#long chapters

The polished wooden corridors and the minimalist furnishings of the administrative wing feel smooth, yet entirely hollow beneath the heavy click of my brogues.

This place smells of paper, cold tea, and state secrets.

​“Arey aao, Hamza,” Iqbal’s voice is soothing, almost paternal, as he rises from his leather chair.

​["Ah, come in, Hamza."]

​His clear-framed glasses remain perched perfectly on the bridge of his nose, catching the fluorescent light. Khanani steps forward, offering me a silent handshake, while Rizwan falls into place right behind me like a shadow.

​I pull back from the greeting, keeping my posture relaxed but alert. “Kuch zaruri kaam tha?” I question as we briefly hug.

​["Was there some urgent work?"]

​“Bade Sahab ne milne bulaya hai.”

​["The Big Boss has called for a meeting."]

​The words hang in the air. I let my eyes narrow just a fraction, sharing a loaded look with the Major.

“Ab aapse bade konse sahab ho gaye? Ab toh ISI ke maayi-baap hain.” I keep my tone casually laced with mock offense.

["Now, who could possibly be a bigger boss than you? You are practically the mother and father of the ISI now."]

​Iqbal lets out a low, hearty laugh, the sound entirely too warm for a man who controls the state’s crosshairs. He rounds his desk, clapping a hand against my shoulder as he walks me back toward the door.

​“Arey, baapon ke bhi baap hote hain,” he murmurs, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Chalo, tumhe milwata hoon.”

​["Oh, even fathers have fathers. Come, let me introduce you."]

We walk out into the blinding daylight and file into the convoy of black sedans. Major Iqbal, Khanani, Rizwan, and I.

Within half an hour, the chaotic architecture of Karachi begins to vanish away. The air grows noticeably cleaner, cooler, the heavy city smog replaced by the fresh, damp scent of manicured greenery and winding, artificial rivers.

I stare out the tinted window, my mind working over the puzzle pieces.

Every operative on the ground knows the myth of Bade Sahab.

The invisible hand running the entire underworld and the proxy terror networks cutting through Pakistan. But the file is entirely blank. Is it a singular militant leader? A syndicate of corrupt politicians? A rotating committee of deep-state actors?

My internal profiling cuts short as the landscape shifts into view.

The roads beneath our tires are flawless black velvet. Outside, swans and ducks glide through pristine, clear lakes, casting rippling reflections against the backdrop of a colossal white mansion. The architecture is an intimidating monolith.

Towering iron gates block the perimeter, guarded by heavily armed security personnel who immediately snap to attention, checking our clearance before swinging the barriers open. As the car rolls through, I glance up.

Two massive, golden lions sit perched atop the high stone pillars flanking the entrance.

There is no plaque on the wall. No family crest. No history detailing when these stones were laid. The small brass plate beside the intercom reads only a single, redacted address:

White House 13 — Clifton.

Everyone files out into the crisp air, and I scan the area, noting the long line of identical armored vehicles parked along the perimeter. I slide off my dark sunglasses, slipping them into the breast pocket of my kurta.

Rizwan drops the car into park, staying behind to monitor the radio as Major Iqbal and Khanani head straight for the entrance.

I step forward to follow, but two heavily armed security guards immediately cross their arms, blocking my path. They run a metal detector wand up and down my frame with agonizing slowness, checking my waistline and ankles before finally offering a stiff nod and stepping aside.

“Intezar karo,” Iqbal instructs over his shoulder, his voice echoing slightly in the grand foyer as him and Khanani begin climbing the sweeping staircase.

["Wait here."]

I let my eyes drift across the interior. Goddamn, this place is blindingly expensive.

I drift away from the main hall, my boots silent on the plush rugs until I reach a massive, floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the rear grounds.

Outside, a pristine turquoise pool glimmers under the sun.

Near the cabanas, a small group of women are giggling, clinking glasses, and drinking among themselves. I study their posture, their features. They’re definitely not natives. Americans? Russians? Either way... highly interesting.

They don't have the guarded look of operational partners. Escorts, maybe. Or perhaps a different kind of currency altogether in this house.

“Sir, he’s called you.”

The sudden voice breaks my focus. I turn to find a non-native staff member standing a polite distance away, a carefully practiced smile plastered across her face.

I give her a single nod and head toward the grand staircase. As I ascend, I glance up at the central chandelier.

The thing is larger than my Benz, glowing with thousands of crystal droplets. It is worth an amount of money most ordinary people won't even lay eyes on in an entire lifetime.

And a sharp, familiar ache cuts through my chest.

It hurts to look at it, knowing that the wealth required to print this luxury was bought with India’s blood.

I walk down the wide corridor, my gaze locking onto a massive oil painting hanging between two carved doors. It depicts a magnificent, bleeding lion, snarling and tearing back viciously against a pack of hunters who have cornered him with spears.

I stop, staring into the painted beast's eyes. The realization is instant.

Bade Sahab sees himself as a wounded lion fighting back against the world trying to kill him.

Finally, I take a breath and step through the threshold into the inner sanctum.

My eyes instantly track straight to another portrait hanging directly behind the central desk. It features a man with a prominent mustache seated aggressively in a leather chair. Stacks of bundled currency and tactical weaponry are laid out across the mahogany table before him. A lit cigarette rests carelessly between his knuckles, and a pair of dark sunglasses masks his eyes.

For the first time in years, the steady beat of my pulse shatters. Fear.

I take a slow step closer, my eyes shifting from the canvas down to the flesh-and-blood man sitting directly beneath it.

He looks different from the legacy files. The years have anchored heavily in his frame; strands of his hair have turned a brittle grey, and the infamous mustache is entirely frosted over.

When he speaks, his voice carries a weathered weakness, yet it is still heavy enough to shake the very core of my foundation. “Ek arse se amritsar mein bambai jaisa kuch bada karne ki talab thi...”

["For a long time, there has been a craving to execute something as massive in Amritsar as what was done in Bombay..."]

“Bade Sahab, yeh hai Hamza,” Iqbal chimes in. Even the Major’s glasses are lowered in a gesture of profound deference before this man.

I sweep my gaze across the room, mapping the players seated around the perimeter of the king-like chair. Jameel Jamali is there, alongside Khanani and another faceless suit I don't immediately recognize.

“Bhai, meri hi party mein hai. Bohot honhar ladka hai,” Jameel beams, his smile cutting through as he gestures toward me. He looks back up at the old man. “Arey aao. Inhe jaante hoge na? Dawood Ibrahim. Bambai waale.”

["Bhai, he is with my (political) party. A very promising young man. Oh, come forward. You must know him, right? Dawood Ibrahim. The one from Bombay."]

The name drops like an anvil through glass.

I force my legs to move, stepping forward. I bow my head just a fraction, bending slightly to match the expected protocol of the underworld hierarchy. “Asalamwalaikum, Bhai.”

["Peace be upon you, Brother."]

Bade Sahab is... DAWOOD IBRAHIM KASKAR.

He beckons with a single, trembling finger.

I close the distance and slide into the leather chair directly opposite him.

From this proximity, the illusion of his untouchable portrait fractures. I can see the hollow, sunken depth of his cheekbones and the erratic, blotchy redness mapping his hands. They quiver noticeably as he lifts his glass, the amber alcohol sloshing against the crystal.

“Pakistan ke underworld mein ghusne ke liye sabko Muslim qoum ki wafadari saabit karni hoti hai. Chahe woh yahan ho ya Hindustan mein,” he states heavily, his voice dragging through the room like an anchor. “Amarjit...”

["To enter Pakistan's underworld, everyone must prove their loyalty to the Muslim community. Whether it's here or in India."]

The man with the long, dense beard shifts forward, picking up the thread. “Haal hi mein uss paar ke punjab se humare log bhaari drugs ka deal karne aa rahe hain. Bade Sahab chahte hain ki iss baar tum yeh kaam sambhalo.”

["Recently, our people from the Punjab on the other side of the border have been coming to execute heavy drug deals. The Big Boss wants you to handle this operation this time."]

I freeze for a fraction of a second, and look Dawood dead in the eye. “Maaf kijiyega lekin... Punjab mein deshadad failane se Muslim qoum ki wafadari kaise saabit hogi?”

["Forgive me, but... how does spreading terror in Punjab prove loyalty to the Muslim community?"]

The room turns dead silent.

Dawood cuts a slow, heavy look toward Iqbal.

The Major steps into the vacuum, explaining in a quiet, chillingly clinical tone, “Yeh karobar humare qoum aur maqsad ko hindustan mein zinda rakhta hai. Punjab sarkashon se Kashmir ke mujahidinon tak, kerala ke pfi se naxalion tak... ko taiyaar karne ki zimmedari ISI ne humein di hai.”

["This business keeps our community and cause alive in India. From the rebels in Punjab to the Mujahideen in Kashmir, from the PFI in Kerala to the Naxalites... the ISI has given us the responsibility to fund and prepare them all."]

My chest burns.

Underneath the table, I curl my fingers tight against the fabric of my trousers, digging my nails into my palms to anchor my composure. “Drugs toh Punjab mein bhi milte hain.”

["Drugs are available in Punjab too."]

“Milte hain,” Amarjit counters coldly. “Lekin mehenge. Yahan se kam daam mein drugs kharid kar waha munafa hota hai.”

["They are. But they are expensive. Buying drugs from here at a low price yields immense profit over there."]

Jameel lets out a slick, oily chuckle, trying to lighten the suffocating pressure in the room. “Matlab India ke paison se unke hi logo ko nashedi banana.”

["Meaning, using India's own money to turn their own people into addicts."]

Nobody laughs. The silence that follows is deafening.

I take a hard breath, pushing the boundary as far as my cover will allow. “Main... drugs ka dhandha nahi karta.”

["I... I don't deal in drugs."]

Dawood stops.

He stares at me through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, a long, agonizing pause before he lets out a dry, rattling huff. “Badshah banne se zyada mushkil hota hai badshah bane rehna.”

["It is far more difficult to remain a king than it is to become one."]

I clench my jaw, the muscle ticking in my cheek.

He leans closer, the scent of expensive tobacco and decay rolling off him. “Humare peshe mein mann ki icha mutabik kaam naseeb nahi hoti. Ho jayega?”

["In our profession, we aren't blessed with work that aligns with our personal desires. Will it be done?"]

Before I can answer, Jameel chimes in again, desperately trying to protect us. “Hojayega na. Puri Lyari sambhalta hai mera ladka—”

["Of course it will be done. My boy handles the entirety of Lyari—"]

Dawood raises a commanding hand, cutting the politician off mid-sentence without even looking at him. “Sawal maine Hamza se puchha.”

["I asked the question to Hamza."]

The gaze of the entire room drops onto me like a physical weight.

I look at the old monster sitting in the center of the white mansion, and offer a single, disciplined nod.

“Saabash.” Dawood offers the absolute ghost of a tiny, chilling smile.

["Excellent."]

Jameel immediately pats my back. I subtly shrug his hand off my shoulder, moving smoothly enough that the gesture slips past the attention of the rest of the table.

Glasses are poured, a large, condensation-slick bottle of imported beer making the rounds. Every remaining ounce of the appetite I had claimed earlier is completely dead, but I still take the glass.

I still drink it.

In the background, the mansion's sound system feeds a slow, atmospheric music into the room; faint enough so the business can continue uninterrupted, yet loud enough to clearly carry the distinct, soaring notes of a legacy qawwali.

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan sahab. It is, without a doubt, the only pure and beautiful thing inside this entire temple of chaos.

Dil pe zakhm khaate hain, jaan se guzarte hain...

[We nurse wounds upon our hearts, we forfeit our very lives...]

“Destabilize karne ke liye 11 crore nakli note bheje the Hindustan mein,” Javed Khanani speaks up, swirling his drink as he references the massive shipments of counterfeit currency designed to fracture the Indian economy.

["To destabilize them, we sent 110 million in counterfeit notes into India."]

“60 crore aur bhejo. Itne kaafi nahi hai. Fir tera aur mera hisab barabar,” Dawood commands flatly.

["Send 600 million more. This isn't enough. Then your account and mine will be settled."]

Khanani offers a single, sharp nod, though a flash of bewildered tension passes through his eyes at the sheer, staggering volume of the demand.

“Hamza, yeh hai Amarjit Singh,” Major Iqbal says, gesturing toward the dense-bearded man seated to his left. “Bade Sahab ke bohot khaas. Cross-border narcotics business mein sabse bada haath.”

["Hamza, this is Amarjit Singh. A very close associate of the Big Boss. The biggest hand in the cross-border narcotics business."]

I force my features to cooperate, offering Amarjit a tight, empty smile.

“Jab tak sarhad ke uss paar saaman naa pahunch jaaye tab tak SP Chaudhary Aslam tere saath rahega,” Iqbal concludes, firmly locking the trap around my upcoming schedule.

["Until the consignment reaches the other side of the border, SP Chaudhary Aslam will remain by your side."]

Dawood sets his glass down, his dark sunglasses locking directly onto my position. “Koi galti nahi honi chahiye.”

["There must be no mistakes."]

As he speaks, I catch the light reflecting off his severely chapped, peeling lips. No matter how much expensive alcohol he consumes to mask the decay, they remain completely dry.

Death is already knocking on his door; it isn't just old age taking its toll, it's something far more systemic, a slow physical collapse from the inside out.

Jurm sirf itna hai unko pyaar karte hain...

[Our only crime is that we love them...]

“Nahi hogi, Bhai,” Jameel chimes in smoothly, entirely oblivious to the gravity of the moment as he wraps his arm right back around my shoulder.

["There won't be any, Brother."]

I freeze, shifting my gaze sideways to glare down at the politician. But Jameel merely smiles, clinking his heavy glass against mine with an oblivious cheer.

But my death stare doesn't slip past everyone.

Across the mahogany table, Dawood catches it. He lets out a light, raspy chuckle.

“Bilkul meri tarah ghoorta hai,” he notes, leaning back into his throne. Then, a heavy, prophetic murmur: “Lamba jayega.”

["He glares exactly like I used to. He will go far."]

A cold shiver runs straight down my spine, freezing the fluid in my eyes. No. I am nothing like you. I am not Kaskar.

I force the rebellion down, tilting my head as I offer him a smooth smile back. “Dhyaan se, Dawood bhai. Waqt badalne mein der nahi lagti.”

["Careful, Brother Dawood. It doesn't take long for the times to change."]

Dawood nods back, a slow, dark grin pulling at his weathered face.

He takes the words as the customary, cutthroat confidence of a rising gangster. Beside me, Jameel’s eyes widen just a fraction in sheer terror at my audacity.

“Sher-E-Baloch,” Dawood confirms, his tone hovering dangerously between genuine respect and a mockery of my pride.

["The Lion of Balochistan."]

Aetbaar badhta hai aur bhi mohabbat ka...

[The faith in this love grows even deeper...]

“No ma’am, you can’t enter the office right now!”

A sharp protest from the security staff echoes from the corridor outside.

“Arey, kon hai?” Dawood demands loudly, his brow furrowing as his hand stays suspended over his glass.

["Hey, who is it?"]

The heavy oak doors click open. Before I can even turn my head to look, a distinct sensory vocabulary cuts through the stagnant air of the room; the sharp, crisp click of structured heels against the floorboards, followed by the faint, rhythmic chime of glass bangles.

I keep my back straight, my gaze locked ahead, maintaining my composure.

“Arey Sanaz, aao baitho. Hum nikalne hi waale the,” Major Iqbal’s voice completely shifts, losing its edge and replacing it with genuine, warm relief.

He immediately stands up, gathering his jacket and gesturing toward the empty chair beside me.

["Ah Sanaz, come, sit. We were just about to leave."]

A fond, low chuckle answers him; a sound that is smooth, and utterly devastating. “Shukriya, Iqbal bhai. Safeena kaisi hai?”

["Thank you, Brother Iqbal. How is Safeena?"]

My breath hitches, the air turning to liquid nitrogen in my lungs.

That voice.

I have heard that exact cadence before.

“Sab tumhari meherbani hai, humsheera,” Iqbal smiles warmly, bowing his head in real gratitude. “Achchi hai.”

["It is all due to your kindness, sister. She is well."]

The fabric of her dress rustles as she finally glides into the space beside me, sinking into the leather chair. A wave of her perfume hits my senses; warm, sophisticated.

I slowly turn my head, my eyes tracking up from the edge of her sleeve to her face.

My pupils dilate. My jaw locks. The entire Clifton mansion, the counterfeit bills, the drug cartels, and the monster sitting across from me all dissolve into absolute white noise.

Jab wo ajnabi bankar paas se guzarte hain...

[When they pass by you, wearing the mask of a stranger…]

My eyes trace the visual grid of her posture.

She is wearing a soft, rosy embroidered kurti, and a pristine white veil rests on her head, draped just low enough to shield the back of her dark hair. The glass bangles on her wrist hum a delicate chime against the leather armrest, mirroring the flash of her tiny earrings.

Then, she finally tilts her head, turning her gaze fully onto me. The polite smile on her lips drops by a fraction of a millimeter.

“Hamza... Hamza...”

The repetition of my name pulls me violently from the abyss. I snap out of my daze, my focus jerking back toward Major Iqbal, who is watching me with a curious, upturned brow.

“Ji?” I blink, forcing my voice to stabilize.

["Yes?"]

“Yeh hai Sanaz. Bohot hi achchi tabeeb hain. In par tum aankh band karke bharosa kar sakte ho,” Iqbal introduces warmly, his hand gesturing to her like she is a prized asset of the state.

["This is Sanaz. She is an exceptionally skilled physician. You can trust her completely blindfolded."]

I look back at her.

“Aur Sanaz, yeh hai Hamza,” Iqbal concludes the circuit.

["And Sanaz, this is Hamza."]

She lets out another fond, melodic chuckle, that deceptive smile returning to her face. “Inhe kon nahi janta? Karachi ke badshah hai yeh.”

["Who doesn't know him? He is the King of Karachi, after all."]

The words hit like a silent warning. I give her a disciplined smile in return, lowering my gaze just enough to play the part of the respectful man.

“Main checkup ke liye sab ready karti hoon,” she says, smoothly rising from the leather chair. [“I will get everything ready for the checkup.”]

She lifts her compact medical suitcase, gliding toward a marble-topped side table near the corner of the room, casting one last, unreadable glance over her shoulder at me.

Wo jo pher kar nazren paas se guzarte hain...

[Those who turn their eyes away as they pass close by...]

Through my peripheral vision, I track her movements. The click of the suitcase latches. The rustle of paper. The unmistakable, sterile snap of latex gloves being pulled over her fingers, followed by the gleaming silhouette of syringes and clinical vials being laid out in neat, precise rows.

Beside me, Jameel, Khanani, and Amarjit all rise from their seats, signaling the end of the audience.

I smooth down my kurta and stand up. “Jald hi milte hain, Bade Sahab.”

["We will meet again soon, Big Boss."]

Dawood lifts his glass, “Naar-e-takbir.”

["Raise the battle cry."]

The entire room choruses back in a chilling, unified harmony of, “Allahu Akbar.”

["God is the greatest."]

We step out of the grand office, and the heavy oak doors click shut behind us.

Major Iqbal turns his head slightly, his eyes tracking me as we walk down the corridor. “Jaante ho Sanaz ko?”

["Do you know Sanaz?"]

I keep my eyes steady, my voice a flat. “Nahi.”

["No."]

Iqbal nods slowly, offering a brief, reassuring pat on my back. “Achchi ladki hai.”

["She's a good girl."]

Okay?

I keep my mouth shut.

We descend the grand staircase in a tense, collective silence. As we hit the lower foyer, Jameel Jamali casually detaches himself from the group, veering off toward the privacy of the bathroom lounge. I don't hesitate. I follow him in, stepping into the cold, marble room.

It’s entirely empty. Silence hangs heavy in the air.

The moment the door clears, I throw my weight against it, twisting the deadbolt until it clicks. I turn on him, my voice a harsh, frantic whisper.

“Aapko pata tha.” I close the distance between us, the anger finally cracking through my gangster veneer. “Aap jaante the ki main Punjab se hoon aur yeh deal nahi kar sakta.”

["You knew. You knew I am from Punjab and that I couldn't do this deal."]

“Toh kya kar leta?” Jameel whispers back fiercely. He steps into my space, his eyes blazing. “Mana kar deta buddhe ko? Tere saath meri bhi badnami hoti.”

["Then what else could I have done? Refused the old man? Along with you, my reputation would have been ruined too."]

I let out a heavy sigh, pacing the pristine marble floor like a caged animal. “Kuch toh karna padega. Main aise hi apne desh ko barbad hone nahi de sakta.”

["Something will have to be done. I cannot just stand by and let my country be destroyed like this."]

Jameel stops my pacing, leaning in. His expression softens into something deeply paternal. “Desh mera bhi hai, beta. Zyada se zyada yeh intel hum R&AW ko bhej sakte hain.”

["It is my country too, son. At the very most, we can transmit this intelligence straight to R&AW."]

I offer a single, hard nod, the blueprint of the counter-play forming in my mind. “Deal ke din ka intezar rahega. Sabki khabar bhejunga.”

["I'll wait for the day of the deal. I will send intel on everyone."]

Jameel slips out of the bathroom lounge first. I pace the cold marble for a few more beats, letting the adrenaline steady in my veins, before finally locking my composure down and walking out.

As I step onto the driveway, I realize the convoy has vanished. The courtyard is mostly deserted. The only vehicles left under the low sun are my own black Audi and a pristine, midnight-blue Bentley idling near the iron gates.

A Bentley. I run the logistics through my head. Whose? Definitely someone with old, untouchable money.

I spot Rizwan still waiting faithfully by my car, his posture straight, his eyes scanning the perimeter.

A faint twinge of guilt hits my chest; I probably should have invited him inside the mansion for a drink or food, but the man was carrying a concealed tactical firearm, security at White House 13 would have put a bullet in him before he cleared the foyer.

Click. Click. Click.

I turn my head slightly. She’s stepped out of the grand entrance, her medical suitcase gripped firmly in her hand. She’s done with her work.

I take a slow step into her path, clearing my throat to break her stride. Extending a hand toward her with practiced charm, I look her dead in the eye.

“Aaiye, aapko ghar chhor deta hoon.”

["Come, let me drop you home."]

She shakes her head, a tiny smile playing on her lips as she lightly jangles a silver keychain between her fingers. “Ji nahi, main akeli chali jaungi.”

["No, thank you. I'll go by myself."]

She presses a button on the fob. Across the gravel courtyard, the headlights of the Bentley flash awake.

Oh. That car is hers.

How? A normal state physician, even one trusted by the military elite, doesn’t casually own a foreign luxury vehicle of that caliber. Something isn't adding up. The math is completely broken.

I force my smile to remain smooth, stepping in line with her pace as she walks toward the vehicle. “Achchi baat hai. Waise, mujhe agar... kabhi kisi himayati doctor ki zarurat padi toh kahan aana hoga?” I press, keeping my tone laced with casual interest. “Major sahab bohot taarif karte hain aapki.”

["Fair enough. By the way, if I... ever happen to need a supportive doctor, where should I come? The Major sings your praises."]

She stops by the driver’s side door, turning her sharp, dark eyes fully onto me. “Kahin nahi. Aap bass mujhe call kar lijiye ga.”

["Nowhere. You can just give me a call."]

“Hmm. Clinic ya hospital, kahin kaam nahi karti?” I question, mapping her defenses.

["Hmm. You don't work at a clinic or a hospital anywhere?"]

“Karti thi,” she murmurs, opening the door and sliding gracefully into the plush leather interior. She looks up at me through the open window. “Lekin ab private doctor hoon.”

["I used to. But now, I am a private physician."]

I offer a tight nod. God, I feel like a literal beggar. The King of Lyari, humbled by a medical suitcase. “Interesting. Aapka number?”

["Interesting. Your number?"]

Without a word, she reaches into her designer bag, pulls out a crisp, heavy-stock business card, and hands it through the window. I slide it between my fingers, a dark smirk testing my lips.

I’m entirely certain a woman like her juggles a dozen different burn SIM cards, but I play along. I glance at the address printed at the bottom. “Old Clifton. Kaafi mehenga hoga na manage karna?”

["Old Clifton. Must be quite expensive to manage a place there, no?"]

“Mm-hm. Bas aath lakh mahine ke,” she answers casually, as if she’s discussing the price of street tea.

["Mm-hm. Just eight hundred thousand a month."]

WHAT.

I physically blink, the sheer absurdity of the number slamming into my chest. Eight lakhs. A month.

Okay, even my overhead criminal expenses running an entire sector of the city aren't that ridiculously high for a single roof. This woman isn't just an anomaly; she is a high-level logistical asset funded by a massive operation.

Internally, my brain is fighting a war, but I let out a low, amused chuckle to mask the shock. “Bass itna hi? Kabhi humare yahan aaiyega, aapko takleef ki gunjaish nahi hogi.”

["Just that much? You should visit our side of town sometime, you won't find any room for discomfort there."]

She stares at me through the window. Her face remains completely unimpressed. She sees right through the bravado. “Jab aap bulayen, Hamza sahab.”

["Whenever you call, Master Hamza."]

The formal title feels like a targeted insult wrapped in silk. I slide the heavy card deep into my kurta pocket, leaning down slightly. “Sanaz?”

“Siddiqui.”

Matches the card.

She rolls up the glass, the engine of the Bentley purring to life with a low, expensive growl before the car smoothly tears down the driveway and vanishes through the golden lion gates.

I stand on the gravel, the dust settling around my boots as I stare at the empty exit. The pieces are moving too fast. The chessboard is completely chaotic.

“Rizwan.”

“Ji, Bhai?” My shadow appears instantly at my shoulder.

["Yes, Brother?"]

I turn on my heel, marching back toward my Audi, the heavy weight of the city settling right back onto my shoulders. “Lyari chalo wapas.”

["Let's go back to Lyari."]

Who ARE YOU, SANAZ?

[Master list]

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𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙽𝙴 -> 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝙼𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙾 -> 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 -> 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝙴𝚢𝚎𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁 -> 𝙰 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚊𝚗?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴 -> 𝙰𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙸𝚇 -> 𝙴𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝙰𝚠𝚊𝚢

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 -> 𝚆𝚎 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙱𝚎 𝙴𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙴 -> 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝙷𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙳𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙼𝚊𝚗 𝙸𝚗 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙻𝚅𝙴 -> 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚁𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙶𝚒𝚛l

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙸𝙵𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝙾𝚕𝚍 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜' 𝚂𝚊𝚔𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙸𝚇𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚆𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙱𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙾𝚏

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙱𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝙵𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈 -> 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙾𝙽𝙴 -> 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝚃𝚆𝙾 -> 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚃𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 -> 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁 -> 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙶𝚘𝚍 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴 -> 𝙾𝚗𝚎-𝚆𝚊𝚢 𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚃𝚘 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝚂𝙸𝚇 -> 𝙼𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 -> 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙴 -> 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈 -> 𝙻𝚊𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝙾𝙽𝙴 -> 𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚍

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝚃𝚆𝙾 -> 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝙱𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 -> 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁 -> 𝙽𝚘 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴 -> 𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚄𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝚂𝙸𝚇 -> 𝙶𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽 ->

𝙴𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙾𝙶𝚄𝙴 -> ?

-----------------------------------------------------------------

↳ 𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚁'𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴: 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘! 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚢. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠-𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙸'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢.

𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘.