#saazish

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 courtyard—dark clothes, a broad stance, and that unmistakable, long hair.

Undeniably him.

An involuntary smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I can’t 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.

“Aakhir kaar mil hi gaye.” I murmur, a streak of teasing satisfaction cutting through my tone. “Saath nahi chaloge?”

["At long last, I’ve 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.

“Tumhari toh aaj... meeting thi na? Aane waali ho bataya kyun nahi? Tumhe akele aane ki takleef nahi hoti.”

["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. “Meeting thi par aaj sab turant khatam ho gaya.”

["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.

“Insab ki zarurat nahi,” 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, “Andar chalo.” 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.

“Baloch.”

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.

“Aise waqt mein ayyashi pe kam dhyaan de.” He exhales a thick plume of smoke, his eyes cutting hard into Hamza. “Uzair ka jaldi kuch intezam kar.”

["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.

“Arey karega na,” Jameel chimes in, his voice dripping with smooth placation as he raises a hand to soothe the SP. “Tujhe pata hai...”

["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 Hamza’s grip tightens on my hand, pulling me away from the fire and guiding me back into the house.

“Kya khaogi pehle?” he questions, steering us smoothly through the crowd toward an empty table near the corner. “Tumhe biryani pasand hai na? Raita ke saath?”

["What will you eat first? You like biryani, right? With raita?"]

I lean in slightly, letting a sharp spark enter my eyes. “Waiter waali aadat gayi nahi hai tumhari.”

["You still haven't lost your waiter habits."]

I can’t help but dig.

Hamza stops, turning his gaze fully onto me.

I force my expression into a neutral mask, fighting the urge to smirk. It’s a subtle jab at his roots; of the days when he washed glasses and took orders at Alam bhai’s 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 doesn’t 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; it’s 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 us—fine 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. “Dinner karo. Main thodi der mein aata hoon.”

["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.

“Hamza. Kya?” I furrow my brows, my tone dropping into a hard, demanding whisper. “Tumhare ghar mein main akele khaun? Yeh kaisa mazak hai?”

["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?

“Jaan, meri baat samjho.” He turns back to me. He reaches up, his large palm cupping the side of my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. “Mujhe 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.”

["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. “Paanch minute. Rizwan rahega tumhare saath.”

["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. “Bhabhi jaan, aaram se.”

["Sister-in-law, take it easy."]

Bhabhi? I freeze, my hand tightening around the cold glass as I stare at him through narrowed eyes. “Abhi kawari hoon.”

["I am still unmarried."]

Rizwan doesn’t 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. He’s 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 even—? 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. I’m certainly not going to starve myself for a man—I can easily eat a second round later with him—but the empty chair beside me feels entirely too loud.

“Rizwan bhai, yeh... leather jacket wala kon hai?” 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. “Zyada kuch nahin, drug dealer hai. Bade Sahab se milne ke baad Hamza hi cartel sambhalta hai.”

["It’s nothing major, just a drug dealer. Ever since he met the Big Boss, Hamza has been the one managing the cartel."]

“Woh mujhe pata hai,” I press, leaning in slightly, “Mera matlab hai.. kahan se hai yeh aadmi?”

["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. “Uss paar ke Punjab se.”

["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. “Jaldi karo! Yeh insaan marna nahi chahiye!”

["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 grim—come 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 can’t 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 doesn’t 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.

He’s 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.

“Hamza...” I whisper, the syllable catching in my throat. How does one even begin to explain a situation this damning?

“Kya kar rahi thi yahan?” 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. “Kisliye aayi thi?”

["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. “Tumhe pata hai kya kar rahi thi,” I say, lifting my chin to look him dead in the eye. “Main sab jaanti hoon. Lekin, meri baat suno—”

["You know exactly what I was doing. I know everything. But, listen to me—"]

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.

“Mujhe maarne se tumhara koi fayeda nahi hoga,” I squeeze out through a dry throat.

["Killing me will be of no use to you."]

“Mohabbat karne waale aise ghar mein nahi ghuste, kon ho tum?” 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?"]

“Pehle bandhook niche karo,” I command, trying to anchor my voice in authority.

["Put the gun down first."]

A ghost of a humorless smile touches his lips. “Tum sab jaanti ho na? Toh itna bhi jaanti hogi ki mere aur mere maqsad ke beech koi nahi aata.”

["You know everything, don't you? Then you must also know that no one gets between me and my mission."]

SHOOT. WHAT?—

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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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A few feet away, Rehman’s lifeless body lies flat on a stainless-steel stretcher, covered in a blood-soaked sheet as the orderly shifts him slowly toward the double doors of the morgue.

I am sitting on a cold metal bench, my spine bent double, my head buried deeply in my hands. The heavy scent of copper, cheap disinfectant, and sweat clogs my throat.

A heavy hand is placed firmly on my trembling shoulder. I slowly look up through the gaps of my fingers.

Uzair Baloch stands towering over me.

I push myself to my feet, stinging tears already welling up in both our eyes. I step forward, and we collide into a desperate embrace. Uzair breaks down instantly, his chest heaving as he screams and cries against my shoulder, mourning the loss of his brother-in-arms.

“Main nahi bacha paya...” I whisper into the fabric of his shirt, closing my eyes tightly as the darkness takes over.

["I couldn't save him..."]

The words tear at my throat, a perfect lie. I know the truth. I know that I am the exact reason Rehman is lying dead on that stretcher.

It hurts.

But it was necessary.

We stay locked in that suffocating hug for a few more seconds before Uzair pulls back, his face hardened with grief as he and the remaining men begin their slow march toward the morgue doors.

As he passes my shoulder, his voice drops into a low, gruff murmur. “Dhyaan rakh apna.”

["Take care of yourself."]

I offer a hollow nod.

I turn on my heel, intending to slip away into the shadows of the courtyard, but Uzair's booming voice echoes down the hall, arresting my movement. “Mere bhai ko theek karo.”

["Fix my brother."]

Before I can process the command, a passing nurse hooks her hand around my arm, forcefully steering my staggering frame inside a crowded emergency ward.

The room is a battlefield of groans, rusted iron cots, and the sharp stench of iodine. I slump heavily onto the edge of a vacant bed, the adrenaline completely draining from my limbs. Another staff member sticks her head into the ward, frantically shouting for the nurse to bring the incoming reports for the newly deceased.

The nurse lets out an aggravated sigh. Before bolting out the door, she yells across the crowded room, “Sanaz! Hamza bhai ko attend karo.”

["Sanaz! Attend to Brother Hamza."]

She vanishes into the corridor frenzy. From somewhere behind a privacy screen, a low, exhausted groan cuts through the ambient noise.

A few seconds pass. The loose fluorescent light directly above my cot flickers violently. I lift my heavy gaze.

A young woman steps into the cubicle, carrying a stainless-steel instrument tray that rattles softly against her grip. She is dressed in a simple, formal white kurta and matching pyjama, her hair swept up into a hasty, loose bun that looks like it’s barely holding together after a thirty-hour shift.

She doesn’t look like she belongs in a place as raw as Lyari.

There is a clinical, polished distance to her posture. I trace the sharp gleam of a steel identification tag pinned tightly to her dupatta.

Intern / South Karachi.

She isn’t from around here.

She steps into my space, her fingers deftly plucking a thick wad of cotton from the tray. As she leans closer to wipe the dark, sticky blood pooling near my forehead, my eyelids grow heavy.

I close my eyes.

In its place, a faint, warm scent rolls off her skin.

It is soft, comforting, and utterly grounding.

My shoulders drop a fraction. I let out a slow sigh, letting the warmth pull me away from the ghost of Rehman's corpse.

But the moment of peace fractures instantly.

From above my head, she lets out another deeply aggravated groan.

Before I can process the sound, her fingers abruptly dive into my scalp. She sweeps my long, tangled hair away from my face, gathering the thick strands together, twisting them, and pinning everything into a tight, messy bun secured by the elastic scrunchie from her wrist.

What the…

My eyes snap open. I blink upward in sheer bewilderment.

She doesn’t even blink back, her expression entirely deadpan as she prepares a fresh swab. “Aapke baal distract kar rahe the.”

["Your hair was distracting."]

She offers the flat explanation like she didn’t just completely emasculate the rising terror of Lyari. She begins wiping the remaining blood trails from my cheek before uncapping a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.

The moment the soaked cotton presses into the raw tear on my skin, a violent wave of fire erupts across my face.

I hiss sharply through my teeth, my jaw locking as I lean back from the sting.

I already know the diagnostic outcome of tonight. The tear is deep, jagged from the shattered glass of the impact. There will be a temporary scar marking my forehead and cheek after this settles.

She pulls the cotton back, examining the split flesh with a critical, unimpressed squint. “Stitching ki zarurat hai.”

["This needs stitches."]

No. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. No, absolutely not. I will actually cry right here.

She snaps a fresh pair of latex gloves onto her hands. Without a word of comfort, she uncaps a vial of local anesthesia, drawing the clear fluid into a slender syringe.

Her fingers wrap around my bicep, anchoring my arm. Before I can even formulate a protest, the cold needle bites into my skin, plunging the medicine directly into my bloodstream. Within a few agonizing moments, the throbbing pain on my face begins to numb into a dull, heavy weight.

Next come the suture needles.

I can face an entire firing squad without flinching. I am trained to handle tactical knives, explosive shrapnel, and structural bombs. But this? A tiny curved needle threading through my facial tissue?

Absolutely not.

To execute the stitches, she is forced to step completely into my personal space. Her left hand rises, her gloved fingers wrapping firmly around the line of my jaw, tilting my head upward.

I am not supposed to stare—but my eyes refuse to look anywhere else.

At this proximity, I can map the entire topography of her face. The steady calculation in her dark eyes as she works. The calm cadence of her breath against my skin despite the chaotic shrieks echoing outside the curtains. The soft, natural curve of her lips.

It is... deeply, dangerously interesting.

After a few quiet minutes, she snips the thread and steps back. She applies a cool layer of antiseptic ointment, sealing the main laceration with a thick, heavy bandage before slapping a secondary, smaller one across my scraped cheek.

She drops the bloodied tools onto the stainless-steel tray. “Aur kahin chhot lagi hai?”

["Are you injured anywhere else?"]

I hesitate, I don't know if I should answer…

But she doesn’t wait for my clearance.

Her hands are already moving, reaching down to unceremoniously pull my heavy shirt straight off my shoulders.

Woah. Woah. Woah. Meri izzat— [My dignity—]

The black undertop underneath is damp, sticking to the planes of my skin like a second layer of defense.

God. I’ve been running through muddy forests, carrying corpses, and sweating through an assassination plot all day.

I probably stink like a stray dog right now.

Her hands suddenly pause, her fingers hovering near the hem of the wet fabric, likely debating whether she should forcefully peel it off me or wait for consent.

Before she can make a choice, I grab the hem and yank the dark material over my head myself, casting it aside.

The air-conditioned draft of the emergency ward slams violently against my bare torso. A shallow cut slicing across the meat of my left shoulder, accompanied by a scattering of purple bruises and superficial scratches tracing down my chest.

Thankfully, nothing serious. Nothing that will kill me.

She peels off her soiled gloves, tossing them into the hazardous waste bin. She prepares a fresh swab, applying a soothing layer of antiseptic cream across the shallow cuts on my chest before sealing them beneath clean adhesive bandages.

The moment her cool, bare fingers brush against the warm skin of my torso to anchor the tape, my lungs betray me. I inhale sharply, a sudden, heavy breath rattling in my throat.

She probably assumes I've never felt the touch of a woman before.

In a way, she’s right. I haven't. Not like this.

I have spent my entire adult life navigating violence.

But I have never been touched with an intention as pure as hers.

There is no hidden agenda in her hands, no survivalist threat. Just the simple desire to mend broken flesh.

But she doesn’t trace my expression or return my intense gaze.

She doesn't see a rising legend of the underworld or a complicated enigma. To her, I am just a checklist item on an endless, grueling shift.

“Hogaya, aap kapde pehen lijiye,” she instructs, smoothly stepping back to break the proximity.

["It's done, you can put your clothes on."]

I offer a tight nod, as I gather my damp undertop and button-down shirt, pulling them over my freshly bandaged frame.

She pulls a small medical notepad from her apron pocket, her pen scratching against the paper as she speaks. “Main kuch antibacterials aur dard ki goli likh rahi hoon, din mein do baar khaane ke baad lijiyega. Zakhm ki regular cleaning aur dressing kijiyega. Agar aap nahi kar paate hain toh yahan aa sakte hain, nurses kar dengi.”

["I am writing down some antibacterials and pain medication, and take them twice a day after meals. Ensure regular cleaning and dressing of the wound. If you can't do it yourself, you can come here; the nurses will handle it."]

She tears the slip from the pad, handing it directly to me before picking up the heavy tray. Without another word, she turns on her heel and glides out from behind the privacy curtain.

I lean my head back against the chipped, cold concrete wall, the paper crinkling slightly under the pressure of my thumb. I pull the slip into the flickering light of the bulb, studying the ink.

Her handwriting is small, and surprisingly cute.

Name: Hamza Ali Mazari

Sex: M

Age: 30

Blood Group: N/A

Date: 09/08/2009

Paracetamol 1000 mg — II

Amoxicillin 500 mg — II >

Recommendation: Regular cleaning. > Regular dressing. > Visit after a week.

My eyes linger on the signature at the very bottom of the page. The local anesthesia is fully working now, leaving the entire left side of my face entirely numb, but as I fold the tiny slip and slide it deep into my pocket, my chest feels entirely too heavy.

The following week, when I return to the corridors of the hospital, her cubicle is occupied by someone else.

She is gone.

Her black hair tie is still nestled securely in my palm, its fabric slightly frayed. I stare down at it. I don't know if I'll ever be able to return it to her. When I press the desk staff for answers, the older nurses inform me that she isn't a licensed practitioner yet.

She’s just a wandering ghost, forced to rotate through the forgotten government hospitals of Karachi until her medical credentials are complete.

Outside the hospital walls, the streets are already turning into a pressure cooker.

Arshad Pappu’s faction is rising rapidly. Back at the safehouse, Uzair Baloch sits in the shadows, his face hollowed by grief, his blood entirely consumed by a blinding rage over Rehman's assassination.

“Kisi bhi haal mein SP Chaudhary Aslam ka sar chahiye mujhe,” Uzair growls, slamming a heavy fist onto the wooden table.

["No matter what the cost, I want SP Chaudhary Aslam's head."]

I step into the low light, leaning over his desk. “Use toh tu haath bhi nahi laga sakta, rangers ghumte hain uske saath. Tujhe kya lagta hai SP ne yeh khud kiya hai? Use khabar di gayi thi.”

["You can't even touch him, the Rangers protect him constantly. Do you think the SP did this on his own? He was given a tip-off."]

Uzair’s eyes snap up to mine.“Kisne di?”

["Who gave it?"]

I draw myself up to my full height. I throw my voice toward the corridor. “Rizwan!”

The door clicks open instantly. Rizwan steps into the room. Another shadow operative. Another deep-cover asset planted by the agency, officially joining the grid.

“Arshad Pappu Lyari pe kabza karna chahta tha,” he lies, directing Uzair's fury away from the state and toward our immediate criminal rival. “SP ke saath milkar usi ne yeh sab kiya.”

["Arshad Pappu wanted to capture Lyari. He partnered with the SP to orchestrate this entire hit."]

Uzair’s jaw tightens. He reaches into his drawer, pulls out a heavy, loaded firearm, and forcefully slams it into Rizwan’s hand. The alliance is sealed in lead.

Uzair sinks back into his heavy leather chair, running a hand over his face. “Kya karna hai ab? Arshad Pappu ko harana aasan nahi hoga.”

["What do we do now? Defeating Arshad Pappu won't be easy."]

I step behind his chair, my shadow stretching long and dark. My voice drops.

“Jala do Lyari. Jab aag ki lapten uske aangan se hoke guzregi toh woh khud dauda chala aayega.”

["Burn Lyari down. When the flames of the fire pass through his own courtyard, he will come running back on his own."]

And just like that... the match is struck.

The great Lyari gang war erupts into the night.

The sky over Karachi fractures into a hellscape of exploding grenades, deafening crossfire, and the smoky trails of rocket launchers. The streets bleed iron.

Inside the armory, I reach into my pocket and pull out the faded black scrunchie.

I gather the thick, dark front section of my hair, pulling it away from my eyes and twisting it into a tight bun—locking it in place with her band while letting the rest of the dark strands fall wildly down my back.

I reach down, my fingers wrapping around the cold, heavy steel of my M14 rifle.

I look out through the heavy glass window, staring directly into the dark expansion of the Karachi night sky. I take a long drag of my Treasure London cigarette, the orange ember casting a faint, warm glow across my jawline.

I look down at my left wrist.

The black hair tie rests against my skin.

It is loose now, stretched thin from years of constant use. I still wear it sometimes.

A normal, exhausted intern who hadn't even completed her medical licensing back in 2009... to Dawood Ibrahim’s trusted private physician in 2013?

That isn't a normal career upgrade.

That is a vertical leap into the deep state.

But regardless of how she climbed that ladder, one tactical reality remains clear: I can use her. I can exploit her proximity to Dawood to draw closer to the center of the fortress and extract the intelligence R&AW needs.

Four years ago... that night in the emergency ward wasn't love.

I know that. It was just a fleeting pocket of comfort in the exact middle of a burning chaos. Just a moment of absolute normality.

And normality is a luxury I have rarely experienced in this life. But now that the proxy war has spun the board and thrown her back into my orbit... I am not letting her go this time.

I slide the scrunchie off my wrist, slipping it deep into my pocket.

A sharp knock rattles the office door. I offer a low, muffled hum in response.

Rizwan steps into the room, his eyes locked onto the glowing screen of his tablet as his fingers swipe through encrypted files. “Sanaz extremely private doctor hai. Yahan tak ki Clifton ke kaafi residents ko nahi pata woh kiske liye kaam karti hai. Shayad isiliye woh uss din itni jaldi mein lag rahi thi.”

[“Sanaz is a very private doctor. Even many Clifton residents don't know who she works for. Maybe that's why she was in such a hurry that day.”]

I nod slowly, blowing a thin stream of gray smoke into the air. “Mujhe laga hi tha. Zyada connections Dawood, Iqbal aur terrorist organisations se hi hai na?”

["I figured as much. Most of her connections are with Dawood, Iqbal, and terrorist organizations, right?"]

“Ji,” Rizwan confirms, looking up from the screen as I walk over to him. “Lekin militants, mujahideen ya fir aise log jo inke under kaam karte ho... unse nahi milti.”

["Yes. But she doesn't meet with the militants, mujahideen, or anyone working under them."]

“Dawood croro rupaye deta hoga use secrets aur sensitive information apne tak rakhne ke liye,” I mutter, my grip tightening against the filter of my cigarette just a fraction.

A sharp, ugly bitter taste coats my tongue. “Mujhe laga tha woh sirf logo ka bhala karna chahti hai. Lekin shayad kabhi kabhi ek khalis lams mein bhi raaz chhupa hota hai. Sabko pata hai Dawood jihadiyon ko fund karta hai.”

My jaw tightens, “Ek doctor aakhir kyun apna imaan bechegi—”

["Dawood must be paying her tens of millions to keep his secrets and sensitive information to herself. I thought she just wanted to do good for people. But perhaps, sometimes, even in a pure touch, a secret lies hidden. Everyone knows Dawood funds the jihadis. Why on earth would a doctor sell her integrity—"]

Rizwan lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh, stepping closer to ground me. “Bhai, jab baat paison ki ho tab imaan kuch kaam nahi aata. Tu toh samajhdar hai na, ek baar soch ke dekh... Dawood ke under koi kyun aayega? Woh bhi ek akeli ladki.”

["Brother, when it comes to money, integrity doesn't count for much. You are a practical man, just think about it for a second... Why else would anyone willingly come under Dawood's thumb? Especially a lone girl."]

I shake my head. The math doesn't add up.

“Kuch samajh nahi aa raha,” I whisper into the dark.

["Nothing makes sense anymore."]

Rizwan swipes his thumb across the glass, pulling up the deep-background parameters. “Sanaz Siddiqui. Janm unees sau sattasi. Abhi chabees ki hai.”

["Sanaz Siddiqui. Born in 1987. She is twenty-six right now."]

“Chab— chabees?” I blink, the number throwing off my internal pacing.

["Twon— twenty-six?"]

I abruptly snatch the tactical tablet out of his grip, staring at the blue-light portrait illuminating the screen. The encrypted data mapping her existence is... disturbing. There is no logistical world where I should be struggling to read an opponent who hasn't even hit thirty yet. I feel ancient.

I scroll through the verified metrics, my eyes tracking the lineage. “Janm hua Lahore mein. Saint Edward school...” I pause, my eyes snapping up to lock with Rizwan's. “Paidaishi ameer hai.”

["Born in Lahore. Saint Edward school... She's old money."]

“Iske maa baap kaha hai?” I press, scanning the empty fields in the family registry.

["Where are her parents?"]

Rizwan shrugs, his hands tucked into his vest. “Logo se suna hai Dubai mein.”

["Rumor has it they're in Dubai."]

I let out a dry, irritated huff, smoke escaping my nostrils. “Aur beti ko Pakistan mein marne ke liye chhor diya?”

["And they left their daughter in Pakistan to die?"]

“Iska khandan bhi toh Dawood se mila hua ho sakta hai?” Rizwan counters quietly, tossing the missing link into the air.

["Her family could be tied up with Dawood too, couldn't they?"]

I glare at him through the haze. I want to shut the theory down, but his analytical deduction is solid. It makes tactical sense. I nod reluctantly, shifting my focus back to the scrolling lines of her curriculum vitae.

High-tier English medium institutions. Extensive volunteer rotations through cross-border NGOs and crowded government wards, before a sudden, prestigious placement at one of the elite private hospitals in Clifton.

And then... a total informational blackout post-2011. No public practice issues. No external patients. She only checks into the high-security grid if Dawood’s clinical status deteriorates to a level that requires emergency hospitalization.

I’m practically chewing the filter of my cigarette at this point. I yank it from my lips, flicking the spent ember into the bin, and immediately strike a match to light another.

“Kaise milun isse firse? Bimaar hone ka bahana kiya toh gussa ho jayegi,” I mutter, pacing over to the leather sofa and slumping into the cushions.

["How do I meet her again? If I fake an illness, she'll just get pissed off."]

Rizwan taps the power button, the tablet screen going dark as he watches my downward spiral.

I lean my head back against the leather, staring at her heavy-stock business card resting on the coffee table. “Paison se bhi impress nahi kar sakta, woh mujhe impress kar degi.”

["I can't even impress her with money, she'll end up impressing me instead."]

“Sach ke saath saazish karo,” Rizwan states flatly.

["Weave the conspiracy with the truth."]

I look up at him through the haze. I know exactly what he’s saying.

Build a situation that is entirely true... but construct the ultimate lie right alongside it. Use the raw, bleeding reality of my world to pull her close, leaving her zero room to suspect a trap.

SAAZISH.

[Master list]

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I cut a glance out the windshield, surveying the block.

Major Iqbal’s apartment sits entrenched in the suffocating heart of Karachi, safely away from the immediate warzones of Lyari, yet buried deep within a sprawling, hyper-crowded residential labyrinth where secrets are easily swallowed by ambient noise.

​A few feet away from my bumper, a familiar midnight-blue Bentley sits idling against the curb.

​Of course. She’s already here.

​I step out into the heavy afternoon heat, leaving Rizwan behind in the vehicle to keep eyes on the street. I march into the concrete building, my boots clicking against the narrow, unlit stairwell as I ascend the flights.

The shouting from above grows sharper, vibrating through the handrails.

​“Teri uss beti ko kabhi pata nahi chalega ki uska kamzor baap ek beta tak paida nahi kar paya!”

​["That daughter of yours will never know that her weak father couldn't even sire a single son!"]

​I pause on the landing, my jaw locking. Who the hell is shouting like that in a high-ranking intelligence officer's home?

​“Hazaron bangladeshi aurton ki aabroo khaayi hai Brigadier Jahangir ne. Aajtak meri nasl waha apni gand hilayi ghumti hogi. Unme se ek bhi yahan laakar paalta toh tujhse achcha beta saabit hota, khassi sala!”

​["Brigadier Jahangir has ruined the honor of thousands of Bangladeshi women. To this day, my bloodline must be wandering around over there. If I had brought even one of them here and raised him, he would have proven to be a better son than you, you eunuch!"]

​I freeze completely on the threshold.

What the hell.

I take a slow breath, forcing my features into a blank slate.

I slide my dark sunglasses off the bridge of my nose, folding them neatly and tucking them into the front pocket of my kurta. The front door to the apartment is resting slightly ajar.

I push it open without a sound, stepping into a living room choked with the thick, stale gray smoke of cigarettes.

​Major Iqbal is standing near the window, his back rigid. Seated in a rusted, mechanical wheelchair opposite him is an elderly man with tyrannical eyes.

​“Aankhein neechi kar, Major. Baap hoon main tera!” the old monster roars.

​["Lower your eyes, Major. I am your father!"]

​I stand silently in the foyer, my peripheral vision immediately logging the environment. The walls and wooden cupboards are lined with a tragic timeline of tiny, dust-covered portraits.

A young, smiling Iqbal standing beside this very man in a pristine military uniform. A faint glimpse of a mother. A wife. But in the current reality of this suffocating apartment, those women are entirely absent.

​“Arey Hamza, tumhara hi intezar tha,” Iqbal suddenly cuts his eyes toward the door, his posture instantly shifting as he spots me. He forces a hollow smile onto his face, stepping forward to greet me with a brief hug before gesturing toward the worn fabric of the sofa.

​["Ah Hamza, I was just waiting for you."]

​I kick off my boots at the entrance and step onto the carpet, sinking into the sofa cushions.

​“Major Iqbal, tujhse kuch baat karni hai,” Jahangir barks again, completely ignoring my presence as his gnarled fingers grip the armrests of his wheelchair.

​["Major Iqbal, I need to speak with you."]

​“Basheer,” Iqbal calls out, his voice terrifyingly calm.

​The elderly house help emerges from the dark kitchen corridor like a shadow. Without a single word, he hooks his hands onto the wheelchair, spinning the old man around and wheeling him into a back bedroom before throwing the bolt on the door.

​I have a dozen lethal questions burning a hole in my tongue, and I don't know which thread to pull first.

​“Yeh... kon hai, Iqbal bhai?” I ask very carefully, pitching my voice to sound entirely respectful, testing the boundaries of his temper.

​["Who... was that, Brother Iqbal?"]

​Iqbal doesn't flare up.

He simply lets out a long breath that smells of ash, the lines on his face deepening.

​“Baap tha,” he breathes, staring blankly at the locked bedroom door. “Ab bass bojh hai.”

​["He was my father. Now, he's just a burden."]

I don't press the wound any further.

Iqbal crosses the room and sits directly opposite me, his entire demeanor snapping back into the clinical, cold focus of a military handler.

“August ke tayees tarikh ko woh log yahan pahunch jayenge. Lagbhag chaar mahine hain tere paas sab taiyaar karne ke liye.”

["They will arrive here on the twenty-third of August. You have roughly four months to get everything ready."]

I offer a slow nod. “Kiske through jayenge? Sources?”

["Whose network are we using? What are the sources?"]

“Source honge Zahid ke dukaan se. Yahin paas mein hi hai, bahar se kirane ki dukaan, andar manshiyat ka bhandar.” He stands up, stepping over to the window and sliding the heavy curtain aside to point down into the crowded maze of the street below. “Yahan se.”

["The source will be Zahid's shop. It's right nearby—a grocery store from the outside, a narcotics warehouse on the inside. From right here."]

I lean forward, glancing through the gap in the fabric to lock the target storefront into my geographical memory. “Mujhe pata nahi tha woh aapka aadmi hai.”

["I didn't know he was your man."]

Iqbal shakes his head, a dark, amused chuckle rattling in his throat. “Kuch do saal pehle hi aaya hai. Isse pehle jiski dukaan thi woh nahi bechna chahta tha, kehta tha khandani pesha hai. Lekin Zahid ko mere under hi rehna tha.”

He turns his back to the window, his eyes locking onto mine with terrifying clarity. “Aur humari kismat bhi achchi nikli. Sala sardar tha. Bas fir kya tha, nagar mein yeh fail gayi ki kaafir ne Qur'an jala kar Allah ko dhikkara. Blasphemy ka dhabba laga diya.”

["He only arrived about two years ago. The person who owned the shop before him refused to sell; kept claiming it was his ancestral business. But Zahid needed to be stationed here under my command. And luck favored us. The owner was a Sikh. So, we simply spread a rumor through the neighborhood that the infidel had burned the Qur'an and insulted God. We slapped the blasphemy stain on him."]

He lets go of the fabric, letting the curtain snap shut, plunging the living room back into dim shadow. “Mir aur Azam ne milkar aage ka sambhal liya. Uske poore khandan ko aag laga diya. Gustakh-e-rasool ki ek hi saza, sar tan se juda.”

["Mir and Azam handled the rest together. They set his entire family on fire. There is only one punishment for a blasphemer—beheading."]

A sickening wave of cold anger tests the walls of my chest. A whole family turned to ash just to clear a logistics route for a cartel. I keep my expression entirely dead, blinking once.

“Sahi kiya, Iqbal bhai.” I transition instantly back to business, letting zero emotion leak into my tone. “Konse drugs source kiye jayenge?”

["You did the right thing, Brother Iqbal. Which drugs will be sourced?"]

Iqbal crushes his cigarette butt into the glass ashtray, “Wahi—mandakini, kali nagini, dubai dashing, cham cham.”

What?

I stare at him, my brow furrowing in genuine, unscripted confusion. He’s talking about an international narcotics distribution pipeline using the titles of cheap street performers or B-grade films.

He catches my expression and lets out a patronizing laugh, waving his hand off dismissively. “Bachcha hai, Hamza. Deal ke din sab samajh aajayega. Bass in sab ki taiyaari kar.”

["You're still a kid, Hamza. On the day of the deal, it will all make sense. Just get the preparations ready for this."]

I let out a slow sigh. Iqbal pushes himself up from the armchair. “Safia, inke liye paani le aao.”

["Safia, bring some water for him."]

The quiet house help appears a moment later, handing me a sweating glass of water. I take it. Iqbal turns and walks down the short corridor toward a secondary bedroom. I stand up, keeping my movements casual as I follow his silhouette.

I step past the threshold and the entire frequency of the apartment completely changes.

Spreads across a soft colorful mat on the floor, surrounded by a scattered box of vibrant crayons, sit Sanaz and a little girl.

Sanaz is crouching low, her movements incredibly gentle as her gloved hand securely stabilizes the child's tiny forearm, smoothly drawing a small vial of blood.

A routine checkup.

There is no fear in the room, no tension. Iqbal drops to his knees beside them, his voice melting into a soft murmur. “Arey meri gudiya, yeh kya banaya hai aapne?”

["Ah, my doll, what have you drawn here?"]

The little girl beams, lifting her face as she proudly points her small finger at the sketchpad. “Yeh Safeena, yeh abbu, aur yeh dada.”

["This is Safeena, this is Daddy, and this is Grandpa."]

I trace the crude shapes on the paper—a little girl surrounded by hand-drawn flowers, a man wearing thick glasses and a dense beard, and an older figure sketched entirely in heavy, dark black crayon, trapped inside a wheelchair.

I look closer at Safeena.

Her physical features are distinct: the subtle, characteristic upward tilt of her eyes, the shorter alignment of her neck, the soft under-development of her frame. It is exactly what I think it is.

My analytical gaze immediately drifts away from the child, tracking across the environment. The edge of the bed. Sanaz’s neatly arranged medical equipment. Her leather suitcase. Her personal bag. A stack of freshly printed diagnostic papers, likely laboratory reports.

I step fully into the room, crossing the mat, and deliberately sink into the empty space directly beside Sanaz.

She doesn’t even grant me the courtesy of a glance.

Her focus remains entirely locked on her patient.

She secures the blood sample into a tiny glass bottle, caps it, and hands the master file up to Iqbal. “Bhai, pichchle mahine ke reports theek hain. Lekin abhi bhi speech mein dikkat hoti hai. Aap safeena ko ek baar hospital zarur le jaiyega.”

["Brother, last month's reports are fine. But she is still having difficulties with her speech. You must take Safeena to the hospital at least once."]

Iqbal nods heavily, accepting the papers with a quiet, reverent gratitude before turning on his heel to file them away in the main office.

Left behind on the floor, I look around.

The ceiling fan is whirring on its highest speed, cutting through the afternoon heat. A collection of plush soft toys is lined up neatly against the pillows of the bed. Containers of colorful stationery and specialized art tools are stacked within the child's reach. She clearly thrives in this little pocket of the house.

Then, my eyes drop to the small wooden stool resting just behind Sanaz's shoulder.

A half-eaten bowl of fresh, vibrant fruit salad sits beside a condensation-slick glass of cold lemonade.

I let out an internal huff. Are you kidding me? She gets the premium hospitality, the imported fruits, and the freshly squeezed citrus... and the King of Lyari is left out in the living room drinking plain, lukewarm water?

I slide just a fraction closer to her, waiting for those guarded eyes to finally look up and acknowledge my presence.

A sharp, deeply annoyed groan cuts through.

“Thoda khisakiye na. Itni garmi hai yahan,” Sanaz snaps, her dark eyes drilling into mine.

["Move a bit, will you? It's entirely too hot in here."]

I don't say a word.

I simply shift backward, sliding completely off the colorful mat to sit on the bare concrete floor.

Ow. The stone is holding the day's heat, radiating straight through my pyjama.

I immediately push myself up to my feet, clearing her space. It is becoming increasingly obvious that my mere physical existence annoys this woman to the brink of death.

She ignores me entirely, leaning over Safeena to smoothly apply a small, clean bandage over the fresh puncture mark on the little girl's arm.

Next, she reaches deep into the side pocket of her personal bag, pulling out a mini chocolate bar and holding it out to the child like a prize. “For being a good girl and not crying.”

Safeena beams, her small fingers reaching for the wrapper, but Sanaz gently pulls it back just an inch, a playful tilt to her head.

“Uh-huh, lekin usse pehle yeh khatam karo.” She pulls the wooden stool closer, placing the half-eaten bowl of fruit salad directly in front of the child. [“Uh-huh, but first, finish this.]

Safeena doesn’t argue; she immediately scoots forward, greedily digging into the fruit with her left hand while her right hand continues to scribble furiously across the sketchpad with a blue crayon.

Sanaz pushes herself up from the floor, smoothing down the creases of her salwar, adjusting her hair, and pulling the white dupatta securely over her shoulder.

Her Bentley keys are resting right beside the empty lemonade glass.

I take a casual step forward, as my fingers close around the heavy fob. I test the weight, checking the tiny digital display on the casing. The battery is almost entirely exhausted.

I glide over to the open window, peering down the street below. Rizwan is still dutifully idling inside the Audi. I pull my phone from my pocket, dialing his number and letting it ring once before cutting the line.

Down below, the car door clicks open. Rizwan steps out onto the pavement, his eyes tracking up the building facade until they lock onto my position.

He offers a brief, questioning wave of his hand.

I align my trajectory, leaning over the ledge, and casually drop the heavy Bentley fob straight down toward him. But my timing is off by a fraction of a second. Rizwan steps forward entirely too late, and the solid luxury key fob strikes him square on the top of his skull with a sharp thud.

I almost face-palm right there at the glass.

Down on the street, Rizwan rubs the crown of his head with a pained grimace, his eyes shooting up at the window before he quickly kneels to scoop the keys off the asphalt.

“Kuch gira kya?”

The suspicious cadence of her voice echoes right behind my shoulder. [“Did something fall?”]

“Huh?” I turn on my heel, throwing my shoulder against the window frame as I force a perfectly blank, innocent look onto my features. “Nahi toh?”

["No? Not at all."]

Sanaz squints at me for a long second before she finishes gathering her medical charts and zips her suitcase shut, preparing to exit the room. The moment her back turns, I whip around to the window again, using sharp, aggressive movements of my eyes to signal down to the street.

Rizwan handles the pressure like a professional. He pulls a fresh lithium battery from his tactical kit, snaps the casing open, replaces it, and approaches the midnight-blue Bentley.

He clicks the unlock button, smoothly slides the driver's side window down just an inch, tosses the freshly powered key fob onto the leather seat, and slides the window right back up into its locked seal.

Nice. The trap is officially armed.

I walk out of the bedroom, crossing through the stale smoke of the living room toward the main apartment exit, completely done with the heavy energy of the house. “Allah Hafiz, Iqbal bhai.”

["Goodbye, Brother Iqbal."]

I don't even wait for his formal military greeting. I throw the front door open and march straight out into the corridor.

Arey—

I freeze on the concrete landing, looking down at my feet.

I walk right back into the foyer, ignoring the curious look from the house help as I unceremoniously slip my heavy leather boots back onto my feet, lace them up with aggressive tugs, and finally down the narrow stairs toward the street.

I slide my dark sunglasses back over the bridge of my nose, stepping out of the building's shade as the afternoon heat hits me. I walk past her… slowly.

I spy her shifting frantically, dumping her medical folders from side to side as she tears through the compartments of her bag. Suddenly, her movements freeze. Her gaze locks onto the driver’s seat, realizing with a horrific clarity that her high-security key fob is resting peacefully inside the locked cabin.

I smirk behind my lenses, stepping smoothly into my Audi. Rizwan settles into the back seat, nursing the faint bump on his crown.

I don't even have time to turn the ignition before a soft shadow falls across my door.

Here she comes.

A polite, slightly hesitant knock rattles the glass. I take my time, slowly sliding the automatic window down.

Sanaz stands on the sizzling road, looking entirely out of herself, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the strap of her bag.

“Umm... Meri car lock hogayi hai,” she mumbles, a rare, beautiful flush of embarrassment dusting her cheeks. “Mujhe ghar chhor dijiyega?”

["Umm... My car got locked. Could you drop me home?"]

I reach across the console, smoothly popping the passenger door open for her. “Aajao.”

["Get in."]

Damn, it actually worked.

The internal smugness threatening to break my poker face is ungodly.

“Shukriya,” she breathes, quickly sliding in, settling her heavy bags at her feet.

I glance into the rearview mirror, my eyes locking onto my partner.

“Rizwan.”

“Ji bhai?” ["Yes, brother?"]

“Utar.”

["Get out."]

Rizwan blinks, his entire posture going rigid. “Kya?” ["What?"]

“Utar.”

“Arey main piche baitha hoon—” Rizwan protests, gesturing to the vast, empty expanse of the rear cabin.

["Hey, I'm sitting in the back—"]

“Nahi, tu Lyari ja. Wahan pe teri bohot zarurat hai,” I state.

["No, you go to Lyari. You're needed desperately over there."]

Defeated, Rizwan lets out a long, silent sigh of pure exhaustion, pushes the door open, and steps out onto the scorching street, standing awkwardly on the curb like a discarded piece of luggage.

I peek out of my open window. “Ghar jaake call karna.”

["Call me when you reach home."]

He offers a stiff nod. I smoothly slide the windows up. The engine roars to life.

Sanaz watches him retreating, a dejected silhouette through her window, her brow furrowing slightly. “Aapke dost... udaas dikh rahe the.”

["Your friend... he looked sad."]

I shift the Audi into drive, my fingers wrapping loosely around the steering wheel.

“Woh uski shakal hi waisi hai,” I say flatly.

[“Actually, his appearance is like that.”]

“Achcha?” She raises a single eyebrow.

["Oh, really?"]

I offer a smooth nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the traffic ahead as I guide the Audi past the swelling rows of cars and break out onto the expansive main road. “Old Clifton, right?

She just hums in response, her gaze drifting out the passenger window.

A stretch of heavy silence settles between us before she abruptly breaks it, her hand diving into the depths of her bag. “Waise aap kahan se ho, Hamza Sahab?”

["By the way, where are you from, Mr. Hamza?"]

“Quetta. Lyari mein aaya ek arse pehle,” I say. “Akela tha. Ek juice ki dukaan mein kaam karta tha. Fir ek din Rehman bhai ki nazron mein aa gaya.”

["Quetta. I came to Lyari a long time ago. I was completely alone. I worked at a juice stall. Then, one day, I caught Brother Rehman's eye."]

She nods slowly, but her attention has already shifted. She reaches out, casually tilting the passenger rearview mirror toward her face, and pulls a small tube from her bag.

I watch through the corner of my eye as she smoothly applies a layer of clear, shimmering lip balm. Okay. I am laying out the grim folklore of my street ascension, and she is treating it like background radio noise at a beauty salon.

“Kaafi tashweeqi hai aapki kahani,” she notes casually, her lips moving against each other to settle the balm.

["Your story is quite fascinating."]

“Aapki bhi, Sanaz sahiba,” I counter smoothly, as I turn the wheel, steering the car into the wider lanes leading toward the elite sectors.

“Lyari hospital se Dawood ke qareebi hone tak ka safar laazmi hoga.”

["Yours too, Miss Sanaz. The journey from Lyari hospital to being close to Dawood must be quite a story."]

Her fingers freeze instantly.

She snaps the cap back onto the tube with a muted click, dropping it back into her bag before zipping the leather shut. She doesn’t flinch, and she doesn’t look away.

Instead, a tiny smile pulls at the corner of her lips.

“Aapko yaad hai?”

["You remember?"]

The question is entirely unexpected.

I don't hesitate. “Yaad hai. Kaise nahi hoga?” I glance at her again, my profile catching the afternoon light filtering through the windshield. “Aapki silayi maathe pe abhi tak mehsus hoti hai mujhe.”

["I remember. How could I not? I can still feel your stitches on my forehead."]

A genuine, soft chuckle breaks from her lips at the memory.

Reaching down, my fingers slip into my pocket, brushing past my lighter until they close around the faded fabric. I pull it out, extending my hand across the console to present it to her. “Aapki amanat reh gayi thi mere paas.”

["Your keepsake was left behind with me."]

Her eyes actually... widen.

She reaches out, her slender fingers brushing against my palm as she takes the faded black band. Our skin touches for just a brief, electric moment, sending a sharp jolt straight up my arm.

“Aapne abhi tak sambhal ke rakhi thi?” she whispers, her gaze tracing the worn elastic before snapping up to lock onto mine. “Kyun?”

["You kept it safe all this time? Why?"]

I offer a casual shrug. “Aise hi. Socha tha kismat ki chahat se agar fir mil jaun, toh lauta dunga.”

["Just because. Thought if destiny willed us to meet again, I'd return it."]

She doesn't slide it into her bag.

Instead, she slides the scrunchie over her fingers, anchoring it onto her left wrist and twisting the loop twice until it sits perfectly against her skin.

She tilts her head, a knowing glint flashing in her eyes as she looks at me.

“Kismat ka kuch nahi, sab aapki chahat ka natija hai.”

["It has nothing to do with destiny, it's entirely a result of your desire."]

Oh. Oh, hell.

My chest locks up as the weight of her words slams into my ribs.

“Meri chahat ke mutabik zindagi chalti, toh aaj main yahan nahi hota,” I say, my voice is a detached drawl. I cut a brief, calculating glance sideways. “Lekin theek hai, jaan, aap jo chahe woh samajh sakti ho.”

["If life moved according to my desires, I wouldn't be here today. But that's fine, darling, you can understand whatever you like."]

Sanaz catches the bait instantly, “Jaan, huh? Jo samajhna tha woh toh main bohot pehle hi samajh gayi.”

["Darling, huh? What I needed to understand, I understood a long time ago."]

“Toh yeh bhi samajh gayi hogi ki main itne saalon se aapki amanat ko kyun sambhal kar rakha?” I press.

["Then you must have also understood why I kept your keepsake safe for all these years?"]

She lets out a mocking scoff, her fingers lightly tapping against the leather strap. “Usse pehle aap yeh jaan lein ki mujhe sambhal paana aasaan nahi.”

["Before that, you should know that handling me is no easy task."]

I don't look away from the road this time.

“Sambhal lunga,” I state flatly.

["I'll handle it."]

“Koshish kijiyega.”

["Do try."]

She drops the parting shot softly.

Suddenly, a sharp electronic ring fractures the quiet. A Samsung lover, I note out of habit, tracking the device as she pulls it from her bag.

She presses it to her ear, her voice instantly hardening into a command. “Mujhe shipment kal tak chahiye.”

[“I need the shipment by tomorrow.”]

A muffled, frantic voice bleeds through the receiver, making excuses from the other end. Sanaz lets out a long, deeply aggravated groan, cutting the line before the speaker can even finish their sentence.

I cut my eyes toward her. “Kya hua? Pareshan lag rahi ho?”

["What happened? You look stressed."]

She runs a hand over her face, letting out an exhausted sigh. “Foreign se dawaiyan, blood bags aur medical equipments aate hain mere ghar. Lekin unki shipment aksar fas jaati hai border par.”

["Medicines, blood bags, and medical equipment come to my house from abroad. But their shipments often get stuck at the border."]

That is a genuine, logistical nightmare for her and a massive, wide-open door for me. Nobody in the standard security apparatus probably realizes this elite woman is running a high-class, black-market medical vault for top-tier international fugitives.

“Aap chaho toh main source aur deliver kar sakta hoon,” I offer smoothly, “Sab mehfooz rahega.”

["If you want, I can source and deliver them. Everything will remain safe."]

Sanaz turns her head, her dark eyes narrowing. “Mujhe fasa toh nahi doge?” [“Won't you trap me?”]

I let out a short, dry huff. “Aapko fasakar main zinda nahi bachunga.”

["If I get you caught, I won't survive long enough to tell the tale."]

She rolls her eyes at my theatrics, but the tension slips from her shoulders. “Theek hai. Details mein phone par bhej dungi.”

["Fine. I'll send the details to your phone."]

I immediately punch her number into my dialer, letting it ring once until her screen lights up. Within seconds, a secure PDF file flashes onto my interface. I don't even read it; I instantly forward the document straight to Rizwan's encrypted terminal. Let him handle the tracking.

The sky has bruised into a deep, heavy violet by the time the Audi finally crosses the threshold into Old Clifton. Following her quiet directions, I navigate the affluent, tree-lined lanes until I pull up to her residence.

The moment the car engine dies, she pushes her door open and steps out onto the pavement. I do the same, sliding my dark sunglasses off my face and tucking them away.

I look up, and my breath catches a fraction.

Her house isn't the massive, gaudy modern mansion I expected. It is smaller, an old, vintage Victorian-style stone structure nestled directly near the rugged edge of the Karachi coast. The weathered, salt-kissed stone looks ancient.

Standing here, looking at the panoramic expanse of the Arabian Sea, I finally understand why she willingly drops eight lakhs a month for this ground.

The view is absolutely stunning.

The sun is dipping low into the horizon, bleeding violent strokes of crimson, gold, and burnt orange across the endless water, casting a long, warm silhouette of Sanaz against the stone of her home.

“Nazara kaafi achcha hai. Aath lakh iske saamne kuch nahi,” I murmur, letting a rare tone of genuine flattery slip.

["The view is beautiful. Eight lakhs is nothing compared to this."]

She lets out an amused chuckle, her keys rattling against the lock as she beckons me forward. “Sharminda kar rahe hain aap.”

["You're embarrassing me."]

She pushes the heavy wooden door open and steps inside. The interior of the house hits me instantly: it is cool, smelling of a fresh yet deeply warm scent that is so uniquely, unmistakably her.

I step past the threshold, my eyes tracking the environment. The space is washed in pale, soothing colors and accented with delicate, thoughtful decorations. It is a staggering, complete contrast to the stark, blood-stained concrete of my compound in Lyari. Softly lit candles flicker in the corners, and the gentle, melodic chime of glass wind chimes vibrates softly in the coastal draft.

She slips her sandals off her feet, leaving them neatly by the entrance. I follow her lead, unlacing my heavy leather boots and placing them directly beside her footwear.

Sanaz walks deeper into the room, setting her medical suitcase and heavy leather bags onto the edge of a plush couch. I cross the room and sink into the cushions, my eyes still wandering through her sanctuary.

“Kaafi pyara ghar hai,” I mutter quietly, the words rough in my throat.

["It's a very lovely home."]

“Shukriya,” she says softly, as she turns on her heel and disappears into the kitchen corridor.

I let the silence settle for a beat before raising my voice. “Waise aap kahan se hain?”

["By the way, where are you from?"]

“Ji, Lahore,” her answer filters back smoothly from the next room. “Mummy Papa zayada tar business ke silsele se bahar rehte hain.”

["Lahore. My parents are mostly abroad for business."]

The metrics match up perfectly. Every syllable out of her mouth aligns precisely with the encrypted data points Rizwan pulled up on the tablet.

“Kaafi akela mehsus hota hoga?” I ask, pushing myself up from the sofa. I quietly trail her scent into the kitchen, casually leaning my shoulder against the painted wooden doorframe to watch her work.

["You must feel quite lonely?"]

“Hota hai kabhi kabhi,” she notes casually, her back turned to me.

["It happens sometimes."]

Through the low amber lighting of the kitchen, I watch her fingers. She is aggressively slicing thick chunks of raw ginger, tossing them into the boiling pot of tea, almost as if she expects that if she stops moving for even a second, I will vanish from her house entirely.

Or worse, step closer.

“Lekin mujhe shor sharaba bilkul pasand nahi. Isilye zyada fark bhi nahi padta,” she adds, her shoulders tense under her white dupatta.

["But I don't like noise and chaos at all. So it doesn't really make a difference to me."]

I tilt my head, as I push off the doorframe. “Sach mein? Ya fir bas sannate ki aadat hogayi hai?”

["Really? Or have you just grown used to the silence?"]

Sanaz freezes.

Her hand hovers over the counter. She doesn't offer a verbal defense. Instead, she quickly pours the dark, fragrant tea into a set of porcelain cups, lifts the tray, and turns around to clear the kitchen space.

But her calculation is off. I am standing entirely too close.

Bump.

The liquid heat erupts across my chest instantly, soaking right through the fine cotton of my kurta.

“Haye r—allah, maaf kijiyega!” she gasps, her voice breaking as her face washes into a wave of unbridled embarrassment.

["Oh my god, I am so sorry!"]

She frantically shoves the tray onto the nearest counter space, stepping directly into my chest. Without a single thought for boundaries, she grabs the edge of her own silk dupatta, blindly pressing the fabric against my torso to aggressively wipe away the thick, spreading stain.

I am trying my absolute best not to scream out loud from the biting, agonizing sting of the hot tea blistering my skin, but the sheer sight of her—completely panicked, her eyes wide and desperately focused on my chest—completely paralyzes my lungs.

Before she can rub the fabric any deeper, my hand darts out.

I catch her by the wrist.

My fingers wrap securely around the delicate bone, my palm slightly squeezing the bangles resting against her skin until they let out a sharp, metallic chime. The movement arrests her entirely.

Sanaz snaps her head up, her breathing shallow and uneven as her eyes lock onto mine.

Well... damn.

The warm scent of ginger, tea, and her skin fills the narrow gap between us. I take a deep, stabilizing breath, consciously forcing my muscles to relax as she takes a small, flustered step backward, though my grip on her wrist doesn't loosen by an inch.

“Main theek hoon,” I whisper.

["I'm fine."]

Slowly, deliberately, I lean down, dropping my face directly to her height until my eyes are level with hers. She glares back at me, a dangerous, fiery defiance sparking behind her long lashes as she tries to reclaim her breathing.

A slow, teasing smirk pulls at my lips. “Aap theek ho, jaan?”

["Are you alright, darling?"]

“Pagal.”

["Crazy."]

She rolls her eyes, wrenching her wrist back from my grip. I let my fingers slip away, giving her space, but before I can even stand up straight, her hands are slamming right back onto my chest.

“Utariye ise,” she commands.

["Take it off."]

I usually keep the top three buttons of my kurta undone anyway, letting the heavy strands of my stacked silver chains catch the light against my chest.

I track her flustered expression, a smug grin forming on my face. “Utariye! Chhaale pad gaye toh mushkil hojayegi.”

["Take it off! If blisters form, it will be a nightmare to treat."]

Hehe.

The internal victory lap I'm running is ungodly. I smoothly shrug out of my heavy jacket, letting it drop to the kitchen counter, before peeling the wet, stained cotton of the kurta down past my shoulders.

I lean back against the marble, looking down at her with pure arrogance. “Aapko har waqt bahana chahiye hota hai mere jism ko—”

[“You always need an excuse to see my body—”]

SPLASH.

A violent, freezing shockwave of ice-cold water slams directly into my bare chest and right into my open, speaking mouth.

I choke, sputtering as the frigid liquid drips down my jaw and pools around my collarbones. I blink through the water droplets clinging to my eyelashes.

Sanaz is standing exactly two feet away, holding a completely emptied glass she must have snatched from the refrigerator door in a split second. Her expression is entirely deadpan, her chin tilted up.

The disrespect.

I wipe a hand across my soaking wet face, my jaw ticking as the freezing water battles the stinging heat of the tea on my skin.

“Upar waale kamre mein jao. Wahan AC hai,” she directs, as she sweeps the spilled liquid from the counter.

["Go to the room upstairs. There's an AC there."]

I don't argue. I turn and climb the wooden stairs, my fingers working to unhook the heavy, stacked silver chains from around my neck and chest. I push open the door to her bedroom and slip inside.

The space is... incredibly cute.

The direct, panoramic view of the dark Arabian Sea crashes right against the wide glass window. The bed is draped in delicate lace curtains, casting soft, filtered shadows across the floor.

But what arrests my attention completely is a massive... Tiger?

A giant plush tiger sits propped against the pillows, unceremoniously dressed in a casual cotton t-shirt and wearing heavy, glittering traditional jhumkas pinned through its ears.

Ridiculous.

I drop onto a low wooden stool, consciously avoiding her perfect bed so my damp clothes don't ruin the fabric. I slide the silver chains into my pocket, the cold metal clinking against my keys.

A few moments later, the door clicks open.

Sanaz returns, carrying a fresh ice pack, a tube of Neosporin, and a fresh tray holding two half-filled cups of tea—likely the unspilled leftovers she salvaged from the kitchen pot.

“Yeh lo, ise lagao,” she says, handing me the medical tube.

["Here, apply this."]

I twist the cap off, my lips unconsciously pursing into a slightly disappointed line. I thought she’d... never mind.

The transparent ointment keeps oozing out of the nozzle on its own, even without me squeezing the tube. Huh? I quickly twist the cap back on to stop the overflow, holding it out to return it to her.

“Rakh lo. Use karte rehna,” she notes casually, her eyes tracking the faint red mark on my skin.

["Keep it. Keep using it."]

I don't argue, sliding the medicine deep into my pocket right alongside my chains.

“Abhi bhi chai peene ka mann hai?” she asks, lifting a porcelain cup.

["Do you still feel like having tea?"]

I offer a nod.

She extends the cup toward me, but right as my fingers are about to close around the handle, she abruptly withdraws it for a fraction of a second, a fleeting hesitation flaring in her eyes, before finally letting me take it.

I lift the rim to my lips. The tea is thick, creamy, and holds that perfect, aromatic balance of sharp ginger and deep sweetness.

I love it. “Bohot achchi bani hai,” I mutter through the steam, my jaw tightening as I press the freezing ice pack firmly against my bare torso while the scalding, spicy tea slides smoothly down my throat.

[“It is very well made.”]

Sanaz offers a quiet nod, walking over to the wide window and leaning her shoulder against the frame, staring out at the darkening coast. “Kal tak mujhe shipment chahiye, Hamza. Time par nahi milne se Dawood ke aadmi shaq karte hain.”

["I need the shipment by tomorrow, Hamza. If it doesn't arrive on time, Dawood's men get suspicious."]

“Hojayega. Fikr matt karo,” I reply.

["It will be done. Don't worry."]

Once the cup is completely drained, I pull my ruined kurta back over my shoulders, layering the heavy jacket over my frame. Sanaz sets her empty cup on the windowsill, turning to face me.

I step directly into her space, standing tall in front of her.

We stare at each other.

Her dark eyes are tracing the lines of my face, reading me as if she is trying to decode every single lie hidden beneath my skin.

“Dhyaan se jaiyega,” she whispers softly.

["Go safely."]

I nod, reaching out to wrap my fingers around her hand. “Sanaz... akeli rehti ho. Lekin ab main bhi hoon. Bejhijhak call kijiyega.”

["Sanaz... you live alone. But now, I'm here too. Call me without hesitation."]

I squeeze her hand gently, feeling the delicate warmth of her palm.

Sanaz doesn't pull away. She simply looks up at me, a tiny yet breathtakingly beautiful smile pulling at her lips.

The drive back to Lyari doesn't feel long at all.

I... already miss her presence.

The realization is a dangerous weakness for a man in my position, yet it brings a subtle, unscripted smile to my face as I navigate the dark streets.

I park my car outside my compound and clear the security checkpoint, stepping into the dim, shadow-drenched space of my living room. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, the burning, chaotic skyline of Karachi stretches out below. Entirely different from the peaceful coast of Old Clifton.

Rizwan is hunched over the coffee table, his eyes locked onto the glowing terminal as he analyzes the encrypted border shipment parameters I forwarded earlier.

I reach into my pocket, pull out the tube of Neosporin, and casually toss it into his lap. “Yeh le.”

He looks up, blinking in confusion as his fingers close around the tube. “Tune mere liye laya?”

["You brought this for me?"]

I sink into the leather cushions beside him, striking a match to light a fresh Treasure London cigarette. “Sanaz ne diya.”

["Sanaz gave it."]

Rizwan twists the cap off, completely misinterpreting the gesture, and begins gently dabbing the transparent ointment over the tender bump on the crown of his skull.

He pauses, his gaze tracking over my form. “Bhai, tune mujhe gaadi se utaar ke yeh sab kiya?” He points the tube directly at my chest.

My kurta is still visibly damp from the water splash, the fabric clinging to my skin where the transparent cream makes my chest glisten in the low light.

["Brother, you kicked me out of the car just to do all this?"]

I blow a thick stream of smoke toward the glass, keeping my expression entirely deadpan. “Zyada matt soch, lambi kahani hai. Tune woh sab padha jo maine bheja tha?”

["Don't overthink it, it's a long story. Did you read through everything I sent?"]

Rizwan nods, shifting back into operational mode as he taps the screen. “Sabki intel bhej di hai.”

["I've sent everyone's intelligence manifests."]

“Use adrak waali chai pasand hai,” I murmur into the quiet room, my eyes tracking the curling smoke.

["She likes ginger tea."]

Rizwan’s fingers freeze. He turns his head slowly, staring at me like I've lost my mind. “Bhai... yeh intel nahi hai.”

["Brother... that isn't intelligence."]

“Just observation,” I mutter back, entirely unbothered.

Rizwan lets out a heavy sigh, closing the master file. “Elections ka result hai agle mahine, uspar dhyaan de. Kal firse milne jayega?”

["The election results are next month, focus on that. Are you going to see her again tomorrow?"]

I offer a slow, definitive nod. “Celebration rally mein bhi bulaunga.”

["I'll invite her to the celebration rally too."]

“Pakka MMP jitegi?” Rizwan presses, assessing the political risks.

["Is it guaranteed that the MMP will win?"]

“Zarur jitegi. Nawaz Shafiq do baar jeet chuka hai,” I state coldly.

["They will definitely win. Nawaz Shafiq has already won twice."]

Let the elections come. Let the syndicate move. I will bring her straight into the center of the roar, surrounded by thousands of my men and the flags of the winning regime.

She has to feel THAT SHE'S SPECIAL.

[Master list]

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I let out a trembling sniffle, “Magar na main ranjha bani aur na hi uski jogan. Khabar bhejti thi. Par aaj sach jaankar... apni hunar par shak ho raha hai.”

["But neither did I become a Ranjha, nor did I become his ascetic follower. I used to send intelligence reports. But today, knowing the truth... I am doubting my own skill."]

The calculation is gone.

I lift my tear-stained face as I look up into the towering, terrifying silhouette of the man standing over me. “Aap toh sirf pyaar ka dikhawa kar rahe the na?”

["You were only pretending to love me, right?"]

Hamza stands completely frozen. For one agonizing beat, he simply stares down at me.

Slowly the fierce agent drops his guard.

He sinks to his knees, dropping down onto the cold marble to sit directly in front of my collapsed form. He leans his massive torso closer into my space. “Tumhe lagta hai jo bhi pal humne bitaye woh sab jhooth the?”

["Do you truly think that every single moment we spent together was a lie?"]

The proximity is blinding.

I instantly cut my gaze away as I shake my head. “Mujhe nahi pata...” I whisper. “Mujhe nahi pata.”

["I don't know... I don't know."]

“Sanaz, agar mera pyaar jhooth hota toh fir main bandook chalane se pehle ek baar bhi nahi sochta,” Hamza replies. ["Sanaz, if my love were a lie, I wouldn't have thought twice before firing a gun."]

His hand reaches down into the chaos of the scattered boxes on the floor. His fingers wrap around the heavy leather-bound diary—the chemical ink has completely vanished now that the specialized formula has been exposed to the air and dried, leaving the pages entirely blank.

Except for my blood. The dark, crimson smear from my lacerated skin remains fixed against the parchment.

He gently but firmly takes hold of my right hand, his green eyes instantly mapping the fresh cut that has formed across my finger. “Utho. Soch samjhkar har faisla lete hain.”

["Stand up. Every decision must be made with clear thought and understanding."]

I rise from the white marble floor, the heavy folds of my maroon sharara rustling around my ankles as he walks me out of the suffocating closet and into the main master bedroom. My gaze drifts instantly to the edge of the mattress where my black-and-silver handgun is lying completely exposed.

I don't reach for it. I don't do anything.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Hamza dials a priority number. “Mere kamre mein aa. Zaruri baat karni hai. Aur guest room se Sanaz ke medical tools bhi le aana.”

["Come to my room. We need to talk urgently. And bring Sanaz's medical tools from the guest room as well."]

He terminates the call and steps over, sitting down on the edge of the mattress right beside me. A wry, and exhausted chuckle escapes his chest as he looks at my profile. “Sharmindagi toh mujhe bhi ho rahi hai, Seherzadi. Ek R&AW agent ko nahi pehchaan paya.”

["I am feeling embarrassed too, my Princess. I couldn't even recognize a R&AW agent."]

Before my brain can fully catalog the concussive implications of his statement, a sharp knock echoes against the heavy mahogany door.

Hamza calmly gets up, sliding the latch open to let Rizwan enter the room. Rizwan steps through the threshold, his gaze instantly tracking the absolute wreckage of the master suite, until Hamza delivers the administrative clearance flatly.

“Sanaz hindustani agent hai.”

["Sanaz is an Indian agent."]

“Kya?” Rizwan halts dead in his tracks, his fingers slipping as he almost drops the heavy medical kit and equipment folders onto the floor, his face draining of all color. [“What?”]

Hamza offers a single nod of confirmation.

Rizwan stares between the two of us for a long beat before a sudden smiling, “Bhabhi jaan, aap toh humare team ki nikli—”

["Sister-in-law, you turned out to be on our team—"]

Hamza cuts a warning glare sideways.

Rizwan instantly stops talking, clearing his throat aggressively to swallow the sentence back down. He steps fully into the interior, quietly locking the heavy bolts of the door behind him.

Hamza reaches into the medical kit, unspooling a fresh strip of white bandage. He slowly wraps the cloth around my bleeding finger to secure the cut.

“Tum dono ko jo bhi intel mile, apne handlers ke saath mujhe bhi bhejoge. Samajh aayi baat?” Hamza instructs heavily, looking between Rizwan and me.

["Whatever intel you two receive, you will send it to me along with your handlers. Is that understood?"]

Rizwan and I exchange a loaded look.

“Rizwan, humare encrypted chats mein Sanaz ko bhi add karna,” Hamza concludes smoothly, tying the knot on my bandage before rising to his full height. “IB ko report bhej we misunderstood an asset for a target. She was too good at her job.”

["Rizwan, add Sanaz to our encrypted chats too. Send a report to the Intelligence Bureau stating we misunderstood an asset for a target. She was too good at her job."]

“Iska matlab aap dono ek dusre ki reports bhej rahe then bina yeh jaane ki dono ek hi mission ke liye kaam karte hain?” Rizwan chuckles, the absurd irony of the situation.

["This means you two were sending reports on each other without knowing that you both work for the exact same mission?"]

I blink slowly. Wait. He’s a spy too?

The slow, concussive realization hits my internal processor as my eyes drill into Rizwan’s profile. The constant chaperone. The quiet driver. The shadow who has been monitoring our entire lives wasn't an ISI minder or a Lyari lieutenant—he was an agency asset.

“Idea kiska tha, saale?” Hamza growls out, aggressively pushing his massive hand against Rizwan’s chest to shut him up. “Sach ke saath Saazish karo.” He mimics the other’s voice with sarcasm.

["Whose idea was it, idiot? 'Conspire alongside the truth.'"]

“Mujhe pata nahi tha ki Sanaz agent hai—” Rizwan defends himself instantly. “Sorry.”

["I had no idea Sanaz was an agent—"]

I simply stare at the two of them as I let out a long, heavy sigh.

Hamza reaches up, rubbing his forehead.. “Jaan, I'm sorry,” he murmurs. “Maine jhooth bola, apna sach chhupaya, lekin sirf mission ke liye. Tumhara aur mera hisab barabar hai, Seherzadi. Tumne bhi jhooth bola.”

["Darling, I'm sorry. I lied, I hid my truth, but only for the sake of the mission. Your account and mine are even, my Princess. You lied too."]

My eyes narrow as I lock my gaze onto his face. “Maafi mangne se sab theek ho jata hai?”

["Does asking for forgiveness magically fix everything?"]

“Bhabhi gussa hogayi hai, main jaanta hoon,” Rizwan whispers under his breath, his eyes darting toward the exit as he subtly tries to slide away from the radius of the blast zone.

["Sister-in-law is furious, I know it."]

“Rizwan.”

I call his name out flatly. Not “bhaiya,” not the respectful “aap.”

“Tum bhi mere baare mein aisa hi sochte hoge na? Hamza ki tarah? Ki main paison ke liye beek gayi.”

["You probably thought the exact same thing about me, right? Just like Hamza? That I sold myself out for money."]

“Sanaz, aisa nahi hai...” Rizwan replies quickly, turning around with a look of desperate sincerity. “Humein agar thoda bhi andaza hota ki tum bhi Indian agent ho toh hum aisa bilkul nahi sochte.”

["Sanaz, it's not like that... If we had even the slightest inkioing that you were an Indian agent too, we would have never thought that way."]

“Yehi toh dikkat hai tum dono ki!”

I snap, violently standing up from the mattress, “Tum dono ko insaano ki qadar nahi hai. Sirf naam ki!”

["That is exactly the damn problem with both of you! You two don't value human beings. Only names!"]

“Sanaz... Khuda ki kasam, maine har din khud ko kosa hai ki hum tumhe iss daldal mein utar rahe hain apne saath,” Rizwan says, his voice cracking. He looks at me, “Lekin tumhe pata hoga, Balidan Parmo Dharma. Jis raah pe tum khud bhi chal rahi ho.”

["Sanaz... I swear to God, I have cursed myself every single day that we are dragging you into this quicksand with us. But you know the oath—Sacrifice is the Supreme Duty. It is the exact same path you are walking on yourself."]

I swallow hard. Balidan Parmo Dharma. Motto of Para SF unit under R&AW.

Hamza moves closer, “Shayad maine jo kiya uske liye main khud ko kabhi bhi maaf na kar paun,” he murmurs, his green eyes burning with exposed guilt. “Lekin main tumhe yaad dilana chahunga, maine humesha kaha hai tumse - mujhe fark nahi padta tumhare paak se.”

["Perhaps I will never be able to forgive myself for what I did. But I want to remind you, I have always told you—your innocence doesn't matter to me."]

I let out a long sigh as I slowly sink back down onto the edge of the bed. “Main abhi bhi gussa hoon tum dono se,” I warn flatly. ["I am still furious with both of you."]

Without a single word of warning, the two highly trained phantoms lean inward at the exact same time, completely enveloping my frame in an overwhelming group hug.

I instantly freeze, my arms locking at my sides.

What?

As the ridiculous warmth of the hold settles over me, trapped between them, I can’t help but notice the subtle position of Hamza’s arm; he has structured his forearm like a rigid barrier, completely blocking Rizwan from fully pressing against my torso.

I am genuinely, completely done with both of them.

“Gale lagne se maaf nahi kardungi,” I grumble aggressively into the fabric of his kurta. ["I won't magically forgive you just because you're hugging me."]

“Theek hai, khotti. Take your time,” Hamza murmurs back smoothly. ["Fine, you donkey. Take your time."]

The utter nerve of this man.

I yank my chin back. “Tu khotta.”

["You're the donkey."]

A sudden, helpless wave of giggles breaks through us. I quickly reach up with my bandaged finger to wipe away a stray, betraying tear from my cheek before finally letting go; wrapping my arms tightly around the both of them, locking our unified R&AW creed together.

My fingers instinctively slip through the thick, coarse strands of Hamza’s dark waves, mapping the surface of his scalp until my skin collides with a thick, wet, and dark red blob of coagulated blood.

I gasp, my eyes widening, “Hamza, itni badi chot lagi hai bataya kyun nahi?”

["Hamza, you have such a massive injury, why didn't you tell me?"]

Without waiting for his defense, I immediately pivot on the mattress, reaching into the open medical kit to pull out the bottles of liquid antiseptics, sterile cotton swabs, and fresh gauze. “Kab hua yeh?”

["When did this happen?"]

“Woh jo black leather jacket wala aadmi tha, uss paar ke Punjab se...” Hamza finally relents, as I begin to dab the antiseptic against the tear in his skin. “Uske saath ladayi hogayi thi. Drugs ka dhandha karne aaya tha, mujhe kisi bhi haal mein rokna tha.”

["That man in the black leather jacket, from the Punjab across the border... I got into a fight with him. He had come to run a narcotics operation, and I had to stop him at any cost."]

My eyelids blink, a sudden, graphic memory flashing behind my retinas. The image of Hamza dragging that thrashing body out into the corridor, followed by the injection driven straight into that man’s eye socket. “Kaisa hai woh?”

["How is he?"]

“Theek hai. Jameel sahab sambhal lenge,”

["He's fine. Mr. Jameel will handle it."]

“Jameel bhi spy hai?” I counter instantly. ["Is Jameel a spy too?"]

Both of them blink simultaneously. “Aapko kaise pata?”

["How do you know?"]

“Mujhe shak tha. Dawood ke purane records mein thallium ka zikr tha. Woh kaam kisi first generation spy ka hi ho sakta hai. Jameel sahab waise bhi bohot kareeb hain unke,” I reply with confidence, smoothly pressing the adhesive bandage down over the wound on Hamza’s scalp, ensuring the dressing is small, and completely hidden beneath his dense curls.

["I had a suspicion. Dawood's old records made mention of thallium. That kind of work could only belong to a first-generation spy. Mr. Jameel is exceptionally close to him anyway."]

I step back, capping the antiseptic bottle with a sharp click. I look between the two men sitting on my bed. “Chalo naam batao sab apna.”

["Alright, everyone state your real names."]

Hamza scoffs, “Hum koi name, place, animal, thing khel rahe hain?”

["Are we playing some game of name, place, animal, thing here?"]

“Bakwas matt karo,” I snap. ["Cut the nonsense."]

“Jaskirat. Jaskirat Singh Rangi.”

Damn.

“Mustafa Alvi,” Rizwan supplies next.

I finally state my own true name, they both offer a quiet, respectful nod of acknowledgment.

“Kaafi pyaare asli naam hain sabke,” I murmur softly. ["Everyone's real names are quite lovely."]

Hamza lets out another low scoff, rolling his broad shoulders. “Pyaare? They're like some sort of warrior's names.”

“We are, though.” I counter smoothly.

“Good point.”

“Kabse ho aap dono idhar?” I question quietly, my hands resting against the edge of the mattress as I look between the two veterans sitting in my space.

["How long have you two been here?"]

“2004,” Hamza supplies flatly.

I offer a slow nod, my mind instantly tracking the timeline. “Main 2007 mein aayi. Maine apna beech ka hissa bata diya, ab tum dono ki baari.”

["I came in 2007. I've shared my middle chapter, now it's you two's turn."]

A simultaneous, heavy sigh escapes both of their chests.

“Rehman ko maine hi mara tha,” Hamza reveals calmly, detailing the systemic elimination of the old Lyari leadership without a single fraction of hesitation. “Uzair ko manipulate kiya, use Dubai bheja aur ATA ke tehat giraftaar karwa diya.”

["I was the one who killed Rehman. I manipulated Uzair, sent him off to Dubai, and had him arrested under the Anti-Terrorism Act."]

“Arshad Pappu ki gang mein tha,” Rizwan chimes in next, “Lekin use raaste se hatana tha. Hamza ke saath milkar use Uzair se marwaya, aur inki gang mein join hogaya.”

["I was embedded in Arshad Pappu's gang. But he had to be removed from the path. Working together with Hamza, we had Uzair eliminate him, and then I joined Hamza's gang."]

I shake my head slowly, “Body count toh double digits mein dono ka.”

["The body count for both of you is well into the double digits."]

Hamza lets out a low, rough chuckle, lazily rubbing the back of his neck, “Heh... Karna padta hai.”

["Heh... It has to be done."]

My eyebrows draw together as I stare, “Upar se sharma rahe ho? Kuch haya hai aap dono mein?”

["On top of that, you're blushing? Do you two have even a single shred of shame?"]

“Dehshadgardon ko maarne mein kaisi sharm?” Rizwan replies flatly.

["What shame is there in killing terrorists?"]

Good point. In our line of work, hesitation is a terminal diagnosis.

“Hamza thoda sehem gaya tha Rehman ki maut ke baad. Lekin kuch hafte baad theek hogaya,” Rizwan adds, casting a knowing look toward his partner.

["Hamza was a bit shaken after Rehman's death. But he got better after a few weeks."]

“Wabastagi bohot buri cheez hai,” Hamza murmurs, his deep voice carrying the aching cadence of a man who had to slaughter his own proximity to maintain his cover. “Lekin jo hona tha, woh ho gaya.”

["Attachment is a very terrible thing. But what was meant to happen, happened."]

He shifts his posture, his expression instantly locking back into the authoritative mask. “Khair,” he states, “Aaj ka report pura ho jana chahiye. Aaj ke baad koi purani baatein nahi karega. Jab tak zarurat na ho.”

["Anyway. Today's report must be finalized. From this day forth, no one will speak of the past. Not until it becomes absolutely necessary."]

The administrative boundary is drawn.

“Sanaz, chalo tumhe ghar chhor deta hoon. Bohot der hogayi hai. Rizwan, tu yahan sab kuch sambhal.”

["Sanaz, come, let me drop you home. It's gotten very late. Rizwan, you handle everything here."]

Hamza stands up. He steps toward the glass panes, his large hand reaching up to draw the heavy velvet curtains completely shut against the outside world.

But just as the fabric slides across the track, a microscopic gap remains open; and our eyes simultaneously lock onto a terrifying silhouette.

SP Chaudhry Aslam.

Oh, hell no.

I can only pray to God the glass tint was thick enough to block him from seeing me patching up the Sher-E-Baloch’s head, or the raw compromise of our trio hug.

Breaking away from the glass before a shadow can betray us, we move down to the garage. I slide behind the wheel of my sleek, premium Mercedes, the engine purring to life in the quiet night.

Directly behind me, the heavy, imposing frame of Hamza's black SUV roars to life.

The security gates swing open.

I press my foot down on the accelerator, steering the Mercedes out, watching the rearview mirror as the heavy headlamps of his SUV lock into position right behind my bumper—SHADOWING HIS SEHERZADI.

Masterlist.

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He keeps his gaze fixed down on his lap, but through the corner of my eye, I can see the sharp twitch of his jaw line as he tries—and fails—to hold back a genuine smile.

This man.

The terrifying Sher-E-Baloch who commands the entire illicit black-market syndicate of Lyari, currently dressed in a premium black silk shirt, crisp straight-leg jeans, and a heavy brown leather jacket, is... suddenly, completely shy in my passenger seat.

“Theek hai sharmaate raho fir, mujhe koi dekh kar chala jayega,” I reply with a teasing huff, catching his reflection through the rearview mirror to track his expression.

["Fine, keep being shy then, someone else will look at me and walk away."]

The mock threat works instantly. Hamza’s head snaps up. He maps the way the warm light catches the dark strands of hair framing my face.

“Koi bhi dekh sakta hai lekin apna nahi sakta,” he states flatly, his large, calloused hand reaching across the center console to envelope mine, lifting my fingers to press a lingering, reverent kiss against the back of my hand.

["Anyone can look, but no one can claim you as theirs."]

I pull my hand back slightly, “Main kisi ki amanat nahi hoon.”

["I am no one's keepsake."]

“Lekin main toh aapka amanat hoon?” he counters smoothly.

["But aren't I your keepsake?"]

I let out a soft, exasperated huff, turning my head to lightly push at his dark cheekbone to force his face away from my space.

Bite.

“Hamza!” I almost yell, the car slightly swerving as I violently yank my hand back. The scoundrel just clamped his teeth down onto the soft tip of my finger. I glare at him through the dashboard, my chest heaving with a mix of irritation and a sudden, betraying heat.

He lets out a low, vibrating rumble of amusement, leaning his heavy shoulders back into the leather seat.

“Isilye main Rizwan ko saath lana chahti thi,” I grumble aggressively, rubbing the faint indents on my finger. “Uske bina aap hosh kho dete ho.” ["This is exactly why I wanted to bring Rizwan along. Without him, you completely lose your senses."]

Hamza groans, rolling his head to the side as he stares out the window. “Uska naam matt lo abhi. Waise hi humare saath bohot ghum chuka hai woh.”

["Don't take his name right now. He's already wandered around with us far too much anyway."]

“Waise... Aaj bohot khubsurat lag rahi ho,” Hamza murmurs. ["By the way... You look very beautiful today."]

I tilt my chin, keeping my eyes fixed on the sweeping lines of the highway. “Achcha? Aapko koi takleef nahi mere aise kapde pehenne se?”

["Oh? You don't have any issue with me wearing clothes like this?"]

The question isn't entirely innocent.

I am currently wearing a crisp, white premium silk shirt with the top buttons left daringly open near my cleavage, tucked into a tailored black pencil skirt that perfectly accents the delicate gold waist chain he had gifted me, finished with structured leather ankle boots.

In the conservative, heavily scrutinized circles of his underworld province, it is a striking, unapologetically bold statement.

Hamza shifts in his seat, his eyebrows drawing together in genuine confusion. “Takleef? Mujhe kyun hogi takleef?”

["An issue? Why would I have an issue?"]

“Bewakoof matt bano. Tum jaante ho main kya keh rahi hoon,” I counter smoothly. “Nikah ke baad mujhe burkhe mein toh nahi rakhoge?”

["Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I am saying. You won't force me into a burqa after marriage, will you?"]

A sudden, deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, his eyes instantly lighting up with an amused glint. “Iska matlab tum nikah ke liye taiyar...”

I cut a sharp, warning glare sideways.

“...ho,” he finishes, clearing his throat to steady his voice into a more serious note. “Theek hai, sanjidgi se, mujhe koi takleef nahi hai. Tumhe yeh sawal karne ki zarurat tak nahi thi waise. Jaise main nikah ke baad nahi badlunga, waise hi tum bhi nahi badlogi.”

["So you're ready for the… marriage. Fine, in all seriousness, I have absolutely no issue. You didn't even need to ask this question, by the way. Just as I won't change after marriage, you won't change either."]

I offer a slow nod. “Hmm. Kaafi jadeed soch hai aapki. Unexpected tha. Lekin iska matlab yeh matt samajhna ki tum mujhpar koi ehsaan kar rahe ho.”

["Hmm. Your thinking is quite modern. It was unexpected. But don't you dare think you are doing me a favor by thinking this way."]

Hamza slowly shakes his head. “Bilkul nahi. Main bas bata raha tha ki tumhari marzi se hi yeh rishta hai.”

["Not at all. I was simply stating that this relationship exists entirely by your own choice."]

“Itni achchi baatein karni kahan se sikhi? Mujhse pehle kitni maashukayen reh chuki hain aapki?” I question. ["Where did you learn to speak such beautiful things? How many lovers have you had before me?"]

Hamza’s eyes widen instantly, a look of pure panic. “Khuda ke vaste aisa na bole, Sanaz Sahiba. Aap hi meri pehli aur akhri ishq hain.”

["For God's sake, do not say such things, Lady Sanaz. You alone are my first and last love."]

I roll my eyes toward the windshield. This dramatic, ridiculous guy. “Jhooth matt bolo.”

["Don't lie."]

“Ammi ki kasam,” he swears instantly. ["I swear on my mother."]

I cut a brief glance sideways, taking in the intense sincerity burning in his green eyes before shifting my focus back to the road, my lips twitching with a hidden smile.

“Fir bhi bharosa nahi?” he groans softly, leaning his head back against the seat with a defeated sigh. “Mujahe shayari ka shauk hai. Mir, Iqbal, Ghalib. Inse hi baatein banana sikha.”

["Still no trust? I have a passion for poetry. Mir, Iqbal, Ghalib. I learned how to weave words from them."]

I tilt my head, thoroughly amused by the image of the fierce Sher-E-Baloch studying classical Urdu ghazals in his compound. “Achcha? Humein bhi sunaiye apni shayari.”

["Oh really? Recite some of your poetry to us as well."]

“Pakka na?” he asks. ["For sure?"]

I offer a single, encouraging nod.

Hamza sits up slightly straight in the passenger seat, adjusting the collar of his black silk shirt as he clears his throat. “Toh gaur farmayen...”

["Then lose yourself in this..."]

“Ishq mein tere hum iss qadar hosh khote hain,

Ki log humein dekh kar ab pagal kehte hain.”

["In your love, I lose my senses to such an extent, that people look at me and call me crazy now."]

“Waah waah,” I mutter flatly.

[“Wow, wow.”]

Hamza leans slightly closer across the center console, “Tum toh khuli zulfon mein qayamat lagti ho, Hum kho dete hain apni shareefi ko.”

["You look like a devastating storm with your hair open, and I completely lose my gentlemanly behavior."]

The audacity.

I slowly turn my head sideways, my eyes narrowing. Without breaking eye contact, I reach down into the footwell, unzipping and smoothly sliding off one of my leather ankle boots.

Hamza’s eyes dart down, as violently flinches back against the passenger door, raising his large hands.

“Arey abhi se joote kyun maar rahi ho—”

["Hey, why are you already hitting me with shoes—"]

The sleek Bentley grinds to a smooth halt directly outside the grand, minimalist entrance of the Clifton contemporary art gallery. Shifting the luxury vehicle into park, I lean down to zip my leather ankle boot back up, smoothing out the hem of my black pencil skirt before stepping out.

Hamza moves around the hood, catching me before I can reach the steps. He lifts the heavy cheetah-print fur jacket from the back seat, his large hands careful and surprisingly tender as he drapes the thick material over my shoulders, his fingers lingering against the collar of my white silk shirt for a fraction of a second.

The uniformed security guard instantly bows his head, swinging the heavy glass doors open to let us pass.

The transition is immediate. The interior rooms are profoundly chilled, bathed in a soft, architectural track lighting that mutes the outside world. The gallery is beautifully sparse—only a few scattered members of the Clifton elite moving quietly through the exhibits, some cradling warm ceramic cups of coffee or tea, others deeply absorbed in thick art journals.

“Wow,” Hamza mutters under his breath, his eyes slowly scanning the vast concrete walls and towering canvases as we begin to walk through the exhibitions, his boots making a low thud against the floor.

He cuts a sideways glance at my profile. “Tumhe yeh sab pasand hai? Sophisticated.”

["Wow. You like all this? Sophisticated."]

I let out a soft chuckle at his subtle jab, adjusting the fur jacket on my shoulders. “Haan. Kyun? Aapko boring lagta hoga na?”

["Yes. Why? You probably find it boring, right?"]

“Nahi,” Hamza replies instantly as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. “Kaafi shant jagah hai yeh. Meri duniya se alag, magar boring nahi.”

["No, this place is very peaceful. Different from my world, but not boring."]

I hum softly in agreement.

We drift deeper into the wing, our footsteps slowing to a complete halt before a massive, isolated exhibit that instantly commands the air with a raw horror.

The canvas is particularly disturbing. Painted with aggressive, thick strokes of oil, it depicts a stray dog hung brutally by its own tight leather leash, its hind legs twisting into nothingness as it frantically, desperately claws its way up the very cord that is systematically choking the life out of it.

I step closer, my eyes tracking down to the small, descriptive brass plate mounted beside the frame detailing the artist’s thesis.

No Way Home.

The text seems to bleed into my vision.

We wander through the remaining wings of the gallery for another hour, the initial dark chill of the hanging dog canvas slowly melting away as we end up laughing through some of the more bizarre, abstract modern art installations.

To my absolute surprise, Hamza is incredibly, naturally adept at catching the hidden structural symbols woven into the paint

After we’ve had our fill of the exhibits, we head up to the gallery’s exclusive, glass-paneled rooftop café, overlooking the sprawling expanse of the skyline.

We slide into a private booth, and I lean forward, propping my chin in my hand as I look across the candlelit table. “Kya loge aap? Tea? Coffee? Please sharab matt bolna.”

["What will you have? Tea? Coffee? Please don't say alcohol."]

“Grenade.”

“Hamza.”

Hamza lets out a defensive scoff, snapping the gold-embossed menu open. “Itna gyaan hai mujhe. Koi gali ka gunda nahi hoon,” he grumbles, “Hmm, latte.”

["I have that much sense. I'm not some street thug. Hmm, a latte."]

“Frappe,” I counter smoothly, signaling the waiter.

The uniformed staff member steps into our perimeter, pen poised over his pad. “Anything else, ma'am? Sir?”

“Strawberry shortcake and cookie dough ice-cream,” I list off instantly without a single shred of hesitation.

Hamza lowers his menu, staring at my order with a look of pure skepticism. “Only sweets?”

“We have different options as well, sir,” the waiter chimes in helpfully, gesturing toward the artisanal savory section.

“Okay, maybe...” Hamza blinks, his eyes settling on a classic, high-end item. “English breakfast for me.”

A few minutes later, the waiter returns, meticulously setting down my lavish desserts before placing a minimalist white porcelain plate in front of Hamza. Arranged with aesthetic precision on the plate is a single artisanal sausage, one perfectly poached egg, a tiny decorative mound of baked beans, and a solitary slice of thin, toasted sourdough.

The Sher-E-Baloch stares down at the plate. He blinks once. He blinks twice. The sheer, profound disappointment on his face is staggering.

He looks up at me, completely serious, “Itne toh main ek mutthi mein khata hoon.”

["I eat this much in a single fistful."]

I close my eyes, my hand flying up to my forehead as I almost facepalm right into my ice cream. Dear God, take him back to Lyari.

He literally finishes the entire plate in under a minute flat. I am practically crying from suppressed laughter, watching the empty porcelain slide back onto the table. “Bhook lagi hai?”

["Are you hungry?"]

Hamza offers a deeply tragic nod of confirmation.

I flag the waiter back over, and he quickly orders a heavy, high-yield protein and rice bowl. When the massive steaming portion finally arrives, the fierce Sher-E-Baloch looks visibly, profoundly satisfied.

He aggressively works through the meal, eventually leaning back into the leather booth to finish his hot latte while I am still slowly, meticulously sipping my cold frappe through the straw.

I lift my eyes over and a soft, helpless chuckle escapes my lips. Sticking out like a stark white contrast against the dark, coarse mustache is a small, prominent dollop of frothed milk.

He has absolutely no idea.

I slide my Samsung smartphone out of my pocket and snap a quick, silent picture of his face, archiving this rare, beautifully unbothered fragment of his soul on my drive.

I set the phone down, leaning my torso across the narrow, candlelit table. Reaching out my hand, my thumb gently brushes against the edge of his coarse mustache, wiping the stray foam away from his skin.

Hamza doesn't flinch, as he deliberately slurs his tongue out to lick his lips right against the lingering warmth of my touch.

Oh God.

My internal processor completely short-circuits, and I violently yank my hand back, burying my fingers deep into the pockets of my cheetah-print jacket to hide the sudden, betraying tremble in my skin. Hamza merely watches me, a low, incredibly smug vibration of amusement rumbling in his chest.

Once the table is cleared, he instinctively reaches into the breast pocket of his brown leather jacket, pulling out a heavy alligator-skin wallet to settle the high-end damages.

I instantly reach across the marble, my fingers pressing down on his wrist to freeze his movement. “Nahi Hamza, rehne do.”

["No, Hamza, let it be."]

In the conservative, pride-heavy underworld structures he runs, a woman paying is an anomaly.

But Hamza doesn't trigger a territorial argument. He doesn't try to force his cash over mine to prove a point. Instead, his grin turns into a slow, profoundly tender smile.

He simply slips his wallet back into his jacket, keeping his eyes locked onto mine as I slide the local Pakistani bills into the leather presentation folder.

Our fingers remain tightly locked together as we walk back down the concrete steps of the gallery to the idling vehicle. Hamza smoothly slides into the driver's seat this time, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his black silk shirt as he takes the wheel.

I look out at the horizon, the brilliant blue of the Karachi sky beginning to fracture into deep gradients of amber and violet. “Shaam hone waali hai. Mere ghar chaloge?”

["Evening is approaching. Will you come to my house?"]

“Bilkul chalunga,” he replies instantly.["Of course I will."]

Within twenty minutes of navigating the winding, elite coastal lanes of Clifton, the Bentley glides into the private driveway of my secluded seafront bungalow. I turn the key in the brass lock, pushing the heavy door open.

I drop my keys onto the side table, gesturing toward the floor-to-ceiling glass panels at the back of the house. “Saamne hi sahal hai. Khursheed utarne ke samay bohot khubsurat dikhta hai.”

["The shore is right ahead. The sun looks incredibly beautiful when it sets."]

I slide out of my leather ankle boots and socks, letting my bare feet press against the cold, polished floorboards. Hamza follows my movement, untying his heavy brogues and setting them neatly by the threshold.

We shed the outer layers, slipping off my heavy cheetah-print fur jacket while he discards his brown leather coat, leaving us exposed in the quiet of the house.

“Intezar karo,” I murmur softly, offering him a fleeting glance before heading up the winding staircase to the privacy of my master bedroom.

["Wait for me."]

Upstairs, I shed the silk shirt and the pencil skirt, stepping into the raw freedom of my own space. I slide into a minimal, black halter-neck top that leaves my waist completely exposed, paired with simple, stretchable denim shorts.

As I look down at my bare feet, the light catches the clean white sheen around my ankles. The custom platinum strands. The microscopic, intricately carved lotuses blushing with the fire of rare pink diamonds, entirely devoid of loud, jingling bells.

The proposal vow.

I haven't taken them off since the evening he knelt in the sand.

I slowly walk back down the stairs.

Hamza is waiting near the glass doors, his broad frame framed against the darkening crimson of the coastal sky. As my bare feet hit the bottom step, his green eyes slowly map the transformation.

His lips part slightly, a sudden, breathless trace of raw fascination freezing his features before his jaw sets and his lips close again. He doesn't drop a single comment. He doesn't break the sacred, fragile quiet of the room.

Instead, as I reach his side, he simply extends his hand to lock his fingers back through mine. He leans his heavy head down, pressing a soft, lingering, and profoundly tender kiss directly against my temple.

Together, entirely barefoot and silent, we step through the doors and walk out into the cool, shifting sand, heading straight toward the edge of the dark roaring water as the final rays of the sun sink into the Arabian Sea.

We walk further away from the safety of the porch, our bare feet sinking deep into the cool, shifting expanse of the sand. Above us, the sky is a staggering, chaotic canvas of natural violence—painted in brilliant, bleeding strokes of crimson, deep orange, molten gold, soft pink, and heavy purple all at once.

The sharp, salt-heavy coastal wind sweeps across the open shore, biting cleanly against the exposed skin of my bare back and thighs.

Without a word, Hamza reaches down, pulling his black silk shirt completely over his head and dropping the fabric onto the sand. The heavy silver chains around his neck instantly catch the dying fire of the horizon, glinting against his skin. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as I force my eyes to remain steady, desperately trying not to stare.

He is so perfectly, overwhelmingly thick.

It isn't a shredded, gym-sculpted physique; it is the raw, heavy mass of a natural-born predator.

His arms are massive, easily twice the size of my head, leading down to dense, hard lines across his midsection, yet his stomach carries a heavy, solid baseline, slightly pushing outward despite being flat. The coarse, dark hair patterns across his forearms and his chest catch the shifting light.

“Khursheed se kuch zyada hi pasand aagaya main?” Hamza’s voice suddenly slices through the crash of the waves.

["Do you like me a bit more than the sun?"]

I snap out of the trance instantly, my head jerking away as a sudden, betraying heat flushes furiously across my cheeks.

He lets out a low, vibrating chuckle and shifts his weight, sinking down onto the sand before gently but unyieldingly pulling me down by my waist to sit directly beside him.

I look at the crashing tide, the crimson light reflecting off the water. “Khursheed se zyada khubsurat hain aap,” I murmur softly. ["You are more beautiful than the sun."]

“Khubsurat?” Hamza questions, the syllables sounding heavy and unfamiliar on his tongue.

["Beautiful?"]

I tilt my head, tracking the severe, sharp lines of his profile. “Kyun? Aapko kisi ne kabhi khubsurat nahi bulaya?”

["Why? Has no one ever called you beautiful?"]

Hamza slowly shifts his gaze away, “Bulaya toh bohot kuch gaya hai mujhe. Lekin khubsoorat sirf aapne bulaya.” He pauses, “Mujh mein khubsurat bolne layak kuch hai bhi?”

["I have been called many things. But 'beautiful' is something only you have called me. Is there even anything in me worth calling beautiful?"]

The sheer tragedy of his words makes my chest ache.

I lean closer into his space, slowly resting my head against the massive shelf of his shoulder, “Kamal karte hain aap, Hamza sahab. Khud ka chehra aayine mein dekhte ho ya nahi? Itni gehri aankein hain - hari zameen ki tarah, lambe ghungraale baal, seedhi naak, aur—”

["You are unbelievable, Mr. Hamza. Do you even look at your own face in the mirror? Your eyes are so deep—like green earth, long wavy hair, a straight nose, and—"]

“Aur kya?” he prompts softly, his voice dropping into a low whisper against my hair.

["And what else?"]

“Aur dole shole bhi,” I tease lightly, reaching my hand down to aggressively squeeze the massive muscle of his forearm.

["And these huge muscles too."]

A genuine, beautiful chuckle erupts from his chest.

He doesn't preen or flex his muscles to show off; he simply rests his massive frame against the sand, completely comfortable in his own skin. I slowly rise to my feet, brushing the loose grains from my denim shorts. As I stand up, my eyes track a quick, split-second movement, Hamza lazily reaching up to pop something small into his mouth, his jaw immediately working to chew it.

I turn away, pacing along the edge of the roaring tide, holding up my smartphone to click a series of vibrant pictures of the fading, blood-red sunset and a few candid frames of myself. Through the glass lens, I notice his towering shadow slowly trailing behind me at a distance. Near the surf line, a small shore crab scoots sideways through the wet foam, aggressively clicking its tiny claws against the wet gravel.

“Waise khubsurat toh hain, andar se bhi aur bahar se bhi!” I yell back over the loud. ["By the way, you really are beautiful, both from the inside and the out!"]

He is standing roughly ten feet away, casually using the toe of his bare foot to shoo the stubborn crab out of his path. I instantly pivot, switching my phone into video mode to record his frustration.

“Sanaz, nahi—” he warns. ["Sanaz, don't—"]

He launches into a sudden sprint directly toward my position.

I let out a breathless laugh, turning on my heel to run wildly across the cool shore. Within mere seconds, his massive arms wrap completely around my waist from behind.

Hamza lifts me cleanly off the ground, spinning my body through the air in a dizzying arc. I can't help but giggle frantically, my legs dangling in the empty space until the momentum breaks.

We collapse onto the soft sand together—the impact cushioned entirely by his heavy frame as I land squarely on top of his chest, still laughing into the cool twilight.

Shifting my weight slightly, we both sit up against the slope of the dune, using our hands to fan our tousled, wind-blown hair away from our faces. He shifts his posture to lean directly behind my back. From this proximity, the sheer scale of our physical contrast is ridiculous; the tip of my bare foot doesn't even reach the height of his massive ankle.

Suddenly, his hands reach around my torso, effortlessly snatching the smartphone out of my grip. He locks his elbows on either side of my frame, trapping my hands completely beneath his forearms as he lights up the display.

“Hamza—” I protest mildly, but he ignores the whine, his thumb already swiping through the recent data fields.

Thankfully, this is a regular-use device.

He deletes a few of the blurry, shaky sunset captures. When he reaches the candid picture of his own latte-stained mustache, a soft, rumble of amusement escapes his throat, and he leans his head forward, deeply nuzzling the rough, stubbled edge of his cheek straight against the bare skin of my shoulder.

“Yeh sab karti ho chhup chhup kar, huh?”

["You do all these things secretly, huh?"]

His jaw is still rhythmically chewing whatever candy or seed he had popped into his mouth earlier. His thumb continues to trail backward, accessing the older media folders. The contents are intentionally boring—medical textbook references, Clifton scenery, mundane hospital schedules—until the screen suddenly cuts to a highly irregular frame.

The image of me, leaning against a dark backdrop, playfully pressing a kiss against the cold steel barrel of a sleek handgun.

Hamza’s thumb freezes instantly against the glass. “Yeh bandook kaise aayi tumhare paas?”

["How did this gun come to be with you?"]

The air shifts for a microsecond. I keep my pulse perfectly flat, “Fake model hai.”

["It's a fake model."]

He lets out a low, ambiguous hum, his eyes tracing the grip pattern in the photo before he cuts a look sideways at my face. “Hathiyaar bohot pasand hai tumhe huh?” He reaches up, using his thick fingers to aggressively pinch and squeeze my cheek until I let out a sharp whine of protest.

["You really love weapons, don't you huh?"]

Before I can claw his hand away, Hamza taps the share icon, smoothly transmitting the high-resolution picture of his armed Seherzadi straight from my drive directly into his own personal phone.

“Yeh kya aap gutka chaba rahe hain?” I question suddenly.

["What is this, are you chewing tobacco?"]

Hamza glares down at me with a look of pure offense. He dramatically turns his head sideways, spitting the small mass out onto the damp sand. “Nicotine hai, khotti.”

["It's nicotine, you donkey."]

How dare he. My jaw drops at the casual audacity of the insult. “Tu khotta.”

["You're the donkey."]

A low, deep growl escapes his chest. Before I can twist away, his massive, calloused hand violently locks around the bare curve of my waist, squeezing the soft flesh with a sudden, possessive heat that makes my entire core quiver under his touch.

I steady my breath, looking up at his sharp profile. “Nicotine kyun?”

["Why nicotine?"]

His jaw setting as a sudden, rare flush of genuine embarrassment crosses his rugged features. “Kyunki aapne mujhse kaha tha aapko cigarette peene waale mard pasand nahi.”

["Because you had told me that you don't like men who smoke cigarettes."]

“Oh?” I murmur, slowly looking over my bare shoulder to track his expression. “Mere liye cigarette chhorne ko taiyaar ho?”

["Oh? You are willing to quit cigarettes for me?"]

“Hmm,” he replies softly, “Koshish karunga. Waise bhi... Mujhe pasand nahi. Par ab aadat si hogayi hai.”

["I will try. Anyway... I don't even like it. But it's just become a habit now."]

I tilt my head slightly, “Pasand nahi?”

["You don't like it?"]

He doesn't reply.

His eyes drop down to my midsection, tracing the subtle, glittering reflection of metal against my skin in the dim twilight.

“I noticed you're wearing my waist chain,” he murmurs.

His thick fingers slowly tread through the metal line, meticulously tracing the soft, uncovered contour of my tummy. The rough, calloused texture of his skin triggers a sharp, intensely ticklish sensation against my nerves, and I can't help but let out a soft, breathy giggle as I try to arch my back away from his touch.

Hamza doesn't let go. He pulls my frame flush against his massive chest. “I love it.”

“I'm wearing the anklets you gave me as well.”

“I noticed,” Hamza murmurs.

“I have a question, though. Bina jhanjhar waale payal kyun? I mean, practically, I can understand that I can wear it anywhere. But...”

["Why anklets without any bells?”]

He slowly shifts his weight, resting his heavy, stubbled chin directly onto the slope of my shoulder. “I didn't really think about it much, honestly. Jab main yeh taufa le raha tha tab bass mujhe tumhari khushi ki fikr thi. Pata nahi, I just felt like if I'd chosen something with bells, it'd remind you of me whenever you walk. I didn't want that. I wanted the anklets to be yours. Not mine.”

["When I was buying this gift, I was only concerned with your happiness. I don't know, I just felt like if I'd chosen something with bells, it'd remind you of me whenever you walk."]

“That's... a very rare thought, Hamza...” I whisper into the twilight. “I've never met a man with so much dimension.”

“Mera sohnna dildaar...” I murmur in a breathy tone, as I slowly curve my hand around the back of his head, my fingers tangling deep into his hair to pull him closer into my universe.

["My beautiful, generous beloved..."]

Hamza lets out a low, deep hum that vibrates straight through my skin. He leans his heavy head closer into the curve of my collarbone, lazily dragging the sharp edge of his nose over my neck and shoulder, breathing my scent deep into his lungs as if trying to memorize my molecular structure.

God. A sudden, violent flutter of butterflies turns my stomach completely funny.

“Sanaz,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice carrying the weight of a warning.

“Hamza,” I answer in a breathy whisper, my defenses completely fracturing.

He presses his lips right there against the sensitive column of my neck, trailing a slow, agonizing sequence of tiny, burning kisses upward toward my jawline.

I can almost sense the deep, flushed pink blooming violently over my skin from the rough friction of his wild, dark hair brushing against my neck.

Above us, the final remnants of the sun sink entirely beneath the horizon, the sky leaking its last, spectacular hues of deep green and twilight blue before fading into the absolute, suffocating dark of the ocean night.

Suddenly, both of his massive arms wrap completely around my torso. Moving with an effortless strength, he pulls my body flush into his chest, setting me sideways across the massive, solid shelf of his lap. My fingers instinctively reach upward, tightly gripping onto the heavy silver chains resting over his bare, broad chest to anchor my balance.

He finally leans his face closer into mine.

And it happens.

His lips press flat against mine—for the very first time in our history.

The contact lasts for a few hanging, breathless seconds, unhurried, and warm; before Hamza violently closes the remaining distance between us.

His large palm reaches up to securely cup the side of my face, tilting his head at a deeper angle to lock our lips completely. I can't help but let out a soft, helpless moan directly into the warmth of the kiss, my eyelashes fluttering wildly against my cheeks.

It is gentle, fresh, and devastatingly soft.

There is no tongue, no raw underworld aggression—just the pure, unadulterated press of his mouth, the coarse texture of his mustache brushing against my sensitive skin.

I slowly force my eyelids open as he finally pulls his head back a fraction. The world around us is completely dark now, the crash of the tide echoing through the night, but my heart is still beating wildly against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Hamza’s thumb tenderly traces the curve of my flushed cheek.

“Duniya ka koi bhi ishq mere ISHQ SE ROOHANA NAHI.”

["No love in this world is as spiritual as mine."]

Masterlist.

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​She sits directly in front of me, her posture rigid, a faint, encouraging smile touching her lips that doesn't quite reach the sharp eyes. “Yaad rakhna tumhara mission sirf tumhara nahi hai, Bharat mein rehne waale sabhi insanon ka hai.”

​["Remember, your mission is not just yours, it belongs to every single human living in India."]

​Meera pushes a thick stack of finalized intelligence documents across the table, topped by a crisp, pristine green booklet. A Pakistani passport.

​I slowly slide the cover open. My own eyes stare right back at me from a tiny, starkly lit square photograph on the identification page. Next to the picture, stamped in bold ink, is a completely foreign name.

​Sanaz Siddiqui.

​“Iss naam ka matlab jaanti ho?” Meera questions softly. ​["Do you know the meaning of this name?"]

“Full of grace... Full of pride,” I mutter under my breath, my voice small. It’s a Persian name. A beautiful, delicate name.

Meera offers a slow, dignified nod. “Correct. Shaan se jeena hai tumhe. Sabke saath itni dhal jao ki koi tumhare mukaam tak nahi pohonch paaye.”

["Correct. You have to live with pride. Blend in so deeply with everyone that no one can ever trace your level."]

I stare down at the counterfeit green booklet. “Mujhe nahi pata aisa hoga ya nahi. Mere jaise aur bhi assets hain.”

["I don't know if I'll be able to do that or not. There are others like me as well."]

“Hain,” Meera concedes softly, reaching across the desk to place her hand over mine, “Lekin meri baat ko samjho. Tum successfully infiltrate kar lo, aur humein khabar pohonchati raho, yehi humari jeet hai.”

["There are. But understand my point. You successfully infiltrate, and keep sending us intelligence, that alone is our victory."]

Hmm. I quiet the panic in my throat. “Samajh gayi.”

The script is already etched into my brain like software. Get into the high-society medical institutions of Karachi, use the stethoscope as an all-access pass to slip close to the syndicated operatives and militant leadership, and funnel every single whisper back to the Intelligence Bureau channel.

Meera suddenly shifts her weight, her fingers squeezing my hand with a sudden alertness. “Sanyal sir aa rahe hain. He makes sure to meet everyone before they leave.”

["Sanyal sir is coming. He makes sure to meet everyone before they leave."]

I look up, the heavy humidity of the Delhi basement settling over my neck. “Kyun?”

["Why?"]

The dry, sharp clear of a throat breaks the silence from the threshold before Meera can answer.

Ajay Sanyal is here.

He steps out of the corridor shadows and into the warm cone of our desk lamp, a man dressed in a sharp, unglamorous grey bureau suit, his eyes obscured behind thick wire-rimmed glasses, a half-bald head, and a stiff, traditional mustache. The Chief.

Meera and I instantly begin to rise from our chairs, but he casually waves a hand, beckoning us to remain seated as he leans against the edge of the adjacent filing cabinet.

“I make sure to meet everyone before they leave so I could remember the faces of the weapons I've made.”

He doesn't look at me like a daughter of the soil; he looks at me like a high-precision firearm being shipped across the border to fire a single, lifetime shot.

I tilt my chin up, staring straight through the glare of his glasses. “How many faces do you remember, sir?”

Sanyal doesn't flinch. “Plenty.”

I don't offer a reply.

“Haar nahi manna,” the Chief commands softly, extending his arm forward, his fingers curling into a tight, solid fist. “Jai Hind.”

["Never accept defeat. Victory to India."]

A faint smile touches the corners of my lips as I look at the hand that just signed away my identity.

I lift my hand, my small fist bumping lightly against his knuckle. “Jai Hind.”

The flight from New Delhi to Afghanistan is short.

The second we ground on the tarmac, the transformation begins. In the cramped, dimly lit airport restroom, I strip away the last remnants of my civilian life.

I change into a simple black kurti and palazzo, methodically wrapping a dark dupatta tightly around my shoulders and head, pulling the fabric high over the bridge of my nose to leave nothing but my eyes exposed to the harsh, dry desert air.

आधी बातें आँखें बोले

बाकी आधी ख़ामोशी कह दे

हमज़ुबाँ की तलाश है

(Let the eyes speak half the truths,

Let the silence say the rest,

I am in search of one who speaks my language.)

I pack my existence into a single canvas travel bag.

The change of clothes, the medical degrees, the counterfeit transcripts, the forged green passport... and tucked deep into the interior velvet pocket, a thin, golden necklace.

It’s a fragile, unstylish piece of old jewelry—the one from my mother's wedding day, gifted by my father. I trace the cold metal with my thumb, a single stray tear burning down my cheek before I viciously wipe it away.

The girl who cried is dead. I check out of the local transit hotel, stepping into the crowded, chaotic streets to blend seamlessly with the sea of moving burqas.

ना तो कारवां की तलाश है

ना तो हमसफ़र की तलाश है

(I seek no caravan,

I seek no companion on this road.)

An unregistered, matte-black helicopter waits for us in a deserted, sun-bleached clearing on the outskirts. The rotors scream against the wind, and within a few grueling hours of turbulent flying over the rugged mountain ridges, we are dropped near the volatile Pakistan-Afghanistan border crossing.

The heat is suffocating, thick with dust and the smell of diesel. A line of moving bodies presses toward the chain-link checkpoint. The border guard's eyes are sharp, and entirely desensitized as he snaps his fingers toward me.

“Parda hataiye,” he commands flatly, his hand extended for my documentation.

["Remove the veil."]

I hand over the pristine green booklet stamped. I pull the dupatta down from my face for a few measured seconds, letting him scan the features of the weapon Sanyal sir built.

मेरा शौक़ तेरा दीदार है

यही उम्र भर की तलाश है

(My only passion is a glimpse of you,

This is my lifelong search.)

Thud.

The heavy ink stamp hits the page.

The identity is locked.

A rusted, mud-splattered transit bus idles in the gravel lot just past the gate, its exhaust coughing dark plumes of smoke into the evening sky. I approach the open door, lowering my voice into a soft, localized dialect. “Bhaiya, yeh bus kahan jayegi?”

["Brother, where will this bus go?"]

“Karachi,” the driver grunts back without looking up.

I climb the metal steps, finding a seat by the scratched glass window as the vehicle violently shakes to life, launching itself down the long, starlit desert highway toward the coast.

By the time the bus grinds to a screeching halt, the deep indigo of evening has completely settled over the sprawling, chaotic labyrinth of the city.

I step down into the humid air, immediately pulling the black dupatta back over my nose and mouth to shield myself from the prying eyes of the metropolitan grid.

Pulling out my encrypted mobile phone, I pull up a single, low-resolution photograph saved on the secure drive, the visual coordinates of my local contact point.

The KK Pharmacy.

I step through the threshold of the shop, leaving my locked bag safely near the entrance. Near the front glass counter, a few regular customers are quietly clearing their bills, while a middle-aged man sits behind a flickering laptop screen near the back shelves, his eyes sharp and calculating.

He notices my frame, his voice dropping into a hospitable local cadence. “Haan ji, madam, kya chahiye aapko?”

["Yes, madam, what do you need?"]

I approach the desk, keeping the black dupatta held firmly over my nose and mouth. Without a word, I pull out my phone and slide the screen forward, showing him a specific, high-resolution picture of a medical prescription saved on my secure drive.

The man’s posture immediately straightens. He offers a tight nod, gesturing toward the back door. “Andar aao.”

["Come inside."]

I follow him through the narrow storage corridor and down a flight of concrete stairs into a quiet, heavily fortified basement. The room is lined with wooden crates and filing cabinets. He turns to face me, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Naam?”

["Name?"]

“Sanaz.”

“Naam.” he repeats, his tone turning rigid.

“Sanaz Siddiqui. Lahore, Pakistan.”

A flicker of validation clears his eyes. Khalid nods, stepping over to a rusted iron safe in the corner and pulling out a thick, official stack of papers along with a heavy bundle of local Pakistani currency from the drawer.

“Aapka admission Jinnah Sindh University mein kara diya gaya hai. Paas hi ke ek PG mein aapka ghar hoga,” he announces flatly, transferring the documents and the cash directly into my hands. “Main aapse har hafte ek din ke liye milne aata rahunga. Aapka chacha bankar. Kya bulaogi mujhe?”

["Your admission has been secured at Jinnah Sindh University. Your accommodation will be at a nearby PG. I will keep coming to meet you once every week. As your uncle. What will you call me?"]

I look at the official university enrollment forms bearing my forged square photograph, my jaw setting beneath the veil. “Chacha jaan.”

["Uncle dear."]

A faint, proud smile finally breaks through Khalid’s stern expression, and he offers a reassuring pat on my arm. “Chalo. Safar bohot lamba hai.”

["Come on. The journey is very long."]

“Five star ratings zarur dijiyega, madam,” Khalid says flatly as we step back out into the main pharmacy storefront, his voice instantly sliding back into the loud, welcoming cadence of a regular merchant for the sake of the lingering customers.

["Please make sure to give a five-star rating, madam."]

I offer a small, polite nod beneath my dupatta. The slither has officially begun.

Lyari General Hospital, Karachi — 2009.

The clatter of the auto-rickshaw vibrates through my spine as it makes a sharp, swaying turn into the entryway of Lyari General Hospital. It’s the final week of my clinical internship here.

Just as my auto pulls up to the concrete curb, a heavy, dust-splattered military-grade jeep aggressively cuts through the traffic, its massive tires screeching as it turns toward the private rear lot.

My eyes instantly narrow through the window. That vehicle. I pay the driver, quickly stepping onto the crowded veranda to escape the blistering midday heat.

As I push through the heavy double doors of the general ward, an older, senior nurse carrying a stack of patient charts immediately spots my frame and flags me down.

“Arey Sanaz, tum?” she addresses me, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “Hamza dhundh raha tha tumhe.”

["Oh Sanaz, you're here? Hamza was looking for you."]

A cold flicker runs through my chest, pulling my white lab coat over my shoulders as I slide into my small examination cubicle. “Achcha, mujhe kyun?”

["Oh, why me?"]

“Ab toh yeh baat Hamza khud hi jaane,” she says with a knowing, slightly amused shake of her head. “Waise maine use bata diya tum shayad kisi aur hospital mein ho. Mujhe laga woh tumhara akhri din tha yahan.”

["Well, only Hamza would know that. Anyway, I told him you might be at a different hospital. I thought it was your last day here."]

I offer her a tight, grateful smile as I reach for my stethoscope. “Sahi kiya.”

["You did the right thing."]

The second she leaves the cubicle, I let out a long, silent breath, organizing the medical files on my desk.

I genuinely hope that man doesn't try to track me down through the local registers. The sheer weight of the way he was staring at me through his blood-matted eyelashes last week—leaning his heavy forehead completely into my hands while I pulled the sutures through his skin—had me intensely irritated.

He is a volatile, dangerous underworld variable, and the last thing my deep-cover mission needs is an eccentric Lyari rebel disrupting me.

National Stadium, Karachi — 2011.

A low-frequency hum vibrates through the encrypted phone in my palm. I slide the screen open, the text glowing against the dim shadows of the lower stands.

[ENCRYPTED CHANNEL — ROUTE 07]

MS: Proud of you, Sanaz.

SS: Thank you.

AS: Good luck with the next phase.

SS: Thank you.

I immediately lock the device, slipping it deep into the interior pocket of my black graduation gown.

I look out across the massive stadium.

The sweeping concrete tiers are almost completely deserted now, the thousands of vibrant, cheering families having already dissolved into the Karachi streets. Only a few scattered maintenance workers remain on the grass, slowly clearing the leftover confetti and barricades.

I stand alone near the railing, the stiff black mortarboard hat resting heavy against my hair. This is my triumph, and there isn't a single soul in this country who can know my real name to celebrate it.

“Maaf karna, beti, kaam ke wajah se late hogaya.”

["Forgive me, daughter, I got late because of work."]

I turn to see Khalid Kashmiri entering the section, his posture casual, perfectly mimicking the hurried, apologetic gait of a doting local relative.

I offer a small, reassuring shake of my head, adjusting the tassel on my black hat. “Koi baat nahi.”

["It doesn't matter."]

He steps into my space, pulling me into a firm, warm embrace, and I hold onto his shoulder for a beat longer than necessary. In this entire hostile province, he is the only fragile anchor I have to the basement where my sacrifice began.

Releasing the hug, he guides me quietly back down the concrete steps toward his sedan idling in the VIP lot. As we reach the vehicle, he reaches into the back seat and lifts a massive, beautifully wrapped cardboard box, placing the heavy weight directly into my arms.

I raise my eyebrows, balancing the parcel against my chest. “Isme kya hai?”

["What is in this?"]

Khalid offers a slow, affectionate smile, “Taufa.”

["A gift."]

I slice through the heavy adhesive tape, flipping the large cardboard flaps open. Nestled perfectly inside custom-molded velvet slots is a chillingly beautiful, state-of-the-art arsenal disguised as a professional milestone.

A high-end Littmann electronic stethoscope gleaming in polished matte-black and surgical silver. A heavy titanium surgical tool set containing high-yield scalpels and retractors.

And resting right beside the steel, is a compact, beautifully weighted silver handgun. Tucked into the interior lid are the official Pakistani administrative permits, completely forged and stamped under the local grid.

For "Defense," the fine print reads.

I can’t help but let out a genuine chuckle, my fingers lightly tracing the cool metal frame of the weapon. “Shukriya, chacha jaan. Mujhe bohot pasand aaya.”

["Thank you, Uncle dear. I liked it very much."]

Khalid steps smoothly into the driver's seat, closing his door as the engine rumbles to life.

“Highly placed medical professionals go anywhere they want without suspicion,” he states, his voice a low that cuts right through the low hum of the air conditioner. “Militant safehouses, high-ranking bureaucratic lounges, underworld grids... everyone gets sick. Everyone needs a doctor they can buy. You are about to become that doctor.”

I offer a slow nod.

As the dark Karachi streets roll past the tinted windows, I pack the titanium toolset and the medical licenses back into the custom casing. But I leave the silver firearm in my lap.

I pull out my smartphone, angling the front-facing camera upward into the dim starlight of the cabin.

Holding the sleek silver frame up to my face, I press my lips into a playful, mocking pout directly against the cold mouth of the barrel, winking one dark eye at the lens before snapping the shutter.

South City Hospital, Clifton, Karachi — 2011.

The South City Hospital is an absolute world away from the chaotic, blood-slicked triage rooms of other hospitals. The air conditioning hums at a freezing frequency, the floors are polished to a mirror-like sheen, and the elite clientele ensures my civilian cover remains completely flawless.

For the past few months, the routine has been smooth. I’ve shifted my base of operations into Khalid uncle’s old residential house, the proximity drastically cuts down my commute and secures my communications grid.

I’ve treated a handful of high-profile bureaucrats and corporate elites already, but establishing deep, operational proximity to them is proving much harder than the handlers back in Delhi anticipated. They enter my ward as patients, wrap themselves in strict confidentiality, and leave the second their prescriptions are signed.

I am quietly charting files in the cool sanctuary of the examination room when the heavy door swings open. Two men stride into the private ward. I immediately straighten my posture, sliding my new black-and-silver stethoscope around my neck as I rise to meet them.

“Khushamdid, kya takleef hai aapko?” I address them. ["Welcome, what seems to be the trouble?"]

“Ji mujhe nahi, inhe,” the man in front replies anxiously, his arms carefully shifting to reveal a tiny, fragile girl child cradled against his shoulder. “Hum safar kar rahe the aur inhe bohot zyada ultiyan hone lagi.”

["Well, not to me, to her. We were traveling and she started vomiting severely."]

I offer a reassuring nod, my pen immediately scratching against the medical intake chart to document the onset of symptoms. Stepping forward, I gently guide the weak, lethargic child onto the examination bed.

I press the cold silver diaphragm of the stethoscope against her tiny chest, carefully monitoring the rapid, shallow cadence of her heartbeat and the subtle rattle in her breathing.

As I adjust her posture, I note the distinct, upward slant of her eyes, the low-set ears, and the characteristically small, shortened neck.

“Down syndrome hai inhe?” I question softly, keeping my eyes on the guardian.

["Does she have Down syndrome?"]

The man nods quickly, his face tight with exhaustion and worry.

The second man, shifting uncomfortably behind his thick wire-rimmed glasses, speaks up. “Doctor, aap jald hi dawai likh dijiye. Humein kahin zaruri taur par jaana hai.”

["Doctor, please write the medicine quickly. We have to go somewhere urgently."]

I slowly lower my pen, my eyes narrowing. “Severe dehydration in Down syndrome patients can trigger rapid electrolyte collapse. If you put her back in a moving vehicle right now, her throat will constrict from the stress. She needs an immediate intravenous line and at least four hours of strict clinical observation.”

The man in glasses instantly closes his mouth, his defensive posture fracturing.

Beside the bed, the man holding the child offers a slow, somber nod of compliance. He reaches up, removing his dark black aviator shades to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes.

He leans slightly toward his companion, his voice a whisper.

“Mir, tu Bade Sahab se mil. Main shaam tak aunga.”

["Mir, you go meet the Big Boss. I will come by evening."]

Mir offers a tight nod and immediately slips out of the private ward, his boots clicking rapidly down the polished corridor.

I turn back, my pen poised over the crisp white paper as I continue digging into their profile. “Naam?”

["Name?"]

“Safeena Iqbal.”

“Umar?”

["Age?"]

“Teen.”

["Three."]

“Aap itni chhoti bachchi ko apne saath kyun le jaa rahe the?” I question smoothly, as I check the child's pulse once more. “Ghar par koi khayal rakhne wala nahi hai?”

["Why were you taking such a small child with you? Is there no one at home to take care of her?"]

He shakes his head, a heavy, exhausted shadow falling over his harsh features. “Aaya hai, lekin aaj woh nahi aa paayi.”

["There is a nanny, but she couldn't come today."]

“Aur ammi?” I ask casually. ["And her mother?"]

“Nahi hai.”

["She isn't there."]

His words makes my pen stop completely against the paper. The tip leaves a small, dark ink bleeding spot on the white page. I lift my head, staring directly into his unblinking gaze for one long, silent second.

I don't say a single word. I simply drop my eyes back to the sheet. “Guardians name.”

The man adjusts the sleeping girl against his chest.

“Major Humaid Iqbal.”

What.

Is he the…

My fingers tighten around the barrel of the pen. I force a slow, composed nod. “Woh aapke saath kon the?” I ask. “Kaafi jaldi mein lag rahe the. Unhe samajhna chahiye aapki haalat.”

["Who was that with you? He seemed to be in a big hurry. He should understand your situation."]

Major Iqbal lets out an exhale, his broad shoulders shifting under his jacket, “Woh aise hi hain. Sajid Mir, jaanti hogi?”

["He's just like that. Sajid Mir, you must know him?"]

Yes. Every single operative across the border knows that name. It is the same Major Iqbal of ISI. The high-ranking military counter-intelligence architect whose signatures and shadow logistics sit on the absolute highest priority files in the New Delhi basement.

The man behind the orchestration of the 26/11 attacks. And his closest associate, the man who just walked out of my clinic with a pair of glasses, is the primary operational link to the entire regional militant network.

“Kaafi suna hai aapke baare mein,” I murmur softly, “Aapki marzi ke bagair Pakistan ka ek patta bhi nahi hil sakta.”

["I have heard a lot about you. Without your permission, not even a single leaf can move in Pakistan."]

Iqbal simply nods, his expression remaining entirely flat, and exhausted. He doesn't preen under the flattery. He doesn't care about the heavy honorifics or the terrifying weight of his own shadow legacy anymore; right now, he is just a man watching the, slow rise and fall of his daughter's chest.

“Khair...” I whisper.

I tear the official prescription sheet from the pad and hand the paper directly across the space into his calloused palm. “Ise third floor waale counter par dikhayega. Wahan par aapko saare medicines mil jayengi. Aur dhyaan rahe, bachchi ka rest karna zaruri hai.”

["Anyway... Show this at the third-floor counter. You will get all the medicines there. And remember, it's critical for the child to rest."]

Our fingers briefly brush against the paper—the R&AW phantom and the ISI mastermind, completely bound together by a medical script.

For an entire week, Major Iqbal subtly disrupts his high-ranking military schedule, personally visiting my private Clifton ward every single afternoon to analyze the child's fluctuating lab sheets and electrolyte reports.

But my real victory is engineered through the child. Safeena grows intensely attached to my presence. She learns to associate the sharp, stinging bite of the intravenous injections with the immediate, sweet reward that follows, the premium chocolates I always keep hidden in my lab coat pocket specifically for her.

Within a month, the weekly hospital checkups naturally transition into a highly exclusive, private domestic arrangement. I begin visiting Major Iqbal's house twice a month for routine checkups.

During my second home visit, I am sitting on the carpeted floor of the inner sunroom, playfully snatching a chocolate bar out of Safeena's tiny hands while she giggles frantically, trying to climb over my knees to reclaim it.

“Bade Sahab ke private doctor ko kisine khatam kar diya,” Khanani rasps out, “Ab ek kamyab doctor dhundhna mushkil hai.”

["Someone has assassinated the Big Boss's private doctor. Finding a competent, trustworthy doctor now is going to be incredibly difficult."]

“Ek suggestion hai mere paas.”

["I have a suggestion."]

“Kaun?”

“Humsheera.”

["Sister."]

I smoothly rise from the carpet, gently sliding the chocolate back into Safeena’s hands to quiet her. I smooth down the front of my kurti, and lean against the framework of the study door with a warm innocent smile.

“Kya hua, Iqbal bhai?”

["What happened, Brother Iqbal?"]

“Inse milo, yeh hain Javed Khanani.”

[Meet him, he's Javed Khanani.]

I lift my hands with elegant docility, offering a soft gesture of reverence. “Salam.”

“Sanaz, tumhare liye ek kaafi badhiya mauka hai apna hunar dikhane ka,” Iqbal continues smoothly, his large hand lightly patting the adjacent sofa cushion to invite me into the inner circle.

["Sanaz, there is a very great opportunity for you to showcase your skill."]

I step forward, as I choose to sit directly opposite the financial mastermind. “Oh?”

“Agar tum chaho toh tumhe haspatal ke lambe kaam se nikala jaa sakta hai. Aur dugna paise bhi milenge,” Khanani speaks up.

["If you wish, you can be removed from the long hours of hospital work. And you will receive double the pay."]

I let out a soft, breathy laugh, “Mazak kar rahe hain aap.”

["You must be joking."]

Iqbal slowly shakes his head, “Mazak karna bhool gaya hoon. I'm serious. Aur tumhari fikr bhi karta hoon.”

["I have forgotten how to joke. I'm serious. And I care about your well-being too."]

My playful demeanor drops instantly.

“Humein ek achche doctor ki talash hai. Puri tarah se private aur secure. Lekin fikr matt karo, aapki security ka pura dhyaan rakha jayega.”

["We are in search of a good doctor. Completely private and secure. But do not worry, your security will be fully taken care of."]

I steady the rhythm of my pulse, keeping my hands perfectly still in my lap as I look him dead in the eyes, “Achcha... Toh kaun hai mere client?”

["I see... So who is my client?"]

“Chalo, tumhe milwata hoon,” Major Iqbal commands flatly, turning on his heel to guide me toward the exit.

["Come, let me introduce you."]

“Oye bhosdike Major, kahan marne jaa raha hai?”

[“Hey idiot Major, where are you going to die?”]

The coarse roar of his father’s voice suddenly erupts. Iqbal doesn't even flinch. His posture remains completely rigid, paying absolutely zero attention to the old man's vulgar outburst as he keeps his focus pinned to the mission grid. “Safia.”

With a quick, silent nod, the nanny immediately steps out of the shadow corridor, gently taking a now-sleeping Safeena from his arms to carry her off to the nursery.

The ride back to Clifton is a tense blur.

White House 13.

We step through the heavy double oak doors. Suspended directly above the grand marble foyer is a massive, crystal-cut chandelier, easily as large and heavy as a structural car, casting a brilliant, cold glare over the polished floors.

Before I am allowed to take a single step toward the interior parlor, a deadpan security unit forces me through an invasive physical checkup, testing every seam of my clothes and checking my bag before finally stepping back to let me pass.

We settle onto the plush, expensive leather sofas in the main receiving lounge.

Thud... Thud... Thud.

My eyes dart upward, tracking a thick figure slowly descending the marble steps. His movements carry a heavy age, yet his presence radiates a terrifying gravity.

A thick, burning cigar rests between his knuckles, a dense stream of grey smoke obscuring his features, a stark, iconic mustache cutting across his severe jawline.

Major Iqbal and Khanani instantly stand up, their postures shifting into a deferential code of respect. I am the last one to rise from the leather, the air completely dying inside my throat as I offer a low, barely audible whisper.

“Assalam walaikum...”

“Dawood.” The man himself speaks.

“Ibrahim.” Iqbal adds seamlessly.

“Kaskar...” I finish the line beneath my breath.

The trinity is complete. I am standing inside the inner sanctum of the D-Company, looking directly at the face of the most wanted ghost on the planet.

Major Iqbal glances sideways at my pale expression, offering a low, entirely serious reassurance. “Ghabrao matt, kaafi achche insaan hain.”

["Don't be scared, he's a very good human being."]

I force a stiff, compliant swallow down my dry throat, my fingers tightening against the hidden strap of my bag as I stare into the golden-rimmed glare of the devil’s eyes.

Oh, really?

“Bhai, yeh hai Sanaz. Kaafi achchi doctor hai. Aap aankh band karke bharosa kar sakte hain,” Major Iqbal’s voice carries an uncharacteristic warmth

["Brother, this is Sanaz. She's a very good doctor. You can trust her with your eyes closed."]

A silent, uniform-clad staff member glides into the room, quietly placing a silver tray loaded with steaming tea and porcelain saucers onto the mahogany table before stepping back into the shadows.

Dawood slowly tilts his heavy head, his dark sunglasses catching the sharp, cold refraction of the car-sized chandelier hanging above us. His gaze drills directly into my profile, heavy with decades of unadulterated suspicion. “Kya qualifications hai aapki?”

["What are your qualifications?"]

I don't shift my weight. “Jinnah Sindh Medical University se MBBS kiya hai, Bhai. Gold medalist hoon clinical pathology mein,” I reply smoothly, looking straight through his tinted lenses. “Pre-graduation training Lyari General Hospital, Karachi government hospitals aur bhi bohot jagahon se kiya hai. Post-graduation training South City Hospital se chal rahi hai, and I specialize in advanced critical care and internal medicine.”

["I did my MBBS from Jinnah Sindh Medical University, Brother. I'm a gold medalist in clinical pathology. My pre-graduation training was at Lyari General Hospital, Karachi government hospitals, and several other places. My post-graduation training is ongoing at South City Hospital, and I specialize in advanced critical care and internal medicine."]

The old monster offers a slow nod. From this close proximity, I note the coarse, brittle streaks of silver and white bleeding through his dark hair, and the distinct tremors pulsing through his fingers as they rest near his cigar.

He isn't that old to be this physically compromised. There is a deep rot eating at him from the inside out.

“Safeena ko sirf ek hafte mein theek kar diya. Kaafi achche se dekhbhal karti hai,” Major Iqbal chimes in. ["She cured Safeena in just one week. She takes care of things very well."]

Dawood’s jaw sets under his mustache. “Kahan rehti ho?”

["Where do you live?"]

“Ji South Karachi. Chacha ke saath.”

["South Karachi. With my uncle."]

“Khandan mein aur koi nahi?”

["No one else in the family?"]

“Hai. Ammi Abbu Dubai mein rehte hain,” I weave the fabrication flawlessly, “Mujhe marizon ki seva karna achcha lagta hai, isilye yahan reh gayi.”

["There are. My mother and father live in Dubai. I just love serving patients, that's why I stayed behind here."]

He tilts his head a fraction lower, “Yeh kaam toh aap Dubai mein bhi kar sakti thi?”

["You could have done this work in Dubai as well?"]

I offer a measured nod. “Haan. Lekin main iss mitti ki shirkat hoon. Pakistan ki bhalai ke liye mujhe jo bhi karna pade, mujhe manzur hai.”

["Yes. But I am a partner to this soil. Whatever I have to do for the sake of Pakistan, I accept it."]

Dawood's mouth loosen, a satisfied smile touches his peeling lips.

Got him.

“Kaafi wafadar ho,” Dawood replies, his voice dragging heavily through the dense cloud of cigar smoke. “Kya aisi hi wafadari humare saath nibha sakti ho?”

["You are quite loyal. Can you maintain this same loyalty with us?"]

“Beshak,” I reply instantly, without a single millisecond of hesitation. ["Of course."]

“Theek hai fir. Apni khwahishen zahir karo,” the old monster commands, leaning back into his leather throne as his trembling, spotted fingers tap against the armrest.

“Meeting ke liye aapko har waqt taiyyar rehna padega. Aap mere cardiologists aur neurologists ke under kaam karengi. Lekin saari baatein personal rahengi. Badle mein aapko clifton mein rehne ke liye ghar aur ek manpasand car di jayegi. Aur jo bhi aap chahen.”

["Fine then. State your desires. You will have to be ready for meetings at any time. You will work under my cardiologists and neurologists. But everything discussed will remain strictly confidential. In return, you will be given a house to live in Clifton, a car of your choice, and whatever else you want."]

I offer a slow nod. “Manzoor hai. Mujhe Bentley bohot pasand hai. I can't wait to take care of you, Bade Sahab.”

["I accept. I like Bentleys very much. I can't wait to take care of you, Big Boss."]

A dry, genuinely amused chuckle escapes past his frosted mustache. Dawood dips his burning cigarette into the crystal ashtray, “Honest girl. I like it. Aajiz hone ka natak nahi karti.”

["Honest girl. I like it. She doesn't put on a drama of being humble."]

The official non-disclosure medical contracts are finalized, assigning me to a strict twice-a-week rotation of White House 13, supplemented by sporadic consultations at South City Hospital.

The rewards of the deception are immense.

On the coast of Clifton, a luxury stone house overlooking the sea is quietly being cleared and furnished with premium interior stock to host my new base of operations.

More importantly, Dawood personally hands me the unilateral administrative license to manage the exclusive import of his foreign medicines.

I am in the middle of sorting through my room at the old safehouse, packing the final remnants of my civilian uniform to officially relocate to the Clifton estate, when a familiar shadow breaks the light.

“Kuch bhul toh nahi rahi?” Khalid uncle’s voice interrupts the silence of the bedroom. [“Are you forgetting something?”]

I turn around to find him holding a large, soft tiger plushie—the exact one he had tracked down and bought for me months ago when I had broken character for a single fraction of a second and admitted how desperately I missed the small comforts of my real home in India.

A soft, genuine smile finally breaks across my face, and I step forward, taking the massive plushie into my arms and crushing it against my chest. “Ise kaise bhul sakti hoon, yeh toh meri dost hai.”

["How can I forget this? She is my friend."]

Khalid lets out an affectionate chuckle, leaning down to help me press the remaining medical files into the heavy travel bags. “Apna aur apne dost ka dhyaan rakhna. Call ya fir message karte rehna. Agli baar Dawood se kab mil rahi ho?”

["Take care of yourself and your friend. Keep calling or messaging. When are you meeting Dawood next?"]

“Agle hafte,” I reply flatly, “Chacha... Mujhe dimethylmercury chahiye.”

["Next week. Uncle... I need dimethylmercury."]

Khalid’s posture instantly stiffens. He stops short, straightening his spine as he slowly sits down on the edge of the mattress, “Woh toh pehle se hi bohot bimaar hai na?”

["He's already very sick, isn't he?"]

I step over, settling onto the mattress directly beside him, “Hai. Maine uske bohot purane medical records check kiye. Kuch 80s-90s ke time ke. Reports mein thallium ke traces the.”

["He is. I checked his very old medical records. Somewhere from the 80s-90s era. There were traces of thallium in the reports."]

Khalid raises a sharp, stunned eyebrow, “Kisi first-generation spy ka kaam hai.”

["It's the work of a first-generation spy."]

I offer a solemn nod of validation. “Haan. Uske baad Dawood ne security aur bhi tight kardi hai. Lekin symptoms abhi bhi dikhte hain, jaise uske haath kaapte hain, jaise uski aankein andar dhas chuki hai.”

["Yes. Dawood tightened security significantly after that. But the symptoms are still visible, like how his hands shake, how his eyes have sunken inside."]

“Magar Sanaz,” Khalid warns, reaching out to firmly grab my arm, his eyes heavy with a rare terror for my safety. “Dimethylmercury is extremely poisonous. Tumhare jaan ka bhi khatra hai.”

["But Sanaz. Dimethylmercury is extremely poisonous. Your own life is in danger."]

I look past his shoulder, tracking the dark, shifting shadows of the Karachi skyline through the windowpane, “Chinta matt kijiye.”

["Don't worry."]

Inside the cold shadows of the old stone Victorian house, I stand over the workbench, wearing two thick layers of specialized protective gloves, my fingers vibrating with an involuntary tremor.

The danger in the room is invisible and absolute. Sitting in the center of the clean surface is a tiny, unmarked glass vial containing the altered dimethylmercury.

Directly beside it rests a single, unsealed softgel medical capsule, the exact daily maintenance pill I had meticulously slipped out of Dawood's mansion during my last rotation.

I uncushion the micro-syringe. I draw up one single, microscopic droplet of the translucent toxin. The needle tip punctures the soft outer layer of the gel capsule with a faint click, and I depress the plunger, injecting the compound directly into the core before sealing the membrane.

I slide the lethal capsule back into the primary prescription bottle, mixing it seamlessly among the identical ordinary pills. I let out a long, shuddering sigh, clearing the chemical apparatus from the table, stripping off the protective layers, and tearing the respirator mask from my face.

The execution is loaded.

Dawood Ibrahim lies propped up against the expensive linen pillows of his bed, the morning starlight filtering through the heavy drapes.

I arrange the imported medicine bottles across the silver bedside tray, positioning the modified container right at the front. I step toward the edge of the mattress, gently sliding the fabric sleeve of his gown upward to wrap the blood-pressure cuff around his thick arm.

“Yeh lijiye, sab ek saath lena hai,” I instruct softly

["Here, take this, you have to take them all together."]

The old monster lifts the glass with his trembling, spotted fingers, tilting his head back to swallow the lethal pill without a single fraction of suspicion.

He sets the crystal back down, his dark, heavy eyelids fluttering shut as a rare shadow of absolute relief settles over his weathered features.

“Kaafi achcha mehsus hota hai jab tum aati ho. Iqbal sahi kehta tha,” he murmurs into the quiet room, his voice carrying the raspy exhaustion of a dying empire.

He settles his head back into the pillows, “Aankh band karke bharosa kar sakta HOON AAP PAR.”

["I feel quite good when you come. Iqbal was right... I can trust you with my eyes closed."]

Masterlist.

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