Act I: SLITHER, Chapter One:
And Thou Wilt Know Me by the Silence That Follows the Gun
âAAJ JHOOTH ka parda hatega.â
["Today, the veil of lies will be lifted."]
I slam my flat sandal against the brake. The Mercedes glides to a seamless halt on the pristine driveway; a quiet world away from the bruised asphalt of Lyari.
I remember commuting through these gridlines for work once, but the elite side of town always remained a distant silhouette. Or perhaps, I simply never had a reason to cross over until tonight.
Work is work.
I swing the door open, step into the humid air, and click the lock, dropping the keys into my evening clutch. Even from the parking lot, the thrum of the dhols and the low bass of the music vibrate through the soles of my shoes.
I have always loathed these sprawling, performative gatherings.
Clutching the fabric of my heavy maroon sharara to keep it from sweeping the gravel, I march toward the grand entrance. The security guards push the towering doors open, and a wave of warm, golden light instantly washes over me.
Opulence.
That is the only word for it. The estate is a monolith of ceiling-to-floor glass, dripping chandeliers, and pristine white marble.
I let out a sharp, quiet huff.
He is far too rich for his own good.
The marble floors are polished to such a high sheen that I can see my own reflection staring back at me like a stranger: the heavy sway of my earrings, the intricate stonework catching the light across my chest, the dramatic flare of my pants.
I look good. Good enough to blend in.
I scan the crowds.
Uniformed catering staff glide through the sea of guests, carrying silver platters laden with crimson kebabs, fragrant mounds of fluffy biryani, and decadent traditional sweets, while the open bar flows with amber whiskey and imported alcohol.
But where the hell is he?
I pull out my phone to dial his number, but my gaze freezes. A silhouette cuts through the noise near the perimeter of the courtyardâdark clothes, a broad stance, and that unmistakable, long hair.
Undeniably him.
An involuntary smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I canât help it.
He is seated with a tight circle of men in the lush garden area, clustered around the dancing flames of an open fireplace.
As I descend the stone steps toward the grass, I catch the eye of Alam bhai behind the bar. He smiles warmly as he mixes a drink; adorable, as always.
I offer him a fleeting nod and pull my dupatta securely over my hair, masking the sharp calculation in my eyes as I approach the inner sanctum.
I step onto the grass, close the distance, and lightly tap his shoulder.
âAakhir kaar mil hi gaye.â I murmur, a streak of teasing satisfaction cutting through my tone. âSaath nahi chaloge?â
["At long last, Iâve found you. Won't you come with me?"]
Hamza looks over his shoulder. For a fraction of a second, his face is an unreadable wall of cold seriousness.
Then, the tension breaks, and he finally smiles at me.
He stands up, effortlessly rounding the sofa until he is standing directly in front of me. The sheer breadth of him makes the space feel smaller, making me feel smaller.
He towers over my frame. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively light, pitched perfectly to cut through the ambient drone of the party straight to me.
âTumhari toh aaj... meeting thi na? Aane waali ho bataya kyun nahi? Tumhe akele aane ki takleef nahi hoti.â
["Didn't you have a... meeting today? Why didn't you tell me you were coming? You wouldn't have had to take the trouble of coming alone."]
I let out a soft chuckle, my fingers remaining defensively clutched around the fabric of my dupatta. âMeeting thi par aaj sab turant khatam ho gaya.â
["There was a meeting, but everything wrapped up unexpectedly early today."]
He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to my hands. His fingers move, deliberate, stopping my defensive grip. With a gentle pressure, he lets the veil fall from my head, exposing my hair to the chill of the night air.
âInsab ki zarurat nahi,â he murmurs, his touch lingering as he carefully brushes a few stray strands away from my face.
["There is no need for all of this."]
He steps back just a fraction, âAndar chalo.â He reaches down, his palm sliding against mine, locking his fingers through my hand.
["Come inside."]
Before we can take a step, a sharp, abrasive clear of a throat breaks the orbit between us.
âBaloch.â
SP Chaudhary Aslam steps into the light, taking a long drag of his cigarette. The embers glow fiercely against the dark garden. He stands there in a crisp white kurta, a heavy traditional shawl draped carelessly over his shoulder.
âAise waqt mein ayyashi pe kam dhyaan de.â He exhales a thick plume of smoke, his eyes cutting hard into Hamza. âUzair ka jaldi kuch intezam kar.â
["Baloch. Focus less on your indulgences at a time like this. Sort out Uzair quickly."]
The air between them turns instantly rigid. They share a brief, loaded look.
Beside Aslam, a third man shifts. Jameel Jamali, dressed in a sharply tailored suit. He is the right-hand politician of the Muslim Movement Party: the very face of the government apparatus that has crawled into bed with Hamza.
âArey karega na,â Jameel chimes in, his voice dripping with smooth placation as he raises a hand to soothe the SP. âTujhe pata hai...â
["Oh, he will do it. You know how he is..."]
The rest of Jameel's sentence, the politics, and the looming shadow of Uzair's name all fade into white noise as Hamzaâs grip tightens on my hand, pulling me away from the fire and guiding me back into the house.
âKya khaogi pehle?â he questions, steering us smoothly through the crowd toward an empty table near the corner. âTumhe biryani pasand hai na? Raita ke saath?â
["What will you eat first? You like biryani, right? With raita?"]
I lean in slightly, letting a sharp spark enter my eyes. âWaiter waali aadat gayi nahi hai tumhari.â
["You still haven't lost your waiter habits."]
I canât help but dig.
Hamza stops, turning his gaze fully onto me.
I force my expression into a neutral mask, fighting the urge to smirk. Itâs a subtle jab at his roots; of the days when he washed glasses and took orders at Alam bhaiâs juice shop.
It feels utterly absurd. The ruthless King of Karachi... once waiting on tables? Even knowing the truth, looking at him now, I find it difficult to lace the two identities together.
He doesnât react. I catch my breath for a split second, hoping I haven't genuinely crossed a line. But he is used to my snark by now; itâs the currency we trade in.
Without a word, he steps behind a chair, pulling it out for me. I slide into the seat, the heavy silk of my dress settling around my legs, and he takes the chair directly beside mine. The table before usâfine silver silverware gleaming under the flickering glow of scented candles, surrounded by steaming platters of food.
He doesn't even wait for the catering staff. Reaching over, he expertly serves a portion of the fragrant biryani onto my plate. âDinner karo. Main thodi der mein aata hoon.â
["Have your dinner. I'll be back in a little while."]
He places the serving spoon down and begins to shift his weight to stand, but my hand shoots out, my fingers wrapping around his wrist.
âHamza. Kya?â I furrow my brows, my tone dropping into a hard, demanding whisper. âTumhare ghar mein main akele khaun? Yeh kaisa mazak hai?â
["Hamza. What is this? I'm supposed to eat alone in your house? What kind of a joke is this?"]
Why the hell is he in such a tearing hurry?
âJaan, meri baat samjho.â He turns back to me. He reaches up, his large palm cupping the side of my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. âMujhe zara bhi andaza hota ki tum yahan aa rahi ho toh main tumhare liye alag se sab kuch taiyaar rakhta. Business meeting hai, bohot saare log hain, sabko attend karna hoga.â
["Love, understand my situation. If I had even the slightest inkling you were coming tonight, I would have arranged everything for you separately. It's a business meeting, there are too many people here, and I have to attend to them all."]
His gaze locks onto mine, holding me captive. âPaanch minute. Rizwan rahega tumhare saath.â
["Five minutes. Rizwan will stay with you."]
I offer a tight, silent nod.
Satisfied, Hamza pulls his hand away, the sudden lack of warmth on my skin feeling like a cold bruise. He signals over his shoulder, and Rizwan steps out from the periphery, dropping heavily into the seat opposite me.
His eyes are restless, scanning the room, his jacket hanging just loosely enough to hide the silhouette of a firearm.
Without looking back, Hamza turns on his heel, his long hair catching the light one last time before he disappears back into the shadows of the garden area to meet his wolves.
I wait a few beats before finally picking up my spoon. I take small bites, completely suppressing the urge to inhale the plate despite how agonizingly perfect the spices are. The food is incredible, but my attention remains anchored outside. My eyes constantly drift toward the glass, tracking the movements in the garden.
Crunch. An elaichi. A sharp, bitter burst of cardamom ruins the flavor, and I let out a sudden, muffled cough. God, I absolutely loathe when this happens.
Instantly, a glass of water is pushed into my line of sight. I look up to see Rizwan watching me with a deadpan expression. âBhabhi jaan, aaram se.â
["Sister-in-law, take it easy."]
Bhabhi? I freeze, my hand tightening around the cold glass as I stare at him through narrowed eyes. âAbhi kawari hoon.â
["I am still unmarried."]
Rizwan doesnât argue; he merely shrugs, his eyes already drifting back to the perimeter. He knows better than to debate the semantics of a title the entire network has already assigned to me.
Before I can press him, a shift in the garden catches my attention. Heavy footsteps crush the manicured grass. A new figure steps into the firelight, draped in a dark leather jacket, walking a step behind Hamza like a shadow.
I trace the man's posture. Who the hell is he? He doesn't carry the usual weight of a Karachi regular. Heâs different. Foreign.
Hamza turns his head.
Across the sprawling lawn and the sea of corrupt politicians, his dark eyes find mine. He locks his gaze onto me, slowly raising his eyebrows with the absolute tiniest hint of a smirk.
What evenâ? Is he genuinely trying to flirt with me right now? In front of my biryani?
An involuntary, treacherous flush rises up my neck, warming my cheeks. I snap my gaze down to my plate, aggressively ignoring the heat in my face. Get a grip. You are not supposed to be unraveled by a mere second of eye contact.
I look up to find Rizwan staring blankly at me. His expression says it all; his silence is a loud, mocking verdict that completely invalidates my earlier defense about being unmarried.
The minutes bleed away into a restless silence. I pass the time tracking the ice melting in my water glass and picking at the traditional sweets served after the main course.
Despite the heavy meal, a stubborn, irrational part of my chest still wants to have a proper dinner with him. Iâm certainly not going to starve myself for a manâI can easily eat a second round later with himâbut the empty chair beside me feels entirely too loud.
âRizwan bhai, yeh... leather jacket wala kon hai?â I question, keeping my voice low, pitched just beneath the ambient chatter of the dining hall.
["Rizwan bhai, who... who is this man in the leather jacket?"]
Rizwan answers, not even looking up. âZyada kuch nahin, drug dealer hai. Bade Sahab se milne ke baad Hamza hi cartel sambhalta hai.â
["Itâs nothing major, just a drug dealer. Ever since he met the Big Boss, Hamza has been the one managing the cartel."]
âWoh mujhe pata hai,â I press, leaning in slightly, âMera matlab hai.. kahan se hai yeh aadmi?â
["I already know that. What I mean is... where is this man from?"]
Rizwan pauses for a fraction of a second. He looks at me, his face a completely unreadable slate. âUss paar ke Punjab se.â
["From the Punjab on the other side of the border."]
Matlab... Hindustan. [Meaning... India.]
Oh. Oh, right. Tonight. The realization hits me like a cold wave. The puzzle pieces align instantly. This isn't just a local turf meeting.
My gaze snaps back to the corridor where they disappeared.
A sudden, violent crash shatters the high-society ambiance. The heavy wooden doors near the back hallway fly open, and Hamza rushes out, his long hair wild, his shoulders tense with a rare, terrifying panic. The stranger in the leather jacket is stumbling beside him, half-dragged, his head lolling backward.
I freeze. The silver spoon slips from my fingers, clattering loudly against the porcelain plate.
Horror, raw and clinical, tightens my throat. An injection syringe is driven deep, brutally buried into the stranger's eye socket. Torn flesh and dark, arterial blood leak down the side of his face, staining the collar of his leather jacket.
Hamza is roaring, his voice booming over the music, vibrating with an uncharacteristic, frantic desperation. âJaldi karo! Yeh insaan marna nahi chahiye!â
["Hurry up! This man cannot die!"]
The dining hall erupts into immediate, chaotic pandemonium.
Guests shriek, abandoning their plates to flee from the sudden display of raw gore. A few men stay anchored to their spots. From the side entrance, a new faction of men; turbans wrapped tightly around their heads, faces grimâcome rushing into the fray.
Beside me, Rizwan is already on his feet, his chair scraping violently against the marble floor. He whips out his satellite phone, his voice clipping fast and hard into the receiver as he demands an emergency doctor.
I canât make out the specific words being shouted, but my eyes remain locked on Hamza. I have never seen him look like this. Not once. The King of Karachi looks utterly... helpless.
Jamali, Hamza, Rizwan, Khanani, and the turbaned men form a frantic, tight barrier around the bleeding body. They lift the unconscious asset, carrying his dead weight out through the grand entrance, shoving him into the back of Hamza's idling SUV.
The taillights flash a blinding, angry red before the vehicle screeches out of the driveway, tearing into the night.
It happens with such dizzying, whiplash speed that the silence left behind feels unnatural. I am left standing entirely alone by the table, surrounded by a handful of remaining guests who whisper frantically to one another in the shadows.
The crowd thins out with terrifying speed, leaving only a handful of guests whispering in the shadows of the garden. I move with a quiet purpose, slipping away from the dining hall toward the back corridor.
I reach the bathroom door and wrap my fingers around the handle. I twist it. It doesnât budge. Locked from the inside. My brow furrows. How is that possible?
Hamza clearly dragged the bleeding man out of this very room. I round the corner of the hallway, searching the architecture until I find the secondary service door leading into the same bathroom. I rattle the handle.
Locked too. A low groan of frustration catches in my throat.
Questions hammer against my skull. How did an execution escalate that quickly under Hamza's own roof? Why was the asset targeted with such blinding brutality? And why was the King of Karachi panicking over a cross-border person if he was truly just running a local cartel?
A sickening, heavy knot forms in the pit of my stomach. Instinct drives me upward.
I ascend the grand staircase, my flat sandals making no sound against the marble steps. The upper hallway stretches out before me, lined with a dozen closed doors. I choose the first master suite, pushing the heavy wood open. The lights flicker on automatically, bathing the room in a stark, clinical glow.
The space is massive; a sprawling king-sized bed, an attached master bath, and a walk-in closet that looks more like a high-end boutique. I step into the closet, walking past neat rows of his tailored suits, heavy leather jackets, polished shoes, and expensive colognes.
My sharara catches on the edge of a misplaced cardboard carton. It topples over, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
I drop to my knees to hastily gather the scattered contents.
My fingers brush against a heavy canvas pouch. It feels damp. Something is leaking inside. I pull the zipper open and plunge my hand in only to wince sharply as a burning sting cuts through the pad of my index finger.
I pull my hand back. A thick, crimson drop of my own blood wells up instantly.
Inside the pouch is a tiny, shattered glass bottle and nestled beneath the shards is a compact, leather-bound diary. The leaking chemical has seeped deep into the fibers of the paper, making the ink bleed through the sheets, revealing heavily coded columns of logistics, handlers, and operations.
My eyes widen.
He... Hamza is an Indian agent.
I grimace in frustration as a drop of my blood smears across the wet page, leaving a perfect, damning stamp of my DNA directly over a redacted file.
Click. The distinct, heavy echo of footsteps resounds from the hallway outside.
No. No, not right now. Adrenaline surges.
I brutally tear the blood-soaked pages out of the binding, crushing the evidence and shoving it deep into my evening purse. I throw the diary back into the pouch alongside the broken glass, shoving the carton back into the dark corner of the closet.
But as I scramble to my feet, another heavy drop of blood slips from my finger, splattering with terrifying clarity onto the snow-white marble floor.
I don't even have time to wipe it.
The heavy bedroom door clicks. It swings open.
Hamza steps into the room.
Heâs sensed it.
Without breaking eye contact, his hand reaches behind him, tracking the heavy wood until the lock clicks into place. He walks toward me, his strides slow, measured, and predatory. His eyes drop, scanning the unmistakable smear of crimson on the floor, the glint of tiny glass shards, and the messily tucked items in the displaced carton.
I take a frantic step backward, but the closet wall traps me. He closes the distance until he is towering directly in front of me, blotting out the light.
âHamza...â I whisper, the syllable catching in my throat. How does one even begin to explain a situation this damning?
âKya kar rahi thi yahan?â he questions, his voice a low, vibrating growl that rattles my ribs.
["What were you doing here?"]
Shaken, my heel catches on the hem of my sharara. I lose my balance, slipping backward, but before I can hit the floor, his arm shoots out like a steel vice. He catches me by the waist, violently yanking my body forward until I am pinned flush against the hard plane of his chest.
His grip is suffocating.
He leans down, his breath ghosting over my ear, demanding an answer. âKisliye aayi thi?â
["What did you come here for?"]
He knows.
He already knows.
Why the hell is he acting like this?
I force a deep, ragged breath into my lungs, refusing to let him see me tremble. âTumhe pata hai kya kar rahi thi,â I say, lifting my chin to look him dead in the eye. âMain sab jaanti hoon. Lekin, meri baat sunoââ
["You know exactly what I was doing. I know everything. But, listen to meâ"]
The cold, heavy metal of a barrel presses hard against my temple.
My jaw tightens instinctively, calculating the distance between his finger and the trigger.
âMujhe maarne se tumhara koi fayeda nahi hoga,â I squeeze out through a dry throat.
["Killing me will be of no use to you."]
âMohabbat karne waale aise ghar mein nahi ghuste, kon ho tum?â he questions. His gaze flickering down to my bloody hand before snapping back to lock onto my face.
["Those who love don't break into houses like this. Who are you?"]
âPehle bandhook niche karo,â I command, trying to anchor my voice in authority.
["Put the gun down first."]
A ghost of a humorless smile touches his lips. âTum sab jaanti ho na? Toh itna bhi jaanti hogi ki mere aur mere maqsad ke beech koi nahi aata.â
["You know everything, don't you? Then you must also know that no one gets between me and my mission."]
SHOOT. WHAT?â
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