The Fist and the Oath

Karam's Legacy, Chapter 1: The badge is heavy. The streets are louder.

The subway platform reeked of urine and fresh paint—a warped battle between the new and the stale, a daily war between preservation and decay, where every effort to restore met a dozen forces working to erode.

A bead of sweat traced Amir’s cheek, leaving a faint itch behind. Heat pressed through his dark button-down, damp at the collar. His gaze moved across the platform—slow, practiced, trained to catch what others missed.

The platform was relatively quiet for a Sunday afternoon. He knew the next train would arrive in 10 minutes from now, and a few passengers might rush down the steps, trying to catch it. That’s when accidents happened. He saw it at least once a week. Someone tripped on the steps, rushing down too quickly. Usually, the person would just pick themselves up and go on their way. Occasionally, someone would be seriously hurt or need help getting up, but someone was almost always nearby.

Amir observed a man in his late thirties, tall and wiry, pacing near the edge of the platform. A faded tattoo peeked out from under his hoodie sleeve as he bobbed his head to the music pulsing through a pair of black Beats. Every few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder, jittery—like he was waiting for more than just a train.

A young Asian woman hurried down the stairs, her loose gray cardigan flapping behind her. One hand clutched a purse, the other juggled two bright shopping bags.

There it is, Amir thought. Right on cue. A commuter, rushing, distracted.

She glanced down—probably for her phone—and moved forward, unaware. Her shoulder clipped the man’s back.

It wasn’t much—a bump, barely more than a nudge—but the man jolted forward. The Beats, resting loosely over his hoodie, slid off his head and dropped onto the tracks with a soft clatter.

He froze, staring down. Then he turned.

The Asian woman leaned back, surprised by what had occurred. She quickly said, “Sorry,” and was about to continue walking past him.

But as she tried to walk past him, he shouted at her, “Hey, miss!” Amir heard the shout clearly, even though he was some distance away. He began walking towards the man and woman. “Hey, miss! Now my Beats are on the damn tracks! You gotta pay for that.”

“What?” The woman responded.

“Yes. You gotta pay for that. Those were expensive.”

“I’m sorry,” the young woman said. “Uhm, it was an accident.”

“Doesn’t matter. Pay up.” The man stepped closer to the woman. She stepped back in response. “I said pay up!” The man shouted again, taking another step closer.

Instincts kicked in, and the woman pivoted her foot and attempted to walk away quickly, without breaking into a run.

The man shouted again as she turned away from him. “Hey! Don’t run from me! Who’s gonna pay for my Beats!”

Amir caught up to the two, just as the man was about to speed up his pace. “Hey, man. Let’s relax here.” There was a time he hadn’t stepped in. A woman had screamed that time, and he was too slow. He wasn’t going to let that happen again.

“Who are you?” The man shouted again. He was upset.

“No one. Listen, why don’t we all just relax?”

“You relax! She broke my Beats—she pays.”

“Ok, ok. Let’s calm down. I'm sure we can come up with some reasonable solution here.”

The Asian woman paused to look back, but then decided it was in her best interest to continue walking away.

“Hey, look. Now she's gone!”

Amir glanced slightly behind her, relieved she was out of the man’s reach.

“Now you gotta pay!” The man shouted. “Pay for my Beats!”

“Ok, ok.” Amir tried to calm the man down. Now that the two were just a few inches apart, Amir suddenly realized the man towered over him by at least six inches.

Longer reach, Amir noted.

The man walked closer to Amir. Amir held his ground, holding up his hands.

“You need to calm down,” Amir said, voice steady—but his jaw clenched, pulse ticking louder in his ears.

“Or else what, huh? What you gonna do?” The man was testing Amir’s patience.

This was when Amir pulled out his NYPD badge, which was concealed behind his shirt, hanging on a chain around his neck. “Listen, I’m a cop. So let’s relax now.”

“Ah, you're a cop! You are a pig!” The man was starting to become hysterical. “But you’re brown! You’re on the wrong side, man! What are you doing, a white man’s job?”

Amir wasn’t sure how to react, but he continued to try to calm the man down. “You don’t want this to go further. Walk away while it’s still just a misunderstanding.”

“Walk away?” The man responded. “What do you mean, walk away? You saw her break my things. Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?”

“I am trying to help you. But you have to calm down.”

“Man, screw you!” The man pushed Amir. “Get out of my face! You’re half my size! “What are you gonna do with that badge? Please. It could be a fake.”

Amir took a deep breath, pushing back the familiar weight in his chest—the one that always came when force felt inevitable. This wasn’t why he joined. He rarely even showed his badge. Most situations could be defused with a calm presence. But flashing the badge was always a gamble—sometimes it cooled things down, other times it only escalated them. Like now.

“I ought to slap you across the face. Brown cop. You are a pig, man. You’re on the wrong side.” The man continued to step forward. Amir was on guard and would be ready to defend himself. The man was getting close to crossing a line. Amir did not typically arrest people. It wasn’t his mandate. His job was to keep watch and diffuse situations. Intervene when needed. Protect. Ensure safety. Not to rack up his arrest record.

“Brother-”

“I’m not your brother! Don’t you dare address me in that manner.” The man placed his hands on his forehead and looked up at the ceiling. “All I wanted was repayment for my Beats. Those were expensive!” Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he looked at Amir.

A split second later, the man lunged, right fist flying straight at Amir. He dodged easily.

The man swung again. Another miss.

Frustrated, he let out a guttural cry, raw and desperate. The sound echoed off the tiled walls like an alarm. His fists clenched so tightly, his knuckles went pale.

On the third strike, Amir stepped in. He blocked the punch, grabbed the man’s arm, swept his foot, and dropped him hard to the ground.

The man landed flat on his back. Amir reached for his ankle holster, pulled out a pair of cuffs, and started to restrain him—

—but the man surged up, wrapping an arm around Amir’s neck, locking him in a headlock.

At that moment, the train thundered into the station. The platform rumbled beneath them.

The noise distracted the man, just long enough for Amir to break free.

He rose quickly and drove a knee into the man’s mouth. The man crumpled backward, dazed and teary-eyed.

Amir didn’t waste the moment. He cuffed him to the nearest bench and stepped back, breathing hard.

Amir stood up as the man wailed. Commuters exiting the train saw the commotion. Most walked past quickly, chasing their transfer. Some stood and took pictures. Amir raised his hand, “Please keep your distance.”

He pressed the mic clipped under his collar. “Officer requesting backup. One male cuffed. 36th Avenue platform.”

Amir stood beside the man he’d cuffed, breathing heavily, the noise of the arriving train fading into the background.

The platform emptied.

All that remained was the echo of a fight he didn’t want, and a badge that felt heavier than ever.

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Thanks for reading Chapter 1 of Karam’s Legacy. The journey continues—[Chapter 2 is waiting. →]

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