The sky over Kigali bled orange and purple, but Kabir didn't see beauty anymore. He saw only the geometry of violence—escape routes, blind spots, the angle of a falling knife. Three years ago, he had walked away from the underground fight circuits of Mumbai. They called him Baaghi then. The Rebel. He had thought rebellion meant breaking chains. Now, standing in a dusty courtyard in Nyamirambo, he knew the truth.
Behind him, he heard Umutoni weeping.
Niyonsaba laughed—a dry, hollow sound. “You think chaos is a suitcase? A briefcase of secrets? No, my friend. Agasobanuye is a wound that never heals. Umutoni does not carry chaos. She is chaos. To fight her, you must become a wound yourself.” baaghi 4 agasobanuye