Anesh

Uzair slowly stood up from the floorboards, cross the living room and stepped into the guest room, shutting the door behind him with a click that signaled the end of the confrontation.

Left alone in the dim room, the silence rushed back, broken only by the mechanical hum of the cassette player.

Hamza lay curled on the rug for a few more minutes, Slowly, his trembling hands pressed against the floorboards, forcing his weak knees to straighten as he pulled himself up. Every muscle in his body ached.

His vision is blurred, the room tilting slightly as a familiar, pulsing pressure began to throb behind his temples. The trauma of the past hour is pushing his mind to its limits.

He staggered toward the side table, his fingers blindly groping in the dark until they hit the cold plastic of his medicine . He didn't bother looking for a glass of water. With shaking hands, he popped the cap off, tipped two pills into his palm, and shoved them into his mouth, gulping them down dry with a painful swallow. He squeezed his eyes shut, begging the chemical compounds to work fast, to numb the frayed nerve endings before he completely unraveled.

But when he opened his eyes, the dim, gray There, standing near the edge of the dark hallway, were two small, silent silhouettes.

Hamza’s breath caught in his throat, a cold sweat breaking out across his neck. They were small shadows—shapes he knew, shapes that didn't belong in this house, shapes from a past that was supposed to be dead and buried.

'No. No, please... not now,' his mind screamed.

He knew it wasn't real. He knew the stress, the guilt, and the grief were fracturing his mind, forcing him to hallucinate the ghosts he spent every waking hour trying to outrun. But the sight of those small shadows made his heart hammer against his ribs , He couldn't trust his own eyes. He is losing his grip on reality.

Panicking, Hamza averted his gaze, refusing to look at the shadows as he stumbled blindly past them into the hallway.

He come into his bedroom, his fingers catching the doorframe to keep from falling. In the corner of the room, tucked safely under a heavy wool blanket, lay Ishmir. The boy was sound asleep, his breathing deep and entirely untouched by the storm that had just wrecked the living room.

Hamza scrambled onto the mattress, his movements hurried and desperate. He didn't pull the blanket over himself; instead, he simply collapsed onto his side right beside the sleeping boy. He reached out with a trembling hand, wrapping his arm around Ishmir’s small frame and pulling him close, burying his face into the soft fabric of the boy's shirt.

Listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of Ishmir heart, Hamza forced himself to breathe in time with his son. He held onto him like an anchor in a raging sea, closing his eyes tightly, desperately using the warmth of the only real thing he had left to keep his mind from snapping completely into the darkness.

​The morning in Ridder arrived not with sunlight, but with a pale gray fog that hung low over the mountains, blanketing the small town in a freezing, muffled silence.

​Inside the house, Ishmir was the very first one to open his eyes.

​He blinked against the dim morning light filtering through the frost-bitten windowpanes. He didn't move at first, feeling the weight of his father’s arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Hamza is still sound asleep beside him, but even in sleep, his father’s brow is deeply furrowed, his fingers clutching the fabric of Ishmir's shirt so tightly they were stiff.

​Ishmir looked at his father’s face. Even with his young eyes, he could see the dark, swollen shadows under Hamza’s eyes and the faint, dried tear tracks near his temple. He didn't know what had happened last night—he had slept through the quiet storm in the living room—but he knew his baba is hurt. He always knew.

​Slowly, with a gentleness that mirrored the way Hamza usually cared for him, Ishmir slipped out from under his father grip. He carefully pulled the wool blanket up to Hamza’s chin, making sure the freezing drafts from the floorboards wouldn't reach him.

​The house is freezing. The old radiators were clicking weakly, struggling against the Ridder winter.

​Ishmir slid his feet into his oversized woolen slippers and quietly padded out of the bedroom. The hallway was completely dark and quiet, the ghosts from the previous night having vanished with the dawn. As he reached the living room, his feet stepped on something crisp.

​He looked down. The floor is completely littered with dozens of notes.

​Ishmir tilted his head in confusion. He bent down and picked up one of the thousand-ruble notes, turning it over in his small hands. He didn't understand why his father's hard-earned money was scattered across the rug like dead leaves, but he began to quietly gather them, stacking them into a neat pile on the edge of the sofa.

​While he was stacking the papers, his eyes drifted toward the two closed doors down the hall—the main bedroom where his father lay exhausted, and the guest room where the silent uncle from last night is staying.

​The whole house is dead silent, waiting for the adults to wake up and face the wreckage they had left behind in the dark.

The quiet rustle of the paper notes is interrupted by the click of the guest room door opening.

Ishmir froze, a handful notes clutched in his small fingers as he looked up.

Uzair stepped out into the dim hallway. The timing was exact—the sky outside was turning a pale, icy blue as the Fajr azan time approached. He had already washed for his ablutions, his face slightly damp with the freezing water of the pipes. His is dressed in a simple, dark tunic, and he carried his woolen prayer mat over his left arm, preparing to find a quiet corner of the living room to prostrate before his God.

But as he entered the space, his eyes fell on the center of the rug.

There sat Ishmir, kneeling among the wreckage of last night, looking up at him with those big, eyes, blinking softly in the gray morning light.

The sight of the boy instantly softened the hard, rigid lines of Uzair’s face. The uzair from the night before vanished, replaced by a slow, unbidden smile that touched his lips. He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, gentle rumble so he wouldn't disturb the silence of the house.

"Tum uth gaye...?" Uzair asked softly.

Ishmir nodded his head, his eyes shifting from Uzair’s towering height down to the cash in his own lap. He held up a wrinkled note, tilting his head "Uncle... yahan money... here, there," Ishmir whispered, pointing his small finger at the bills still scattered near the base of the sofa. "What happened?"

A sharp jolt of guilt hit Uzair’s chest. The memory of throwing that money directly into Hamza face, of letting it rain down on him as an insult, felt incredibly ugly under the pure, questioning gaze of Hamza's son. He didn't want the boy to see the cruelty of the world they were trapped in.

Uzair hurriedly walked across the room, as he knelt down right next to Ishmir, his hands instantly taking over the space, gathering the loose notes in sweeping motions.

"Kuch nahi..." Uzair said quickly, his voice tight as he forced a calm, reassuring tone for the boy's sake. He gathered a large handful of the notes, hiding them from Ishmir's sight. "Bas... kal raat haath se gir gaye the. Andhera tha na... toh saaf karna bhool gaye honge tumhare Baba."

He kept his head down as he spoke, his fingers tightly compressing the rubber-banded bundle he had thrown in anger the night before, desperately trying to erase the evidence of his own madness before Hamza woke up to find his son cleaning up their shared tragedy.

Ishmir sat back on his heels, watching Uzair's hands quickly stack the remaining notes. He noticed the dampness on Uzair's face and hair, the clean, sharp scent of cold water ,

"Aap itna subah nahaya kiyu?" Ishmir asked, his small voice full of curiosity as he tilted his head. "Kuch karna hai aapko?"

Uzair paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes softening as he looked down at the boy. He gave a slow, gentle nod "Aapne prayer dekha hai?" Uzair asked, "Wohi karna hai. Aao mere saath, dikhata hoon."

Ishmir’s eyes brightened with interest, and he gave an eager nod.

Uzair stood up, unrolling the prayer mat with a practiced motion. He aligned it precisely toward the Qibla, facing the frosted window where the pale gray dawn was just beginning to break over the snow-covered roofs.

Instead of stepping onto the center of the mat immediately, Uzair looked down at Ishmir, who was standing quietly at the edge, unsure of where to go. A small, open space remained on the right side. Uzair reached down, his hand wrapping around Ishmir shoulder, guiding him forward.

"Yahan baitho," Uzair murmured softly, making the boy sit right beside the mat, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

Ishmir tucked his legs under himself, copying Uzair's posture , Uzair took his place, raising his hands to his ears to begin the Fajr prayer, his voice quietly whispering the sacred verses into the freezing air of the room.

For the first time in eight years, Uzair wasn't praying alone in a cell. Beside him sat the living breathing anchor of the man sleeping down the hall, watching him, bringing a strange peace to the wreckage of their lives.

​The sudden jolt of panic snapped Hamza’s eyes open. He looked at the small digital clock on his bedside table—it was past dawn, the pale, icy light of the Ridder morning already creeping through the curtains.

​"Ishmir..." Hamza gasped, He reached out to his side, but the mattress is cold and Empty.

​Panic morphed into adrenaline. He is late. He was supposed to wake up during Amrit Vela, the sacred hours before dawn, to cleanse himself and sit in meditation. He was supposed to cover his head, clear his mind of the ghosts, and recite the first five banis of the Nitnem—Japji Sahib, Jaap Sahib, Tav-Prasad Savaiye, Chaupai Sahib, and Anand Sahib. Those sacred verses were the only shield that kept his fractured psyche from breaking completely, the only thing that reminded him he is a father, a protector, and a man trying to survive.

​He had to make breakfast. He had to pack Ishmir’s lunch. He had to bundle him up for the freezing trek to the school.

​Hamza scrambled out of bed, his limbs aching terribly from the tension of the night before. His chest felt bruised where Uzair had pinned him, and his heart hammered with the terrifying thought that Uzair might have done something, or that Ishmir might have found the scattered money.

​He didn't even stop to change out of his crumpled clothes. He rushed out of the bedroom, ​But the moment he stepped into the archway of the living room, the frantic rush in his veins froze entirely.

​The scene before him made the breath die in his lungs. ​The scattered money was gone, neatly stacked away on the edge of the sofa. The darkness of the apartment had been replaced by a quiet, sacred stillness.

​There, under the pale blue light filtering through the frosted window, Uzair prayer mat was laid out. Uzair is sitting on his knees in the final, quiet moments of his Fajr prayer, his head bowed, ​And right beside him, tucked into the small space sat Ishmir. Ishmir is sitting perfectly cross-legged, his hands resting neatly on his knees, his face turned upward as he watched Uzair with fascination. Uzair and ishmir looked like a single portrait of peace, existing in a quiet rhythm that Hamza had thought is destroyed eight years ago.

​Hamza stood paralyzed in the shadow of the corridor, his fingers gripping the cold doorfram

He looked at Uzair’s broad back, then at the gentle slope of his son’s face, and for a terrifying, beautiful second, the line between his lies and his truth completely blurred.

Uzair finished his prayer, bowing his head one last time ,he raised his palms toward his face, whispering his final supplications into the quiet morning, before slowly rubbing his hands together to capture the warmth of the blessing.

​With a deep, peaceful breath, Uzair leaned down toward the ishmir sitting so patiently beside him. He gently blew the breath of his prayer over Ishmir face, then cupped his face and swayed them over the toddler’s little forehead and cheeks, passing the protection onto the child.

​Ishmir giggled softly, the gentle warmth of the breath tickling his nose. He blinked his big, bright eyes, tilting his head back—and that’s when his gaze drifted past Uzair shoulder, finding Hamza standing frozen in the shadow of the hallway.

​The little boy's face instantly lit up. "Baba!" Ishmir chirped, his tiny voice echoing like a bell through the quiet house.

​Before Uzair could even turn around, Ishmir scrambled onto his small knees on the prayer mat, pointing an chubby finger toward Hamza. He looked up at Uzair with eagerness.

​"Uncle! Uncle!" Ishmir pleaded in his sweet, broken toddler speech, his eyes wide. "Baba ko bhi karo ye! Baba ko bhi!"

​The words hit the room like a sudden, sharp intake of air. Bless Baba too, Uncle. Pass the prayer to Baba, too.

​Uzair’s large frame went entirely rigid at the slow, warm smile on his face faltered, his hands hovering in the empty space above the mat. He slowly turned his head, his gaze cutting through the pale blue morning light to lock onto Hamza.

​Hamza stood completely exposed under the archway. His long hair was a tangled silk curtain around his pale, exhausted face, Hearing his ishmir beg the man he had ruined to bless him, to protect him with a prayer,

​The two men locked eyes across the small distance of the room—one sitting on his prayer mat, the other drowning in his guilt—while the little boy sat between them, completely unaware of the bleeding history that made his simple wish an impossibility.

Uzair didn't move. He remained kneeling on the mat, his gaze holding Hamza pinned against the doorframe. The dead finality that had masked his features last night seemed to fracture just a fraction, replaced by a sorrow as he looked at Hamza trembling form.

Hamza swallowed hard, the lump in his throat feeling like a block of ice. The image of Uzair hands swaying a blessing over his own face—the way Uzair used to stroke his hair in the quiet of the Lyari nights—flashed through his mind with clarity. But he knew he no longer had a right to Uzair prayers.

A spy didn't get blessings from the man he had betrayed.

Desperate to break the tension before his knees gave out, Hamza forced a small smile onto his lips and stepped out of the shadow of the hallway.

"Ishmir..." Hamza’s voice was incredibly soft, as he walked into the living room. He didn't look at Uzair; he kept his eyes locked entirely on his son, using the boy as his shield against the burning weight of Uzair stare. "Aap... aap uncle ko tang mat karo. Chalo, Baba ke paas aao."

Ishmir pouted, his small bottom lip sticking out as he looked between Uzair and his father. "But Baba, uncle doing... like this," the toddler insisted, copying Uzair's hand motion with his tiny hands, trying to explain the blessing. "Warm-warm."

"Haan, beccha, Baba ne dekha," Hamza whispered, reaching the edge of the mat. He bent down, his long hair falling forward to hide the fresh tears welling up in his eyes, and gently lifted the tiny boy into his arms. Squeezing Ishmir tightly against his chest, Hamza felt the grounding warmth of ishmir body help steady his erratic pulse. "Chalo, kitchen mein chalte hain. Baba aapke liye breakfast banayenge, phir school ke liye ready hona hai."

As Hamza pulled away, Uzair finally broke his silence. "Tumhare Baba ko kisi marham... ya kisi dua ki zaroorat nahi hai, Ishmir," Uzair murmured, Uzair slowly began to fold the edges of his prayer mat, "Yeh apna rasta khud chunna jaante hain."

The cold edge in Uzair words cut straight through Hamza's defenses, but he didn't reply. He couldn't. Holding Ishmir close to his chest, Hamza quickly turned on and carried ishmir into the kitchen, desperately seeking the mundane routine of breakfast and school clothes to keep from losing his mind entirely.

Hamza set Ishmir down on the wooden chair in the kitchen, his hands still trembling as he tried to adjust ishmir sweater. He could hear the faint, muffled sounds of Uzair moving in the living room,

He needed his shield. He needed his 'Nitnem'. He needed to cover his head and lose himself in the sacred words of the 'Japji Sahib' just to find the strength to breathe through the rest of this morning.

"Bachha, tum ruko thodi der," Hamza whispered softly, as he leaned down and pressed a kiss against Ishmir chubby cheek. "Main mera prayer khatam karke aata hoon, theek hai? Phir Baba breakfast banayenge."

Ishmir blinked his big eyes, his small hands holding onto the edge of the table, and gave a nod. "Theek hai, Baba."

Hamza straightened up, grabbing a clean, dark blue cloth to cover his head. He tied it securely, the familiar weight of the fabric against his brow bringing a momentary, desperate sense of grounding to his fractured mind. He stepped into the corner of the room, away from the kitchen doorway, and closed his eyes.

“Ik Onkar, Satnam, Karta Purakh...”

The verses began to flow from his lips in a whisper. He forced his mind to lock onto the sound of his own voice, trying to drown out the memory of Uzair words, trying to wash away the phantom sight of the shadows he had hallucinated the night before. His chest heaved with a quiet sob mid-verse, but he didn't stop. He couldn't afford to stop.

Meanwhile, back in the living room, Uzair had finished smoothing out the creases of his prayer mat. He stood up, He could hear the soft, melodic murmur of Hamza voice drifting out from the kitchen. It wasn't the language of Lyari, nor was it the Urdu they had shared their lives in. It was something deeply personal, a rhythmic, foreign chant that felt entirely detached from the boy Uzair thought he knew inside out.

Uzair walked slowly toward the kitchen door, He stopped just outside the threshold, his frame leaning slightly against the wall as he looked inside.

Ishmir is sitting quietly on his chair, swinging his little legs back and forth, entirely content. And just a few feet away, Hamza stood with his eyes tightly shut, his head covered in cloth, his lips moving rapidly as he recited his morning banis, a tear escaping his lashes and tracking down his cheek.

Uzair watched him through the dim light, Eight years ago, The realization hit Uzair slowing the blood in his veins until his chest felt entirely hollow.

In the scorching heat of Lyari, he had only ever seen Hamza kneeling on mat, shoulder to shoulder with him under the amber lights of the haveli, mimicking the movements of the namaz. Back then, Uzair had looked at him and seen a quiet, devoted boy from the streets of Karachi who had blended seamlessly into his world, his routine, and his faith.

He hadn't known. He hadn't had a single clue.

He hadn't known that the boy who used to stay awake until 2:00 AM just to stroke Uzair's hair and soothe his nightmares is harboring an identity of his own. He hadn't known that the person who had completely unraveled his defenses, the one he had handed half his empire to, was a Sikh.

Uzair stared through the kitchen doorway, his eyes unblinking as they locked onto the covered head, the moving lips, and the sheer devotion bleeding out of Hamza whispered verses.

This wasn't Hamza the quiet companion. This wasn't Hamza the traitorous agent.

This is 'Jaskirat'.

And God, he is beautiful.

In the dim, freezing gray of the Ridder morning, stripped of the Lyari masks and the agency's lies, Jaskirat stood completely exposed in his truest form. There is a sanctity to the way he held himself, a grace in the rhythmic flow of the Gurmukhi words that Uzair couldn't understand but could feel vibrating straight through the floorboards.

Uzair’s breath hitched in his throat, A wave of conflicting emotions crashed over him. He wanted to scream at the deception, to rage at the fact that even the faith they had supposedly shared had been part of the lie. But as he watched a fresh tear slip from Jaskirat closed eye, the anger died a sudden, quiet death.

For eight years in that cell, Uzair had fed his hatred by remembering the face of the spy who had ruined him. But he had never seen this face. He had never seen the man who is loving him back then underneath all the stolen identities.

As the morning banis echoed softly against the cold kitchen tiles, Uzair stood frozen in the doorway, completely paralyzed by the terrifying realization that he is falling in love with a ghost he is only just beginning to meet.

Uzair forced his gaze away from Jaskirat, the weight of the realization pressing heavily against his chest as he stepped fully into the kitchen. He needed a distraction, something—anything—to pull his mind out of the past.

But the moment he looked down at the kitchen floor, his internal turmoil was abruptly cut short by a completely different kind of chaos.

Ishmir, in the few minutes he had been left to his own devices, had managed to turn the small kitchen corner into an absolute disaster zone.

The three-year-old had somehow tracked down the low plastic bucket where Hamza kept the rice, along with the metal canister of flour. With the pure, chaotic focus of a toddler, Ishmir had dumped generous handfuls of both onto the linoleum floor. To top it off, he had grabbed his little plastic water cup from the table, tipping the contents right into the center of the pile.

Now, his small hands were buried up to the wrists in a sticky, grey paste of wet flour and raw rice grains. He is happily squishing the mixture between his chubby fingers, a brilliant, triumphant smile spreading across his face as he looked up, entirely proud of his culinary masterpiece.

Uzair stopped dead in his tracks as he took in the sheer scale of the mess.

Slowly, his hand came up, slapping flat against his own forehead in a universal gesture of utter defeat. He let his hand slide down his face, a sigh escaping his lips.

"Ya Allah..." Uzair muttered under his breath,

He looked from the sticky explosion on the floor back up to Ishmir wide, innocent eyes. Uzair, who had handled riotous mobs in Lyari and survived the brutal discipline of a high-security prison, found himself completely defenseless against a three-year-old covered in dough.

He glanced back toward the corner where Hamza is still lost in his morning prayers, knowing that if Jaskirat opened his eyes right now to see the rations ruined and scattered across the floor, it would be the final straw for his already frayed nerves.

Uzair shook his head, a helpless, quiet huff of laughter threatening to break through his serious mask as he stepped forward, carefully avoiding the wet paste, and knelt down in front of the little troublemaker.

"Yeh kya kiya tumne...?" Uzair asked, He didn't sound angry—just utterly baffled by the destructive capability of a three-year-old.

Before Ishmir could even form a toddler defense, the soft rustle of clothing signaled the end of the prayers.

Hamza stepped into the main kitchen space. He had taken off the cloth, and his long, silky hair had fallen entirely open wildly over his shoulders framing his face. But the calm of the 'Nitnem' vanished the exact second his eyes adjusted to the floor.

Hamza stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze flicked from the completely overturned rice bucket, to the spilled flour, and finally to his son’s dough-covered arms.

"Ishmir!" Hamza gasped, his voice a mix of absolute horror and exhaustion. He stepped forward, his hands instantly coming up to his hips. "Yeh kya tamasha lagaya hai subah subah?!"

Hearing his father tone, Ishmir eyes went wide with panic. He didn't think twice. Leaving his sticky masterpiece behind, the tiny toddler scrambled backward on his knees, and threw himself directly behind Uzair towering frame.

​Ishmir grabbed a fistful of Uzair tunic with his clean elbow, peeking out from behind the uzair shoulder like a tiny shield. In his little three-year-old mind, the giant, quiet uncle who could easily block out the whole room was his only salvation from Baba's anger.

​Uzair felt the sudden, warm weight of the boy hiding behind his back. He didn't move away. Instead, he instinctively shifted just a fraction, expanding his posture to completely shield Ishmir from Hamza’s furious gaze.

​Hamza looked at Uzair broad back, then at the tiny, dough-stained face peeking out from behind Uzair waist, and he froze. The sight of his son seeking protection in the shadow of the very man he had spent eight years running from hit him right in the chest,

Uzair didn’t hesitate. With a smooth, effortless motion of his arms, he reached behind his back and scooped ishmir up,

He hoisted Ishmir onto his chest, ensuring his frame completely blocked the boy from Hamza gaze. He didn't care that the wet, grey paste of flour and rice instantly smeared across the fabric of his tunic, ruining his clean clothes right after his prayers.

"Uzair, chodo use... kapde kharab ho rahe hain aapke," Hamza muttered, He stepped closer, his long hair swaying over his shoulders as he reached out to take ishmir, "Neeche utaro use, bohot bada nishana banaya hai isne floor par."

But Uzair simply shifted his weight, turning his shoulder to gently steer Ishmir out of Hamza reach. He held the toddler securely with his left arm, using his hand to steady the boy back, effectively keeping himself as a human shield between the father discipline and the son panic.

"Kuch nahi hota," Uzair murmured,he looked down at Ishmir, whose little face is still tucked nervously against Uzair neck, his tiny shoulders tight.

Uzair raised his clean left hand, his thumb gently brushing away a stray speck of dry flour from the toddler cheek. "Bacha hai, Hamza. Ho jaata hai."

Ishmir, feeling the absolute safety of the giant uncle’s grip, slowly let out a breath and relaxed, burying his face deeper into the hollow of Uzair’s shoulder. He knew, with the pure intuition of a child, that as long as these heavy arms are wrapped around him, no storm in this freezing house could touch him.

Hamza’s hands hovered uselessly in the empty air between them. He looked at the stark contrast—Uzair presence wrapped protectively around the tiny, innocent life he had built in the snow. The sight is a beautiful cruelty. Eight years ago, Uzair had promised to protect him from the entire universe; today, without even knowing the truth of who Ishmir belonged to, Uzair was instinctively protecting Hamza child from Hamza himself.

Hamza let out a defeated breath, his shoulders dropping as he looked at the sticky disaster zone on his floor. He didn't have the emotional bandwidth to argue with Uzair, nor did he have the strength to fight the bitter ache blooming in his chest.

"Abhi chhup lo tum..." Hamza murmured, as he knelt down on the cold floorboards. His long hair fell forward, shielding his face as he began to scrape up the ruined mixture of wet flour and raw rice with an plastic spatula. "...school toh mere saath hi jaana hai."

Hearing the word school, Ishmir’s little heart did a panicked flip. He knew the kitchen mess was temporary, but to school with a quiet, upset Baba felt terrifying.

Ishmir hurriedly turned his head, his pleading eyes locking onto Uzair face. He tightened his sticky, dough-covered fingers around Uzair’s collar, his little lips trembling into a full-blown pout.

"Uncle..." Ishmir whispered, "Aap chaloge mere saath? Warna... warna Baba will be really angry at me."

Ishmir honestly believed that if the giant uncle came along, his Baba wouldn't be able to scold him or give him that quiet, heartbreaking look that always made Ishmir feel small.

Uzair stood perfectly still under the weight of the toddler's gaze. He could feel the tiny body shaking slightly against his chest, seeking a sanctuary that Uzair hadn't provided to anyone in eight long years.

Down on the floor, Hamza hand froze . He didn't look up, as he waited for Uzair's response, terrified of the answer, yet desperately craving the exact thing his son was begging for.

Uzair didn't answer the child right away. Instead, he slowly lowered his gaze down to the floor

The question had been brewing in Uzair mind since the moment he arrived in this town. He had listened to Hamza speak to the boy last night, and again just now—this strange, fractured way of talking, weaving English words into their native tongue like a shield. It wasn't the way they used to speak.

"Pehli baat toh..." Uzair started, "Yeh Hamza English aur Hindi mixed kyun karta hai?"

Hamza slowly stood up, holding the plastic spatula tightly in his hand, but he didn't look Uzair in the eye. He couldn't explain the reality of their survival to Uzair. He couldn't tell him that when you are a fugitive hiding in the remote corners of Kazakhstan, pretending to be someone else, you have to break your child tongue early. He was raising Ishmir to adapt, to understand the languages of the shifting world around them so that he would never get caught, never get trapped by a single identity the way his father had been.

Before Hamza could formulate a lie, Ishmir blinked his big eyes, looking at Uzair with confusion, completely unaware that his little language habits were actually a blueprint for survival.

Uzair looked back at the boy, his expression softening slightly, though his mind is still troubled by how much Hamza had changed.

"Chalo," Uzair murmured softly to the toddler, finally answering his earlier plea. "Main chalunga tumhare saath. Dekhte hain tumhare Baba kaise gussa karte hain."

Ishmir face instantly lit up , The moment Uzair agreed to come with him, Ishmir let out a happy chirp, leaned forward, and planted two big, wet, sloppy kisses right on both of Uzair cheeks, leaving faint smudges of flour behind.

Uzair blinked, his entire body going rigid for a second. His cheeks hadn't felt the touch of affection in almost a decade. A strange, sharp ache bloomed in his chest, making him hold the boy just a tiny bit tighter.

By the time Uzair set him down on his chair, Hamza had already finished wiping down the floor. Moving in a quiet rhythm, Hamza poured warm milk over a small bowl of flakes. He placed the bowl and a tiny spoon in front of Ishmir, his movements completely silent, his eyes downcast as he purposely avoided making eye contact with ishmir.

Ishmir looked at the bowl, then looked up at his father face, and instantly let out a small, disappointed pout. Sensing the tension, quietly picked up his spoon and began to eat, his eyes darting back and forth between the two men.

Hamza stood by the counter, his hands gripping the edge of the cold sink. He looked at Uzair back, A guilt twinged in his stomach. Uzair hadn't eaten a single bite since he had arrived in Ridder yesterday.

"Kuch... kuch bana doon? Khaoge?" Hamza whispered, his fingers tightening on the sink. "Kal se kuch khaya nahi aapne..."

Uzair didn't even turn around. He slowly looked away, staring out the frosted kitchen window at the bleak, white snow of Ridder.

"Kaha na..." Uzair’s voice low, "...isse achha zehar kha loon main."

Hamza flinched as he dropped his head, his long hair falling forward like a curtain to hide the sudden, burning tears that rushed into his eyes. He didn't say another word. He just stood there, drowning in Uzair hatred, while Ishmir stopped his spoon halfway to his mouth, sensing that the fragile peace in the room had just shattered all over again.

Hamza turned away, his hands trembling as he picked up Ishmir’s little lunchbox. He couldn't let his tears fall into his son's food. Moving like a ghost, he packed a small meal, forcing his mind to focus entirely on the mechanical task of sealing the lid and sliding it into the small backpack.

"Ishmir," Hamza whispered, "Chalo beta, apna school bag lekar aao room se. Baba kapde nikalte hain."

Ishmir, eager to escape the silence that had just frozen the kitchen, nodded quickly. He scrambled down from his chair, his little slippers clicking against the floor as he hurried down the hallway to find his bag.

The moment the toddler was out of earshot,

Hamza didn't stop. Instead of making something complicated, he reached for the stove. His movements were swift, born from years of practicing a life he had never been meant to have. He rolled out a piece of dough, placing it onto the iron tawa. The sharp, comforting scent of a fresh, ghee-crisped paratha filled the cold air,

When it's golden and steaming, Hamza placed it onto a plate. He walked over, and laid the plate down on the table right in front of Uzair.

Uzair didn't even look at it. He kept his eyes locked on the gray Ridder sky outside,

Hamza stood there, his long hair falling over his chest, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. The rejection is killing him, but the thought of Uzair starving in his house is worse.

"Gussa mere upar hai..." Hamza's voice broke, a desperate whisper that finally let the tears overflow down his cheeks. "Khaane ne kya kar liya? Mujh par jitna chahe nikal lo... jo chahe keh lo, lekin kuch khaa lo, Uzair."

It was the first time since yesterday that he had used Uzair name without a title, without the distance of a spy talking to a target. It's just hamza, begging the man he loved not to destroy himself out of spite.

"Main bura hoon, main gunahgaar hoon," Hamza choked out, stepping a fraction closer, though he didn't dare to touch uzair. "Lekin aapka shareer... aapka jaan is nafrat ki mohtaj nahi hai. Please."

Uzair’s eyes slowly drifted from the frosted window pane down to the golden, steaming paratha sitting on the plate. The rich, buttery scent of ghee filled the kitchen, a scent so deeply tied to the homes they had left behind that it felt almost foreign in the middle of a Kazakh winter.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet breath escaping Hamza chest as he wept.

Slowly, Uzair turned his frame around. He looked at the plate, then raised his gaze up to Hamza face. He watched the tears trace the curve of Hamza cheeks, watched the way those fingers trembled against his sides.

"Tumhe kya lagta hai, Jaskirat? Hathiyar aur goliyan hi sirf zehar hoti hain?"

He stepped closer, "Jo dhoka tumne mujhe khilaya tha aath saal pehle... woh is parathe se zyaada naseeb mein bas gaya hai mere," Uzair murmured, He reached out, his index finger lightly tapping the edge of the plate, making it clink sharply against the table. "Main is ghar ka ek nivala bhi apne gale se neeche utaroon, toh mera zameer mujhe dushmann kahega."

Hamza flinched, closing his eyes tightly as another wave of tears spilled over his lashes.

Before Hamza could plead any further, the silence was broken by sound of tiny footsteps coming down the hall.

"Baba! Look, I got the bag!" Ishmir’s little voice chimed happily as he dragged his small, bright blue school backpack into the kitchen, entirely oblivious to the bleeding hearts of the two adults before him. He stopped, looking up at Uzair with wide, expectant eyes. "Uncle, coat pehno. Cold hai outside!"

​"Haan, bacha. Chalo, coat pehnte hain," Uzair said softly, his voice instantly smoothing out into that gentle rumble he reserved only for ishmir.

​Hamza stood frozen by the counter, his heart breaking into a thousand silent pieces as he watched Uzair effortlessly lift Ishmir to help him into his tiny winter jacket, leaving the warm breakfast untouched and cold on the table.

Hamza quickly wiped the tears from his face, turning away to pull on his own winter coat. He zipped it up, his fingers numb from more than just the cold.

From the guest room, Uzair stepped out. He had changed out of his smudged tunic and was now wearing his own long, winter coat— his broad-shouldered looking every bit like a man who commanded entire territories, even in a forgotten snow-bound town.

​Hamza didn't say a word. He knelt down in the hallway, carefully wrapping Ishmir from head to toe. He pulled a thick woolen beanie over the toddler’s ears, wrapped a long scarf twice around his tiny neck until only his bright, blinking eyes and chubby cheeks were visible, and zipped up his heavy puffer jacket.

​When they walked out of the house, the freezing Ridder wind hit them like a wall of needles. Hamza held Ishmir against his chest, his boots crunching loudly in the fresh snow as they approached his car. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, his hands shivering.

​But before he could unlock the driver's side

​Uzair reached out and smoothly took the keys right out of Hamza grip. His eyes didn't meet Hamza's; he simply unlocked the vehicle, opened the door, and slid himself into the driving seat, taking control without asking permission.

​Hamza swallowed the lump in his throat and walked around to the passenger side. He settled into the front seat, pulling Ishmir onto his lap. Ishmir snuggled down against chest, completely cozy in his winter gear, staring out the window with quiet excitement because "Uncle" was driving them.

​As Uzair started the engine, the car heater slowly began to hum, blowing faint trails of warm air into the freezing cabin. Uzair shifted the gear, his hands guiding the steering wheel with effortless ease, navigating the slick, snow-covered streets of Ridder.

​Hamza leaned his head back against the headrest, his eyes staring blankly at the dashboard, his mind suddenly flooded by a wave of suffocating memories.

​Every single morning for the past year, it had just been him and Ishmir. Hamza remembered the routine—shoveling the snow off the windshield alone while Ishmir shivered in the backseat, driving through blinding blizzards with a racing heart, and walking his son into the school building entirely by himself.

​He remembered the parents' meetings. Sitting in those small, child-sized chairs surrounded by Kazakh mothers and fathers who came in pairs, whispering to each other, sharing the weight of raising a child. Hamza had always sat in the corner alone, a quiet, single father with a fake identity, carrying the crushing weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

​During every single one of those moments, a silent, bleeding part of his soul had screamed for Uzair. He had missed him so much it felt like a physical sickness. He had closed his eyes in those school corridors and imagined Uzair standing beside him, protecting them, holding Ishmir little hand.

​“Mera koi haq nahi tha...” Hamza thought bitterly, “Mera toh haq bhi nahi tha use yaad karne ka.”

​He knew he had no right to miss the man he had broken. He had no right to wish for Uzair presence at those parents' meetings when he was the one who had sent Uzair to a cage. Yet here they were, sitting side-by-side like two parents dropping their child off at school, a beautiful illusion of the life they were never allowed to have.

Ishmir was completely fascinated by the change in routine. He kept shifting in Hamza’s lap, pressing his little gloved hands against the cold glass of the window, his eyes wide.

"Baba, look! Big truck!" Ishmir squeaked, pointing his finger at a snowplow clearing the road ahead. He twisted around in Hamza's grip, looking up at Uzair with adoration. "Uncle, you see that? Big truck!"

"Haan, bacha. Maine dekha. Bohot bada hai," he murmured,

Hearing that voice—so steady, so naturally paternal—made Hamza’s chest ache with a violence that made it hard to breathe. He tightened his arms around Ishmir, burying his chin into ishmir fuzzy winter beanie, desperately trying to keep himself anchored.

He couldn't stop looking at Uzair hands on the steering wheel. Those hands moved with the same absolute confidence they used to have when steering an open-top jeep through the chaotic alleys of Lyari, back when Uzair was the undisputed king of the slums and Hamza was his shadow. Now, those hands were carefully navigating an old sedan to a Kazakh toddler school.

It was a scene Hamza had hallucinated a thousand times in his darkest, most lonely nights. But living it in reality, knowing the absolute hatred burning underneath Uzair silence, is a completely different kind of torture.

Uzair slowed the car down as they approached a small, brightly painted concrete building surrounded by a iron fence. A few local parents, bundled up in fur coats, were walking their children through the front gates.

Uzair pulled the car to the curb and shifted into park, letting the engine idle. He didn't turn off the ignition, keeping the heater running for the boy. He sat back, his eyes fixing onto Ishmir.

"Pahunch gaye," Uzair said softly.

Ishmir immediately began to wiggle out of Hamza's lap, his little backpack clacking against the dashboard. "School! Uncle, come inside? Please?"

Uzair looked at the boy, then his gaze slowly drifted upward, landing on Hamza’s face.

The silence returned, stretching between them like a tight wire, waiting to see who would break first.

Hamza felt Uzair gaze burning into his skin, stripping away whatever pathetic remnants of composure he had left. He couldn't look back. If he met those eyes right now, he would completely fall apart in front of the gates, and Ishmir is already anxious enough about the kitchen mess.

"Nahi, Ishmir," Hamza said, as he unclasp the ishmir safety belt and adjust the small blue backpack. "Uncle car mein weight karenge. Baba aapko andar drop karke aayenge."

"But Baba—" Ishmir started, his little mouth twisting into a pout, his eyes instantly cutting to Uzair for support.

Uzair reached across the gear shift. His hand gently tapped Ishmir small shoulder, grounding the boy instantly. "Aap jaao, bacha. Baba ki baat maano," Uzair murmured, "Main yahi hoon. Main kahi nahi jaa raha."

Hearing the giant uncle promise he wouldn't disappear seemed to satisfy the three-year-old. Ishmir nodded, "Okay, Uncle! Bye-bye!"

Hamza didn't waste another second. He opened the door, the Ridder wind rushing into the warm cabin like a slap to the face. He hoisted Ishmir into his arms, stepping out into the thick, gray slush of the pavement.

The walk from the car to the school entrance felt like a mile. Hamza walked with his head down, holding Ishmir tightly against his shoulder, his boots sinking into the fresh snow. He could feel Uzair’s stare tracking them through the frosted windshield behind him—

At the door, teacher in a thick coat smiled down at Ishmir, greeting him in rapid Russian. Hamza knelt down, unbuttoning Ishmir outer jacket just enough for the school's warm hallway, He kissed Ishmir forehead, his lips lingering against the ishmir soft skin for a long second.

"Acche se rehna, theek hai? Baba lene aayenge," Hamza whispered, "Bye, Baba!" Ishmir chirped, completely distracted by his classmates as he trotted down the hall, his little boots squeaking .

The moment the school doors clicked shut, the fragile illusion of the "family routine" shattered.

Hamza stood alone on the stone steps, the freezing wind ripping through his open coat, pulling his long hair across his face. He looked back toward the curb.

Inside sat his past, his ruin, and his ultimate judge.

He had no shield left. No child to hide behind. No prayers left to recite.

Hamza slowly walked back down the path, He opened the passenger door and slid back into the seat, pulling the door shut to trap them both in the silent, suffocating heat of the car.

Uzair didn't put the car in drive. He didn't even look at Hamza. He just sat with his hands resting on the wheel, waiting for the traitor to speak now that they were finally, truly alone.

Hamza kept his eyes locked on the glove compartment, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans , "Tum chalo yahan se dur..." Hamza said, his voice barely louder than the hum of the car heater. "Main... wahan aage kuch restaurant hain. Wahan se kuch khaa lena."

He couldn't force Uzair to eat his food. He understood that every bite of that paratha would have tasted like ash and betrayal to uzair. But the thought of Uzair driving around this freezing, town on an empty stomach, fueled only by bitter rage, was a slow torture Hamza couldn't endure.

Uzair didn't answer immediately. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his grip. The mention of a restaurant—of going somewhere public, somewhere away from the walls of the house—seemed to shift something in him.

Without a word, Uzair shifted the car into drive. He checked the side mirror and pulled smoothly away from the school curb, turning the vehicle toward the center of the bleak, snow-covered town.

The tires crunched against the icy asphalt. Uzair drove with an focus, his profile carved against the gray light of the window. He didn't ask for directions, driving aimlessly for a few minutes until the small shops and faded signs of Ridder's commercial strip came into view.

He finally spotted a building with a steaming exhaust vent and a small, glowing neon sign in Russian. He pulled the car into the empty, slushy parking lot, cut the engine, Uzair unbuckled his seatbelt,

"Tumhe kya lagta hai, Jaskirat?" Uzair murmured "Ghar ka khana zehar lagta hai, toh baahar kisi anjaan ke haath ka nivala gale se utar jayega? Tumne mujhe us jail mein sirf bhookha rehna nahi sikhaya... har kisi par shakk karna sikhaya hai."

"Kuch toh khaa lo..." Hamza whispered, the words trembling on his lips before his entire composure finally fractured.

He broke down, burying his face in his hands as The tears flowed freely now, escaping through his fingers and soaking into the fabric of his sleeves.

He didn't care about his cover anymore. He didn't care about the agent he was trained to be, or the father he had forced himself to become for Ishmir. In front of Uzair, stripped down to his barest, rawest form, he was just a man drowning in guilt.

"Kuch toh khaa lo, Uzair... please," Hamza choked out through his tears, "Mujh par nafrat nikal lo, maar lo mujhe, jo saza dena hai de do... lekin apne aap ko mat mitao. Aath saal... aath saal tak har din maine is dar mein kaata hai ki aap zinda bhi ho ya nahi. Ab jab aap samne ho..."

He let his hands drop, exposing his tear-stained, face to Uzair gaze.

"Ab jab aap samne ho, toh main aapko aise tootate hue nahi dekh sakta," Hamza cried, his voice dropping into a broken, breathless plea. "Mera khana mat khao, par kuch toh khaa lo. Khuda ke liye..."

Uzair sat perfectly still, For eight years in that cell, Uzair had imagined this moment. He had imagined finding his betrayer, breaking him, making him bleed for every single drop of agony he had suffered.

But looking at Hamza now—watching him completely unravel, hearing him beg for Uzair life with the same desperate intensity as the boy who used to hold him in the Lyari—Uzair felt a dangerous, suffocating knot form in his own throat.

Uzair didn't say another word. The sound of Hamza weeping was doing something dangerous to his resolve, With a sudden movement, Uzair pushed the car door open and stepped out into the biting Ridder cold, letting the freezing air shock his system.

Hamza panicked for a fraction of a second, thinking Uzair was walking away for good. Hurriedly wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, he pushed his own door open and scrambled out into the snow, following Uzair stride toward the low concrete restaurant building.

The small diner inside was warm, smelling of heavy broth, roasted meat, and coffee. A lone local waiter watched them from behind a counter as Uzair took a seat at a secluded wooden table in the corner, his long coat heavy around his broad shoulders.

Hamza hesitated, before quietly sliding into the booth across from him. He kept his eyes glued to the scuffed wooden table, his long hair falling forward like a protective shield.

​Uzair glanced at the menu at the table, then up at the waiter, ​"Dono ke liye hi order kar raha hoon," Uzair said slowly,

​Hamza’s head snapped up. He instantly shook his head, "Nahi... mere liye nahi chahiye. Main... mujhe bhook nahi hai. Aap khao."

​Uzair didn't look back down at the menu. Instead, his gaze lifted, pinning Hamza right where he sat.

​"Tune bhi kuch nahi khaya hai," Uzair murmured.​Hamza completely froze. The air in his lungs vanished.

​He noticed.

​The realization hit Hamza like a sudden wave of heat in the freezing room. Even amidst the blinding rage, the threats, and the betrayal that had filled the last twenty-four hours, Uzair eyes hadn't missed a single detail. He had noticed that Hamza hadn't touched a bite of food last night. He had noticed that Hamza had only made a bowl of flakes for Ishmir and a paratha for Uzair this morning, leaving absolutely nothing for himself.

​Even now, when Uzair claimed to hate the very ground Hamza walked on, the instinct of the man who used to protect him in Lyari was still alive, quietly observing, tracking every breath and every skipped meal.

Having his own hunger noticed by the man he had ruined felt like a kindness he didn't deserve, and it terrified him. He couldn't sit here in the open, under the warm lights of a public diner, and pretend they were just two normal people having a meal. The guilt is choking him.

"Pack karlo..." Hamza whispered hurriedly, "Main... main ghar mein kuch khaa loonga."

He needed the safety of his four walls. He needed the distraction of chores—cleaning up the lingering flour mess Ishmir had left behind, washing the dishes, prepping for the freezing afternoon—anything to keep his hands busy and his mind from collapsing under Uzair’s presence.

Uzair didn't break the contact. His. He could see right through the excuse. He knew every nervous tic Hamza possessed; he had spent years studying them in the slums of Karachi. The "work" Hamza was running back to was just a shield to escape this table.

Slowly, Uzair leaned back against the wooden booth, "Ghar jaakar kya khaoge, Jaskirat? Wahi bacha-kucha aata aur chawal jo Ishmir ne zameen par bikhair diya? Ya wahi jhoot jo tum aath saal se chaba rahe ho?"

Hamza flinched, the harshness of the words biting into him, but he didn't argue. He just kept his head down, Uzair watched him for another l second, he raised his hand toward the waiter. He didn't speak Russian, but his commanding presence is universal.

"Takeaway," Uzair commanded the waiter in a

He looked back at Hamza "Ghar chal rahe hain. Aur jo main saamne rakhunga, woh chup-chap khana padega. Mujhe apne saamne kisi ka janaaza nikaalne ka shouk nahi hai."

The ride back to the home was wrapped in a silence. The two plastic containers of hot mutton broth and dense local bread sat on the floorboards between Hamza’s boots, radiating a faint, savory warmth that smelled entirely out of place against the freezing air leaking through the car doors.

Uzair drove, He didn't look at Hamza once, and Hamza didn't dare look at him. Hamza just stared out the passenger window, watching the bleak, snowy horizon of Ridder blur past, his mind completely numb.

When Uzair pulled the beat-up sedan into the familiar, snow-covered parking , The sudden absence of the car heater’s hum made the interior feel instantly colder.

Without waiting, Uzair pushed his door open, his frame stepping out into the biting wind. Hamza let out a breath, gathered the heavy plastic bag of food in his numb fingers, and hurried out after him.

They walked up, Hamza unlocked the door, stepping aside to let Uzair shadow pass into the hallway first. The home is completely quiet now, missing the chaotic, bright energy of Ishmir who usually filled the rooms.

Uzair didn't take off his winter coat. He simply unbuttoned it, throwing it slightly open as he walked straight into the kitchen. He stood by the table, his eyes tracking Hamza as the younger man walked in, carefully setting the plastic bag on the counter.

"Plates nikalo," Uzair commanded, Hamza swallowed the lump in his throat and quickly moved to the cabinet. He took out two small steel bowls and spoons, He opened the plastic containers, pouring the steaming, thick meat broth into the bowls.

He placed one bowl in front of the chair Uzair had occupied earlier, then stepped back, intending to leave the kitchen and bury himself in the cleaning tasks he had promised he had.

"Kahan jaa rahe ho?" Uzair’s voice dropped, stopping Hamza dead in his tracks just as he reached the kitchen doorway Hamza didn't turn around. "Woh... room saaf karna hai. Aur kitchen ka floor bhi poora—"

"Baitho," Uzair interrupted, He reached out, his hand pulling the second steel bowl across the wooden table, positioning it directly opposite his own seat. "Maine baahar kaha tha, Jo main saamne rakhunga, woh chup-chap khana padega."

Hamza slowly turned around, his long hair falling over his shoulders, He looked at the steaming broth, then up at Uzair face. The exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours—the fear, the guilt, the crying—finally caught up to him. His knees felt weak.

Slowly, hesitantly, Hamza walked over and sat down on the edge of the wooden chair, He picked up the spoon, start eating.

The sudden, sharp buzz of the doorbell sliced through the quiet kitchen.

The spoon in Hamza’s hand froze mid-air, a drop of the thick broth splashing back into the steel bowl. His heart did a flip , Nobody ever rang his doorbell. In this corner of Kazakhstan, he is a ghost. The only people who knew this address were the school administration and the deep-cover logistics handler who checked in once every six months.

Uzair didn't move "Kaun hai?" He asked

"Main... main dekhta hoon," Hamza whispered, He pushed himself up from the chair, his legs feeling like lead as he walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

With every step, a cold sweat broke out across his neck. He peered through the peephole, and the breath completely left his lungs. His vision blurred for a second. He thought the isolation was finally making him hallucinate.

Hamza frantically unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Standing there the , was a man in a pristine, tailored charcoal overcoat. He didn't look cold. He looked like power incarnate.

"Ajay sir...?" Hamza choked out, the old, ingrained military discipline instantly locking his joints. It's Ajay Sanyal. The Chief of the Research and Analysis Wing (R&AW). The man who had pulled Jaskirat out of the dead, gave him the name 'Hamza', and orchestrated the entire operation that destroyed Uzair's life eight years ago.

Ajay didn't say a word at first. His sharp, calculating eyes—eyes that had steered the intelligence network of an entire subcontinent—brushed over Hamza face, taking in the trembling hands and the thin sweater.

Yesterday, during their routine, encrypted five-minute video check-in, Hamza had been just a fraction of a second too slow to answer. His eyes had flicked to the corner of the room, To anyone else, it was just a bad connection in a Kazakh winter. To the RAW Head, it was a flashing red light that one of his most deeply embedded assets was fracturing.

Ajay hadn't asked questions on the call. He had simply boarded a private charter from New Delhi to Ust-Kamenogorsk within the hour, driving through a blizzard to get to Ridder without a single warning.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Jaskirat," Ajay said, as he stepped past Hamza into the warmth of the apartment, unbuttoning his gloves.

But the moment Ajay took three steps into the hallway, he stopped dead in his tracks.

From the shadows of the kitchen doorway, Uzair stepped out. His shouldered frame completely blocked the light, his eyes locking onto the face of the Indian intelligence chief. The very man who had signed the death of his decade-long torment stood in the middle of the living room.

The air in the house instantly turned to ice....

rehman/sp aslam, meet-weird | 1.6k words | based on an idea by @chaotickittydreamer, thank you for letting me borrow this! 🤍 | T/M

this clip is uh. for visualization purposes. also tagging @desigurlie for no reason whatsoever.

It’s raining, and he's running late. 

The smell of petrichor rises off the road as he steps away from the puddles, brandishing his umbrella. His kurta is starting to cling to his skin. 

He'd scrounged up the last of his money for it. The tailor had listened intently, as he'd explained that it needed to look both plain and expensive. 

Something to wear at a funeral. 

“Is it that couple from last week?” he'd asked, frowning a little, “Weren't they from your family?”

News travel fast, in Lyari. 

He keeps thinking about the boy's face – little Uzair, who'd grown since he last saw him and played marbles – all smooth and stern, as if he couldn't really be a kid about this, as if he needed to borrow an adult's seriousness in public, at least for a while. 

The first dawning of death, the understanding of what it entails, often happens young, around here. He's seen some kids crying, others aghast and mute, and the last of them are like his cousin, grown up overnight. 

He steps away from another puddle, only for a scooter to whizz past him. 

The muddy water drenches him from head to toe. 

Rehman stays still for a second, eyebrow rising in shock, before he's shaking an impotent fist towards the corner of the street where the scooter darted from. 

“Motherfucker! If I find you-”

He picks up a brick, throws it at the memory, and clutches at his own damp hair, before looking down to assess how bad it is. 

The creamy silk has turned black and brown. 

His kajal must have started running with the rain, too. 

He looks up to the skies and watches as a dangling clothesline dribbles with drops of rain, stretching between two houses.

It's as if it's weeping for him. 

There's a window to his right, open without bars to prevent climbing in – only a thick curtain, the smell of someone cooking, and the trickling notes of tujhe bulayen yeh meri bahen. 

He peeks inside, hidden behind the curtain, and sees an older woman stirring her pot. 

“It's late,” she mutters, and Rehman almost jumps out of his skin.

She hasn't noticed. 

He closes his umbrella, lets it lean against the wall, and jumps in as soon as she walks towards an open door, probably rummaging through her pantry. 

What, his heart rabbits, Is he doing?

This isn't his first time breaking into someone's home, but he usually puts more thought behind it.

This, this is because he's late already and the kid is waiting and he can't show up there covered in mud when he's supposed to convince the social workers that are accompanying him that he'll be a decent fit as a legal guardian. 

He's already had to suck up to Abdul, that police officer, to convince him to vouch for him and give out a false criminal record. 

All pretty-eyed and soft. 

He knows what Abdul is after. 

There must be some man in this house – perhaps that old woman's husband. He putters up the stairs and thanks God for the music covering up his footsteps.

First door is ajar and leads into a neat bedroom, although a little bare. He goes for the closet, and sighs with relief upon seeing a row of hanging white clothes. 

His own wet kurta falls to the floor with some difficulty, clinging to his skin. 

The fabric is very soft, but he can quickly tell that this will be much too big on him. 

Either way, it'll have to do.  

Who wears this much white anyway? 

“I think it looks very dashing.”

Rehman jumps out of his skin for the second time today, only to jump in the closet right afterwards. He pulls at the doors, and curses them internally for both creaking and not completely closing onto him. 

“It's stifling,” a deep male voice answers, from behind the door, “And anyway, it's all wet now. I'll be back.”

“Come eat afterwards. I've made your favorite.”

“Thank you, Ammi.”

The door opens, closes, and Rehman feels something drop in his stomach as he catches a glimpse, because of course, of course this is an officer, and he left his little blade back in his soiled shirt, thinking he'd pick it back up after having finished…

The man doesn't turn towards the closet. He throws his cap onto the bed, letting dark brown hair fall back onto his nape, and ruffles through it with a sigh.  

Rehman's got a good view of his profile – aquiline nose and heavy, melancholy eyes. The kind that don't need a mouth to sigh wistfully at the moon. 

He's taller and bigger, but Rehman has dealt with men of his size before. They underestimate him, and that's their downfall. 

Broad hands, too. They go for his own throat, undoing the buttons there. 

Should he jump out and attack, or wait it out? He doesn't have a good view of his holster. Doesn't know if it's empty. 

The thought fizzles out as the shirt drops and those arms lift to remove the wifebeater underneath. 

It's not his first time seeing a naked man, although he's had to more than he's wanted to, but there's something about this specific sight that has him covering his mouth. 

The man goes for his pants and Rehman turns his head to the side. He hears the soft clink of a belt being unlooped and rubs at his own cheekbones, sparking the fire that has spread over them. 

He looks back. He looks back and he doesn't know why, but those hips are narrow, the bones jutting out, and the cock, soft and nestled in a bit of hair, is an impressive sight that would make a more insecure man jealous. 

Then the man turns, one of these broad hands on his hip, and cocks his head to the side.

“Are you going to come out by yourself, motherfucker? Or should I drag you out?”

The other hand pulls at one of the door panels. Rehman pulls it back, a bit dumb about it, but it's wrenched out of his grip and he doesn't have the time to think about the pain under his fingernails, scrambling for composure and a glower. 

“Listen,” he says, showing his palms, “I'm not here to steal anything else…”

The other panel opens. He's almost level with that man's dick, from where he's crouching at. 

“I saw your umbrella outside,” the man says, “If you had done anything to my mother, I would have torn you limb from limb.”

The tone and face are so honest he can't help but believe a threat, for once. 

“Why are you wearing my clothes?”

“I'm going to a funeral. Look at my clothes on the floor. I got covered in mud…”

“And so the only option was to come and steal mine?”

“And your only option was to get naked while knowing I was in there? What kind of man-”

The policeman smirks. It's a cocky, I-know-I-look-good smile that Rehman focuses on as he's dragged out of the closet. 

He huffs, pulling the sleeves up. They're falling over his hands. 

“Aren't you a sight,” the man drawls. 

“Put some clothes on,” Rehman retorts. 

He obliges, pulling on a kurta identical to the one Rehman is wearing. It fits him perfectly. 

He watches as all that skin is hidden away again. 

“You can't go like this,” the man informs him. 

“I will. I'll kill you if I have to…”

“Arey, you dramatic fuck. Ammi! ... Ammi! There's a mouse in the room!”

A great commotion sounds from downstairs. Rehman freezes, and briefly considers going for his throat. 

“What the hell are you doing, you bloody…”

“A mouse?! Where?!”

The lady stands in the doorway, brandishing both a broom and an obvious thirst for blood. 

She's got her son's eyes. 

“What?” she mutters upon noticing him, “Where did this little Jinn come from?”

“Arey Ammi, you know the Jinn,” the man smirks, “They can come and go at will. This little one has a funeral to attend, and so he wants to look his best.”

“... Why is he wearing your clothes?”

“He’s borrowing them.”

“Beta,” the lady smiles a bit, as though she’s used to her son’s nonsensical ways, “This is too big on you.”

“I know,” Rehman replies, crossing his arms over his chest, lip jutting a bit, “I’ll just go…”

“Tut tut,” the man interrupts, “Can we let him go looking like this, Ammi? And to a funeral, too?”

“He’s right,” she nods, “Shall I go and get my little pins? Perhaps if we work on it…”

“Yes, Ammi,” he nods as well, “That would be good.”

“But when did this friend of yours come in?” she asks on her way out, “Was I too distracted by the music when you opened the door?”

“Yes, Ammi. I saw you dancing in front of the pot.”

“Ah, do not let guests see that!”

Rehman follows them out of the door, flabbergasted.

It appears that he picked a mad-house…

Though, hopefully, the story might make Uzair smile. 

The stranger turns back. His eyes can get flinty, in spite of their melancholy quality. 

“Never do that again. Next time you come into my home, you will knock. And you will bring this back…”

He tugs at the sleeve until Rehman is stumbling into him, huffing a breath and almost falling onto his chest. 

“... Perfectly clean and spotless.”

Rehman huffs again. He puts a hand out to draw back from that chest – the memory of it naked runs through his mind again, unbidden – and finds it clutched. 

“I might,” he mutters. 

“You will.”

There’s a certainty to that tone.

The thumb brushes over his knuckles, almost tender, and then the other man is turning back.

OHH MY BABIESSS 🥹😭🥰

I LOVE MIXED AGE FRIEND GROUPS SO MUCH!! 🥰😍

Uzair: don't go to the living room. Rehman: why? Uzair: i saw a spider. Rehman: did you kill it? Uzair: i have two arms and it has eight, not fair.

Alpha Jaskirat Singh Rangi and Omega Uzair Jan Baloch once shared a love as fierce as it was volatile. Bound by a soulmate bond, theirs was an explosive, all-consuming relationship, and their future seemed written in the stars—until Jaskirat chose ambition over the man fate had chosen for him.

Fifteen years later, they meet again; not as reckless young lovers, but as Major Jaskirat Singh Rangi and Dr. Uzair Jan Baloch.

When a national security crisis arises, Jaskirat is assigned to protect a highly classified research facility where Uzair serves as the lead scientist. Forced into close proximity, old wounds resurface, buried feelings reignite, and the soulmate bond they thought broken refuses to remain silent.

As danger closes in from every side, the stakes become far greater than either man imagined. With lives, a nation, and their own fragile hearts hanging in the balance, Jaskirat and Uzair must decide whether the love they lost fifteen years ago is worth fighting for once more.

In a world on the brink of catastrophe, can two men who once lost everything find their way back to each other when life offers them a second chance?

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New Fic Alert !!!

Please let me know if any wishes to be tagged or untagged.

@sanpiece @darkdemonriddle666 @i-might-be-a-dumbo2 @190425 @aan-4-u @immortalconfluxmuse

Disclaimer: This work is purely fanfiction based on the movie Dhurandar. All the characters belong to The Great Adhitya Dhar. This work is not based on the real life terrorists and the author does not approve terrorism.

Author’s Note: This is a Non spy au. Also it has smut. I have given skippable warnings when the smut starts and ends so make sure to note it. Please don't repost it in any other site. If I want I will do it.

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The Tale of Blind Bats and Blinder Idiots

Uzair was the kind of person who sleeps deeply but the instant a tiny sound is made, it's ruined. He had been more tired that night because of late night shipment arrival and forgot to close the balcony door before sleeping. He was snoring loudly when a sound different from his snores and the fan was made.

“Flap.. Flap.. Flap..” came the sound and Uzair woke up in an instant. He tried looking around in the dark at the source but nothing was visible. So he sighed and got up to turn on the light. Suddenly something went past his ear and he jumped, frightened. He was about to stand up when the “Flap.. Flap..” got closer and to his shock, something landed on the top of his head and flapped something on his face.

Uzair shakily inhaled and quickly turned on the light, making the flapping frantic. He went to look in the mirror and to his absolute horror, it looked like a hairy baby bat. Uzair's next reaction was screaming. He screamed so loudly that everyone in the Haveli woke up. His screaming made the bat even more frightened and it tried to get away, pulling his hair and he screamed even louder, if possible. He did not want to touch that thing and get bitten so he simply shook his head to get it off.

Rehman Bhai and Ulfat Bhabhi, being the ones close to his room, got there immediately. When they saw what caused him to scream, Ulfat gasped. Rehman looked shocked for a minute and he too screamed loudly like the bat was sitting on his own head and not his brother's.

“What in the absolute fuck is a bat doing in your room Uzair? Take it away. It's giving me creepy looks like it's going to sit on my head next” he shouted. He suddenly took out his pistol and pointed it at Uzair's head, making the latter freeze for a second and start cursing loudly. “I'm going to kill it. Uzair be still. It's dead meat” he exclaimed but Ulfat slapped him on the back of the head and took the pistol away. “If you're not going to let me kill it, then I'm out of here” he shrieked and tried to get out of the room, making Ulfat facepalm. But before he could escape, Hamza came in. Since he was on the floor above them, he had to run down the stairs and the long hallway.

Hamza looked at the mess, looked at Rehman Bhai like “Are you sure you're the real Sher-e-Baloch ?” and just sighed. “Both of you stop screaming. It's just a bat. Not a snake. If you stop shaking your head, it might calm down Uzair” he said and went near them. He made Uzair sit on the chair and looked at the wreckage. Both the bat and Uzair were shaking with fear and he felt like laughing because of the absurdity of the situation but knew both the brothers would kill him if he did it instead of taking out the bat.

He patted Uzair's back to calm him and turned to the bat. It was flapping pitifully. Hamza placed his hand under the bat and slowly stroked it. “Stop petting it and get it out Hamza” Rehman Bhai screeched and Hamza looked done. He started removing its nails from Uzair's hair one by one slowly but because the bat was still panicked, it shook, causing the nails to reattach. Hamza stroked the bat again to pacify it. Then he suddenly realised. The light was causing the bat to panic. “Bhabhi can you please turn off the light? I think it's making the bat behave like this” he explained but when Ulfat tried to move, Rehman caught her, refusing to let her leave. “Don't leave me. The bat could get me next” he begged, making Hamza and Ulfat share an exasperated look. “I'm just going to turn off this switch, Rehman. If you're so terrified, go to our room” she exclaimed and turned off the light.

Hamza felt the bat slowly calming down and he removed the nails again using the hallway light. This time, the bat didn't try to lodge back. When he finally took it out completely, he calmly went to the balcony and let it fly off. When he came back, the light was on and Uzair was still shaking. Hamza tightly shut the balcony door so nothing else could get in.

“Is it gone? Did it fly away?” Uzair asked, trembling and when Hamza nodded, he turned to look at the balcony door. “Are you sure it won't come back to bite me?” and Hamza just gave him a look. Rehman Bhai was also still in shock. “If you want you can come and sleep in our room Uzair. If you wake up again, we can help you” Ulfat offered but Rehman immediately started shaking his head. “No no. Did you forget? We threw the spare mattress away because of the rat bite. If he comes there, he would have to sleep on the floor. He should either become brave and sleep here or he can go to Hamza's room. You have an extra bed, right Hamza?” he enquired and Uzair eagerly accepted even before Hamza could open his mouth. “Yes Bhai there's an extra bed. But I need to clean it. I'll go do it right away. You both go and sleep peacefully” he said and walked towards his room with Uzair following. Rehman and Ulfat also went back to their room.

Once they reached inside and locked the door, Uzair turned towards Hamza and wrapped his arms around him, holding onto Hamza like a Koala. Hamza just sighed and hugged him, patting his back. “I was really frightened by that little puffshit. I thought I would get bitten by it and either become a vampire or Batman” Uzair mumbled into Hamza's shoulder and he released the hug to look at Uzair incredulously. “Your vampire concern is valid but Batman? Seriously Uzair? You're watching way too many English movies” he teased and tried to go clean the other bed.

“No need to clean it Hamze. I thought I would sleep in your bed” Uzair said a bit boldly and Hamza was surprised. “Don't look so surprised like you don't want that too. Come let's sleep” he took Hamza's hand and went to the bed. When they had laid down, Uzair wrapped himself around Hamza like an octopus and Hamza was really gone with how cute he was behaving. “You're cute” he suddenly blurted out and both of them turned red. Uzair tried to recompose himself. “Well, it takes one to know one,” he replied in a shaky voice and before Hamza could say anything else, he kissed him.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~SMUT BEGINS~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Hamza was initially surprised by the sudden attack but then immediately reciprocated. Soon the kiss turned heated and he climbed on top of Uzair and bit his lip, making Uzair moan and open his mouth. Their tongues intertwined and it felt like they were involved in a tongue battle. Uzair then flipped them, going on top and separated their lips. Hamza tried chasing it back but Uzair quickly started kissing and sucking on his neck, giving marks everywhere his lips went. Hamza tried to control his sounds but when Uzair reached a spot, he suddenly gave a loud moan and his hips bucked up towards Uzair.

Uzair lost his control, pulled Hamza's hair roughly and rotated his hips, making him groan. He could feel Hamza getting excited down there and kept grinding, the friction making him lose his mind. Uzair lost control hearing Hamza's moans and started biting his throat and going up all the way to his mouth. When he raised his head, Hamza's eyes were half closed in pleasure and his mouth was wide open, making Uzair imagine all kinds of things he could do with said mouth. He turned to the other side of his neck and with his free hand, started rubbing Hamza's dick.

The friction made Hamza to arch and in sudden desire, he took Uzair's hand and put it inside his pants. Uzair gladly wrapped his fingers around him and started stroking it up and down, and Hamza felt pleasure all over him. He looked at Uzair's darkened, desire filled eyes and slowly touched his clothed hip. “Can I too?” he asked and Uzair nodded. Hamza immediately put his hand inside and started jerking him off, making him shout and swear loudly. They continuously kept stroking and rubbing each other and when Uzair suddenly ran his thumb over Hamza's slit, his eyes rolled back and he gasped, coming all over himself and his pants. The sight was too much for Uzair and triggered his release too. When they were both finished, Uzair pulled Hamza's hair again and kissed him softly this time.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•SMUT ENDS•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

“Do you think we were too loud?” Uzair asked, suddenly concerned about his Bhai hearing everything. “Probably. I think Bhai planned this. When they threw away the old mattress, I saw a new one being brought the day after. He probably thought we would keep being idiots and won't confess so he used this opportunity to pair us up” Hamza said, much to Uzair's surprise. “We never really confessed anything did we? I just jumped on you without saying anything” he remembered and slowly stroked Hamza's bearded cheek. “I have been in love with you ever since we were 17. I thought you might not feel the same and even if you did, what would we do about it? But now, I feel like I could stand against the whole world if you're by my side” he proclaimed his love.

Hamza's eyes turned wet. “Well I don't know when I started seeing you as someone other than a brother or a friend but the moment I realised, I knew I never wanted to let you go. I knew how you would look at me but I wanted you to come to me at your own pace. I didn't want to force or frighten you into doing something you didn't want. So I kept quiet. But I too love you Uzair” Hamza replied and Uzair kissed him again slowly. They then turned off the light and went to sleep.

The next morning, Hamza woke up to a full bladder and a restricted airway. He found the cause for the latter was Uzair lying on top of him and hugging him so tightly. He slowly rescued himself and went to the bathroom. After finishing his business, he was about to wash his hands, debating on whether to go back to the bed or wake Uzair up and start their work but stopped at the sight in the mirror. His neck was covered in hickeys and bite marks. It looked like something mauled him overnight. He blushed furiously, washed his hands and got out, only to see that Uzair was already half awake.

Uzair slowly turned towards him, looked at him up and down and beckoned him closer. Hamza went back and Uzair pulled him back into a cuddle. “ I don't know if you can turn into Batman after last night but I think you definitely turned into a vampire” Hamza teased and Uzair turned at him questioningly. When he saw the wreckage, his eyes widened and he couldn't form a response. “ I did that? Then you must've tasted so good, I couldn't stop it” he teased and tried to go back to sleep.

Rehman chose that moment to knock. “ Hamza, Uzair, what are you both still doing? It's been an hour late already. Stop being all lovey dovey and get ready for work” he shouted. When he didn't hear any sound from the inside, he kept knocking and Hamza, in his frustration, forgot his neck and opened the door. When Rehman saw it, he started laughing and called out to Ulfat. “Look I bet you they'd get together last night. Now you have to give me a head massage Ulfat. I told you nothing else is going to force a confession if a winged demon in the hair doesn't” he exclaimed, much to the new couple's shock. Ulfat just laughed and shook her head, like she too knew they'd get together last night.

“Wait. Wait. Bhai, did you deliberately set us up? Do you have a spare mattress?” Uzair asked and the older couple started laughing. “We got the new mattress immediately after throwing away the old one. We were so done with you both giving each other the looks and wanting to do something. The bat just came unexpectedly and helped us speed it up” Rehman laughed. “ Alright get ready soon and come down for breakfast. No kissing in between” Ulfat teasingly ordered, making Rehman laugh again.

Hamza and Uzair looked at each other and knew with all this support, they could handle anything and anyone who came their way. They closed the door, kissed each other and went to get ready.

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It's my birthday today and I decided to write a fic for you all 💓💓 Hope you people liked it 🩵

The final line of the song hung in the dense, shadowed room, vibrating against the walls like a pulse. The low hiss of the cassette tape continued to spin, a steady, rhythmic background scratch to the silence that reclaimed the space.

Uzair didn’t break the quiet right away. The lyrics had acted like an unholy mirror, reflecting the exact duality of their existence—the 'neem' of the betrayal, the 'shahed' of the love they had once anchored their souls to. He looked at Hamza shoulders, the way the man's forehead remained pressed against the wooden shelf, completely broken under the weight of a melody.

Slowly, the sound of Uzair footsteps crossed the gap between them. He stopped just half a step behind Hamza. He didn't reach out to turn off the cassette player, nor did he touch Hamza shaking frame.

"Gaana chala dene se..." Uzair whispered, his voice low, cutting through the tape's hiss, "...tareeq nahi badalti, Jaskirat."

Hamza let out a breath, his forehead sliding an inch down the cool wood. He didn't turn around. He couldn't face the devastation he knew was etched into Uzair features. "Main tareeq badalna nahi chahta, Uzair," Hamza choked out, his voice muffled against the shelf. "Main sirf... main sirf yeh batana chahta hoon ki is sab ke beech... tumhara piya jhooth nahi tha."

Uzair let out a sharp breath through his nose—a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He leaned forward slightly, his shadow completely enveloping Hamza from behind, trapping him against the side table.

"Mora piya?" Uzair repeated the lyric, the words vibrating with a decade's worth of unshed tears. "Mora piya toh woh tha jo Lyari ki dhoop mein mere saath chalta tha. Jo mere har zakham par apna haath rakhta tha. Tujhe kya lagta hai, is gane ko chala kar tu mujhe humari pehli raat yaad dila raha hai? Ya us raat ki qeemat basool kar raha hai?"

He reached out, his hand firmly gripping Hamza shoulder—not to hurt him, but to force him around. With a slow pressure, Uzair turned Hamza to face him.

Hamza eyes are bloodshot and overflowing with fresh tears that ran down his cheeks. He looked up defenseless, as he stood trapped between Uzair frame and the playing cassette.

Uzair’s grip shifted from Hamza's shoulder to his jaw, his fingers forcing Hamza’s chin up so their eyes are locked in the dim, gray light. The touch was firm, almost bruising, but underneath the anger, his thumb trembled against Hamza’s skin.

"Agar woh jhooth nahi tha..." Uzair hissed, his gaze searching the depths of Hamza fractured eyes for the spy he was supposed to hate, but finding only the weeping boy he had loved, "...toh jab unhone mujhe us andheri kothri mein phenka... tab tera jaan kyun nahi nikla, Hamza?"

The sudden tightening of Uzair fingers around his jaw made Hamza gasp.

"Uzair, chodo... lag raha hai," Hamza sobbed, his voice cracking into a whimper as he tried to pull his head back. The pressure on his jaw is intense, the blunt edges of Uzair fingers digging deep into his skin, threatening to leave fresh bruises over the ones from that morning.

Uzair didn't let go.He stared down into Hamza’s weeping face, his own breath coming in ragged, furious heaters. Then, with a sudden, violent shift in movement, Uzair’s hand snapped away from Hamza’s jaw.

Before Hamza could even catch his breath or slide away, Uzair arm shot forward, wrapping around Hamza’s waist with the force of an iron band. He yanked Hamza flush against his chest, slamming their bodies together so hard the breath is violently knocked from Hamza’s lungs. Hamza’s hands instinctively came up, pressing against Uzair chest to push him away, but he was completely pinned, the heat of Uzair's larger frame trapping him entirely against the cassette player.

With his other hand free, Uzair shoved his fingers deep into his trouser pocket.

He pulled out a thick, heavy bundle of notes, wrapped tightly in a rubber band. Without a second of hesitation, his arm swung up and he threw the stack of money right into Hamza face.

The heavy block of paper struck Hamza cheek and nose with a sharp, stinging slap, bursting the rubber band. The loose, crisp notes exploded between them, scattering through the air and raining down around their feet onto the carpet like dead leaves.

"Har raat ki keemat!" Uzair hissed, his face inches from Hamza’s, His grip on Hamza’s waist tightened until it was agonizing. "Lao... karo hisaab! Kitna banta hai? Aath saal ka, ya un raaton ka jab tu mere bistar par baith kar apni wafa ke qaside padhta tha? Yeh rishwat hai tere us mohabbat ki jo tu ne mujhe becha tha!"

Hamza’s head snapped back, his nose stinging as fresh tears blinded him completely. He let out a sob, his forehead dropping onto Uzair’s shoulder because his knees had completely given out. He didn't care about the money floating around them; he is entirely crushed by the cruelty of the gesture.

"Uzair... nahi..." Hamza wept uncontrollably, his fingers bunching into the fabric of Uzair dark shirt, "Mat karo... aisa mat karo... main koi bikaau nahi tha..."

"Toh kya tha tu?!" Uzair roared in a suffocating whisper, his voice cracking as he violently shook Hamza frame against his chest. "Paise nahi chahiye? Toh kya chahiye? Mera jaan chahiye? Mera bacha hua khoon chahiye? Bol, Jaskirat! Kya qeemat hai tera is jhootha mohabbat ka?!"

Hamza didn't fight the iron grip around his waist anymore. Instead, his body went completely limp, and he collapsed forward, burying his face deep into the hollow of Uzair’s chest. He sobbed against the dark fabric of Uzair’s shirt.

He didn't look at the money scattered all over the floor. He didn't care about the insult. He just wanted to hide.

He dug his face deeper into Uzair, desperately seeking the faint scent of the man that the prison cells hadn't been able to wash away. He is reaching for a ghost. He is trying to find shelter in the very storm that was destroying him, craving the safety of those old nights in Lyari—the nights when there were no files, no agencies, and no betrayals. Just a profound, quiet love.

Hamza remembered how tenderly Uzair used to treat him back then. Every single time they touched. Afterward, Uzair would pull the blankets over Hamza shoulders, stroke his hair and whisper promises of a lifetime together into the quiet of the night.

Uzair had taken care of him with a reverence that Hamza had never experienced before or since.

"Mujhe maaf kar do... please mujhe maaf kar do," Hamza wailed softly against his chest, his fingers clutching the fabric of Uzair shirt, He clung to him as if he is drowning, shaking from head to toe. "Main jhooth nahi tha, Uzair... main mar gaya tha jab unhone tumhein pakda... main har raat marta hoon..."

Uzair entire frame went rigid as Hamza collapsed into him. The words died in his throat. He felt the burning heat of Hamza’s tears soaking straight through his shirt, scalding the skin of his chest.

His hand, still clamped tightly around Hamza waist, trembled violently. Every instinct honed in the concrete hell of prison told him to push the traitor away, to strike him down, to finish the score. But his body remembered a different instinct. His chest still remembered the exact weight of Hamza’s head resting above his heart.

Uzair’s eyes closed, a tear escaping his lashes and dropping into Hamza soft hair. He didn't wrap his other arm around him, He just stood there in the dim room, letting the man who had ruined him weep for the sanctuary they had both lost forever.

"Chodo," Uzair whispered, his voice low, the vibration rattling straight through his chest against Hamza wet cheek.

Hamza shook his head side to side, burying his face even deeper into the shirt, refusing to look up. His fingers tightened their desperate grip on the fabric, bunching it into his fists. He couldn't let go. If he let go now, he would fall into the freezing abyss of reality, away from the only warmth he had known in years.

"Maine kaha... chodo," Uzair repeated, his tone shifting from a whisper to a command.

When Hamza still didn't loosen his grip, Uzair didn't hesitate. He grabbed Hamza’s wrists in his hands. With strength, he uncurled Hamza's fingers from his shirt, breaking his hold completely. He pushed Hamza back, forcing a distance between their chests.

Hamza stumbled back a step, his eyes finally lifting through a blur of tears. He looked completely broken, his breath catching in his throat as he stood defenseless among the notes scattered across the rug.

Uzair stood still, as he stared down at the weeping man. His eyes are devoid of the wild madness from a moment ago, replaced by a flat, dead finality that was far more terrifying. He reached down and slowly pulled his shirt straight, smoothing out the wrinkles Hamza's desperate fingers had just left behind.

"Woh raatein mar gaya, Hamza," Uzair murmured, "Aur unhe dafnaye huye aath saal ho gaye hain. Mujhe chune se... tu apna gunaah nahi dho sakta."

The sudden mechanical click of the cassette player shifting tracks cut through the heavy, stagnant air like a physical tear. The notes of a guitar began to bleed into the room, carrying a melody that felt sharper, colder, and far too accurate for the wreckage standing between them.

tere nazaron main hai tere sapane....

tere sapanom main hai naaraazi....

mujhe lagata hai ki baaten dil kii....

hoti lafzon kii dhokhebaazi.....

tum saath ho yaa naa ho kya farq hai.....

bedard thi zindagi bedard hai....

agar tum saath ho agar tum saath ho.....

Hamza slowly lifted his face, his vision entirely blurred by layer of tears. Through the gloom, he looked at Uzair silhouette. The song is a brutal reminder of the finality of what he had done. He is right here, standing close enough to feel the heat of Uzair body, yet they are worlds apart. There is no going back. His presence couldn't heal the monster he had created, and his absence would only seal his own doom.

Hamza’s legs gave out. His knees buckled, and he sank down onto the cold floorboards, his body collapsing inward among the scattered, notes. He pulled his knees tightly against his chest, wrapping his trembling arms around his legs to hold himself together as if he is trying to disappear into his own frame.

He buried his face into the fabric of his trousers, sobbing as quietly as possible.

The sounds of his grief ae muffled, reduced to small hitches in his throat. Even in the absolute depths of his undoing, the instinct of a father took over—he is terrified that a single loud cry might cut through the hallway and wake Ishmir. He choked on his own breath, shadowed room while the cassette player continued to hum its bitter truth over his head.

Uzair stood towering above him, a monolith looking down at the broken shape of the man at his feet. The sight of Hamza curled on the floor, surrounded by the money he had thrown in his face, should have brought him the satisfaction of a score settled. It should have felt like justice for the eight years of rot.

Instead, it just felt hollow.

Uzair hands stayed buried deep inside his pockets, his fingers curling to stop them from reaching down. He watched a fresh tear soak through the knee of Hamza’s trousers, the soft, suffocating sounds of the quiet weeping filling the space between them. Every silent sob from the floorboards seemed to pull at the remaining threads of Uzair's restraint, dragging the ghost of Lyari right into the freezing reality of the Kazakhstan night.

Uzair slowly let his frame sink down onto the floorboards across from Hamza. He didn't close the distance, sitting just on the other side of the scattered, crumpled notes that lay between them like a border of broken promises. He leaned his back against the base of the sofa, his legs stretched out, his eyes fixed entirely on the trembling man curled up in front of him.

​Above them, the old cassette player let out another mechanical click as the ribbon spun onward, shifting the melody into a slower, deeply intoxicating rhythm. A classical ghazal voice began to float through the dim shadows of the room:

Deewanon ki yeh baatein...

Deewane jaante hain...

Jalne mein kya mazaa hai...

Parwane jaante hain...

Tum yunhi jalate rehna...

Aa aakar khwabon mein...

​As the words lingered in the quiet air, the freezing atmosphere of the Kazakhstan living room seemed to blur. Uzair unblinking stare remained locked on Hamza's tear-streaked face, and beneath the weight of the gaze, both of their minds were violently dragged backward through time. Eight years of walls and borders melted away, pulling them right back into the heat of Lyari.

​The first time of everything.

They are back in Karachi, on the night Uzair had completely given up his defenses, forcing Hamza to finally confess his love. It was the night the Baloch syndicate had pulled off a massive, high-stakes smuggling deal at the port. The entire haveli was loud, chaotic, and dripping in celebration. Rehman Bhai, drunk on the victory and power, had thrown a massive, party in the courtyard. The bass of the music was rattling the windowpanes, alcohol was flowing, and the younger Lyari boys were completely wild with excitement.

​Hamza remembered standing near the edge of the crowded, smoke-filled courtyard, acting the part of the loyal, quiet companion, One of Rehman’s close inner-circle boys, high on the thrill of the night, had slapped a hand on Uzair’s broad shoulder, grinning widely as he pointed toward the makeshift stage.

​"Uzair Bhai! Aap chaloge na? Chalo yaar, abhi toh main item aa rahi hai... pura Lyari nachega aaj!" the boy had shouted over the roaring noise, trying to drag his commander into the madness.

​But Uzair hadn't moved a single inch. He hadn't even looked toward the stage or the dancing or his brother Rehman.

​Instead, Uzair had been standing under the dim amber light of the corridor, completely ignoring the entire world around him, staring at Hamza. He had been looking at him with that exact same stare that was fixing Hamza to the floorboards right now—a look that stripped away every lie, every disguise, and every operational protocol Hamza possessed.

Uzair hadn't taken his eyes off Hamza. A slow, rare smirk had touched the corner of his lips—a look meant only for Hamza, a subtle teasing that made Hamza’s heart do a violent flip against his ribs.

​"Haan, chalunga na," Uzair had said, his deep voice easily cutting through the surrounding racket. He had leaned back against the pillar, his arms crossed over his broad chest, "Itna achha item aa rahi hai... Hamza humein le jayega. Woh drive karega."

​The other boys had cheered, but Uzair had just stepped a fraction closer to Hamza, his shadow falling over him in that familiar, protective way.

​"Aur Hamza toh peeta nahi..." Uzair had murmured, "Toh Hamza baitha rahega. Kyun? Kya kehta hai, chalega na?"

​Hamza had looked up from his clipboard, He had looked at Uzair with pleading eyes—silently begging him to stop playing with fire in front of Rehman Bhai's men, begging him to look away before his own carefully constructed spy mask cracked from the sheer warmth of that look.

​"Haan, Uzair Bhai..." Hamza had muttered quickly, his voice tight as he tried to look professional, desperately avoiding the trap of those dark eyes.

​But the moment the word Bhai left Hamza's lips, the playful smirk vanished from Uzair’s face, replaced by a heat. Uzair had leaned down, his tobacco-laced breath brushing against Hamza’s ear, his voice a low growl that made Hamza’s knees go weak.

​"Kitna baar kaha hai... Bhai mat bola kar mujhe."

There had been no malice in it back then. It was the demand of a man who had already given his heart away, a man who refused to be anything less than Hamza's entire universe.

The loud, chaotic music from the courtyard grew distant, muffled by the doors of the farmhouse's private back corridor. The other boys had already scrambled inside, eager to claim the best seats near the stage, their loud laughter echoing down the hallway before fading away entirely.

Hamza stepped into the dimly lit corridor, his fingers tightly gripping the car keys, He thought he was alone. He thought he had successfully managed to fade into the background for the night.

But before he could take another step, a shadow slammed into his front.

Uzair caught him by the waist, forcing Hamza backward until his spine hit the concrete of the wall. The keys slipped from Hamza’s fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp, metallic clatter that was instantly swallowed by the distant bass of the party. Uzair didn't let him breathe. He stepped flush into Hamza’s space, his frame completely locking Hamza against the wall, his chest pressing against Hamza front.

"Uzair..." Hamza gasped, his hands rising instinctively to press against Uzair shoulders. "Sab andar hain... koi aa jayega..."

Uzair didn't listen. His eyes are completely dark, burning with a fierce, reckless intensity that had been building up all through the drive from Lyari. He leaned down, his face buried deep into the crook of Hamza neck, his breaths fanning the sensitive skin.

"Rok le mujhe," Uzair growled, His hands gripped Hamza hips, anchoring him tightly. "Haq jata apna... bol ki nahi jaane dega mujhe andar."

"Uzair..." Hamza whispered, his head tilting back against the wall as a shiver wrecked his entire body. The intoxicating scent of tobacco, expensive cologne, and power rolling off Uzair is making his head spin. He wanted to push him away, he knew he should, but his fingers were only bunching tighter into the fabric of Uzair’s shirt.

"Main jaunga andar toh bohot bura ho jayega," Uzair murmured against his skin, his lips brushing the column of Hamza’s throat as he spoke, "Wahan daaru chalegi, nachegi woh... rok le mujhe, Hamza. Bol ki tu mera thikana hai. Rok le..."

Before Hamza could force a single coherent word out of his throat, Uzair mouth pressed fiercely into the side of his neck.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It's a hungry, demanding claim. Uzair lips parted, his teeth grazing the tender skin before he began sucking the flesh into his mouth, pulling the skin out with a force that made Hamza let out a gasp. The intensity of the touch felt like it's branding him, marking him as Uzair’s sole territory in the middle of this lawless Lyari stronghold.

Hamza eyes squeezed shut, as he clung to Uzair shoulders for support. The distant roar of Rehman Bhai’s party ceased to exist. There was only the suffocating heat of the corridor, the bruising pressure against his neck, and the terrifying realization that this Baloch commander had just offered him his entire universe—if only Hamza had the courage to claim it.

Uzair’s mouth moved slowly up from Hamza's neck, tracing a trail of fire along his jawline until his lips were resting directly against Hamza’s. They weren't kissing yet—the contact is just a breathless friction, their mouths brushing together with every word Uzair spoke.

"Bol..." Uzair demanded, "Bol ki tujhe farq nahi padta. Bol ki main andar jaon, kisi aur ko dekhoon, toh tere dil mein kuch nahi toot-ta."

Hamza felt a knot form in his throat. He tried to turn his face away, his head straining against the concrete wall as a fresh wave of tears spilled over his lashes, tracing a path down his flushed cheeks. He wanted to scream the truth. He wanted to pull Uzair so close that the rest of the world vanished. But the reality of who he was supposed to be—the quiet, detached companion who wasn't supposed to feel this deeply—held him back.

"Nahi..." Hamza choked out, as he refused to look into Uzair eyes. He forced the words past his trembling lips, though every syllable felt like it was tearing his chest apart. "Nahi... farq nahi padta."

Uzair grip on Hamza waist tightened instantly, his fingers digging deep into his skin, pinning him so hard against the wall that the metal buckle of Hamza's belt pressed into his stomach. Uzair didn't let him look away. He used his thumb to catch Hamza chin, forcing his face back around until their eyes collided in the dim, amber light of the hallway.

"Jhootha," Uzair breathed, his gaze scanning Hamza’s wet, trembling features with a hunger. He didn't see an agent; he didn't see a mask. He only see his Hamza—the boy who looked at him like he was the only man alive in Karachi. "Teri aankhein kuch aur keh rahi hain, Hamza. Bol... ek baar apne moon se bol ki tu mera hai."

When Hamza looked away, the silence between them stretched Uzair stared down at him for a second, watching the way Hamza long hair fell forward, shielding his tear-stained face.

Then, Uzair let out a laugh. It wasn't the roar of the commander, but a bitter, breathless sound of a man who was tired of begging for the truth. He released Hamza instantly, his hands snapping away from Hamza waist as if he had just been burned.

Without another word, Uzair turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, pushing open the heavy doors to enter the main farmhouse, leaving Hamza standing entirely alone in the dim amber light, his skin still burning where Uzair's mouth had just been.

Not even ten minutes had passed. Hamza was still standing near the wall, trying to steady his breathing and pick up the fallen car keys, when the doors burst open again.

One of Rehman Bhai's younger boys came running out into the hallway, his face pale and eyes wide with panic.

"Hamza Bhai! Hamza Bhai, andar chalo!" the boy yelled, his voice cracking as he grabbed Hamza’s arm, practically dragging him toward the doors. "Uzair Bhai... unhone bohot zyaada pee liya hai. Kisi ki baat nahi sun rahe!"

Hamza’s heart dropped into his stomach. "Kya hua? Saaf bata!"

"Woh andar botal tod rahe hain, Hamza Bhai! Sabne ne unhe rokne ki koshish ki par unhone poora kaanch ka table palat diya," the boy gasped, his hands shaking as he pointed toward the roaring noise of the party inside. "Aur... aur Uzair Bhai ke haathon mein khoon hai bohot! Kaanch lag gaya hai unhe, par woh kisi ko paas nahi aane de rahe. Sirf aapko dhoond rahe hain!"

The world seemed to tilt for Hamza. The quiet, detached persona he was supposed to maintain instantly shattered. He didn't think about the crowd, he didn't think about Rehman Bhai, and he didn't care who saw the sheer terror on his face.

Pushing the boy aside, Hamza sprinted through the doors, his boots skidding against the polished floor as he ran toward the center of the madness to find his man.

The moment Hamza burst through the heavy doors into the main hall of the farmhouse, the suffocating stench of alcohol, smoke, and sweat hit him. The music had stopped, replaced by a tense, nervous murmur from the crowd of Lyari loyalists who had backed away into a wide circle.

In the center of the wreckage stood Uzair.

The glass coffee table lay shattered in a hundred jagged pieces around his boots, and several broken whiskey bottles were leaking dark fluid across the floor. Uzair shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his chest heaving as a sharp, unhinged laugh ripped from his throat. He looked completely terrifying, a lawless king in his element, but it's his right hand that made Hamza’s breath seize. Deep, jagged cuts from the broken glass are weeping thick, dark blood, coating his knuckles and dripping heavily onto the white tiled floor.

"Uzair!" Hamza yelled, He sprinted straight through the crowd of armed men, ignoring the warnings whispered around him. He slid slightly on the wet floor but caught himself, immediately throwing his body into Uzair space. Hamza didn't hesitate; he reached out and grabbed Uzair by his shoulder, his hands trembling as he forced his smaller frame under Uzair arm to support his weight.

"Chalo yahan se... Uzair, hosh mein aao, please mere saath chalo," Hamza pleaded, his voice breaking as he tried to pull the towering man away from the glass.

Uzair’s laughter died instantly. The moment he felt Hamza’s familiar, soft hands on his skin, his entire body seemed to tilt into him. He didn't fight the hold. Instead, Uzair slowly raised his bloody, dripping right hand.

He didn't care about the pain or the deep gashes. With a slow movement, he pressed his bloody palm directly against the side of Hamza’s face, smearing the warm, thick crimson across Hamza’s cheek and jawline, anchoring him close.

​Uzair leaned down, his eyes glazed with alcohol, but piercingly focused on Hamza panicked features. He pulled Hamza flush against his chest, his blood staining Hamza pristine collar.

​"Jaan..." Uzair whispered, "Ab bhi... ab bhi farq nahi padta?"

Hamza didn't give him an answer. He couldn't. With his cheek smeared with Uzair’s warm blood and his own heart hammering frantically against his ribs, he just kept his grip tight around Uzair waist, practically dragging the massive man out of the farmhouse and back to the car.

The drive to the Lyari haveli was a blur of high speeds and silence. By the time they arrived, the grand fortress had gone completely quiet under the late-night sky.

As Hamza hauled a stumbling, semi-conscious Uzair through the entrance, he met by a tense scene in the main hallway. Ulfat Bhabi standing near the ornate pillar, her hands tightly gripping her dupatta in distress. Next to her stood Rehman Bhai himself. The top commander of Lyari froze, his eyes widening in shock at the sight of his younger cousin covered in blood, smelling violently of cheap liquor and broken glass.

Hamza kept his head down, focused entirely on steering Uzair toward the back corridor where Uzair bedroom is located.

"Hamza, ruko!" Rehman Bhai’s voice suddenly boomed through the quiet hallway, Hamza stopped, his shoulders tensing, but he didn't let go of Uzair waist.

Rehman stepped forward, his eyes flashing with a mix of familial pride and warning. "Uzair is khandan ka chota beta hai. Humare baad uska hi haq hai Sher-e-Baloch banne ka," Rehman said, pointing a heavy finger toward the back corridor. "Tumhara us kamre mein jaane ka koi haq nahi banta, Hamza. Chod do use. Hum lekar jaa sakte hain."

Hearing the rejection of his presence, Hamza felt the familiar reminder of his place in this house. Slowly he began to let go of Uzair’s shoulder, his fingers slipping away from the fabric of his shirt.

But the moment the support vanished, Uzair let out a loud laugh that echoed jaggedly against the high ceilings of the haveli. He stumbled slightly, but his bloody right hand swung out, grabbing Hamza wrist with an iron grip that refused to let him take a single step away.

"Mohabbat karta hoon main use!" Uzair roared into the quiet hallway, his glazed eyes locking onto his older brother. He pulled Hamza back against his side. "Us kamre mein yeh hazar baar jayega! Aur woh kamra uska haq hai!"

"Uzairrr!" Rehman spoke back, his voice dropping into a warning growl, horrified by his cousin's shameless declaration in front of his wife and the house help.

"Kya Bhai? Kya?!" Uzair spat back, He stepped directly between Rehman and Hamza, shielding the younger boy entirely with his frame. "Ab do ghante ka lecture doge? Ki ek ladke se mohabbat kar betha? Haan, kiya hai maine! Saza doge? Dedo!"

Uzair’s voice suddenly cracked, the angry bravado collapsing into a stripped the fearsome commander entirely bare. He looked at Rehman, as tears glazed his vision.

"Usse zyada saza toh mujhe mera mohabbat de raha hai, Bhai..." Uzair whispered, as he loosely gestured toward Hamza, who stood frozen behind him. "...jo manne ko hi taiyaar nahi hai ki yeh mohabbat hai."

"Uzair, tumhare haath ka bohot bura haal hai... khayal rakhna padega," Ulfat Bhabhi said hurriedly, her voice soft and trembling as she tried to step into the silence to calm the situation down. She gestured toward the kitchen, her eyes pleading with Rehman to lower his gaze. "Main... main patti lekar aati hoon, chot bohot gehra hai."

But Uzair wasn't listening. The alcohol running through his veins, With a sudden movement, he slammed his bleeding right palm straight down onto the heavy wooden side table in the hallway.

The impact was brutal. The physical shock pushed the small, jagged shards of glass that were still embedded deep inside his flesh even further into his skin. Fresh, dark crimson spilled out over his knuckles, pooling on the polished wood. Hamza let out a gasp, his hand flying to his mouth as if he could feel the pierce of the glass in his own flesh.

"Na hi mujhe kuch khana hai, na hi mujhe kuch marham lagwana hai!" Uzair roared, his chest as he stared blindly at the wall, "Sab... sab mujhe akela chod do!"

He slowly turned his head, his glassy eyes locking onto Rehman face with a defiance.

"Aur Bhai... bilkul bhi mat koshish karna use kuch karne ka," Uzair hissed, low purr that made the guards at the end of the hallway shift uncomfortably. "Nateeja bohot bura hoga. Main apne kamre mein ja raha hoon."

Seeing him stagger slightly from the blood loss and the alcohol, Hamza instincts overrode his terror. He stepped forward, his hands reaching out to support Uzair waist again. "Uzair..."

Before his fingers could even brush the fabric of the shirt, Uzair snapped his left arm up, cutting through the air. He didn't look at Hamza, but the gesture forced Hamza to freeze in his tracks, his hands hovering uselessly in the empty space between them.

Rehman stood perfectly still, watching his younger cousin unravel for a mere servant, a quiet boy from the streets. A laugh suddenly ripped from Rehman's chest—a harsh, mocking sound that echoed through the haveli.

"Itna mohabbat tujhe raas nahi aayega, Uzair... dekh lena," Rehman spat, his eyes narrowing into icy slits as he delivered the curse with the authority of a Lyari king. "Ek din... ek din aisa dhoka milega ki khuda bhi baddua dega tujhe. Is mohabbat ki galiyon mein... apna ishq bechega tu!"

Uzair stopped at the entrance of the dark corridor. He didn't flinch. Slowly, he turned his head back over his shoulder, He looked at his brother, then his gaze slid down to Hamza, who is standing entirely frozen,

A ghost of a proud, reckless smile touched Uzair blood-stained lips.

"Aap... yeh poori duniya... yahan tak ki khuda mujhe dhoka de sakta hai, Bhai," Uzair whispered, "Mera Hamza nahi."

The words left Uzair’s lips like a sacred vow,

To Rehman, it was the delusion of a man blinded by a dangerous obsession. To Ulfat, it was a tragedy waiting to unfold. But to Hamza, standing in the shadow of that towering frame, those three words felt like a physical blade piercing straight through his chest, twisting the knife of his secret guilt until he could barely breathe. The faith in Uzair voice was more agonizing than any bullet the agency had ever trained him to face.

Without waiting for a response from his brother, Uzair turned back into the darkness of the corridor. His unsteadied boots dragged against the marble, leaving a faint trail of dark crimson droplets behind him as he walked toward his bedroom.

Rehman spat on the floor in sheer disgust, turning his back on them completely. "Chalne do use apni tabaahi ki taraf," he muttered bitterly to Ulfat, "Jab hosh aayega, toh bohot der ho chuka hoga."

The hallway cleared, leaving Hamza standing entirely alone in the dim amber light. His hands are frozen in the air, his cheek still smeared with the warm, drying blood Uzair had left there. He looked down at the dark stains on the wooden side table where Uzair had slammed his hand.

He didn't think. He didn't care about Rehman’s warnings or the protocol of his mission.

Hamza silently moved toward the closet, his hands shaking he almost dropped the first aid box as he pulled it from the shelf. He grabbed a clean bowl, filled it with warm water, and took a roll of white cotton gauze. Every step he took down the dark corridor toward Uzair room felt like walking toward his own execution.

When he reached the door, it's slightly ajar. The room inside is pitch black, saved only by the faint silver moonlight filtering through the open balcony window.

Uzair is sitting on the edge of the large mattress, his head buried in his left hand, his shoulders hunched in complete defeat. His right hand hung limply by his side, dripping blood onto the rug below. The scent of stale tobacco and alcohol filled the space,

Hamza stepped inside He knelt down on the rug right in front of Uzair knees, setting the bowl of water and the medical kit down between them.

Uzair didn't move. He didn't lift his head, but his breathing hitched, recognizing the soft, familiar presence instantly.

"Uzair..." Hamza whispered, his voice cracking in the dark room. He reached out, his fingers gentle, almost reverent as he cradled the back of Uzair bloodied right hand. "Kaanch nikalna padega.... mujhse door mat jao."

Uzair’s head lifted slowly, The moonlight through the balcony window cut perfectly across the bed, illuminating the depths of his eyes. He didn't pull his hand away from Hamza gentle grip, but he didn't lean into it either.

"Kyun aaoon main paas...?" Uzair whispered, "Farq toh nahi padta na, Hamza?"

Hamza’s catches in his throat, He kept his eyes lowered, staring at the gashes across Uzair's knuckles, his fingers trembling where they cradled the hand.

"Phir kya hua...?" Uzair continued, his gaze locking onto the younger man with a soft intensity. "Itna taqleef kyun hai in aankhon mein...?"

Slowly, Uzair raised his left hand. His fingers are trembling as they reached out, brushing against Hamza forehead. With a gentleness that contrasted violently with the blood and wreckage of the night, Uzair slowly swayed away the soft strands of long hair that had fallen over Hamza face.

The silver moonlight fell entirely across Hamza’s features. It exposed everything—the tear tracks cutting through the dried crimson blood smeared on his cheek, the trembling of his parted lips, and the guilt drowning his eyes.

Uzair thumb lingered on Hamza cheekbone, right at the edge of the bloodstain, He leaned down slightly, his tobacco-laced breath fanning Hamza’s face in the quiet of the dark room.

"Tujhe jhooth bolna sikhaya kisne hai, Hamza...?" Uzair murmured, "Tu jab jab mujhe dekhta hai... teri ye aankhein mujhe apna khuda manta hain. Phir tera ye chand... mujhse itna bad badd-dua kyun maang raha hai?"

"Farq padta hai..." Hamza choked out, the final wall of his resistance crumbling into nothingness.

The confession broke from him like a ragged, desperate sob. He couldn't hold the mask anymore; he couldn't play the part of the detached observer while the man he loved tore his own flesh apart just to feel something. Hamza let his hands slip from the medical kit, and his entire body collapsed forward, falling against Uzair chest.

He buried his face into Uzair neck, his shoulders shake as he wept, his hands desperately clutching at the fabric of Uzair shirt as if he is a drowning man who had finally found land.

"Farq padta hai... mujhe farq padta hai," Hamza cried softly against his skin, his voice muffled, with the weight of a love he was never supposed to harbor.

The moment Hamza weight hit his chest, a smile spread across Uzair’s face. It wasn't a smile of victory, but of relief.

Ignoring the burning pain in his right hand, Uzair wrapped his arms around Hamza smaller frame. His bloody palm pressed flat against the back of Hamza head, his fingers tangling into the long, soft strands of Hamza hair, while his other arm locked around Hamza waist, pulling him so against his body that there wasn't a breath of air between them.

He dragged Hamza up onto the mattress with him, holding him with a force that felt like he was trying to merge their two ribs into one.

"Mera jaan..." Uzair murmured into the dark strands of Hamza’s hair, His eyes closed in the silver moonlight, "Maine kaha tha na, Bhai se... tu mujhe kabhi dhoka nahi de sakta. Tera ye aankhein... tera ye dil sirf mera thikana hai."

Hamza’s fingers shook rced himself to focus on the task at hand. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress flush against Uzair, he used the clean cotton gauze to gently clean the deep, jagged wounds on Uzair right palm. He dipped the cotton into the warm water, wiping away the dark crimson, his chest still hitching with quiet sobs at every glimpse of the sliced flesh.

But Uzair wouldn't let him drown in his tears.

Every single time a fresh drop gathered at the corner of Hamza lashes, Uzair would lean down, his lips would press against Hamza's eyelids, drinking the salt and the sorrow straight from his skin, murmuring low, wordless comforts against his brow.

When the worst of the bleeding was finally stopped and wrapped in white cloth, Uzair didn't let the silence linger. Still holding Hamza’s gaze in the silver moonlight, Uzair slid off the bed for a single, brief moment. With his left hand, he pushed the door of the bedroom completely shut, sliding the metal bolt into place with a click that locked the entire world—Rehman Bhai, Lyari, and the looming shadows of the syndicate outside.

He returned to the bed like a man possessed by a quiet, consuming fever.

Uzair crawled back onto the mattress, his frame instantly towering over Hamza, blocking out the rest of the room. He reached out, his bandaged hand cupping the back of Hamza neck, his fingers tangling deep into his soft, long hair to tilt his face upward.

When their lips met, it wasn't the slow hesitant touch from before. It was a collision.

They tasted each other their mouths parting into a rhythm that felt a beautiful finality. It's a kiss born of everything they weren't supposed to be—a lawless Baloch commander and a boy burdened with secrets. They clung to one another like the forbidden fruit of a dark paradise, tasting the sweetness of a sin they both knew would eventually demand their ruin, yet neither had the strength to turn away from the blade.

The silver moonlight shifted across the mattress, painting their tangled forms in sharp contrasts of light and shadow. That night, the final boundaries between them dissolved entirely into the quiet, humid air of the room. Hamza gave up everything—every defense, every hidden protocol, every ounce of restraint—and Uzair took it all with a worshipful hunger.

Every time Uzair pressed down against him, his lips would find Hamza again, catching the soft, breathless gasps and turning them into bruising kisses. A smile remained etched against Uzair's lips, Uzair hands—one wrapped in the fresh white gauze, the other —moved everywhere, tracing the curve of Hamza ribs, anchoring his hips, and locking him tightly to the sheets.

With every rhythmic push, the friction between them felt like a desperate language they both understood without a single word. It was a need that ran deeper than the blood spilled on the floorboards downstairs, a rhythm that shook through their bones as if they were trying to outrun the very sunrise.

Hamza lay beneath the crushing, comforting weight of Uzair frame, his fingers dug tightly into Uzair broad shoulders . As the intensity of the night crested over him, Hamza arched his back, a breathless sound escaping his throat into the Uzair neck.

In that moment, pinned under the man who called him his universe, Hamza felt a pure, blinding sense of heaven.

But even as the pleasure washed through him, a ache lingered at the edge of his mind. Beneath the warmth of Uzair skin, beneath the intoxicating scent of tobacco and love, Hamza’s eyes leaked a single tear into the dark strands of his hair. He knew the truth. He knew the world they lived in, and he knew the burden of the secrets locked inside his own chest. He knew, with a clarity, that this paradise was a borrowed timeline—a beautiful, forbidden sanctuary that he is never, ever going to get to keep forever.

The harsh, blinding lyari sun forced its way through the cracks of the balcony curtains, cutting long beams of golden light across the tangled sheets.

Uzair woke up slowly, the thumping ache of the alcohol pounding against his temples. For a second, his eyes stayed shut, his senses dulled by the exhaustion of the previous night. But then, he felt the rhythmic, gentle rise and fall of a soft weight resting directly over his heart.

The memories of the farmhouse, the blood, and desperate confessions came rushing back, clearing the fog from his mind.

Uzair opened his eyes and looked down. Hamza is sound asleep, his head resting peacefully right on the center of Uzair chest. Uzair arms are still locked fiercely around the younger man waist, anchoring him close, holding him with the same grip he had maintained all through the night.

Hamza’s long, soft hair had completely splayed out in the chaos of sleep. The dark strands are scattered wildly across Uzair skin, acting like a beautiful veil that hid almost all of Hamza sleeping face from the morning light. Only the soft slope of his nose and his parted lips are visible through the silk-like curtain.

A wave of overwhelming tenderness washed over him—a feeling so deep it made the physical pain in his bandaged right hand fade into nothing. This is the only place in the whole of Lyari where Uzair felt completely safe, completely human.

Slowly, careful not to disturb the quiet rhythm of Hamza breathing, Uzair leaned his chin down. He buried his face into the soft, fragrant crown of Hamza head, pressing a small kiss against the dark strands of his hair. He closed his eyes again, tightening his hold around Hamza waist just a fraction more, wishing he could freeze the morning sun right where it stood.

The morning grew heavier as the clock ticked past 11:00 AM, the bright lyari sun now pouring fully through the balcony curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the warm air of the bedroom.

Hamza shifted against the sheets, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally woke up. His body felt heavy, aching with a mix of exhaustion and the lingering, intense memory of the night before. As his vision cleared, he realized the spot beside him is empty. The sound of running water had long stopped, and the faint, crisp scent of soap mixed with tobacco now filled the room.

Uzair is showered and dressed in a clean, dark kameez. He is sitting on the armchair near the window, his frame leaning forward as he stared intensely at his laptop screen, his left hand tapping the keys while his bandaged right hand rested flat on the desk, working through tight logistics and calculations for the syndicate's next moves.

The reality of the time and the haveli slammed into Hamza's mind. 11:00 AM. He is late. He is supposed to be downstairs hours ago, maintaining his routine, keeping up appearances for Rehman Bhai, and staying invisible.

Panicking, Hamza hurriedly sat up in the bed, the bedsheets slipping off his bare shoulders. He swung his legs over the edge, desperately looking around for his clothes, his mind racing as he prepared to scramble up and rush out of the room before anyone else saw him.

"Kaha ja rahe ho abhi?"

Uzair voice cut through the quiet room, making Hamza freeze in his tracks.

Uzair didn't lift his fingers from the keyboard , but his eyes snapped up from the laptop screen, locking onto Hamza, There is no hesitation in his gaze, only the calm of a man who had made up his mind.

"Kaun ho tum is kamre ka?" Uzair asked, as he slowly closed the laptop screen halfway. He stood up, he walked toward the edge of the bed. "Maine kya kaha tha? Chup chap lete raho."

Hamza looked up, his fingers clutching the edge of the mattress. "Uzair... Rehman Bhai... neeche sab—"

"Ab yahan rahoge," Uzair interrupted , stepping right into Hamza's space He reached out with his left hand pressing against Hamza shoulder to push him back against the pillows. "Main aaj hi sab shift karwa dunga tumhara. Sab kuch. Aaj ke baad tumhara thikana yeh kamra hai."

For the next one week, the entire world outside that door ceased to exist for them. The lawless, chaotic streets of Lyari were running on their own bloody rhythm, but inside Uzair’s room, a completely different, silent routine had taken over.

It's a strange beautiful reality. Uzair the commander second in command who controlled the fates of hundreds of men with a single nod, became entirely dependent on Hamza.

If Hamza didn't sit right beside him on the edge of the bed, tearing the rotis and feeding him each bite, Uzair wouldn't touch his food. The plates would sit on the side table, turning cold, until Uzair eyes would fixate on Hamza, silently demanding that his love serve him. And when the night grew deep and the weight of the syndicate's calculations exhausted his mind, Uzair wouldn't close his eyes unless he was lying down with his head resting warm in Hamza lap.

Hamza would sit against the headboard for hours, his fingers slowly, rhythmically running through Uzair thick hair, watching the fierce tension slowly drain from the uzair face until his breathing went deep and even.

During that entire week, Hamza stopped leaving the haveli altogether. He didn't step out into the courtyard, he didn't check the cars, and he didn't interact with Rehman men's. His entire universe had shrunk down to the four walls of this bedroom and the long, quiet hallways. He had become more like Ulfat now—hidden away from the violence, keeping the sanctuary warm, existing purely within the private shadows of the man.

Only, Hamza didn't have a title. He wasn't a spouse, he wasn't a fiancé, and to the rest of the world, he was still just a quiet boy caught in the orbit of a king. But in the quiet hours of the afternoon, as he folded Uzair clothes and watched him sleep, the depth of Uzair devotion made the lack of a title feel completely meaningless—and terrifyingly permanent.

The silence that usually enveloped the haveli dining hall felt especially suffocating that night. The long wooden table was laid out with silver platters of meat and rice, but nobody was really eating.

Hamza sat quietly near the edge, keeping his head down, his long hair falling forward to hide his eyes as he carefully placed a portion of food onto Uzair plate. Uzair sat beside him, relaxed, his frame leaning back in his chair,

Ulfat kept her eyes lowered, nervously adjusting her dupatta, knowing the storm that had been brewing for the past week was finally about to break.

Rehman slowly set his glass down against the table with a sharp, echoing *clink*. his eyes locking directly onto Uzair.

"Uzair," Rehman spoke, "Yeh sab kab tak chalega?"

The spoon in Hamza’s hand froze mid-air. He didn't look up, but his heart instantly began to hammer against his ribs.

Uzair didn't even blink. He slowly picked up a piece of roti, his bandaged right hand now mostly healed but still wrapped in light cloth, and took a bite. "Kya chalega, Bhai?" he asked casually, his tone dripping with an nonchalance that only fueled Rehman’s rising anger.

Rehman’s fist slammed against the table, making the crockery rattle.

"Yeh tamasha!" Rehman roared,as he pointed a finger at Hamza, then back at Uzair. "Ek hafta ho gaya hai. Mera commander ghar ke ek kamre mein band baitha hai. Na tu nake par ja raha hai, na tu maal ki delivery dekh raha hai! Aur kya bazaar karke rakh diya hai tune is ghar ko?!"

Rehman leaned forward, "Ghar ke nokar-chakar baatein kar rahe hain, Uzair! Log thook rahe hain humare naam par ki Sher-e-Baloch ka bhai ek mamooli ladke ke piche apna hosh gawa baitha hai. Is khandan ki ek izzat hai, ek haseeyat hai. Tumne is pakiza haveli ko tawaif ka kotha samajh liya hai?!"

The word 'kotha' shattered the remaining silence in the room like a gunshot.

Before Rehman could finish his breath, The chair scraped violently against the marble floor as Uzair stood up, He didn't just slam the table—he kicked his own chair back so hard it flipped over, splintering against the floorboards,

"Zabaan ko lagaam do, Bhai!" Uzair roared,

Hamza flinched, his face turning entirely pale. He stood up instinctively, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch Uzair arm, desperately trying to pull him back. "Uzair... nahi..."

"Tum chup raho, Hamza!" Uzair snapped, not looking at him, but using his left arm to firmly sweep Hamza behind his back, shielding him completely from Rehman gaze.

Uzair leaned across the dining table, his eyes locking onto his older brother "Aapko jo bolna hai mujhe bolein! Mera dhanda, meri nakein, meri deliveries... sab dekh loonga main! Par agar aaj ke baad is ghar mein kisi ne bhi Hamza ke khilaf ek lafz bhi nikala... toh main bhool jaonga ki is khandan ka bada kaun hai!"

Rehman stood up too,"Tu apne bade bhai ko dhamki de raha hai? Ek sarak chhap ladke ke liye?!"

"Yeh sarak chhap nahi hai!" Uzair hissed, He reached back and grabbed Hamza’s wrist, pulling him forward so everyone at the table could see the grip. "Maine pehle bhi kaha tha, aur aaj phir keh raha hoon. Yeh mera jaan hai. Is ghar par, is haveli par, aur is Uzair par jitna haq mera hai, utna hi haq iska hai. Agar aapko mera yeh bazaar pasand nahi hai, Bhai... toh yaad rakhna, yeh bazaar uthana mujhe bohot achha tarah aata hai."

Ulfat let out a choked gasp, quickly covering her mouth as she realized Uzair is threatening to divide the family, to tear Lyari apart for the boy standing behind him.

Uzair didn't wait for Rehman’s reply. With his fingers locked around Hamza trembling wrist, he turned on his heel and dragged Hamza out of the dining hall, leaving the food, the family, and the shattered peace of the haveli behind them

As Uzair’s hand hit the brass handle of the corridor door.

"Uzair, ruk!"

Uzair stopped. Behind him, Hamza is trembling, as he stared at the floor, expecting another shouting match, or worse, a weapon to be drawn.

Instead, the silence that followed was freezing. Rehman walked out of the dining hall, his boots clicking slowly against the marble until he stood a few paces behind his younger cousin. He looked at Uzair back, then his gaze shifted to Hamza face,

"Tujhe yahi karna hai na? Toh theek hai," Rehman said, "Kal hi Qazi ko bula raha hoon main nikah ke liye."

Hamza head snapped up, his eyes widening in shock. His heart didn't just race; it felt like it had completely stopped beating. 'Nikah?' A formal, legal bond under the roof of the Lyari haveli? The agency, his handlers, his real identity—everything crashed into his mind like a tidal wave. This wasn't just a man keeping a servant in his bed anymore. This is a permanent trap wrapped in silk and blood.

Uzair slowly turned around, his eyes narrowing as he stared at his brother, checking for any sign of a trap or a cruel joke. But Rehman’s face was stone.

Rehman turned his head back toward the dining room, looking directly at his wife, who was still standing by the table in stunned silence. "Ulfat... haveli ko taiyyar karo. Is ghar ke chote bete ka nikah hoga. Shaan se hoga."

He looked back at Uzair, "Log thookenge nahi humare naam par. Agar tu dunya ke samne zaleel hona chahta hai, toh main tujhe zaleel nahi hone doonga. Tujhe ye bazaar sajane ka shauq hai na? Toh ab yeh dunya dekhegi ki Uzair Baloch jisse mohabbat karta hai, use apni izzat banakar is haveli mein rakhta hai."

Rehman didn't wait for a reaction. He turned on back into his private quarters,

The hallway went completely quiet again.

Left alone in the dim light, Uzair slowly looked down at Hamza. A soft laugh escaped his lips as he stepped closer, his hands coming up to cup Hamza frozen face.

"Suna tumne...?" Uzair whispered, " Bhai... unhone maan liya. Kal ke baad... kal ke baad tum sirf mere nahi hoge, Hamza. Is poori dunya ke samne tum is haveli ka malik hoge."

Hamza couldn't speak. He couldn't even smile. As Uzair leaned down to press a kiss against his forehead, all Hamza could feel was the icy, invisible noose tightening around his neck.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

The next day, afternoon sun hung high over the Lyari haveli, but inside the main courtyard, there was none of the loud, chaotic celebration of a typical wedding. The gates remained shut, guarded by armed men.

The gathering was small. Rehman sat with his face carved from stone, his arms crossed over his chest, Next to him, Ulfat held their two young children close, her eyes bright with a mixture of tears and silent prayers. A few of gang members stood along the perimeter of the courtyard, their expressions solemn, acting as both witnesses and protectors of their commander's honor.

Uzair sat directly opposite the elderly Qazi, He was dressed in a pristine white silk shalwar kameez, His eyes never drifted from the delicate, translucent white veil that hung suspended from the center of the ceiling, cutting the space in half.

On the other side of that veil sat Hamza.

Through the sheer fabric, Hamza looked like a ghost in the silver and white attire Ulfat had prepared for him. His long hair is neatly parted, his hands—resting on his lap—were freezing, Every breath he took felt like he was inhaling glass.

The Qazi cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses as he opened the heavy leather ledger of the nikahnama. He dipped his fountain pen into the inkwell, looking across at the groom.

"Uzair Baloch," the Qazi’s shaky voice echoed through the quiet courtyard. "Nikah ke aghaaz se pehle... Mehr ki sharaait taye karna laazmi hai. Aap Haq-Mehr mein kya ada kar rahe hain?"

A silence descended upon the courtyard. The gang members shifted slightly, expecting a standard legal amount of gold or cash. Rehman leaned forward,

Uzair didn't hesitate. He reached out his left hand, tapping a thick stack of legal documents that already lay on the Qazi's table, stamped with the official seal of the court.

"Mera jo kuch bhi hai, sab uske naam hai," Uzair said, He didn't look at the Qazi; his eyes were fixed on the shadow of Hamza behind the veil. "Mera jitna bhi dhanda hai... Karachi se lekar balochistan tak ki saari shipping lines, saare warehouse, saara business... uska aadha hissa ab se Hamza ka hai. Aur yeh haveli... Lyari ki yeh riyasat jis par hum baithe hain, iska aadha haq aaj se Hamza ke naam jata hai. Yeh mera Mehr hai."

A gasp left Ulfat lips. The gang members looked at each other in absolute shock. Half of the empire? Half of the haveli? Uzair wasn't just giving a gift; he was giving away his crown. He was handing over the entire wealth and fortress of the Baloch syndicate to a boy who had walked into his life as a servant.

Rehman jaw clenched so tight the bone looked ready to snap, but he kept his word. He didn't break the ceremony. He simply stared at Uzair, realizing with a bitter certainty that his brother was completely gone.

Behind the veil, Hamza felt his entire world tilting. Hearing those words wasn't a triumph; it was a death sentence. Uzair is giving him his entire life, his empire, his sanctuary—unconditionally, with a faith so pure it bordered on madness. The weight of that devotion crushed whatever air was left in Hamza's lungs, knowing the secrets he was still harboring under his skin.

The Qazi’s voice cut through the thick, He dipped his pen back into the black ink, his hand trembling slightly against the crisp paper of the nikahnama as he looked directly at the groom.

"Uzair Baloch..." "Haq-Mehr ki in tamaam sharaait ke sath... kya aapko Hamza Ali Mazari ke sath yeh nikah qubool hai?"

Uzair didn't take a single second to think. The corner of his lips tilted into a soft, reckless smile the smile of a man who had just handed over his empire and his soul, and regretted absolutely nothing.

"Qubool hai," Uzair said. The Qazi nodded slowly, writing down the first confirmation before raising his eyes again. "Doosri baar poochta hoon, Uzair Baloch... kya aapko Hamza Ali Mazari ke sath yeh nikah qubool hai?"

"Qubool hai," Uzair repeated, his gaze softening, as he watched the slight tremor in Hamza's shadow behind the veil.

"Teesri aur aakhri baar... Uzair Baloch, kya aapko Hamza Ali Mazari ke sath yeh nikah qubool hai?"

"Qubool hai," Uzair whispered, the words sounding less like a formal response and more like a sacred vow he had been waiting his entire life to speak.

The Qazi turned the heavy ledger around, sliding it across the wooden table toward Uzair along with the fountain pen. "Yahan apne dastakhat kijiye, Uzair sahib."

Uzair picked up the fountain pen with his left hand, his fingers steady despite the chaos of the world outside. He pressed the nib to the paper, signing his name in bold, sweeping strokes that officially signed away half of his empire, half of the haveli, and the entirety of his life to the boy sitting on the other side of the silk.

The Qazi nodded, carefully drying the ink before turning the heavy ledger toward the suspended veil.

A maid stepped forward, gently taking the book and the pen from the table. She walked past the boundary, slipping behind the white fabric to place the ledger onto the small wooden desk in front of Hamza.

"Hamza Ali Mazari..." The Qazi’s voice rose again, "Haq-Mehr ki in tamaam sharaait ke sath... kya aapko Uzair Baloch ke sath yeh nikah qubool hai?"

Hamza looked down at the ledger. The ink from Uzair's signature was still fresh, shining faintly under the sunlight filtering through the veil.

Hamza’s hand shook so violently he could barely lift the pen. His chest thundered with a terrifying guilt. Every fiber of his training, his agency protocol, and his identity screamed at him to stop. But as he looked at the madness of the devotion written into those legal papers—the wealth, the protection, the surrender of a man—the words choked in his throat.

"Hamza...?" Ulfat Bhabhi prompted softly from across the courtyard,

Hamza closed his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek. He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing his voice to break through the paralysis.

"Qubool hai," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

The Qazi dipped his head, writing it down. "Doosri baar... kya aapko Uzair Baloch ke sath yeh nikah qubool hai?"

"Qubool hai," Hamza said, a fraction louder, feeling the final walls of his old life crumbling into dust.

"Teesri aur aakhri baar... Hamza Ali Mazari, kya aapko Uzair Baloch ke sath yeh nikah qubool hai?"

"Qubool hai," Hamza choked out, pressing the pen to the paper. His signature was shaky, uneven, and wet with a dropped tear, but it was done.

The moment the pen left the paper, the Qazi raised his hands for the final dua. But Uzair didn't wait for the prayers to finish. He stood up instantly, his frame cutting through the space as he walked straight to the center of the courtyard. With one motion of his hand, he ripped down the white veil separating them, letting the silk pool onto the floor.

The bright afternoon sun fell completely across Hamza's silver-clad form. Uzair knelt down right in front of him, ignoring the eyes of Rehman Bhai, the guards, and the Qazi. He reached out, his hands cupping Hamza, tear-stained face,

"Ab se..." Uzair whispered, his thumb brushing away the fresh tear from Hamza cheek. "Tum sirf mere ho, Hamza. Is poori dunya ki koi taaqat tumhe mujhse cheen nahi sakta."

The flashback broke.

​They were back. Back in the dim, gray gloom of the Kazakhstan room. Back in the freezing reality of a timeline that had already been gutted by eight years of prison cells, interrogation rooms, and systematic ruin.

​Uzair remained seated on the floorboards, his back resting against the base of the sofa, His unblinking stare hadn't moved a fraction. It was still fixed entirely on the trembling man curled up in front of him.

​Hamza was still tucked into a tight, defensive ball, his knees pressed hard against his chest, his face buried deep into his trousers to muffle the small, ragged hitches in his throat. He looked so incredibly small on the cold floor—a ghost of the boy who had once sprinted through a crowded farmhouse corridor just to clean the blood off Uzair's knuckles.

​Uzair slowly pulled his hands out of his pockets and placed them flat against the floorboards, preparing to stand up, his eyes sweeping over the weeping spy who had once been his universe, knowing that tomorrow the sun would rise on the same freezing reality, and they would still be worlds apart.

The old cassette player groaned, the tape pulling slightly on the spool before settling into a deep, agonizing frequency. A heavy, hollow ambient sound bled into the room, followed by the slow, mournful pluck of a single guitar string. Then, a fractured voice began to recite the verses, bleeding into the cold Kazakhstan night like blood seeping into snow:

​Ki maine ishq karke dekha aisa..Janaze se nikli huyi dua mein chaha use...

Ki maine ishq karke dekha aise, Janaze se nikli huyi dua mein chaha use...

Usi ki aankhon mein haar gaya main aise...

Muqaddar ka marham, ab mile toh mile kaise...

The drive back to the house felt entirely too short. For Hamza, every green light was a curse, every turn bringing them closer to the quiet, ticking time bomb waiting inside his home.

Ishmir remained blissfully unaware in the back seat, clutching his green plastic dinosaur toy and muttering a storyline to himself. To look at him so small, so innocent of the blood and betrayals of Karachi—tore at Hamza’s chest.

When the car finally idled in the driveway, Hamza’s hands went completely numb against the steering wheel. He switched off the ignition. The sudden silence inside the vehicle was deafening.

"Hum pahonch gaye, jaan," Hamza whispered, his throat dry. He turned around in his seat, forcing a smile for the little boy in the back.

​Ishmir is already unbuckling his backpack, his mind completely preoccupied with the promise of meeting a new person. "Baba, hum unhe mera green dinosaur pehle dikhaye ya blue wala?"

​"Jo aapko sabse accha lage," Hamza said, his voice dropping slightly as he got out of the car. Every step toward the passenger side felt like walking through deep mud. He opened Ishmir’s door, lifted the boy into his arms, and held him just a fraction too tight.

​When they reached the front porch, Hamza’s hand hovered over the doorknob. His palms were slick with sweat. He took one deep, shuddering breath, looked down at Ishmir to ensure the boy only saw his father’s calm smile, and turned the key.

​The door swung open smoothly.

​The house was deathly quiet, but the heavy, bitter scent of cigarette smoke had drifted all the way into the entrance hallway, cutting through the familiar scent of lavender detergent.

​Uzair is no longer in the bedroom. He is sitting on the main sofa in the living room, right where everything had started that morning. He had put his black coat back on, though it hung open. His legs are crossed,the silver hunting knife and the pistol weren't on the nightstand anymore; they were laid squarely on the low coffee table in front of him, reflecting the weak afternoon light.

​As the front door clicked shut, Uzair’s head turned slowly. His eyes locked instantly onto the small boy held against Hamza chest.

​Ishmir blinked, his small fingers tightening around the collar of Hamza's shirt as he sensed the sudden, crushing change in the atmosphere. But remembering his father’s instructions, the little boy braved a small, curious look at the towering stranger.

​"Uzair..." Hamza spoke up, his voice trembling as he stepped forward, his body instinctively tilting to shield as much of Ishmir as possible from that suffocating stare. "Yeh... yeh Ishmir hai."

"Ishmir, hello bolo uncle ko," Hamza whispered softly, his lips lingering against his son's soft cheek in a quick kiss to keep the boy anchored, to keep him from feeling the terrifying weight in the room.

Ishmir looked at the tall, dark-eyed man sitting on the sofa. Sensing his father's tension but trying to be a good boy, he offered a small, shy wave. "Hello, uncle," he mumbled, his little voice small and innocent against the silence.

Uzair didn't say a word. He didn't acknowledge the greeting, nor did he break his rigid stance. His eyes remained fixed on them entirely unblinking, his chest heaving with a slow, controlled rhythm that felt more dangerous than an open threat.

"Aap... aap apne kamre mein jao, jaan. Bag rakh kar apna dinosaur lekar aao," Hamza said, his voice straining to remain cheerful as he gently set Ishmir down on his feet, giving him a small, encouraging pat on the back.

Ishmir didn't need to be told twice. The atmosphere was already making him uneasy, so he quickly turned and scurried down the hallway toward bedroom, his small sneakers squeaking softly against the floorboards until his door clicked shut.

The moment the child is gone, the fragile illusion of safety evaporated.

Hamza stood near the entrance of the living room, his hands trembling at his sides, his chest tight as he finally forced himself to look directly at Uzair. Uzair slowly reached down to the coffee table, his hand wrapping around the grip of his loaded pistol, his gaze never leaving Hamza face.

Hamza’s voice had a sudden, sharp edge to it—the instinct of a father overriding the sheer terror that had paralyzed him all morning. He stepped fully into the living room, his eyes locked onto the weapon resting under Uzair fingers.

"Uzair, yeh pistol yahan pe nahi rahega," Hamza said, his tone low he swallowed the lump of dread in his throat, his chest heaving. "Ishmir ka aankh uspar nahi gaya hai, lakh lakh shukar hai. Main nahi chahta woh yeh sab dekhe."

Uzair’s fingers tightened on the grip of the gun, as he stared up at Hamza. The audacity of a spy of the man who had ruined his bloodline—dictating terms to him in a house in Kazakhstan was almost laughable. Yet, he didn't pick it up.

"Aur agar tumhe smoking karna hai..." Hamza continued, his voice trembling slightly as the scent of stale tobacco hit his nose, "toh bahar garden area mein jaakar karna. Ghar par nahi. Ishmir ke liye bura hai."

The silence that followed was suffocating. He leaned back against the sofa, his eyes narrowing into icy slits as he looked at Hamza face, tracking the dried blood on his temple and the defiance in his eyes.

"Mera hukum chalte dekha tha na tune Lyari mein, Jaskirat?" Uzair whispered, his voice a low purr that made the room feel instantly smaller. "Aur aaj tu mujhe batayega ki mujhe kahan baithna hai aur kahan dhuan udana hai?"

He stood up slowly, his frame casting a long shadow over Hamza. He didn't touch the gun, but he stepped around the coffee table until he was inches away from Hamza,

"Pistol se darr lagta hai use?" Uzair hissed, leaning down slightly, "Goli toh chalta rahega, Hamza. Par chalo... bache ke samne nahi. Maine tumse waada kiya hai na? Aur Baloch apna waada nahi todta."

With a swift motion, Uzair grabbed the pistol and the knife from the table, shoving them deep into the inner pockets of his coat, entirely out of sight. He didn't look toward the hallway where Ishmir had gone, keeping his gaze fixed solely on Hamza.

"Shukriya..." Hamza whispered, his voice cracking tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as he looked up at Uzair. For a split second, the relief of knowing his child wouldn't see those weapons made him forget the monster standing in front of him, leaving only the gratitude of a father.

He wiped his cheek quickly with the back of his hand, trying to steady his breathing. Wanting to keep Uzair occupied, to keep the man calm and away from the hallway, Hamza gestured weakly toward the kitchen.

"Kuch... kuch khaaoge? Kuch bana doon?" Hamza offered,

Uzair froze, staring at Hamza as if he had just spoken in tongues. Then, his head tilted back and a sharp, sudden laugh ripped out of his chest It bounced off the quiet walls of the living room, sharp and jagged.

"Tere haath se?" Uzair spat, the laughter vanishing from his face instantly, replaced by a disgust that cut right through Hamza. He leaned in, his eyes wide and mocking. "Tere haath se khana? Usse achha toh main seedha zehar kha loon, Jaskirat."

He stepped closer, his shadow completely enveloping Hamza's smaller frame.

"Bhool gaya kya? Isi jism, isi haath aur isi chehre par bharosa karke toh mera khandaan qabristan mein soya hai," Uzair whispered, "Tujhe kya lagta hai? Main yahan naya nikah manane aaya hoon ya teri is sasti murgi ka saalan khane aaya hoon? Apni fitrat mat bhool, spy. Mujhe darr lagta hai ki tere khane mein bhi koi naya mission na chupa ho."

Hamza didn't say another word. He just lowered his head, accepting the words he fully deserved, and turned toward the kitchen.

The kitchen is small a space that usually felt warm and safe, but now felt like a holding cell. Mechanically, Hamza pulled out a stainless steel pot, poured milk into it, and set it on the stove to boil for Ishmir. Then, he gathered the vegetables from the lower basket. For eight long years, his hands had only measured ingredients for two people—himself and his son. But as his fingers held the knife, a deep, subconscious memory took over. He pulled out extra onions, extra tomatoes, and a larger portion of meat. He prepared enough for three people, just in case Uzair got hungry in the middle of the night.

The rhythmic, steady *chop-chop-chop* of the knife against the wooden cutting board was the only sound grounding him,

Soon, the quiet patter of small feet echoed down the hallway.

"Baba!" Ishmir called out softly as he walked into the kitchen. He had already changed out of his school uniform into his comfortable, oversized home clothes—a soft gray sweatshirt and sweatpants. In his tiny grip, he is clutching his favorite plastic green Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Hamza immediately stopped cutting, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he turned around, instantly forcing a soft warm smile onto his face for his ishmir.

"Haan, mera jaan? Aapne change kar liya?" Hamza asked, Ishmir nodded, but instead of running straight to the living room, he hesitated at the kitchen entrance, his eyes glancing back toward the sofa where Uzair is sitting like a silent statue. The little boy leaned against Hamza's leg, looking up at his father.

"Baba... uncle abhi bhi wahan baithe hain," Ishmir whispered, holding his dinosaur tightly against his chest. "Unko... unko mera dino dikhaun?"

"Mm... lekin dhyaan se," Hamza murmured, He forced his hands to stay steady, turning back to the counter to knead the dough, his knuckles sinking into the flour with a focus. "Uncle ko bilkul pareshan nahi karna, theek hai?"

"Theek hai, Baba!" Ishmir smiled, his innocent bravery returning the moment his father gave the green light.

Holding the plastic green dinosaur tightly in his small fist, Ishmir turned and walked slowly into the living room. His small sneakers made no sound on the rug as he approached the sofa.

Uzair sat completely frozen as he watched the little boy approach. The executioner who had crossed borders for blood suddenly looked paralyzed. As Ishmir stopped right in front of his knees, looking up with those wide, curious eyes, something inside Uzair’s hardened chest fractured completely.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Uzair pulled his hand out of his coat pocket. He didn't speak—his voice was too buried under a decade of ruins—but he parted his knees slightly and patted his thigh, silently offering his lap to the child.

Ishmir grinned, seeing no monster, only the "old friend" his Baba had promised. Without a shred of fear, he climbed up as he settled himself comfortably right onto Uzair’s lap.

From the kitchen doorway, Hamza froze, the dough sticking to his fingers as he watched the scene through a blur of sudden tears.

Uzair’s breath hitched. The weight of the boy on his lap was terrifyingly light , yet it felt heavier than the eight years he had spent in a cell. His hand instinctively hovered behind Ishmir back, not fully touching him, as if afraid his blood-stained fingers might break the child.

"Dekho, uncle!" Ishmir said proudly, lifting the green T-Rex right up to Uzair’s face, entirely unaware of the storm raging in the man's eyes. "Yeh mera sabsay bada dinosaur hai. Yeh bohot zor se roar karta hai. Aapko pata hai yeh kya khata hai?"

Uzair looked down at Ishmir, the plastic dinosaur hovering just inches from his chest, but the living room in Kazakhstan suddenly ceased to exist.

The warmth of the little boy sitting on his lap pulled Uzair backward through time, dragging him through decades of buried trauma until he was looking straight at his own past self.

He is seeing himself.

He remembered being exactly this small, sitting securely in his own father's lap on a night that had started just as quietly as this one. He remembered the sudden sound of the door splintering open. He remembered Arshad Pappu entering the room like a plague, the cold flash of steel, and the horrific screams as his mother and father were slaughtered right in front of his young helpless eyes. He remembered the exact flavor of that absolute, paralyzing terror—the moment his entire universe was wiped out, leaving him an orphan in a pool of blood.

And then, he remembered Rehman bhai.

Rehman, his cousin brother, who had arrived like a savior in the ashes of that nightmare, lifting Uzair shaking, blood-stained frame into his arms. Rehman hadn't just taken him in; he had given Uzair a place in his heart that was greater than any own brother could offer, shielding him from the brutality of Lyari until Uzair was strong enough to fight back.

A realization struck Uzair freezing the breath in his lungs.

'If he killed Hamza in front of Ishmir... he would become the Arshad Pappu of that night.'

The monster he had spent his entire life hunting, the cruelty he had swore to erase from the earth—he would be wearing its face. If he pulled his gun and tore Hamza away from this child, he would be the one inflicting that exact, lifelong curse of orphanhood onto a boy who hadn't even learned to tie his shoes yet. Uzair knew the hollow agony of growing up without a mother's touch or a father's protective shadow. He knew the darkness that settled into the bones of an orphan. He had promised his own soul, in the quietest corners of his mind, that he would never let another child feel that destruction.

Uzair hand, which had been hovering uncertainly behind Ishmir back trembled.

His eyes, usually dead and unblinking, grew glossy as he stared at the little boy smiling face. The burning thirst for vengeance that had kept him alive through eight years of hell suddenly hit an wall. He couldn't do it. He could destroy Hamza, he could tear down this house , but he could not become the butcher of a child's innocence.

In the kitchen, the milk began to hiss as it boiled over onto the stove, the sharp sound cutting through the stillness of the house.

Uzair swallowed, his throat tight and aching with a grief that spanned a lifetime. Forcing his rigid features to soften just a fraction, he looked at the green plastic toy in Ishmir's hand.

"Yeh..." Uzair spoke, his voice cracked barely louder than a whisper as he forced the words out of his chest. "Yeh kya khata hai, Ishmir?"

Ishmir’s face lit up with absolute delight, thrilled that his new audience was paying such close attention. He bounced slightly on Uzair’s lap, completely unbothered by the rough texture of the man’s voice.

"Yeh sirf meat khata hai, uncle!" Ishmir explained loudly, holding the T-Rex up higher so Uzair could see its tiny, painted white teeth. "Bohot saara meat! Jaise Baba humare liye banate hain. Aur pata hai? Yeh bohot fast bhaagta hai!"

Uzair didn't hear the rest of the child's explanation. His mind was still reeling from the weight of his own thoughts. His hand finally came down, resting gently—almost reverently—against the small of Ishmir back. The contrast was striking: Uzair tobacco-scented palm covering nearly the entirety of the boy's small, soft sweatshirt. He didn't push the boy away. He couldn't.

In the kitchen, the sharp hiss of the milk boiling over finally snapped Hamza out of his paralysis.

"Ah—" Hamza gasped, quickly turning off the stove burner. He frantically grabbed a rag, wiping down the white stovetop as his tears fell onto the hot metal, evaporating into tiny puffs of steam. His hands were shaking he almost dropped the cloth.

He had seen it. He had seen the exact moment Uzair’s eyes changed—the moment the sher e Baloch had melted into a man haunted by the ghosts of his own childhood. Hamza knew Uzair’s history better than anyone; he had memorized every detail of Uzair’s file before he ever set foot in Karachi. He knew about the slaughter of Uzair's parents, and he knew how deeply Uzair guarded the innocence of children because his own had been ripped away so brutally.

Hamza leaned against the kitchen counter, closing his eyes as a sob rocked his chest. Uzair wasn't going to kill him in front of Ishmir. The realization didn't bring relief; it brought a sorrow for the beautiful, broken soul of the man he had betrayed. Even after eight years in hell, Uzair’s humanity was still fighting to survive beneath the armor of a monster.

Wiping his face aggressively, Hamza forced his breathing to slow down. He couldn't let Ishmir see him like this. He picked up the small ceramic mug, poured the warm milk into it, and walked slowly back into the living room.

"Ishmir," Hamza said, his voice remarkably steady despite the storm in his chest. He stopped a few feet away from the sofa, holding the mug out. "Chalo, pehle milk pi lo, jaan. Phir uncle ko baaki dinosaurs dikhana."

Ishmir pouted, looking from his toy to Uzair's face, clearly wanting to stay anchored in the lap of his new friend. He looked up at Uzair, as if asking for permission to stay.

Uzair looked up from Ishmir’s face, his eyes shifting from the bright innocence of the child to the red-rimmed, trembling figure of Hamza holding the mug. The sight of Hamza standing there, acting like a parent while looking so utterly shattered, triggered a complex ache in Uzair's chest.

Slowly, Uzair nodded down at the boy, his hand gently pressing against Ishmir’s back to help him slide off his lap. "Baba ki baat sunte hain," Uzair murmured, "Doodh pi lo."

Ishmir, seeing the tall uncle agree with his father, nodded obediently. He slid down from the sofa, his small feet hitting the floorboards with a soft thud. He walked over to Hamza, taking the warm mug with both hands, his eyes already wandering back to his green dinosaur on the coffee table.

"Aap dining table par baith kar piyo, jaan," Hamza whispered, leaning down to smooth back Ishmir's hair. He didn't want the boy standing in the middle of the heavy silence that was brewing between the two men.

"Theek hai, Baba," Ishmir said, carrying his mug carefully as he padded over to the kitchen table just a few yards away, sitting down and swinging his legs.

The moment the child's back is turned, the air between Uzair and Hamza hardened once more, though the murderous edge had been permanently blunted by the ghost of Uzair's past. Uzair stood up slowly, He didn't reach for his pockets, nor did he yell. He walked toward the living room window, looking out at the bleak, gray Kazakhstan afternoon.

"Tu bach gaya, Jaskirat," Uzair said quietly, his back to Hamza, "Sirf isliye... kyunki main woh chehra nahi banna chahta jisse mujhe sabse zyada ghin hai."

Hamza stood frozen near the sofa, the empty space where his son had just been felt freezing cold. He looked at Uzair back,

"Main jaanta hoon..." Hamza choked out, his voice barely a whisper, afraid to disturb Ishmir's quiet sipping "Main jaanta hoon, Uzair."

"Tu kuch nahi jaanta," Uzair countered bitterly, not turning around. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the window, his breath fogging the pane. " is bache ki kismat mein... main Lyari ka andhera nahi likhoonga. Tera hisaab hoga. Par is ghar se door."

Hamza nodded quietly, He didn't offer a single defense, nor did he try to negotiate. The reality of Uzair’s words hung in the air—'tu bach gaya... par is ghar se door'. If his life was to be forfeit somewhere down the line, outside the boundaries of this sanctuary, he accepted it. All that mattered was the quiet safety currently wrapping around his son.

A small clink broke the suffocating silence as Ishmir set his empty mug down on the table. Ishmir wiped the faint milk mustache with the back of his sleeve and looked between the two quiet men, his childish intuition picking up on the strange stillness in the room.

Hamza immediately stepped toward the kitchen table, breaking the line of sight between Uzair and ishmir. He knelt down in front of Ishmir,

"Ishmir," Hamza said softly, his voice a soothing balm meant only for his son's ears. "Aap room mein jaakar apna homework complete karo, okay? Jab khana ban jayega, toh Baba aapko bula lenge."

Ishmir pouted slightly, looking longingly back toward the living room sofa where his green dinosaur still sat on the coffee table. "Baba, par main uncle ko apna blue wala dino—"

"Baad mein, jaan," Hamza interrupted gently, placing a hand on Ishmir's small shoulder. "Uncle thode thake huye hain. Aap acche bacche ban kar pehle homework khatam kar lo, phir hum baat karenge. Hmm?"

"Theek hai, Baba." Ishmir nodded obediently.

He hopped down from the chair, picked up his green dinosaur from the coffee table with a quick, shy glance up at Uzair back, and padded quietly down the hallway. A moment later, the soft click of his bedroom door signaled his departure, leaving the two men entirely alone in the smoke-tinged silence once more.

Hamza stood in the center of the kitchen for a long moment, his forehead pressed against the cool edge of the upper cabinet. He let out a breath, forcing the violent trembling in his limbs to settle before he picked up the wooden spoon.

Mechanically, Hamza turned his attention back to the stove. He lit the burner under the pot, the blue flame casting a sharp light across his face. He added the extra portions of meat and vegetables he had set aside, his hands moving entirely on muscle memory. For years, cooking had been his therapy—the one ritual that made him feel like a normal father, a normal human being, far away from the blood-soaked secrets of his past. Now, every stir of the spoon felt like a countdown.

As the aroma of spices and simmering meat began to fill the small kitchen, it carried a bitter, haunting irony. This was the exact recipe he used to make in the Baloch haveli during their early days of nikah, back when Uzair would sneak into the kitchen, wrap his arms around Hamza waist from behind, and complain about how long the food was taking.

A single tear slipped from Hamza's lashes, sizzling instantly as it dropped onto the hot edge of the pan. He didn't wipe it away. He kept his eyes fixed on the bubbling gravy, his ears strained to catch any movement from the living room, waiting to see what the ghost standing by his window would do next.

The scent of the spices began to dominate the house, a warm and familiar aroma that felt violently out of place against the freezing tension in the air.

Uzair slowly turned away from the window. The cold glass left a faint, numbing sensation on his forehead, but the fire in his chest was far from extinguished. His boots clicked against the floorboards as he walked toward the kitchen entryway, his frame completely filling the small doorway.

He didn't speak. He just stood there, his hands buried deep inside his coat pockets, his eyes tracking the rhythmic movement of Hamza hand stirring the pot. He watched the way Hamza’s shoulders trembled slightly under his fresh t-shirt, the way his head remained lowered refusing to meet his gaze.

"Isi khushboo ke saath..." Uzair’s voice suddenly broke the silence Hamza’s hand freeze mid-air over the pot. "...isi khushboo ke saath jagaya karta tha tu mujhe Lyari mein. Yaad hai?"

Hamza squeezed his eyes shut as his fingers gripped the wooden spoon. The memory hit him He didn't turn around, his voice coming out as a fractured, breathless thread. "Uzair... please."

"Pyaar se banata tha... ya us waqt bhi har masale mein diye hua zehar napta tha tu?"

Uzair stepped fully into the kitchen, he stopped inches behind hamza tabacco-laced breath fanning the back of Hamza’s neck, right over the fresh bruises he had left there hours before.

​Hamza let out a sob, a fresh tear dropping directly into the bubbling gravy. He wanted to pull away, to run to the safety of his son's room, but his feet felt glued to the floor. He was completely trapped between the burning stove in front of him and the living wreck of his past standing right behind him.

Uzair didn’t touch him. The distance between them was barely a hair’s breadth, a buried family, and the quiet scratch of a child’s pencil down the hall.

"Maine poochha, yaad hai?" Uzair’s voice dropped lower, vibrating directly against the sensitive, bruised skin of Hamza’s neck. It wasn't a roar this time. It was the hollow, demanding rasp of a man who had spent thousands of nights asking the empty walls of a cell the exact same question.

Hamza’s lower lip trembled. He slowly set the wooden spoon down against the edge of the pot, the metal clinking sharply in the quiet room. He kept his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the bubbling red gravy, unable to face the ghost standing in his shadow.

"Yaad hai..." Hamza choked out,"Mujhe... mujhe sab yaad hai, Uzair."

"Toh phir yeh bhi yaad hoga," Uzair murmured, his hand slowly coming out of his pocket. He didn't reach for his weapons. Instead, his index finger lightly traced the very top of Hamza shoulder, right where the collar of the fresh t-shirt met his skin. The touch is slow, a ghost of the reverence he used to possess, now curdled into something cold. "Ki jab humare nikah ki pehli raat tha... maine tumse kaha tha ki Baloch mard jisse mohabbat karta hai, uspar apna poora jahan waar deta hai. Par agar wahi mohabbat peeth par waar karde..."

He paused, his finger pressing just a fraction harder into Hamza's tense muscle, making him flinch.

"...toh Baloch us jahan ko aag laga deta hai."

Hamza let out a ragged gasp, his hands coming down to grip the edge of the kitchen counter to keep his knees from buckling completely. The heat from the stove was burning his face, but his insides are freezing.

"Uzair... main... main har saza ke liye taiyaar hoon," Hamza whispered, "Jo tumne kaha... is ghar se door. Main chalunga tumhare saath. Mujhe le jao. Jo hisaab karna hai, kar lo. Par..." He swallowed hard. "...par jab tak main yahan hoon, jab tak woh andar hai... please."

Uzair’s eyes narrowed as he watched a fresh tear trace down Hamza cheek, The vulnerability of the man—the untouchable agent reduced to a begging, weeping father—was a sight Uzair had craved for a decade. Yet, seeing it firsthand didn't taste like the victory he had imagined. It tasted like ash.

Slowly, Uzair pulled his hand back, breaking the proximity. He took a half-step toward the kitchen doorway, "Khana lagao," Uzair commanded quietly, "Bache ko bhook laga hoga."

"Tum... khaaoge?" Hamza asked, his voice incredibly quiet as he slowly turned around to face him. He was still clutching the kitchen towel,

Uzair stopped at the edge of the kitchen doorway. He looked up, his eyes locking onto Hamza face, tracking the absolute exhaustion etched into every line of his features. A cold, mocking sneer curled the corner of Uzair's lips, cutting through the warm, spiced aroma filling the small room.

"Maine bola na..." Uzair whispered, "Tere khaane se zyada main zeher khana pasand karunga."

He took a slow step back into the narrow space, his frame towering over Hamza, blocking out the light from the living room. He leaned down slightly, his gaze piercing straight through Hamza's defenses.

"Hain zeher?" Uzair hissed, his eyes wide glassy "Hai tere is saaf rasoi mein koi aisa zehar jo tu ne mere liye rakha ho? De na, Jaskirat. Khatam kar ye kissa. Waise bhi tere di hui maut se zyada takleef toh tera ye chehra mujhe de raha hai."

Hamza flinched, He stood entirely frozen against the counter, the breath trapped in his lungs as he stared at his husband looking back at him.

He looked at Uzair’s wide, glassy eyes, seeing the trauma of a man who had spent eight years wishing for an end to his own breathing.

"Nahi..." Hamza whispered, his voice cracking as he shook his head, his hands trembling the kitchen towel slipped from his fingers onto the floor. "Nahi, Uzair... aisa mat bolo."

"Kyun? Kyun na bolu?" Uzair countered, stepping even closer until his chest almost brushed Hamza. "Ghin aata hai mujhe is saaf-suthri zindagi se jo tu yahan basa kar baitha hai. Wahan har raat, us andheri kothri mein, main sirf tere jhooth ko yaad karta tha. Aur yahan? Tu mere soche huye naam ke saath apne bache ko pukaarta hai, mere hatho ki sikhayi khushboo se khana banata hai..."

He let out a laugh, his eyes welling up with a sudden glaze of tears.

"De de na, Hamza. spy hai toh maar de mujhe phir se. Ek baar mera parivaar mitti mein milaya, ek baar mujhe zinda laash banaya... ab ye bacha hua jism bhi mitti mein mila de. Khatam kar ye tamasha!"

"Uzair, bas karo!" Hamza cried out, a sob ripping from his throat. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking as the guilt entirely swallowed him. "Maine tumse mohabbat kiya tha... Woh jhooth nahi tha! Mission jhooth tha, mera naam jhooth tha... par jo tumhare sath tha, woh jhooth nahi tha! Mat maango mujhse maut... main nahi maar sakta tumhein."

The confession hung in the warm, spiced air of the kitchen,

Uzair froze, His eyes tracked the path of Hamza tears leaking through his fingers. For a split second, the silence was so absolute that the bubbling of the gravy sounded like gunfire.

Before Uzair could speak, the soft, hesitant sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway.

"Baba...?"

Ishmir stood at the entrance of the kitchen, his notebook clutched against his small chest, his big eyes wide with sudden fear as he looked at his weeping father.

Hamza aggressively wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands, his movements frantic and desperate as he tried to tear away any trace of his breakdown. He swallowed the sob in his throat,

"H-Haan, mera jaan?" Hamza said, his voice instantly shifting into a higher, lighter pitch, though a faint tremor still betrayed him. He kept his back halfway turned to Uzair, refusing to let his son see the wreckage on his face. "Kya hua, beta? Homework complete ho gaya?"

Ishmir took a small, uncertain step into the kitchen, his little fingers tightening around the edges of his notebook. He looked at Hamza’s red, puffy eyes, then glanced fearfully at Uzair, who had frozen into a statue the moment the boy appeared.

"Baba... aap ro rahe ho?" Ishmir whispered, his voice small "Uncle ne aapko danta?"

The question hung in the air. Uzair didn't move an inch, his eyes fixed on the floorboards, The sher e baloch looked completely paralyzed by the innocence of the child's accusation.

"Nahi! Nahi, mera baccha, bilkul nahi," Hamza said hurriedly, dropping to his knees so he was at eye level with Ishmir. He grabbed the boy's small shoulders, offering a shaky but wide smile. "Woh... woh pyaaz cut kiya na Baba ne? Pyaaz se aankhon mein paani aa gaya. Uncle toh... uncle toh bohot acche hain. Unhone kuch nahi kaha."

Ishmir blinked, looking between his father and Uzair, trying to understand if it was true. He slowly walked closer to Hamza, holding up his notebook. "Mera math ka homework khatam ho gaya. Dekho."

"Lao... mujhe do. Main dekh deta hoon," Uzair said softly

Ishmir’s face lit up instantly. A wide, gap-toothed smile broke across his face, and without a second thought, he stepped away from Hamza and held the notebook out proudly toward Uzair.

"Aap math mein acche thay?" Ishmir asked, his voice full of curiosity and excitement. "Baba kehte hain jo log bohot bade bade hisaab yaad rakhte hain, woh math mein bohot strong hote hain!"

Uzair slowly took the small notebook from Ishmir's hands. He looked down at the neat rows of numbers the boy had written, a bitter ghost of a smile grazing his lips.

'Hisaab.' He knew all about hisaab. He had spent eight years keeping a tally of every single drop of blood, every promise, and every betrayal in his mind. He is an expert at keeping scores.

"Haan..." Uzair murmured, as he looked down at the boy's neat handwriting. "Main... main hisaab mein bohot accha tha, Ishmir. Bohot purane hisaab bhi yaad hain mujhe."

He slowly sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, and laid the notebook open on his lap. He pointed a index finger to the first problem on the page.

"Yahan dekho... yeh tumne sahi kiya hai. Par isko thoda aur aasani se kar sakte hain," Uzair whispered, entirely ignoring Hamza, who was still kneeling on the floor, watching them through a fresh glaze of tears.

Hamza quietly went back to the counter, his movements gentle and deliberate so he wouldn't disrupt the fragile peace filling the small kitchen. He plated the steaming rice and flavorful gravy, making a neat, manageable portion specifically for Ishmir.

Carrying the plate and a small spoon, Hamza walked slowly into the living room.

Uzair had moved back to the sofa, his massive frame leaned forward as he held the lightweight notebook open on his knees. Ishmir was settled completely back on his lap, his small shoulders tucked comfortably against Uzair’s broad chest. The little boy’s eyes were wide with focus as Uzair pointed a finger at a column of numbers, explaining the logic in that low, steady, gravelly voice.

Hamza knew this side of Uzair. He knew that when Uzair sat down to teach or explain a concept, his intense focus took over, and he would completely lose track of time for hours. If Hamza waited for them to finish, Ishmir’s dinner would go completely cold.

Stepping quietly toward the sofa, Hamza knelt down on the rug right in front of them. He carefully mixed a small portion of the rice and gravy with the spoon, blowing on it slightly to ensure it wasn't too hot, and held the bite directly in front of Ishmir’s mouth.

"Chalo, jaan. Saath mein ek ek bite lete jao," Hamza whispered softly, his eyes carefully locked on his son, consciously avoiding Uzair’s gaze to keep from shattering the moment.

Ishmir didn't even look away from the notebook; he automatically opened his mouth and took the bite, chewing happily while nodding at whatever Uzair was explaining.

Uzair’s voice faltered for a fraction of a second as Hamza knelt so close to his knees, the familiar aroma of the freshly cooked food washing over him. He looked down at the top of Hamza’s lowered head, seeing the neat parting of his hair, and then at the small spoon cradled in his steady hands. The sheer domesticity of it—Hamza feeding the child right out of his hands while the boy sat anchored in Uzair’s lap—felt like a beautiful, agonizing dream stolen from a life they were never meant to have.

Clenching his jaw slightly to steady his emotions, Uzair forced his eyes back down to the notebook page, his large finger tapping a number. "Phir... jab tum isko yahan se carry karoge, toh yeh number bada ho jayega. Samajh aya?"

"Aya!" Ishmir swallowed his food and nodded enthusiastically, his eyes bright as the logic clicked in his mind. "Yeh toh bohot easy hai, Uncle! Baba mujhe dusre tarike se sikhate hain, par aapka tarika zyada fun hai."

Hamza quietly blew on another spoonful of rice and gravy, his eyes fixed entirely on the plate to hide the trembling of his lashes. He raised his hand again, holding the bite patiently near Ishmir lips. Ishmir leaned forward, taking the second bite eagerly. As he chewed, he looked up at Uzair with rice-stained grin. "Uncle, aap aur Baba bohot purane friends hain na? Mere paas toh school mein sirf do friends hain, Ali aur meena. Par woh mujhe apni toys nahi dete."

"Haan..." Uzair said slowly, "Bohot purane hain."

"Toh aapne Baba ko danta kyun?" Ishmir asked out of nowhere, his sharp little mind recalling the tension from earlier. He looked up into Uzair's eyes "Baba gande bacche nahi hain. Woh mujhe kabhi nahi dant-te. Aap unse dosti kar lo phir se, please?"

The living room suddenly felt completely devoid of air. Hamza’s hand froze mid-air, the spoon shaking violently against the edge of the plate, a tiny drop of gravy spilling onto his own wrist. He held his breath,

Uzair’s entire body turned to stone. The little boy’s voice, so soft and full of simple hope, seemed to echo loudly in the living room.

'Aap unse dosti kar lo phir se, please?'

Hamza kept his head lowered, Uzair stared down at Ishmir. The silence stretched between them for so long that even the little boy’s smile began to fade, a look of confusion creeping into his wide eyes.

Slowly, Uzair raised his hand. Hamza flinched, his body tensing instinctively to shield his son but Uzair didn't reach for a weapon, nor did he push the boy away. With an unexpected gentleness, his thumb carefully wiped away a small smudge of gravy from the corner of Ishmir lip.

"Dosti..." Uzair whispered, He looked up his hollow eyes finally lifting from the notebook to lock straight onto Hamza face. "Dosti bohot keemti cheez hota hai, Ishmir. Aur tumhare Baba... tumhare Baba ne mujhe ek baar aisi dosti sikhaya tha jo main zindagi bhar nahi bhool sakta."

"Chalo, baaki ka homework khatam karo," Uzair murmured softly, "Phir tumhara khana bhi thanda ho raha hai."

"Theek hai!" Ishmir, completely oblivious to the silent warfare passing above his head, cheerfully grabbed the pencil again.

Hamza hurriedly wiped his face against his shoulder, took a deep breath, and prepared the next bite of food, his hands shaking so much the spoon clicked rhythmically against the ceramic plate. He knew every passing minute brought them closer to the night, closer to the moment Ishmir would go to bed, and closer to the final, reckoning that awaited him.

Once the plate was completely polished off, Hamza gently set the empty ceramic dish on the coffee table. He slid his hands under Ishmir’s arms, lifting him carefully from Uzair lap.

Hamza carried Ishmir over to the bathroom sink. he turned on the tap, letting the lukewarm water run over his fingers before gently washing the remnants of dinner and milk from Ishmir’s face and tiny hands. He dabbed the boy's skin dry with a soft towel, "Chalo, jaan. Ab sone ka time ho gaya," Hamza whispered, his voice a soothing, rhythmic hum as he lifted the boy back into his arms.

Ishmir is already heavy with exhaustion, his eyelids fluttering closed as he rested his small head securely against Hamza's shoulder. His tiny fingers loosely gripped the fabric of Hamza's shirt.

With one hand supporting Ishmir’s weight and the other gently, rhythmically patting the boy's back, Hamza swayed from side to side.

*Thump. Thump. Thump.*

The soft, steady patting against Ishmir’s back was the only sound cutting through the thick, suffocating silence of the house. Hamza walked in a small, quiet circle—from the edge of the kitchen, past the window, and back toward the hallway— He needed Ishmir to fall asleep. He needed his innocent soul to be far away in the world of dreams before the fragile truce in this room inevitably shattered.

Uzair sat unmoving in the dimming light of the living room, his hands resting flat on his knees. He watched the silhouette of the man who had destroyed his life, now tenderly rocking a child to sleep with the exact same quiet grace he once used to soothe Uzair's own raging mind in the haveli of lyari.

Hamza stepped into the dim bedroom, the soft glow of the hallway light casting long shadows across the floor. He leaned over the small bed and carefully laid Ishmir down, ensuring the boy’s head settled gently onto the pillow. Ishmir let out a soft, contented sigh, rolling onto his side without waking. Hamza reached down, pulled the thick blanket up over his son's small shoulders, and tucked him in with lingering, care. He stood there for a second, staring at the peaceful face of his child, wondering if this was the last time he would ever get to tuck him into bed.

Squeezing his eyes shut to gather whatever strength he had left, Hamza turned around and stepped out, clicking the bedroom door shut,

The living room was cast in deep shadows now, the only illumination coming from the dull gray light filtered through the window. Uzair is still sitting exactly where he had left him,

Hamza swallowed the dry lump in his throat and walked over, stopping a few feet away. His voice came out small exhausted,

"Aap... aap coat kyun nahi change kar lete?" Hamza whispered, "Sona bhi hai... main guest room saaf kar deta hoon."

The offer was a return to old habits, a instinctive urge to provide comfort to Uzair despite the terrifying reality of their situation.

Uzair didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, his head tilted up, his eyes locking onto Hamza through the gloom. A low, humorless rasp cut through his throat.

"Guest room?" Uzair murmured, "Tujhe lagta hai main yahan sone aaya hoon, Jaskirat? Ya tujhe lagta hai main apni peeth pher kar us kamre mein let jaunga, taaki tu subah hone se pehle apne is bache ko lekar phir se gayab ho jaye?"

"Main aisa kuch nahi karunga, Uzair," Hamza said, He took a hesitant half-step forward, his hands opening up at his sides in a gesture of surrender. "Khuda ki kasam... main nahi bhaagunga."

Uzair didn't blink. He stood like an iron pillar in the center of the room,

"Tera kasam ki keemat kya hai, Hamza?" Uzair asked, "Jis khuda ko gawah rakh kar tu ne mere ghar mein qadam rakha tha, usi khuda ke naam par tu ne mera har sachai ko ek file mein band karke apne mulk ke aage phenk diya tha. Tu apna zubaan par bharosa karne ko kehta hai?"

"Main sirf... main sirf tumhara sukoon chahta hoon," Hamza choked out, He didn't wipe the tear away this time; "Tum thake huye ho, Uzair. Aath saal... aath saal tumne us andhere mein kaate hain. Mujhe pata hai tumhara raatein kaisa hota hain. Kam se kam aaj... aaj ki raat toh aaram kar lo. Main yahin hoon. Main bilkul samne baithunga. Tum jab aankh khologe, mujhe yahin paoge."

Uzair looked at the trembling man before him—the lethal operative who had outsmarted agencies, now reduced to begging for his betrayer's comfort. It is a sickening, mesmerizing sight.

With a slow movement, he unbuttoned the frontof his coat and shrugged the heavy garment off his shoulders, tossing it onto the armchair nearby. Underneath, he wore a simple, faded dark shirt,

"Ghar saaf karne ki zaroorat nahi hai," Uzair murmured, "Main yahin hoon. Aur tu bhi yahin rahega. Mere saamne."

The anger that had been burning like wildfire all evening seemed to collapse inward,

"Kyun kiya aisa, Hamza?" Uzair asked after a minute.

His voice didn't carry the roar of a Baloch commander, nor the sharp mockery from before. It was incredibly quiet, almost a whisper, but it cracked with the agony of a man who had asked that exact question to the freezing walls of his prison cell every single night for nearly a decade.

"Kyun kiya?" Uzair repeated, taking a slow, heavy step forward. "Sab kuch toh tera tha. Mera jahan, mera mohabbat, mera naam... sab kuch tere hathon mein rakh diya tha maine. Phir kyun kiya aisa?"

Hamza felt the words strike his chest like cold iron. He looked up at Uzair, his vision blurring instantly as a fresh wave of tears welled in his red-rimmed eyes. His lower lip trembled so he had to bite down on it to keep from letting out a loud, broken sob that might wake Ishmir.

He wanted to offer an excuse. He wanted to tell him about the agency, the blackmail, the duty, the corner he had been backed into before he was sent into Lyari. But looking at the ghost of the man he had once loved more than his own life, all the operational logic stripped away.

"M-Main..." Hamza choked out, his hands tightly gripped the fabric of his own shirt. "Mere paas... koi raasta nahi tha, Uzair. Mujhe... mujhe tumhein tabahi se bachana tha... par main khud tumhara tabahi ban gaya."

Uzair’s head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing as the words left Hamza's lips

"Main kuch nahi tha, Hamza?" Uzair asked,

He didn't yell. He didn't reach out to grab him. Instead, he took one slow step closer,

"Tu kehta hai tere paas raasta nahi tha," Uzair murmured, a faint bitter trace of a smile touching his lips, though his eyes remained dead and glazed with unshed tears. "Tu kehta hai tu mujhe tabahi se bachane aya tha... aur main? Main kya tha tere liye? Ek mission? Ek file ka number? Ek sabaq jo tu ne apni training mein seekha tha?"

Hamza shook his head frantically, "Nahi, Uzair... khuda ke liye aisa mat kaho, main—"

"Jab tu mere bistar par sota tha, jab tu mere ghar ke deewaron main tha... kya tu us waqt bhi apne zehn mein nakshe bana raha tha?" Uzair interrupted, "Main apna sab kuch haar gaya, Hamza. Mera izzat, mera khandaan, mera zindagi... sab mitti mein mil gaya kyunki maine ek aise shaks par bharosa kiya jiska naam tak jhooth tha."

He stopped just inches away from Hamza, his breath fanning Hamza forehead.

"Mujhe laga tu mera mohabbat tha," Uzair whispered, "Par tere liye... main kuch nahi tha."

Hamza looked away, his gaze dropping to the floorboards between them.

He didn't know what to say.

Or maybe... maybe he knew exactly what to say. The truths are all there, trapped in his throat like a mass of jagged glass. He wanted to tell Uzair that he had tried to back out of the mission three separate times. He wanted to tell him that he was....., He wanted to scream that every touch, every quiet night in Lyari, and every single tear he had shed since then is real—that he had broken his own soul just to keep Uzair from being shot dead on the streets.

But he could not.

To say those things now would look like an excuse. It would look like he was trying to lessen the gravity of the eight years Uzair had spent rotting in a hell. Nothing he said could rebuild Uzair's shattered family or return his stolen love. His reasons didn't matter anymore; only the wreckage remained.

"Bol na..." Uzair prompted, his voice dropping to demanding whisper "Ab zubaan ko kya hua, Jaskirat? Tere training mein har sawaal ka jawaab sikhaya jata hai... toh aaj chup kyun hai?"

​Hamza squeezed his eyes shut, He stood defenseless, his head turned away, offering nothing but his own silent guilt to the man he had ruined.

Hamza couldn't take the suffocating weight of the silence anymore. He turned away, his movements desperate as he reached for the old retro cassette player sitting on the small side table. His fingers shook violently as he pressed the plastic button down.

​A soft, mechanical click echoed through the room, followed by the familiar, low hiss of magnetic tape spinning on a spindle. Then a melody slowly bled into the quiet space, carrying a voice that was soft drenched in bittersweet memory. The lyrics floated through the shadows, wrapping around the two men like a ghost from their past. It was a song from a lifetime ago, a melody that used to play in the background of their quietest, safest nights in lyari, long before the world tore them apart.

Hamza kept his back turned to Uzair, his head bowed low over the cassette player as his shoulders began to shake. He rested his forehead against the cool wooden cabinet of the shelf, his eyes tightly shut as the music filled the gaping void between them.

𝑲𝒂𝒃𝒉𝒊 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒎, 𝒌𝒂𝒃𝒉𝒊 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒉𝒆𝒅...

𝑲𝒂𝒃𝒉𝒊 𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒎, 𝒌𝒂𝒃𝒉𝒊 𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒕...

𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒑𝒊𝒚𝒂, 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒑𝒊𝒚𝒂, 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒑𝒊𝒚𝒂...

𝑵𝒂𝒋𝒓𝒐 𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒊 𝒑𝒚𝒂𝒓,

𝑱𝒂𝒃 𝒃𝒉𝒊 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒊 𝒘𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒍 𝒌𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒂𝒓...