The Locker Room Code
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 2: Not Every Fight Starts with a Fist
Most cops were former jocks. While the NYPD technically looked for candidates with strong academic credentials, the reality was different—the job drew a certain type. Men who thrived on adrenaline, who lived by hierarchy and the unspoken rules of the locker room.
That was why, when Amir entered the men’s locker room at the 114th Precinct to close out his shift, he was greeted by a chorus of claps and hollers. Some officers were just arriving, others stripping off their uniforms after a long day.
It reminded him of high school wrestling—sweaty, loud, tribal.
He'd been on the team back then, fueled by a martial arts foundation his father had given him before he passed away. He remembered the rush after a win, the way teammates slapped your back like they were branding you part of something. And he remembered the silence that followed a loss, the kind that told you no one owed you comfort.
The locker room hadn’t changed much. The rules were just unspoken now, harder to pin down but no less real. Strength was respected. Emotion wasn’t.
As Amir unbuttoned his sweat-soaked shirt, a younger officer patted him on the back. “Heard you laid someone out on the trains,” the guy grinned.
Amir didn’t respond. His father had once told him: “A badge can do two things—it can unleash the animal inside you, or it can remind you it’s there and make you spend your whole life trying to hold it back.”
He replayed the subway incident in his mind, searching for another path. A better one. But the truth was, the man had lost it. He’d gone fully off the rails. Amir had seen it before—bad days that turned dangerous.
The younger officer lingered for a moment, then moved on when Amir stayed quiet.
Amir put on a clean pair of clothes - a simple NYPD t-shirt and jeans. He grabbed his duffel bag, which held his dirty clothes and gym clothes together, as well as his workout gear - a pair of gloves and a jump rope. He’d be heading over to Manfred’s MMA gym for his evening workout before finally heading home.
As Amir exited the locker room, a uniformed officer from the front desk shouted towards Amir directly, “Kash!” That was his nickname. Amir’s full name was Amir Kashyap. “The boss wants to see you.”
Amir nodded and turned towards a flight of stairs. He made his way up to Deputy Inspector Christopher Mason’s office. Before he could knock on the door, Mason saw him and waved him in.
Mason wore a polished uniform with a bushy mustache. Tall, with an old-school finesse, Mason peered at Amir with round eyes that seemed as though they possessed the ability of X-ray vision. He didn’t sleep much, and when he did, he didn’t sleep well. “You look good on camera,” Mason said, referring to the flood of social media posts already circulating.
Amir stood at attention. “Sir.”
“Relax, have a seat.”
Amir sat across from the desk, still rigid.
“How are you doing?” Mason asked, voice quieter now.
“Good, sir.”
Mason sighed. “You did good work. I want you to know that.”
Amir nodded, acknowledging it.
“But there’s something else.”
Of course there is, Amir thought. There always was.
“The girl you helped on the platform? That was the DCPI’s daughter. Kathy Iwamoto.”
Amir barely reacted. Just a small shift in the eyes.
Mason smiled at his stoicism. “Same as your old man. Never gave much away.” He paused, searching Amir’s face. “You’ve got to go to One PP tomorrow, 9 a.m. The DCPI and the commissioner want to shake your hand. There might be a press conference.”
He leaned back, arms crossed—not cold, just waiting. “You don’t have to do the press thing. And if you want… I can come with you. I know how those rooms can feel. Especially when everyone’s pretending they don’t know your name.”
Amir met his eyes, something unreadable flashing through. “I can go on my own. Thank you, sir.”
Mason held his gaze a second longer than necessary. “Alright. That was it.”
Amir stood to leave.
“Say hi to Manfred for me,” Mason said, not looking up.
“Will do, sir.”
As the door clicked shut behind him, Mason stayed seated, staring at nothing in particular. In his lap, his hand tightened slightly, like he was gripping a memory.
Mason had known Amir’s father. Most of the older brass had. He discovered the truth a year after he joined the force.
It started with a name buried in an old precinct log—Kashyap, K.—attached to an unsolved case file that had once been flagged as “internal interest.” He pulled the report. At first, it looked like any other cold case.
But then came the clippings. The witness statements. The anonymous letters filed by terrified victims—each one describing a man, fast and silent, with an accent they couldn’t quite place. South Asian. Arab, maybe.
The pattern was unmistakable. His father had been the NYPD’s mystery man.
The vigilante.
The one who had triggered the formation of an internal task force.
And that task force included two names Amir now knew better than most: Deputy Inspector Mason, and Manfred…
Amir never asked for details, and they never volunteered them. But he had read the report numerous times.
The task force ended the same day Karam Kashyap died. The cause of death was a single stab wound to the back, delivered by a knife-wielding thief in the subway.
The reporting officer was Christopher Mason.
In the back of Amir’s mind held a question that was never answered by any of the brass, or even the ones who trained him and protected him: Was Mason there when it happened? Could he have stopped it?
The cool evening air hit Amir’s face as he exited the precinct. His phone buzzed. It was his mother. Amir braced himself as he picked up her call. “Did you get into another fight?” she asked. No hello. No, how are you doing, son?
“It wasn’t a fight. I was just doing my duty.”
Silence on the line. Amir understood well enough that his mother, Shanti, was holding back tears. “Your face is everywhere.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re father wouldn’t have let this happen.” His mother’s voice trailed off.
Amir held his breath as a gust of wind hit the back of his neck. He had never told her about the task force. She had no clue the NYPD had been following his father’s every move. Discussions about his father were a sensitive topic, and they almost always led to his mother bawling her eyes out.
His mother tried every which way to prevent Amir from following in his father’s footsteps, even going as far as not allowing him to practice Karate with any other sensei.
In response, Amir would practice in secret. On weekends, he’d sneak out with a binder of drills and katas copied from memory.
Astoria Park became his dojo.
At 15, Amir joined the high school wrestling team—a decision his mother allowed, reluctantly.
“It’s a school sport,” she had told herself. “Better than karate. Better than... that.”
But even then, she never came to matches. Never asked if he won.
Wrestling was exhilarating. While practicing katas and drills from memory, books, and magazines helped, it wasn’t the same as training under a coach. It wasn’t the same as improving your skill by being pushed by others on the mat.
Before Amir walked toward Manfred’s gym, duffel slung over his shoulder, he scanned the block on instinct. Something eerie gave him a pause. Perhaps it was the cops’ instinct, or perhaps he just had too many thoughts going through his mind. Today was action-packed. Too much action. And all Amir wanted to do right now was hit the bag and skip some rope.
Thanks for reading Chapter 2 of Karam’s Legacy. The shadows deepen—[Chapter 3 is now live →]
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