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A Wound That Would Not Bleed, a Hand That Would Not Let Go
“HAMZA BHAI NE Rehman bhai ko bachane ki puri koshish ki.”
["Brother Hamza tried his absolute best to save Brother Rehman."]
The auto driver’s words are instantly swallowed by a chaotic sea of flashing microphones and heavy news cameras packed into the corridors of the Lyari General Hospital.
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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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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