔✨

~ Bint-e-Azhar