The Locker Room Code
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 2: Not Every Fight Starts with a Fist
Hey there! This is Season 1, Chapter 2 of my serialized story, Karam’s Legacy.
The story continues.
Quick links: 🔗 Story Index | ⬅️ Chapter 1 | ➡️ Chapter 3
Previously in Karam’s Legacy…
On a quiet subway platform, Amir intervened when a minor accident spiraled into something dangerous. What began as a confrontation over a pair of headphones escalated into racial hostility, threats, and violence—forcing Amir to flash a badge he rarely uses and fight to protect a stranger. By the time backup arrived, the platform was empty, the suspect cuffed, and Amir was left standing with the echo of a fight he didn’t want—and a badge that felt heavier than ever.
And now…Chapter 2:
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. No one to comfort him. No one to say it was all right, not even his high school coach at the time.
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, when bad days 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. 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, “Amir!” The front desk called out to him. “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 about the arrest in the subway.
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 for Mason to finish. “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, looking up at Amir as walked towards the door.
Amir already had his back turned to Mason when he responded, “Will do, sir.”
The door clicked shut behind Amir. He paused in the hallway for a moment, listening to nothing in particular, long enough to steady himself before moving on.
Mason had known his father. Amir learned the truth years later, after he’d made detective.
It started with a name buried in an old precinct log—Kashyap, K.—attached to an unsolved case file once flagged as internal interest. He pulled the report.
It laid it out plainly. His father had been the NYPD’s mystery man. The vigilante.
An internal task force was formed to investigate this vigilante. Buried in that report were two names Amir knew better than most: Deputy Inspector Mason, and Manfred.
Amir never asked for details, and they never volunteered them. He’d read the report often enough to know something had been left out. Mason knew the full shape of it. Maybe Manfred did too.
Manfred had said it plainly once: It’s not my place to speak. Then, after a pause, I’ll just say one thing...I’m done with the NYPD.
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.
Amir had read the report enough times to know where Mason’s voice stopped. That was the part that stayed with him.
Mason was a boy scout. His cases were always airtight. Every detail accounted for, every loose end tied off. Prosecutors loved him for it. Amir had admired him for it. When his father wasn’t there to show him what kind of cop to be, Mason had, in his own way, filled that space.
Which was how Amir knew something had been left out.
He didn’t accuse Mason of wrongdoing, not even privately. But omissions had weight too. Maybe Mason’s hands had been tied. Maybe he thought he was protecting Amir. Either way, the gaps lingered, and they told Amir that the truth about his father wasn’t something Mason trusted him with yet.
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.
His mother tried every way to prevent Amir from following in his father’s footsteps, even going as far as not allowing him to practice Karate.
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.
“So…are you coming tomorrow?” his mother asked softly.
Amir made an effort to see his mother at least once a month, to spend the day drinking chai, avoiding asking questions about his father.
“Well, I have to go in tomorrow morning. One Police Plaza.”
“I see,” she said. “Isn’t that a good thing? You don’t sound excited”
Amir hesitated. “They want to commend me,” he said finally. “For the arrest.”
He was already standing in front of Manfred’s gym when he added, quieter, “Look, I’ll let you know when I can come by.”
Amir walked toward Manfred’s gym, duffel slung over his shoulder. All he wanted was to hit the bag and skip some rope. Anything to quiet his head for a while.
Want to keep reading Karam’s Legacy?
Continue with the next chapter here → Chapter 3
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Quick links: 🔗 Story Index | ⬅️ Chapter 1 | ➡️ Chapter 3