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Fandom: Dhurandhar. Word count: 2635. Ship: Hamza Ali Mazari / Jaskirat Singh Rangi + Reader (F). Rating: Mature. Status: Complete PERIOD CARE One-Shot. Some things might not be accurate as this is my personal interpretation.
P — Planning & Protocol [The Mental Approach]
Hamza:
HE TAKES IT very seriously and obsessively tracks your cycles. Not in a weird way, but to check your mood and health, and you'll log each week on a shared application. If your periods are irregular, he takes care of it and asks questions too, "Iss mahine nahi aaya? It's okay, wait karte hain." [Did your period not come this month?]
Or if your dates are near, he would pull you close against his chest and ask, "Kaisa mehsus ho raha hai?" just to ensure you're feeling well during PMS. [How are you feeling?]
I also think he would stack period essentials in the bathroom like a fresh stack of panties and pads, or tampons, or cups—whatever you use. Painkillers and vitamins are neatly organized if you're lacking in them. Otherwise, the house is always filled with high-protein and calcium meals, fresh fruits, and fibers and of course, how can he forget sweets.
Jaskirat:
Maybe not as obsessive as Hamza, but he does ask if the dates are near so he'd start preparing. Not so different than Hamza, he'd stack fresh pads and essentials as well, as he knows exactly what his sisters go through.
Before your periods even hit, he'd wrap his solid arms completely around you, holding your frame tight against him for weeks, and say things like:
"Main yahi rahunga aapke saath."
[I'll be here with you.]
Since he lives in a village-like area, buying stuff could be a little harder, but since he's in the military, he does buy everything you need ahead of time. Whether it's the right cleaning stuff or heavy-duty medications to combat the worst of your cramps, he makes sure his territory is fully stocked for his queen.
E — Evaluation & Detection [How They Notice]
Hamza:
The very first time he noticed would be entirely quiet for him. Maybe you are wrapped tight in a blanket, or sitting in the bathroom with blood pooling between your legs, completely overwhelmed. He would just walk up to you, your small frame casting a delicate shadow, and lift your face gently in his massive hands.
His eyes would scan your pouty expression, and he'd kiss your forehead softly, whispering:
"Aap theek ho, meri jaan. Aapko kuch nahi hoga."
[You're fine, my love. Nothing will happen to you.]
Because what else could he say? It is not like he can magically fix your biology or fight the cramps with raw force, so he does the next best thing: he holds you tightly in his arms. That very first time, he would ask you absolutely everything about how you feel, how severe your cramps get, and how often you bleed, logging every detail into his brain so he can track it perfectly for the future.
He would look deep into your eyes and promise:
"Hum saath hain. We'll go through this together."
He says it so you never have to feel alone or broken in his presence. After that first instance, on a regular basis, he notices it effortlessly. Between his tracking and the subtle shifts in your behavior around him, he doesn't need you to say a word. He'll just smile slightly; that rare, soft expression reserved only for you, knowing his jaan needs his care and protection.
Jaskirat:
Okay, hear me out—I think the first time him noticing you would be shy. Not because he is weird or anything; he has sisters and he has taken care of them before, so the biology of it brings a sense of familiarity. But seeing his love go through this: noticing you changing pads, or spotting a sudden red stain on your salwar or pants; makes his heart do a sudden, heavy flip.
He would instantly think it’s a level of vulnerability that is almost too intimate, a private boundary where he isn't quite allowed to be that close to you just yet.
But again, that fleeting shyness wouldn't ever override his roaring protective instincts. He would slowly but carefully step in to help you, his frame guiding you gently at the bathroom door, or standing right beside you to help you carefully wash the stain out of your fabric.
He’d look down at you, his hand coming up to gently rub the back of your neck while you bury a shy, flustered smile against his chest, his voice softening:
"Bata diya karna aisa hone wala hai. Tere siva kon hai mere naal?"
[Tell me, this is how it's going to be. Who else do I have except you?]
After that first hurdle is crossed, the shyness completely evaporates. From then on, you would either tell him directly or his mind would mentally anchor your dates. He’d constantly check in, peppering you with protective questions about whether you’re feeling well or if the cramps are starting, so he can immediately kick his preparation into overdrive for his girl.
R — Reaction & Reassurance [Their Immediate Response]
Hamza:
That man doesn't care. He has been bathed in his own and his enemies' blood for years; it is just a liquid to him at this point. Though, he still feels bad because period blood isn't born of violence—in fact, his mind thinks it is the only form of blood that is truly pure in his dark world. Because of that, he would never be squeamish about it, and he would never make you feel awkward or uncomfortable.
But when he does physically see the dark blood stains or clots left behind in the bathroom, a deep, silent ache twists in his chest. He hates that something inside you is causing you pain that his raw physical power cannot fight. Pulling your frame back against his massive chest, he’ll wrap his large arms completely around you, resting his chin on your shoulder as a low, heavy sigh rumbles from his throat:
"Kaash main kuch kar pata... Lekin main aise hi tumhe sambhale rahunga. Itna toh kar hi sakta hoon."
[I wish I could do something... but I'll just keep taking care of you. That's all I can do.]
Jaskirat:
He is in absolute awe. Yes, he has grown up seeing his sisters and mother suffering through this, and he has always harbored a deep, quiet reverence for how women can bleed so intensely every single month, yet remain so incredibly alive and strong. He could never in his wildest dreams imagine bleeding from between his own legs and surviving it.
Though, again, he deeply dislikes seeing you in pain. Because he knows he cannot physically fight the cramps for you, his protective radar goes into overdrive. He will regularly check on you, asking with a furrowed brow if you are experiencing heavy bleeding or if your pain levels mean he should immediately carry you to the doctor.
He really isn't disgusted by any of it, though true to his respectful nature, he offers you much more privacy during your clean-up than Hamza does. Holding your delicate face in his large hands, his voice thickens with an intense devotion:
"Iss lahu ki kimat main iss janam mein toh kya, kisi aur janam mein nahi chuka sakta.”
[I cannot repay the price of this blood not only in this life but also in any other life.]
I — Internal Thoughts [What They Honestly Think About Periods]
Hamza:
He thinks it's... okay. Not too bad, but not too good either. It is not too bad because, to his mind, this blood is pure—untainted by the violence of his world. But it is not too good because blood is still blood, and it physically hurts you.
Generally, his analytical brain recognizes that having a uterus simply brings so many structural problems, vulnerabilities, and hormonal tolls to a woman's body.
When it comes to you specifically, he thinks it is deeply beautiful and courageous of you to go through this cycle every single month. Yet, it cuts right through his iron-clad composure; it actively hurts him to see you in pain when his brute physical strength cannot intercept it.
He hates the rare feeling of helplessness, leaving him with no solution besides quietly offering you medications, keeping your fluids up, and wrapping you in his heavy, protective comfort.
Jaskirat:
He thinks it is straight-up brutal. To his young, passionate heart, it feels like an entirely unnecessary, unfair evolutionary design against women in general. He harbors an immense respect for you and his sisters for handling such intense physical distress so consistently and so well, but he also deeply recognizes the medical and physical complications that come with it.
Because of this grounded understanding, he refuses to romanticize the struggle or treat it like a poetic sacrifice. At the same time, his protective nature means he absolutely loathes baseless assumptions, outdated taboos, or cultural stereotypes surrounding periods.
If anyone in his village or circle tries to push backward logic or make you feel alienated during your week, he will shut it down with a terrifying anger. To him, your cycle deserves total dignity, accommodation, and care.
O — Operation: Pain Relief [How They Cure the Pain]
Hamza:
He is much more practical than emotional when the pain peaks. He’ll prepare warm baths infused with epsom salts or ready a hot pad for your stomach if your cramps are running high. With heavy, deliberate care, those hands will gently massage your lower stomach to relieve the seizing muscles, his long fingers trailing down to massage your aching thighs and hips to alleviate the deep pressure.
In the kitchen; he’ll prepare warm, nutrient-dense soups or rich curries if you want them, or whip up a thick cup of dark hot chocolate knowing how much you love it and how effectively it helps your body relax.
However, he has zero tolerance for stubbornness when it comes to your health. He would be deeply annoyed and quietly angry if you refuse to take your prescribed pain pills, leveling you with a sharp glare that brooks absolutely no argument—one that makes you ultimately swallow the medicine without another word.
After everything is taken care of, he’ll tightly hug your frame to sleep at night. If he stays awake in the quiet hours, his eyes will subtly check the sheets for any accidental leaks or spotting, handling it silently so you can rest undisturbed.
Jaskirat:
He would go completely all in, turning a routine cycle into a comfort operation. If you so much as ask for a simple pack of pads, he will take it as a green light to bring absolutely everything in one massive go—heating patches, snacks, and multiple options: simply because his protective mind convinces him you might need it all.
He acts as your personal, doting luxury therapist for the week. You’ll find him constantly sitting at the edge of the mattress, massaging your feet with steady strokes or gently warming your stomach with his wide palms. He refuses to let the atmosphere turn entirely grim, continuously whispering sweet nothings into your ear like "meri sohnni jaan," or "itni pyaari kyun ho?" between soft kisses, or cracking ridiculous jokes just to pull your laugh out through the pain.
[My beautiful love, why are you so cute?]
Unlike Hamza, he won't openly fight you if you stubbornly refuse to take your pain pills; instead, he’ll just nod smoothly, accepting your answer to keep you calm. He'd disappear for ten minutes. Come back with your favourite chai. Sits beside you.
Hold the painkiller in one hand.
"Mainu pata hai tussi mana karoge... par meri khaatir?"
["I know you'll say no... but for my sake?"]
D — Domestic Devotion [The Aftercare & Mood Management]
Hamza:
He is mostly silent throughout the shifts in your mood, but he is always right behind you like an unbreakable shadow. Even after the week of menstruation finally ends, his eye stays locked onto you, quietly tracking your steps around the house and asking if you are feeling completely fine now that the storm has passed.
During the worst days of your cycle, when the hormonal crashes hit and you get irritated, snappy, or outright scold him for some minor detail, his composure doesn't crack for a second. He takes your sharp words silently, absorbing your frustration without an ounce of ego or pushback.
It’s that very stoic silence that inevitably makes you feel terrible for snapping at him a few minutes later; you'll find yourself crawling onto his lap, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, and crying into his shoulder out of sheer guilt. Hamza will just tighten his arms around you, his heavy fingers running gently through your hair as he reassures you in a grounding whisper:
"Koi baat nahi... main hoon na yahan."
[It's okay... I am here.]
He truly doesn't mind a single scratch of your temper; to him, being your safe space to unravel is part of his mission.
Jaskirat:
When your period finally ends, he treats it like a monumental achievement. He will basically celebrate the conclusion of the week like a massive, chaotic victory, throwing his hands in the air with a bright grin and cheering, "Hum jeet gaye!" as if the two of you just successfully survived a military deployment.
[We won!]
During the week, if the cramps make you highly irritable, he handles your mood swings with a playful, high-energy charm rather than quiet submission. Instead of walking on eggshells, he’ll playfully bump his heavy shoulder against yours, teasing you or deliberately baiting you with a cheeky comment just so you'll low-key yell at him.
The moment you snap, a massive laugh will rip from his chest, entertained by your fiery energy. But the second the frustration boils over into actual exhaustion, he’ll immediately soften, pulling you flush against his solid chest to cuddle you tightly. He’ll press a warm kiss to your cheek.
"Gusse mein achchi lagti ho.”
[You look good when you're angry.]
BONUS:
S — Sex
Hamza:
He doesn't mind oral sex during periods at all. Your pleasure is a direct form of therapy. He will simply clean you up gently with a warm towel, part your thighs with his hands, and then eat you out if he knows the uterine contractions from an orgasm will help you relieve the worst of your cramps.
Once you’ve completely unraveled and come apart against his mouth, he will calmly help you clean up again and gently guide you back into your clothes and fresh pads, as if it’s the most natural routine in the world.
However, he is deeply hesitant about actual penetration during this week; because it is internal, his brain isn't sure of the friction levels and refuses to risk doing anything that could potentially hurt your already aching body.
Jaskirat:
Faints.
He is a baby, okay?!
If you even casually mention the concept of doing anything down there while you are actively bleeding, his 21-year-old brain will completely short-circuit. He has spent the entire week treating you like a delicate, holy deity who shouldn't be touched roughly.
He’d look at you with wide, totally panicked eyes, his hands flying up to rub the back of his neck as he stammers:
"Oye... oye ni chal! K-Kujh vi bolde ho tusi? Jaan, dimag te nahi chadh gayi garmi?! Look at you, you’re hurting so much, and your mind is going there? S-Sharam kar lo thodi... chup karke so jao hun!"
[Oye... oh come on! H-how bold are you? Honey, haven't you gotten too hot?! H-have some shame... shut up and go to sleep!]
He would be so incredibly flustered that he’d literally pull the heavy blanket all the way up over your face just to hide his own burning blush, before climbing into bed and wrapping his arms tightly around you from behind; muttering to himself about how his queen is secretly a little menace even when she’s DOWN WITH CRAMPS.
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And They Called It Love, as If It Were Not Also Surrender
“DAWOOD IBRAHIM KE kareebi Amarjit Singh ki aaj hi hatiya hogayi. Aakhir kaun hai in sab ke peeche?”
[“Dawood Ibrahim’s close associate Amarjit Singh was assassinated today. Who exactly is behind all of this?”]
The television screen flickers in the dim room, the news anchor's voice strained with panic as the Karachi underworld fractures in real-time.
Hamza sits in the shadows, a thick cigar burning between his fingers as he swapes through his encrypted tablet. He routes the latest batch of raw intelligence logs back to New Delhi, detailing the bloodbath they have orchestrated over the past few weeks.
Across the city, senior commanders of LeT, JeM, and other elite militant factions are dropping like flies. Their bodies are found discarded on routine public roads, single, precise bullet entry wounds drilled cleanly into their chests or foreheads.
The unknown killers are clearing the board.
Janeman janeman janeman,
Jaayega tu kahan?
[My darling, my darling, my darling,
Where could you possibly go?]
Outside, a heavy monsoon rain pours over the concrete maze of the city, blurring the headlights of the passing traffic. Hamza sits silently behind the wheel of his unmarked SUV. Rizwan sits in the passenger seat beside him, his breathing disciplined, his posture alert. They have parked the vehicle blocks away from the primary target zone.
Through the sheet of rain, Zahid appears on the pavement. He lowers his dark umbrella to step into his doorway—
Smash.
Before he can even register the shift in the air, Rizwan steps out of the fog, striking the back of his skull brutally with a heavy construction brick. Zahid collapses instantly onto the concrete. Moving with speed, they drag his limp, bleeding frame straight into the empty structure, dropping him unceremoniously onto the cold floorboards.
Hamza pulls out his device, initiating a high-tier encrypted video call to Chief Sanyal. The connection stabilizes after a few seconds, the older man's sharp features illuminating the screen. A dark, cold chuckle echoes over the line.
“Kya re Zahur Mistry..? Pechana?” Sanyal murmurs, his tone dripping with terrifying finality.
[“What is it, Zahoor Mistry..? Recognize me?”]
Zahid’s vision blurs, his mind instantly flashing back to the blinding snow of the 1999 Kandahar tarmac. He remembers the exact moment he mocked the Indian Intelligence Bureau chief to his face, standing outside the hijacked aircraft: “Pados mein hi rehte hain hum, gude bhar ka zor laga lo aur bigaad lo jo bigadna hai.”
[“We live right in your neighborhood. Go ahead, use every ounce of your strength and try to ruin whatever you can.”]
Zahid begins to tremble violently, the two massive shadows of the R&AW phantoms looming directly over his bleeding form.
The neighborhood had finally come to collect the debt.
“Zyada zor nahi lagana pada na?” Sanyal speaks directly through the speaker, his voice that offers zero mercy.
[“We didn’t have to use too much strength, did we?”]
“Maaf kardo, jaane do...” Zahid whimpers, pressing his face against the bloody concrete, pleading to the digital screen.
[“Forgive me, let me go...”]
Tu hai noor e nazar meri,
Dil mera tujh pe fida.
[You are the light of my eyes,
My heart is completely devoted to you.]
“Meri ek baat puri kar de,” Sanyal commands coldly from the screen, his gaze burning into the captive. “Bharat Mata ki....” Silence. “Ki...?” [“Please fulfill one wish of mine, victory to…?”]
“Bharat Mata ki Jai!” Zahid screams out in primal terror. [“Victory to Mother India!”]
Bang.
Hamza doesn't wait for a second cue. He raises his weapon and fires a single, heavy round straight into the center of his forehead. The body drops flat. A beat passes. Bang. He fires again into the skull. Bang. And again.
Takrayenge Mehfil Mein
To Hogi Guftagu...
[When we collide in the gathering, there will be a conversation...]
“Sanaz ka message hai. Clifton bula rahi hai.” Rizwan whispers, sliding his screen shut as they clear the wet alleyway.
[“There's a message from Sanaz. She's calling us to Clifton.”]
Hamza gives a firm nod. They immediately switch vehicles, navigating the pouring Karachi rain toward Clifton's South City Hospital.
Inside the elite, sterile corridors of the private wing, the sharp click of clinical heels echoes against the polished floorboards. A nurse dressed in a white uniform and a light veil steps through the security grid, the tag pinned to her chest reading “Shazia Bano.”
She glides into the high-security VVIP room, quietly setting her stainless steel tray aside. She draws a clear, untraceable chemical compound into a syringe, injecting it directly into the running IV drip line.
Abdul slowly opens his heavy eyes, his vision blurring as he spots the silhouette beside his bed. “Yeh kya hai?”
[“What is this?”]
“Aapne kaha tha takleef ho rahi hai? Yeh aaram dega,” she murmurs softly, looking down.
[“You said you were in pain? This will give you relief.”]
The terrorist closes his eyes, surrendering to the medication as a tiny cold smile cracks across her face. Within seconds, his heart rate monitor spikes violently. His fingers twitch, his entire frame beginning to violently seizure against the white sheets before his chest gives a final, heavy shudder and goes completely still.
At the doorway, Hamza and Rizwan stand like two ghosts. Shazia turns around, giving the two a tiny, professional smile. Hamza steps in, pulling out his encrypted device to snap a high-resolution forensic picture of the carcass. Abdul Rehman Makki is officially dead.
Suddenly, Sanaz’s quiet, familiar whisper crackles through the earpiece from her monitoring station down the hall. “Kaam hogaya? Good job.”
[“Is the job done? Good job.”]
“Hogaya,” Shazia replies into her lapel mic, adjusting her veil as she prepares to dissolve back into the hospital staff grid. “Befikr rahiye.”
[“It’s done. Rest assured.”]
Tujhe Dikhla Dungi Taare,
Jab Honge Rubaru.
[I will show you the stars, when we meet face to face.]
They walk out into the parking bay, the rain washing away any stray traces of their presence. Before Hamza can start the engine, his phone rings aggressively. The caller ID flashes: Bhuttovi.
He slides the green icon across. “Ji Bhuttovi Sahab?”
“Hamza yeh sab kya ho raha hai? Kahin woh log mujh tak pohoch gaye toh?” The co-founder of the syndicate panics over the line, his voice shaking as the news of back-to-back high-profile assassinations fractures his nerves.
[“Hamza, what the hell is happening? What if those people reach me?”]
“Fikr na karein, Bhuttovi Sahab. Main intezaam karta hoon. In Hindustaniyon ki toh nasl hi khatam kar dunga main,” Hamza responds flatly.
[“Don’t worry, Mr. Bhuttovi. I will handle the arrangements. I will wipe out the entire lineage of these Indians.”]
“Beshak, Hamza... Sanaz ko bhi lekar aana, meri tabiyat kharab lag rahi hai. Woh phone nahi utha rahi, busy hai kya?”
[“Undoubtedly, Hamza... Bring Sanaz along too, my health feels poor. She isn't picking up her phone, is she busy?”]
“Hospital mein hai. Main aa raha hoon uske saath. Aapko chhupne ki zarurat hai, ek kaam kijiye...” Hamza instructs him, feeding him a highly specific, isolated set of coordinates.
[“She is at the hospital. I am coming with her. You need to go into hiding, do one thing...”]
The line cuts out. Sanaz climbs into the passenger seat, slipping out of her doctor's apron as her eyes lock onto Hamza's layout. The trap is set. They drive into the dense, foggy periphery to an undisclosed, deserted location where very few people can hear a man scream.
Main Aur Tu.. Oo…
Me And You.
The car grinds to a halt outside the decaying structure of an abandoned prison. Inside, Bhuttovi is waiting entirely alone. Perfect. They guide him deep into the shadows of a vacant cell block.
“Achcha hua tum aagaye, Hamza. Kya socha hai?” Bhuttovi breathes out, his nervous gaze darting across the cracked concrete walls.
[“It’s good that you came, Hamza. What have you planned?”]
“Bhuttovi Sahab, aapki tabiyat theek nahi. Pehle checkup kar lete hain,” Sanaz murmurs flatly, her glass bangles clinking softly in the damp air as she pulls a digital BP apparatus and a series of heavy insulin vials from her medical kit. She wraps the fabric cuff around his trembling arm while they sit on the rusted metal chairs.
[“Mr. Bhuttovi, your health is not good. Let’s do a checkup first.”]
“Dil ki dhadkan tez hain. Woh log humein maar dalenge,” the old man whispers, his chest heaving with panic.
[“My heartbeat is fast. Those people will kill us.”]
“Nahi pohonch paayenge yahan tak,” Hamza responds, “Aap mehfooz hain.”
[“They won’t be able to reach here. You are safe.”]
Sanaz pricks his finger with a clean needle, checking the digital readout on the glucometer. “Bohot high hai. Insulin lagega.”
[“It’s very high. You need insulin.”]
He lets out a weary sigh, adjusting the prayer cap on his head as he surveys the filthy, cobweb-strewn surroundings. “Sugar kabhi badh raha hai, kabhi kam ho raha hai. Kuch samajh nahi aa raha.”
[“My sugar keeps fluctuating, sometimes high, sometimes low. I don’t understand anything.”]
Sanaz stands right beside his shoulder, her gaze entirely detached as her thumb slowly twists the dial of the heavy syringe, selecting the concentration dosage: 15... 35... 65…
“In logon ko humari maalumat kaise pata chali?” Bhuttovi mutters, his eyes narrowing in thought.
[“How did these people get information about us?”]
Hamza takes a measured step forward as he leans into the old man's grid. “Jaise itne dino se teri maalumat kisi ko nahi thi.”
[“Just like nobody had information about you for all these days.”]
The dial clicks aggressively in the silence: 85... 105... 135…
Bhuttovi looks up at him, his pupils dilating in sudden, confused horror. Hamza’s green eyes are completely dead, devoid of a single shred of humanity. “Kya kaha tha tune, Ghazwa-E-Hind bambai se shuru hoga?”
[“What was it you said, that Conquest of India will begin from Bombay?”]
The old man’s survival instincts flash. He attempts to spring from the chair to flee, but Hamza moves with lightning speed—his thick palms locking around Bhuttovi's legs like iron vices, pinning him to the floorboards. In the exact same microsecond, Sanaz drops her weight from behind, wrapping her arm tightly around his throat in a brutal, chokehold lock, cutting off his airway.
“Ab yeh silsila jaari rahega, Bhuttovi Sahab,” Rizwan steps out from the concrete pillar as he violently tears open the sleeve of the man's kurta to expose the bare skin.
[“Now this cycle will continue, Mr. Bhuttovi.”]
Sanaz doesn't hesitate. She drives the uncalibrated insulin shot straight into the muscle tissue, emptying the fluid into his system.
Bhuttovi lets out a muffled scream of agony, his limbs flailing, but Sanaz instantly shifts her leverage. She grabs the second heavy glass syringe and thrusts the barrel violently down his open throat, shattering his teeth.
“Shor machane waale aksar zinda nahi bachte,” she whispers directly into his ear, her voice completely deadpan as she forces the cylinder further down his throat, “Main zinda hoon.”
[“Those who make noise rarely survive... I am alive.”]
The old man's body undergoes a hypoglycemic shock. His muscles twitch violently for a few seconds before his joints lock, his breathing stops completely, and his entire frame goes entirely still against the dirt floor.
The silence returns to the cell block. Hamza steps over the carcass, spitting coldly onto the concrete before he delivers a harsh kick with his boot, forcing the broken syringe entirely down the corpse's throat pipe.
Moving smoothly, they bag the evidence. The empty vials are tossed far out into the flowing river currents outside, the dark water swallowing the last traces of the co-founder's existence.
They return to the quiet layout of the Lyari house.
“Main fresh hone jaa rahi hoon,” Sanaz mutters as she walks toward the bathroom attached to her bedroom to wash away. [“I'm going to freshen up.”]
Hamza stands near the dresser taking off the jacket and tossing it aside. Before he can clear his path, the landline telephone resting on the nightstand beside the bed starts ringing aggressively.
“Jaan, phone!” he calls out toward the closed door.
[“Love, the phone!”]
“Pick it up. Shayad koi patient hai, use bolo thodi der mein call back karti hoon,” her muffled voice returns over the sound of running water.
[“Pick it up. Maybe it's a patient, tell them I'll call back in a bit.”]
Hamza takes two steps forward, lifting the receiver to his ear. “Salamwalaikum, Dr. Sanaz se baat karna hai?”
[“Salamwalaikum, do you want to speak with Dr. Sanaz?”]
A heavy silence drops over the line.
Outside, a massive crack of thunder strikes across the sky, the monsoon rain pouring violently against the glass window panes.
“...Bhaiya?”
[“...Brother?”]
Jaskirat’s breath stops completely.
The entire universe of Hamza Ali Mazari—the king of Lyari, the lethal executioner of R&AW—collapses into nothingness in a single microsecond.
His chest locks. His brain completely short-circuits, entirely unable to process the reality of that voice.
“Mujhe bas janna tha ki aap zinda ho,” the voice cracks over the receiver, carrying the devastating weight of years of unaddressed mourning. “Main pareshan nahi karungi. Rab rakha.”
[“I just wanted to know that you are alive. I won't trouble you again. God protect you.”]
Click.
The line goes entirely dead.
Hamza stands there, completely frozen into a stone monolith, the receiver still pressed tightly against his ear as the dial tone begins to beep hollowly.
“Jasleen...?” he breathes out into the empty room, his voice cracking. But the call is already cut. There is no way to dial back across the border.
His knees give out under the immense psychological weight, and he thumps down heavily onto the edge of the mattress, his large frame trembling slightly as a tight, suffocating knot forms directly in his throat. The boy who went to the gallows to buy her freedom is completely paralyzed by her tracking acumen.
The bathroom door clicks open. Sanaz steps out into the room, her face freshly washed and slightly wet, a towel held in her hands. She stops instantly, eyes locking onto his completely shattered posture.
Her gaze drops to the phone.
“Kon thi?” she asks softly. No answer. She steps right into his space, her eyes narrowing as the operational math instantly clicks in her mind. [“Who was it?”]
She places a firm hand on his massive shoulder, her voice dropping into a commanding tone. “Hamza... R&AW ko report karo. Isi waqt.”
[“Hamza... report to R&AW. Right now.”]
He simply nods, his eyes staring blankly at the floorboards as the shadows of his past life officially catch up to the war he is running.
Sanaz brings him the laptop. The encrypted connection syncs, the military-grade device blinking green after a few agonizing seconds. Sushant Bansal's sharp face fills the secure video frame.
“Early today, Hamza. Kya khabar hai? We heard members of LeT and JeM are dying. Good job,” Bansal speaks. [“Early today, Hamza. What's the news? We heard members of LeT and JeM are dying. Good job.”]
Hamza gives a flat nod. He doesn't take the compliment. “Jasleen ka call aaya tha.”
[“Jasleen called.”]
Bansal blinks, his entire professional composure freezing mid-breath. “What? How? How did she get your number?”
“Not mine. Sanaz’. Telephone business number.”
Bansal catches his head in his hands, his knuckles turning white as the sheer scale of the security anomaly hits his desk. “Tumne answer kiya?”
[“Did you answer?”]
He shakes his head, maintaining the lie just enough to protect the emotional truth of that brief exchange. He can't tell the agency he let her speak.
“Daat deni padegi, she's adamant,” Bansal mutters, a mix of frustration and forced respect in his tone.
[“I have to give her credit, she's adamant.”]
“She had been searching for me. Aapke paas bhi aayi hogi,” Hamza states.
[“She had been searching for me. She must have come to you as well.”]
“Yes,” Bansal replies, leaning closer to his camera, his expression hardening with a rare flash of administrative regret. “Mere paas nahi. Kuch junior officers ke paas. I guess humein us waqt sach bata dena chahiye tha, warna aaj aisa nahi hota. Anyway, main higher ups ko report karta hoon, she'll be under surveillance.”
[“Yes, not to me. To some junior officers. I guess we should have told the truth back then, otherwise this wouldn't be happening today. Anyway, I will report to the higher ups, she'll be under surveillance.”]
Surveillance. Hamza takes a deep, controlled breath, his chest rising and falling. Standing a foot away, Sanaz catches the micro-movement of his jaw. She notices it instantly. He would rather take a bullet than drag his sister into this radioactive mess, but Jasleen had forensically walked right into the line of fire herself.
“Sanaz kahan hai?” Bansal’s voice breaks through the silence.
[“Where is Sanaz?”]
“Right here, sir,” she steps cleanly into the video frame, her face entirely clear of emotion
“Okay okay, send the reports to Ms. Singhaniya by the evening. I'll handle this.”
The screen cuts to black.
He tosses the laptop aside, the heavy metal clattering against the bedside table as he buries his face in his large palms. “Ek kaam sahi hota hai toh dusra galat ho jata hai. Yeh aag hum sab ko le dubegi.”
[“When one thing goes right, another goes wrong. This fire will drag us all down.”]
Sanaz watches him for a silent beat before stepping into his space. She sits down right beside him on the mattress, “Waise theek hai na... Unke dil ko shanti mil gayi yeh jaankar ki aap zinda ho.”
[“Anyway, it’s fine, right? Her heart found peace knowing that you are alive.”]
“Woh sab main samajhta hoon, lekin... ab us par nazar rakhi jayegi. Kuch gadbad hui toh... woh uska career, life sab kuch neutralize kar denge.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “Shayad mujhe... baat karni chahiye thi, maa ke baare mein puchhna chahiye tha. Magar mission se badhkar kuch nahi.”
[“I understand all of that, but... now she will be watched. If anything goes wrong... they will neutralize her career, her life, everything. Perhaps I... should have spoken to her, should have asked about Mom. But nothing is bigger than the mission.”]
Sanaz moves her hand, placing her palms firmly against his tense shoulder. “Aapne jo kiya sahi kiya. Yeh nahi karte aur unhen baad mein pata chalta toh humein double agent karar kar dete.”
[“What you did was right. If you hadn't done this and they found out later, they would have declared us double agents.”]
He shakes his head slowly, unable to shake the suffocating knot in his throat. Outside, the violent monsoon rain beats against the mesh, fanning a cool mist into the room, tiny stray droplets settling on the glass panes.
“Mujhe thoda waqt chahiye, fir aage kya karna hai discuss karenge.”
[“I need a little time, then we will discuss what to do next.”]
He shifts his weight, about to stand up to pace the room and build his walls back up, but Sanaz’s fingers instantly slide down, catching his hand in a firm grip.
“Main hoon yahan,” she states softly, refusing to let him retreat into his usual isolation. “Aap... mujhse baatein kar sakte hain.”
[“I am right here. You... can talk to me.”]
He looks at their joined hands, a bitter, weary smile playing on his lips as he sinks back down onto the sheets. “Kitna hi sunogi, Sanaz? Bas dukh bhari hai is kahani mein.”
[“How much will you listen to, Sanaz? There is only grief filled in this story.”]
She tilts her head up, “Dukh baatne se kam toh nahi hota, lekin... mann halka hojata hai.”
[“Sharing grief doesn't lessen it, but... the heart becomes lighter.”]
“Dadaji fauj mein the, papa bhi. Main bhi military ki training kar raha tha. Ekees saal ka tha tab,” he says, his frame leaning back heavily against the wooden headboard, his eyes staring blankly into the shadows of the ceiling. “Pathankot ka MLA tha Sukhwinder Singh, zameen hadapne ke chakkar mein... usne mere papa ko zinda faasi pe latka diya. Badi behen Harleen ki izzat luti...” His voice cracks slightly.
[“Grandfather was in the army, Father too. I was training for the military as well. I was twenty-one then... The MLA of Pathankot was Sukhwinder Singh, to grab our land... he hung my father alive. My elder sister Harleen’s dignity was stripped...”]
“Barah logo ne. Khuleaam. Mere ghar mein ghus ke.”
[“By twelve men. Openly. Breaking into my house.”]
Sanaz’s face drops completely at the reveal, her composure entirely evaporating. The depravity of the event is far worse than anything her mind had prepared her for.
“Maa aur Jasleen thaane gaye, par har kisi ne FIR likhne se mana kar diya. Aur Jasleen ko bhi agwah kar liya,” he continues, his knuckles turning white as his hands clench against the sheets. “Main chutti se wapas aa raha tha, Pinda... woh black leather jacket wala aadmi jo ek mahine pehle aaya tha, bachpan ka yaar tha. Usne illegally bandhook aur AK47 lene mein madad kari. Lag bhag raat ke das baj rahe honge, main seedha Sukhwinder ke ghar gaya. Jitne bhi log saamne aaye, sabko maar dala. Saare ke saare barah logo ko.”
[“Mom and Jasleen went to the police station, but everyone refused to file an FIR. And they kidnapped Jasleen too. I was returning from leave, Pinda... that man in the black leather jacket who came a month ago, he was a childhood friend. He helped me procure an illegal handgun and an AK-47. It must have been around ten at night, I went straight to Sukhwinder’s house. Whoever came in front of me, I killed them. Every single one of those twelve men.”]
The heavy sorrow in his eyes burns away, replaced instantly by the terrifying anger.
She stares at him, processing dread and a fierce sense of pride. “Sahi kiya,” she replies lowly. [“You did the right thing.”]
He nods slowly, gulping down the tightness in his throat. “Lekin fir bhi hum court se yeh case nahi jeet paaye. Judge ne faasi suna di. Socha tha fauj mein shaheed hota toh maa ko muavza milta. Isilye Jasleen se wada liya ki kuch bhi hojaye, apni padhai puri karna. Aur aaj dekho...” A bitter, empty chuckle breaks from his chest.
[“But even then, we couldn’t win the case in court. The judge sentenced me to hang. I thought if I had martyred in the army, Mom would have received compensation. That’s why I took a promise from Jasleen that no matter what happens, she must complete her education. And look at today...”]
He reaches up, his rough fingers tracing across his cheek to wipe away a single, stray tear that managed to escape his defenses.
“Takreeban ek saal baad mujhe shift kiya jaa raha tha. Sanyal aur uske aadmiyo ne kidnap kar liya. Mujhe laga Sukhwinder ke ladke hain, lekin fir baad mein pata chala R&AW mujhe hire karna chahti hai. Mujhe ek nayi zindagi dena chahti hai, aur uske badle main unki saari baatein sununga. Sab tabah hogaya tha, magar jo bacha tha use sahi karna tha. Meri maut ka bahana banakar Indian government unhe aaj tak tees hazar bhejti hai.”
[“About a year later, I was being shifted. Sanyal and his men kidnapped me. I thought they were Sukhwinder’s boys, but later I found out R&AW wanted to hire me. They wanted to give me a new life, and in return, I would follow their every directive. Everything was destroyed, but whatever was left, I had to fix it. Under the pretext of my death, the Indian government still sends them thirty thousand to this day.”]
Sanaz blinks, her brain stalling on the absolute math of the transaction. “Tees?” She shakes her head slightly, her voice laced with a sharp disbelief. “I'm sorry, tees?”
[“Thirty? ... I'm sorry, thirty?”]
He nods, his expression flat. “Kam lagta hai. Lekin itna bhi bohot tha. Fir kya, meri training hui Para SF ke under. Saath saath humint aur thodi bohot chemistry bhi seekhi. Aur...” He lets out a long, heavy sigh, the exhaustion finally pulling at his frame. “Aur fir yahan aagaya.” He finally turns his head, eyes locking squarely onto her.
[“It seems like very little. But even that was a lot. Then what, my training happened under the Para SF. Alongside that, I learned HUMINT and a bit of chemistry too. And... and then I came here.”]
She remains entirely still, staring at the raw, unedited blueprint of the man sitting beside her. “Wow... Main...” She slowly looks away, her fingers tightening around his hand as she processes the sheer magnitude of the systemic failure that created him. “Kaafi bura hua aapke saath.”
[“Wow... I... A lot of bad things happened to you.”]
“Haan, ab wapas nahi jaa sakte. Lekin aage zarur badh sakte hain,” he murmurs, his grip on her hand tightening, returning the grounding anchor she offered him. “Sanaz... Mujhe yaad satati hai unki kabhi kabhi, lekin utni bhi nahi ki main wapas chala jaun. Nahi jana chahta. Jis liye mujhe yeh zindagi dobara mili hai woh pura karke hi marunga.”
[“Yes, we can’t go back now. But we can certainly move forward. Sanaz... I miss them sometimes, but not enough to go back. I don’t want to go back. The purpose for which I received this second life—I will die only after completing it.”]
“Marne ka bohot shauk hai aapko?” She slaps his hand. [“Do you have a great fondness for dying?”]
He smiles, a low glint of genuine warmth returning to his green eyes. “Shauk nahi, Sanaz. Aadat hai. Jaisi humari zindagi ke panne likhe gaye hain, jaan zyada din ki mehaman nahi hoti.”
[“It’s not a fondness, Sanaz. It’s a habit. The way the pages of our lives have been written, life isn't a long-term guest.”]
Suddenly, a violent gust of wind rattles the frame, forcing the window pane to swing wide open. A heavy mist of freezing rainwater sprays into the bedroom, dampening the floorboards. Sanaz gets up smoothly to close it, but instead of pulling the latch, she just stands there. She tilts her head slightly back, letting the cold droplets soak directly into her face and hair, using the shock of the water to ground her internal systems.
“Apne baare mein nahi bataya?” [“You didn't tell me about yourself?”]
She turns around to face him, leaning her weight back against the damp window sill, “Barwih mein thi main. Humara school thode scheduled area mein tha, funded by some mysterious rich spiritual master. Budget tight tha, isilye government school mein admission lena pada. Lekin 11th se hi maine kuch ajeeb cheeze mehsus ki. Class ke bachche gayab ho jate the. Pehle mujhe laga normal kidnapping case ho sakta hai. Lekin maine khoj been karne ka socha.”
[“I was in the twelfth grade. Our school was in a somewhat scheduled area, funded by some mysterious rich spiritual master. The budget was tight, so I had to take admission in a government school. But right from the eleventh grade, I started noticing strange things. Kids from the class would just disappear. At first, I thought it might be a normal kidnapping case. But I decided to investigate.”]
Hamza straightens up instantly “Fir? Kya hua?”
[“Then? What happened?”]
“Fir mujhe pata chala yeh normal case nahi. Pura human trafficking network hai. Maine proofs collect kare, kaise kuch teachers bachchon ko groom karte hain, aur fir...” She lets out a slow sigh knowing look passing over her features. “...aur fir manipulate karke undisclosed location pe bulate hain jahan koi na ho. And then they're supplied to rich people, including that spiritual master himself.”
[“Then I found out this wasn't a normal case. It was an entire human trafficking network. I collected proofs, how some teachers groom the kids, and then... and then manipulate them into coming to an undisclosed location where no one is around. And then they're supplied to rich people, including that spiritual master himself.”]
Hamza’s eyes widen slightly as the operational scope clicks in his brain. Jaskirat's past was born out of raw, personal fury—a sudden, violent reaction to a domestic strike. But Sanaz? This girl was playing multi-layered 3D chess against a deep state syndicate at seventeen years old, completely alone, guided only by her logic.
“Main police ke paas gayi. They said we started the investigation. Ek mahine, fir do. Koi khabar nahi. Toh fir maine direct blackmail kiya principal ko, taaki woh sach confess kar de aur main evidence police ko de sakun. Lekin usne mujhe paise ka laalach diya, jo maine le liye, but I still had the evidence.”
[“I went to the police. They said they started the investigation. One month, then two. No news. So then I directly blackmailed the principal, so he would confess the truth and I could give the evidence to the police. But he tempted me with money, which I took, but I still had the evidence.”]
He gets up from the mattress, taking a slow step toward her as a grim smirk plays on his lips. “So gadar machane waali baat wasn't a joke.”
[“So that part about causing an absolute uproar wasn't a joke.”]
She lets out a tiny, dark chuckle. “Shayad. Lekin jab maine saare evidence police ko pesh kiye, unhone mujhe girftar kar liya. Woh sab in kaamon mein mile hue the, tabhi toh crime rates nahi ruk rahe the. Principal ke saath woh guru bhi aaya, maa kasam aaj bhi khoon khaulta hai uska chehra dekhne se. Dhamki di, main haar nahi maani. Lekin... ek galti hogayi. Mere mummy papa ne woh saare evidence ek journalist ko bhej diya. Fir news reports, tv channels, har jagah ek hi khabar chal rahi thi. Use dabane ke liye woh log iss had tak gir gaye ki unhone uss journalist ke saath mere eklaute parivar ko bhi khatam kar diya.”
[“Perhaps. But when I presented all the evidence to the police, they arrested me instead. They were all complicit in these activities, that's why the crime rates weren't stopping. Along with the principal, that guru came too—I swear on my mother, even today my blood boils just seeing his face. He threatened me, but I didn't back down. But... a mistake happened. My parents sent all that evidence to a journalist. Then news reports, TV channels, the same news was running everywhere. To suppress it, those people fell to such depths that they wiped out that journalist along with my only family.”]
Hamza walks directly into her, stopping just inches away from her frame. He says absolutely nothing, his silent presence offering a protective wall against her past.
Though her expression carries a cold trace of anger, her eyes remain completely devoid of tears. She doesn't seem sad; she seems completely detached from the trauma, looking at her history like a medical ledger.
“Akeli thi jail mein uss raat. Woh log waha bhi aagaye. Mujhe maarna chaha mera gala ghot kar aur naali ke paas fek diya, shayad main mar gayi thi thodi der ke liye. Fir mujhe hosh aaya toh main hospital mein thi. Meera Singhaniya thi mere saamne, mere documents ke saath. Aur bas fir wahi kahani, Para medics seekha, defense and arms ki training li. Baaki logo ko pareshan karna toh mujhe pehle se aata hi hai.”
[“I was alone in the jail that night. Those people came there too. They tried to kill me by choking my throat and threw me near a drain—perhaps I was dead for a little while. Then when I regained consciousness, I was in the hospital. Meera Singhaniya was in front of me, holding my documents. And then it was just the same story—learned paramedical science, took defense and arms training. As for troubling other people, I already knew how to do that perfectly well.”]
Hamza’s thick brows furrow deeply,
“Yeh sab itni aasani se kaise bol sakti ho tum?” he asks. [“How can you say all of this so easily?”]
“Aasan nahi tha,” she looks away, her gaze tracking the dark line of the Karachi skyline through the open frame. “Aasan banana padta hai. Shayad main un jahillon se akeli lad leti, lekin mere parents ko nahi maarna chahiye tha. Shayad main kuch nahi kar paati, bachchi thi. Uss waqt unhe mujhe sach mein maar dena chahiye tha. Lekin dusri zindagi se milkar aisa lagta hai jaise maine maut ko takkar de diya hai.”
[“It wasn't easy... You have to make it easy. Perhaps I could have fought those fools alone, but they shouldn't have killed my parents. Perhaps I couldn't have done anything, I was a child. At that time, they really should have killed me. But receiving this second life, it feels as though I have clashed head-on with death itself.”]
“Ab toh mujhe unka chehra bhi yaad nahi,” she mutters, her voice flat, “Aur nahi karna chahti. Hum thode alag hain, Hamza. Tumne yeh sab kiya taaki tumhara parivar zinda reh sake. Lekin mere paas khone ke liye kuch nahi. Tum sahi the, Hamza. Main khudgarz hoon. Shayad hi koi pagal hoga jo itna khudgarz hote hue bhi yeh zindagi chunega. Shayad main pagal hoon. Mujhe bas marna nahi hai.”
[“Now I don't even remember their faces... and I don't want to. We are a bit different, Hamza. You did all of this so your family could stay alive. But I have nothing left to lose. You were right, Hamza. I am selfish. Hardly any madman would choose this life while being this selfish. Perhaps I am mad. I just don't want to die.”]
“Sanaz kabhi nahi marti.”
[“Sanaz never dies.”]
The chilling absolute of that statement almost sends a physical shudder down his spine.
He stares at the teenage girl who survived a prison drain, seeing the sovereign killing machine clearly.
“Khudgarz nahi ho tum. Kaash main tumhare jaisa hota. Lekin iss janam mein nahi ban paunga.” He reaches out, his palms closing around both of her hands, holding them tightly within his grid. “Wada karo, kabhi hum agar pakde gaye toh... tum mujhe chhor dena.”
[“You are not selfish. I wish I were like you. But I won't be able to become that in this lifetime. ... Promise me, if we are ever caught... you will leave me.”]
Her breath hitches slightly, her chest locking at his directive.
He continues, his eyes burning into her, “Main mar jaunga lekin tum par koi aanch nahi aane dunga. Ya fir, mujhe maar dena. Main nahi chahta mere zariye koi tum tak pahunche.”
[“I will die but I won't let a single flame touch you. Or else, kill me. I don't want anyone to reach you through me.”]
She gulps down the sudden, suffocating tightness in her throat, her detachment completely failing her. “Aisa matt bolo...” she mutters, trying to pull her hands back from his grip.
[“Don't speak like this...”]
“Shayad tumhare paas khone ke liye ab kuch hai,” he whispers softly. [“Perhaps you have something to lose now.”]
Her brows furrow slightly, the truth of his words hitting her like a physical blow. She moves forward, slamming her frame against his chest as she wraps her arms tightly around his torso in a fierce hug.
“Hamza... Agar hum kabhi pakde gaye toh khud ko zinda rakhna. Aur mujhe bhi. Humari jaan hai tumhare hawale,” she commands against his shoulder, her voice shaking as she explicitly redefines her survival protocol to include his life.
[“Hamza... If we are ever caught, keep yourself alive. And me too. Our life is entrusted to you.”]
He lets out a low, breathless chuckle, his arms wrapping around her waist to lock her against his chest. “Mere wade se bilkul ulta...”
[“Completely opposite to my promise...”]
The words stall in his throat. Suddenly, he feels a warm wetness soaking straight through the fabric of his black kurta.
Hamza pulls back slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. He reaches up, his large fingers gently catching her chin to pull her face up into the light. She resists the movement, trying to bury her face back into his shoulder, but he applies a firm, patient pressure until she has no choice but to look at him.
He stares at her face.
Traced down her cheeks are big, fat, silent tears—falling continuously for the very first time ever since the day they met.
“Sirf jhooth bolti ho tum, Sanaz,” he whispers, his voice dropping into a rough rumble as he wipes the tracks of her tears. “Har insaan ke dil mein kuch hai, tumhare bhi. Shayad hum woh cheezein bhul jaaye, shayad hum apna naam aur sheher badal le, lekin fir bhi woh sab kisi kone mein dabi hui hoti hai.”
[“You only tell lies, Sanaz. There is something in every human's heart, in yours too. Perhaps we might forget those things, perhaps we might change our name and city, but even then, it all remains buried in some corner.”]
She nods slightly, her eyes shifting away as she tries to rebuild her walls. “Mujhe nahi pata, Hamza. Maine yahan saat saal akele guzara hai, sirf Khalid chacha ke saath... woh bhi kabhi kabhar milne aate the.”
[“I don’t know, Hamza. I’ve spent seven years here alone, only with Uncle Khalid... and he only came to visit once in a while.”]
Hamza suddenly understands the depth of her irritation and her closed-off, defensive armor when they’d initially met. She wasn't just cold; she was entirely isolated in the enemy's terrain for seven years, surviving on pure survival mechanics.
He reaches out, his massive palm patting her back slightly, “Main hoon yahan. Rizwan, Jameel Sahab, Alam Bhai, sab hain.”
[“I am right here. Rizwan, Jameel Sahab, Alam Bhai, everyone is here.”]
“Main tumhe khona nahi chahati,” she mutters bluntly. [“I don’t want to lose you.”]
“Mujhse pyaar karti ho?”
[“Do you love me?”]
Sanaz squints her eyes, her processing loop instantly short-circuiting at the query. Without a microsecond of hesitation, she brings her fist down, hitting his chest hard. “Toh itne dino se hum naatak kar rahe the kya?!” she yells.
[“Then have we just been putting on an act all these days?!”]
“Woah, woah,” he chuckles, his hands easily coming up to catch her wrists, neutralizing her assault with a wide grin. “Gussa kyun ho rahi ho?” He looks down at her fierce, blazing face—she is intensely, beautifully possessive. “Main bas confirm kar raha tha.”
[“Why are you getting angry? I was just confirming.”]
“Matlab tum abhi tak mujhe lekar sure nahi the..?” The logic twist backfires instantly. Big, fat tears well right back up into her eyes, one droplet even running down her nose.
[“Meaning you weren't sure about me until now..?”]
“Arey, shh,” he murmurs softly, his heart completely melting at the sight of his unbothered doctor breaking down over a technicality. He leans in, his thick thumbs gently wiping the dampness from her cheeks and philtrum. “Tum thodi si bhulakkad ho kya? Chaar saal se peeche pada tha, tumhari hairband rakhi, tumhare liye paya—”
[“Oh, shh... are you a little forgetful? I was after you for four years, kept your hairband, brought anklets for you—”]
“Theek hai, theek hai,” she sniffles aggressively. She takes a deep, grounding breath to reset her respiratory system. “Bohot ro liya aaj.”
[“Fine, fine... Cried a lot today.”]
“Kabhi kabhi rona achcha hota hai. Yaad hai na, mann halka hota hai?”
[“Sometimes crying is good. Remember, right? The heart becomes lighter.”]
She gives a slow, quiet nod. She lets him wrap his large arms around her again, burying her wet face against his shoulder as his hand caresses the back of her damp hair.
“Hamza... Kuch bhi ho jaye, zinda rehna hai,” she whispers into the fabric of his kurta.
[“Hamza... No matter what happens, we have to stay alive.”]
“Koshish zarur karunga,” he replies against her crown.
[“I will definitely try.”]
Slowly, he tilts her chin upward, forcing her eyes to meet his one last time. He leans down and presses a deep, definitive kiss directly onto her lips.
Later that night, Sushant reported back that Jasleen was a little too adamant. She had pieced the trail together from digital wire photos and news reports of the MMP political rally in Lyari, where she also spotted Sanaz's face next to him. Tracking down a public clinical business inquiry number had been child's play for her sharp journalistic mind. She had formally stated to the junior monitoring officers that she merely wanted to verify her brother's breathing status. She was currently under strict R&AW surveillance—if the agency handed down a clean chit, she would be permitted to walk away from the tracking grid.
Hamza snaps the laptop lid shut, letting out a heavy sigh that vibrates in the dim room.
On the wall mount, the local television channel runs an urgent late-night broadcast. The anchor's voice is crisp: “Haal hi mein, Indian agency ke dwara panch sau aur ek hazar ke jaali note pure desh tak pohonchane waale syndicate ko uttar pradesh aur nepal mein pakda hai. Unka dawa hai ki yeh note Pakistani ISI se jude ho sakte hain. Halake government ne kaha hai ki bina evidence ke humpar aise jhoothe ilzaam naa lagaye jaaye.”
[“Recently, Indian agencies have intercepted a syndicate distributing counterfeit five-hundred and one-thousand rupee notes across the country in Uttar Pradesh and Nepal. They claim these notes could be linked to Pakistan's ISI. However, the government has stated that such false allegations shouldn't be leveled against us without concrete evidence.”]
Sanaz steps out of the dark kitchen frame, her expression entirely unbothered. “Khanani barbaad,” she mutters flatly, handing a tall glass of thick, warm saffron milk to Hamza.
[“Khanani is ruined.”]
He takes the glass from her fingers, downing the thick liquid in silent gulps. They had already completed their dinner hours ago. Sanaz leans against the counter, casually popping a sweet candy into her mouth.
Suddenly, the mobile device on the table rings aggressively. The caller ID flashes a single name: Khanani.
A dark smirk cuts across Hamza's sharp features. He slides the green icon across the glass, lifting the device to his ear with perfect warmth. “Salamwalaikum Khanani bhai. Itni raat ko phone kiya?”
[“Salamwalaikum Brother Khanani. Why did you call so late at night?”]
“Hamza main barbaad ho jaunga!” Khanani’s voice screams through the receiver, his legendary financial composure completely shattered into panicked pieces. “Dawood ke saath hazar crore hain mere paas panch sau aur hazar ke noto mein. Tere paas toh har musibat ka ilaaj hota hai na. Kuch kar bhai.”
[“Hamza, I will be ruined! Along with Dawood, I am holding sixty thousand crores in five-hundred and one-thousand rupee notes. You have a cure for every problem, don't you? Do something, brother.”]
“Aap chinta mat karo,” Hamza responds smoothly. “Kahan ho abhi?”
[“Don't you worry. Where are you right now?”]
“Factory mein.”
[“At the factory.”]
“...Akele ho?” Hamza pauses, his green eyes cutting across the room to lock onto Sanaz.
[“...Are you alone?”]
“Haan.”
[“Yes.”]
“Ek kaam karo,” Hamza instructs. He finishes the last drop of the warm milk, setting the glass down with a firm click before using the back of his hand to wipe his upper lip and thick mustache clean.
[“Do one thing.”]
Sanaz doesn't miss the transition. “Main bhi aaungi,” she says flatly. [“I'm coming too.”]
He glares at her for a long beat, assessing her stubborn operational stance. “Theek hai.”
[“Alright.”]
Hamza slides into a long, dark jacket over his black kurta, leaving his thick long hair open. Rizwan enters the room, wearing his usual linen kurta and structured utility vest, his expression hard. Sanaz quickly changes her attire, sliding into a pair of well-fitting palazzos to ensure easy, unrestricted physical movement, paired with a short kurti.
The three unknown killing machines walk out into the cold monsoon fog, climbing into the vehicle to collect the syndicate's ultimate financial ledger.
The dark sedan cuts through the heavy sheet of rain, rolling to the secluded industrial facility. Hamza steps out first, his tall frame instantly absorbing the freezing downpour as his long jacket catches the wind.
Rizwan takes his position right beside the vehicle’s chassis, his hand resting near his holster, while Sanaz remains securely inside the tinted rear cabin, completely invisible to the outside.
The two private security guards stationed at the entrance give a respectful nod, entirely oblivious to the executioners standing at their doorstep.
Hamza pushes the heavy iron doors open, stepping into the cavernous space.
“Hamza, tu aa gaya,” Khanani breathes out a massive sigh of relief, instantly springing up from his leather chair and extending a trembling hand toward him.
[“Hamza, you've arrived.”]
Hamza’s fingers wrap around his hand in a crushing grip. “Aagaya hoon. Puri keemat dilwaunga.”
[“I’m here. I’ll make sure you get the full price.”]
Along both lengths of the industrial warehouse room, thick pallets of illicit currency are stacked into literal, towering mountains of cash.
Hamza looks around the perimeter, his green eyes scanning the sheer scale of the operation. “Bas itne hi hain?”
They ascend the stairs in synchronized steps, leaving the guards on the ground floor. As they enter the upper VVIP vault room, Khanani flicks the heavy grid switches. The fluorescent tubes buzz to life, and Hamza’s breath hitches slightly.
The massive columns of counterfeit notes stretch nearly thirty feet high, touching the ceiling joists and wrapping entirely around the room's architecture.
The bright white light bounces off the sheer volume of the fake paper, casting a strange, surreal green hue over both of their faces.
They walk out onto the attached covered terrace to check the quality of the shipment.
Hamza casually pulls a fresh stack from the nearest bundle, holding a single five-hundred-rupee note directly under a bare inspection bulb. “Suna hai aapke bhai Altaf Khanani ko das saal ki jail hogayi?”
[“I heard your brother, Altaf Khanani, got ten years in prison?”]
“Bohot bura waqt chal raha hai, Hamza,” Khanani mutters with a bitter shake of his head as the heavy metal terrace door clicks shut behind them, sealing them away from the interior layout.
[“Times are very bad right now, Hamza.”]
The massive, flickering red light from a nearby commercial neon billboard cuts through the rain, washing a bloody crimson glow over their silhouettes. Khanani reaches into his linen pocket, pulling out a cigarette and offering it to Hamza. The taller one accepts it without a word. Khanani pulls out a lighter, sparking the flame to light Hamza’s cigarette before lighting his own.
“Bas kisi tarah iss changul se niklun. Fir un hindustaniyon ki aisi halat karenge ki—” Khanani growls into the dark, his eyes flashing with venomous hatred.
[“Just let me escape this trap somehow. Then, I will reduce those Indians to such a state that—”]
Before he can finish the sentence, Hamza takes a slow drag and blows a thick cloud of grey smoke straight into the older man's face.
“Kaise haalat karenge?” Hamza’s baritone drops into a calm whisper.
[“What kind of state will you reduce them to?”]
Khanani coughs roughly from the sudden smoke, but tries to straighten his posture. “Aisi haalat karenge ki bolne laayak nahi ch—”
[“We will reduce them to a state where they won't be able to sp—”]
Snap.
Hamza’s palm strikes forward, his thick fingers locking entirely around Khanani’s throat like an iron vice. “Kaisi haalat, Khanani sahab?” he asks softly, his eyes completely turning into a dead void as his grip squeezes tighter, crushing the billionaire's windpipe grid.
[“What kind of state, Mr. Khanani?”]
Khanani chokes violently, his eyes widening in sudden terror as his fingers claw frantically at Hamza’s massive wrists. But the Sher-E-Baloch is a mountain of pure, reinforced muscle. Without breaking a sweat, Hamza violently drags his thrashing, helpless body out from under the covered terrace ledge, pulling him straight into the open roof where the freezing monsoon rain slams down upon them.
Downstairs, the two security guards instantly freeze as the muffled scuffle from the open roof leaks through the concrete structure. Sensing the anomaly, they immediately reach for their weapons and turn toward the stairs.
They don't even make it to the first step.
Rizwan materializes from the shadows behind them like a ghost. He locks his arm around the first guard’s neck, pulling him back in a brutal chokehold before striking a heavy blow to his temple. The second guard frantically spins around, raising his hands to defend himself, but the passenger door of the sedan slams open.
Sanaz charges as she drives a vicious kick straight into his sternum, sending him crashing down onto the floor.
Before he can recover his, she draws her compact firearm. Bang. She fires a single round directly into the back of his skull, instantly fracturing the bone.
The first guard, bleeding and desperately gasping for air on the floor, tries to crawl away toward a dropped rifle. His trembling hand reaches for the grip, but Sanaz tracks the variable instantly.
Bang. A precise bullet drills straight through his forearm. He screams, dropping the metal as Rizwan casually steps over him, lifts the heavy rifle, and smashes the solid buttstock down against the man's head with lethal force.
The ground floor returns to a dead silence.
They look at each other through the damp air, giving a brief nod.
Up on the open roof, Hamza is ruthlessly dragging Khanani’s thrashing body toward the very edge of the terrace, his heavy boots screeching loudly against the rain-slicked floorboards. The billionaire’s fingers are completely raw from clawing uselessly at Hamza's iron wrists.
Hamza leans down, his chest heaving as he lets out a low growl. “Ek arse se aise ghut kar jiya hoon main. Jab tum sab mere desh ko noch kar khaa rahe the. Mann karta tha tum sab ko khatam kar doon... Magar woh sahi waqt nahi tha.”
[“I have lived suffocating like this for a decade. While you all were ripping apart and devouring my country. I felt like destroying all of you... but it wasn't the right time.”]
The blood-red glow of the flickering neon board paints his sharp features in a deep crimson hue. The torrential monsoon rain beats down on him, wetting his long, dark hair and causing it to plaster against his neck.
He leans in closer as he snarls directly into Khanani's dying face:
“Sahi waqt... Ab hai.”
[“The right time... is now.”]
Khanani lets out a final, desperate, muffled plea through his crushed windpipe—but Hamza doesn't waste another microsecond. He hurls the billionaire money launderer clear over the terrace railing.
The man screams, a sharp, terrified sound that is instantly cut short as his body plummets through the dark. He crashes violently through a web of high-voltage electric wires, sparks exploding into the night sky, before his frame smashes heavily against the commercial boards below and stills on the pavement.
Hamza stands completely motionless at the edge, his long jacket soaked, staring down at the ruined infrastructure of the syndicate's financial empire. He slowly looks over his shoulder.
Sanaz and Rizwan are standing at the terrace door, waiting for the next directive.
“Sanaz, petrol. Rizwan, wood,” Hamza commands.
Sanaz moves instantly. She navigates the industrial floor, gathering containers and siphoning crude oil and combustible fuel straight from the heavy machinery grids.
Meanwhile, Rizwan uses his physical leverage to splinter the heavy wooden doors and pallets, breaking them down into thick, jagged rods.
Together, they strip the coarse fabric from the dead security guards' uniforms, wrapping the material tightly around the ends of the heavy wooden sticks before saturating them completely in the dark, pungent oil.
Hamza steps forward. With a single flick of his lighter, the spark catches.
Once the torches are blazing, the three don't waste a single second.
They hurl the heavy mashals left and right into the cavernous rooms. The fire catches instantly. The sixty-thousand-crore mountain of counterfeit currency turns into a roaring inferno. The high ceilings trap the heat, and within minutes, the entire structural grid of Khanani's multi-layered empire begins to melt down into ash and black smoke.
They slip out through the rear exit grid, melting back into the cold monsoon fog just as the first industrial beams begin to collapse inside.
Behind them, the sky over Karachi bleeds a brilliant, destructive orange.
Let the world burn for you? No. I’ll burn the WORLD WITH YOU.
Masterlist. Tags: (comment to be tagged or removed). Vote, comment and follow for more updates. @rishwatkhor @afortoru @torumii @bittermiseryy @legendmoonstone @bway43 @dhoodhsoda @precioussophia @astrellapyxis @anxiousbeeing @youngloreninja @gulaabjamun08 @noor-archive @heartsforyouworld @harrystyleskiwi9 @angelicyuna @willowsgoldenhour @evemystjade @st4rmiist @pn28 @laal-pari @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @precioussophia @pleasetagmejaaneman @sugarvibez @avasif @carmenred28 @velvetdakait @khoonaurkhanjar @dumdumdaisy @cloudyparadoxqueen @batata04 @debsreads21 @vaari-javaan @hamzakamehroomkurta ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
“HUMEIN KHABAR MILI hai ki Hamza Balochistan gaya tha. Shayad woh Uzair ko bachane ki koshish kar raha hai.”
[“We have received reports that Hamza went to Balochistan. Perhaps he is trying to rescue Uzair.”]
The intelligence leak drops heavily into the command tent.
SP Chaudhry Aslam lets out a rough huff of air. He drops his half-burnt cigarette onto the concrete, crushing the ember beneath the heavy sole of his boot. “Pehle Lyari ki gaddi pe baitha, ab humare gardan pe baithna chahta hai. Nikla toh Baloch hi na.”
[“First he sat on the throne of Lyari, now he wants to sit on our necks. In the end, he turned out to be a Baloch after all.”]
[“Omar Haider. I’ve earned a lot of medals in my life, today you go earn one too. You go capture Uzair, I am going out on patrolling.”]
Aslam turns toward the perimeter and calls out to his junior officer. “Omar Haider. Zindagi mein maine bohot medal kamaye, aaj tu bhi kama le. Uzair ko pakadne tu ja, main patrolling pe jaata hoon.”
The young officer dressed in standard elite black fatigues smiles, a surge of ambitious pride lighting up his features as he salutes, stepping forward to climb into the lead command jeep.
Aslam walks away from the main intercept vehicle, choosing instead to climb into a completely separate, heavily armored backup convoy idling on the tarmac.
As the engines roar to life, the senior officer sitting in the passenger seat beside Aslam turns to him, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Sir, aapne Omar ko kyun bheja?”
[“Sir, why did you send Omar?”]
Aslam lets out a dark chuckle, the thick smoke from his lighter swirling through the cabin. “Jis raaste se Omar jaa raha hai, Hamza bhadwe ne pakka kuch intezam kiya hoga mujhe marwane ke liye.”
[“Omar is a very good officer. Send a bouquet to his house, a big one.”]
[“The route that Omar is taking, that bastard Hamza has definitely made some arrangement there to have me killed.”]
He leans his head back against the headrest, his hard eyes tracking the lead jeep through the reinforced windshield. “Bada achcha officer hai Omar. Uske ghar ek guldasta bhejna, bada wala.”
Outside, the flashing red and blue lights reflect against the rain-slicked Karachi streets as Omar’s decoy convoy steers hard to the left, while Aslam’s secondary convoy cuts hard to the right, slipping away into the shadows of the city.
“Bhai, maine Lashari ko Omar ke peeche bhej diya hai,” Zubin mutters into the receiver, his voice strained as he steers his vehicle through the congested Karachi lanes, keeping SP Aslam's secondary car quietly locked within his visual grid.
[“Brother, I’ve sent Lashari after Omar.”]
Hamza stands tall on the open concrete terrace, the dark circles beneath his eyes betraying the reality of a man who hasn't slept a single wink in the last forty-eight hours.
He wears a black kurta, his long dark hair flowing wild and unkempt in the coastal wind as his sharp gaze cuts across the expanse of the city below. “Sabash, peecha karte raho.”
[“Well done, keep tracking them.”]
Meanwhile, down on the terrace sofa, Jameel sits elegantly in his signature, tailored three-piece suit. The overhead sky remains a heavy, bruised purple, laden with the thick moisture of the heavy rain that battered the city earlier this afternoon.
“Mujhe yahan kyun bulaya, bachche?” he questions calmly, blowing a gentle stream of steam from his porcelain cup before taking a slow sip of his tea.
[“Why did you call me here, child?”]
“Saamne nazara dekhte rahiye, kuch dilchasp hone waala hai,” Hamza answers flatly, his large hands gripping the iron railing. [“Keep watching the view ahead, something interesting is about to happen.”]
Down inside the bungalow, Sanaz has finally woken up from a thirteen-hour beauty sleep. She is actively pacing around her newly styled vintage room, prepping her medical bag for her scheduled follow-up check-up with Major Iqbal’s daughter.
To match her unbothered mood, she has blasted a song track through the safehouse speakers:
मैं प्रेमी आहे
तू प्रेमी आहे
तू राजी अहा
मैं राजी अहा
[You are a lover,
I am a lover,
You are willing,
I am willing.]
Up on the edge of the terrace, Jameel leans closer to the iron perimeter, his seasoned intelligence eyes tracking the distant horizon. Miles away on the street grid, Omar’s designated convoy barrels through the local lanes, completely oblivious to the fact that Lashari’s vehicle is tailing them closely from behind.
Hamza keeps a hand on his hip, his thumb dialing the SP’s private line. The latter picks up almost instantly, his voice a snarly chuckle over the receiver. “Kya re, baloch?”
[“What is it, Baloch?”]
Hamza’s expression remains unreadable, “Kaha ho aap?”
[“Where are you?”]
A rough huff echoes from the other end. “Uzair ko lene jaa raha hoon. Tum kahan ho?”
[“I'm going to apprehend Uzair. Where are you?”]
“Apne ghar pe. Kyun kya hua?” Hamza answers with innocence.
[“At my house. Why, what happened?”]
“Tu itna bhi hoshiyar nahi hai, Hamza. Agar kuch hua toh Uzair aur teri, tum dono ke sar alag karunga.”
[“You aren't as clever as you think, Hamza. If anything happens, I will separate both your head and Uzair's from your bodies.”]
A slow sigh escapes Hamza’s lips as he stares out into the darkening skyline. “Aapki balochon ke khilaaf nafrat toh jayas nikli, SP Sahab.”
[“Your hatred against the Baloch turned out to be entirely justified, Mr. SP.”]
फिर क्या डैडी क्या अम्मा
एक बस तू ही प्यार के काबिल
सारा जहां है निकम्मा
[Then what of father, what of mother,
Only you are worthy of love,
The rest of the world is completely useless.]
“Khair, zindagi bhar yehi afsos rahega ki naa toh aap mujhe randwa bana paaye, na toh Jameel Sahab ko khassi,” Hamza murmurs into the line mockingly. “Baaki jahanum mein hisaab barabar kar lenge.”
[“Anyway, you’ll have to live with this regret for the rest of your life—that you could neither make me a widower, nor could you castrate Mr. Jameel. As for the rest, we will settle the score in hell.”]
Miles away on the grid, Aslam’s actual convoy grinds to a halt at a crowded traffic signal. Zubin’s tracking vehicle executes a slow, calculated turn directly toward the SP’s coordinates. Slamming his foot onto the accelerator, Zubin shifts the car into maximum speed, wildly exiting the immediate perimeter just seconds before the countdown hits zero.
SP Chaudhry Aslam lets out one final, arrogant chuckle into the receiver. “Itna overconfidence theek nahi. SP Chaudhary Aslam woh jinn hai—”
[“This much overconfidence isn't good. SP Chaudhry Aslam is that jinn—”]
Smash.
The remote clicker sits firmly in Zubin's hand, his thumb applying pressure to the trigger mechanism. The signal deploys instantly, and the armored car erupts into a catastrophic blast.
तम्मा तम्मा लोगे
तम्मा तम्मा लोगे तम्मा
[Tamma Tamma loge,
Tamma Tamma loge Tamma.]
The line goes completely dead. Jameel Sahab almost flinches.
Hamza slowly lowers his hand, setting the phone face-down on the iron railing.
His green eyes remain completely locked on the horizon, tracking the violent, orange glow fracturing the twilight and the thick column of black smoke rapidly forming over the distant road down from his bungalow.
The music cuts off. The sheer force of the blast was loud enough to rattle the vintage frames in her room.
Sanaz peeks her head out of her doorway, “Bijlee chamki kya?”
[“Did lightning just strike?”]
No one answers her from the terrace. Up above, the wind howls through the wild strands of Hamza’s dark hair as he slowly turns his head away from the burning horizon.
He looks directly at Jameel, “SP Sahab ke liye guldasta bhijwaiyega. Bada wala.”
[“Send a bouquet for the SP. A big one.”]
Zubin darts through the dark tree lines as the surviving officers from Aslam’s convoy recover from the shockwave and attempt to seal off the smoking intersection.
Miles away on the secondary grid, the secondary trap detonates right on cue—Omar’s decoy convoy is completely pulverized in a simultaneous explosion, erasing the state's diversion before the police can even coordinate a counter-strike.
“Nayi khabar aa rahi hai, ki gayi SP Chaudhary Aslam ki hatiya. Ekees jawan shaheed. Aaropi ka kehna hai ki yeh hamla TET ke militants ne karwaya jinki SP ke saath dushmani thi. Uzair Baloch hue sahi salamat Karachi jail ke liye rawana.”
[“New updates are coming in regarding the assassination of SP Chaudhry Aslam. Twenty-one officers have been martyred. The accused claim that this attack was orchestrated by TET militants who held a rivalry with the SP. Meanwhile, Uzair Baloch has safely departed for Karachi jail.”]
Click.
Hamza flicks the remote, cutting the broadcast to absolute black.
Sanaz sits poised on the adjacent plush sofa, completely dressed for her medical rounds in a fresh salwar suit. “Kaise kiya? Itne kam waqt mein?”
[“How did you execute this? In such a short amount of time?”]
He sinks his sleep-deprived frame onto the sofa right across from her grid, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “Aadhi raat gaye Shirani sahab ke ladke Lyari aa rahe the, unse mulakat hogayi. Humne saare plans banaye, aur ek saath yahan wapas aagaye.”
[“In the dead of night, Mr. Shirani’s boys were already heading down to Lyari. I met up with them along the highway. We formulated all the operational plans right there, and returned here together.”]
He didn't even complete the full ten-hour journey to Balochistan. He intercepted the reinforcements at the mid-point border, drafted the blueprints on a highway tarmac, and deployed the execution before sunrise.
Jameel Sahab straightens the lapels of his suit, stepping into the center. “Uzair ka kya karein?”
[“What do we do with Uzair?”]
“Zinda rakho,” Hamza replies flatly, his eyes darkening. “Kisi na kisi din toh kaam aayega hi.”
[“Keep him alive. He will come in useful for us one day or another.”]
Suddenly, the melodic notes of a flute ring through the quiet living room. Sanaz pulls out her device, sliding the green icon across the glass.
“Ji Iqbal bhai. Koi baat nahi, main shyam ko aajaungi,” she states flatly. She cuts the line with a smooth click of her thumb. “Iqbal SP ke assassination ki khabar lene jaa raha hai. Shyam ko bulaya hai.”
[“Yes, Brother Iqbal. No problem, I’ll come by this evening. Iqbal is going to gather intelligence on the SP's assassination. He has called me over in the evening.”]
Hamza gives a single, firm nod of his head. “Theek hai fir, aaram karo. Main thodi der baad Uzair se milne jaaunga.”
[“Alright then, get some rest. I will go meet Uzair in a little while.”]
“Main bhi chalungi,” she replies instantly, setting her medical bag down onto the table. [“I'm coming too.”]
Hamza's brow furrows, a deep, protective line forming between his eyes. “Tum kyun?”
[“Why you?”]
“Hum saath mein kaam kar rahe hain na?” she fires back deadpan. [“We are working together, aren't we?”]
He lets out a rough, defeated huff. “Agli baar crossfire mein le jaunga tumhe.”
[“Next time, I'll drag you right into the crossfire.”]
“Sabse pehli goli tumhe hi maarungi,” she counters without a single microsecond of hesitation. [“The very first bullet, I'll shoot you with it.”]
“Shant,” Jameel Sahab interrupts, setting his teacup down with an elegant click. “Main jaa raha hoon Iqbal ke saath. Tum dono dhyaan se jana Uzair se milne.”
[“Quiet. I am going with Iqbal. You two go carefully to meet Uzair.”]
“Uzair Baloch ko terah saal ki kadi saza sunayi gayi hai.”
[“Uzair Baloch has been sentenced to thirteen years of rigorous imprisonment.”]
The judicial declaration echoes in the mind as the luxury SUV grinds to a halt within the high-security perimeter of the Karachi Central Prison. The reinforced doors click open, and the dust of the prison yard swirls as they step out onto the road.
Rizwan follows a step behind, his eyes darting across the guard towers, a heavy bag slung securely over his shoulder. A bribed warden guides them through the labyrinth, the heavy iron keys clinking against the concrete walls until they reach the deep, shadowed interior of the high-tier block where Uzair is held.
Behind the iron bars, the former king of Lyari looks completely hollowed out. Stripped of his local wealth and authority, he wears a thin, faded shirt and standard prison pants, looking strikingly small.
Hamza reaches up, slowly sliding his dark sunglasses off his face. “Kaisa hai, Bhai?”
[“How are you, brother?”]
Uzair doesn't speak.
He simply gives a slow, heavy nod behind the bars. The claustrophobic weight of the brick walls presses down on them, thick with the scent of damp stone and stale sweat.
Hamza casually slips his glasses into the front pocket of his black kurta. “Lyari mein sab theek hai. Rehman ke katil ka aaj dehant hogaya. Suna toh hoga.”
[“Everything is fine in Lyari. Rehman’s killer passed away today. You must have heard.”]
A dark satisfaction crosses Uzair's tired features. He nods again. “Suna hai. Mere liye kiya?”
[“I heard. You did it for me?”]
Hamza’s thick brows furrow, his voice dropping into a protective frequency. “Bhai hai tu mera, jaan laga dunga tujhe bahar nikalne ke liye.”
[“You are my brother, I will put my life on the line to get you out.”]
“Baaki sab kaise hain?” Uzair asks softly, leaning closer to the iron grating.
[“How is everyone else?”]
“Theek hain,” Hamza replies, letting out a heavy sigh. “Ulfat bhabhi aur Faizal yaad karte hain tujhe. Kisi din unhe milwane launga tujhse.”
[“They are fine. Sister-in-law Ulfat and Faizal miss you. I’ll bring them to meet you one day.”]
Uzair’s gaze shifts past Hamza’s massive shoulder, tracking the silent figure standing right at the edge. His eyes narrow slightly in curiosity. “Yeh kon hai?”
[“Who is she?”]
Hamza turns his torso slightly, reaching out to gently guide Sanaz closer. She remains completely unbothered by the atmosphere, her hands calmly adjusting the folds of the cotton dupatta over her head to fit the traditional family disguise.
“Sanaz Ali Mazari,” Hamza introduces smoothly, explicitly using his operational surname to anchor her legal status within the Baloch cartel.
“Sanaz Siddiqui,” she corrects deadpan without missing a single beat. [“Sanaz Siddiqui.”]
A tiny, rare smile cracks through Uzair's hardened expression at her sharp response. He lowers his head slightly in respect. “Salam.”
She gives him a firm, reassuring nod, “Hamza bohot fikr karte hain aapki. Aap ek din zarur yahan se nikalenge aur woh dur nahi.”
[“Hamza worries about you a lot. You will definitely get out of here one day, and that day is not far.”]
[“Leave it to God, sister-in-law. Stay happy with him.”]
Hamza takes a step back, his eyes locking onto Uzair's face with a cold finality. “Theek se rehna. Aur yaad rakh, hum balochon ki jung abhi khatam nahi hui hai.”
[“Stay strong. And remember, our Baloch war isn't over yet.”]
We share a nod and climb up. Rizwan presents the heavy bag to a guard. “Mere bhai ko kuch nahi hona chahiye,” Hamza says, his tone deadpan. “Dhyaan rahe.” The officer cracks open the zipper of the bag—thick, banded stashes of cash tightly packed to the brim. The guard quietly nods, sealing the transaction.
[“Nothing should happen to my brother. Keep that in mind.”]
We get back in the SUV, the heavy iron gates of the central prison locking behind us. “Chaar bajne waale hain, Iqbal wapas aagaya hoga na?” Sanaz checks her wristwatch. They both exchange a solemn nod and drive through the fading daylight toward Major Iqbal's residence.
[“It’s almost four o’clock, Iqbal must have returned by now, right?”]
After at least twenty minutes of navigating the Karachi traffic, the SUV grinds to a halt outside the house. They step inside, the heavy front door being opened by Safiya. Sanaz immediately breaks away from the group, heading straight to Safeena’s room to conduct her medical evaluation, while Hamza and Rizwan take their positions on the sofa.
“Basheer, kahan mar gaya! Sab ke liye chai manga, Iqbal bhadwa bahar hai,” Jahangir barks from his spot, his voice raspy and bitter.
[“Basheer, where the hell did you die! Order tea for everyone, that bastard Iqbal is outside.”]
Hamza shakes his head slightly, keeping his enforcer posture perfectly guarded. “Rehne dijiye, hum theek hain.”
[“Let it be, we are fine.”]
The old man sitting on the wheelchair lets out a mocking chuckle, his hollow eyes scanning Hamza's massive frame. “Beta tere jaisa hota toh use gaali nahi deta. Ek waiter se Karachi ka Badshah ban gaya aur Iqbal major ka major hi reh gaya.”
[“If my son was like you, I wouldn't curse him. From a waiter, you became the King of Karachi, and that Iqbal just remained a Major.”]
Hamza stays quiet. The irony is suffocating—how does a deep-cover R&AW asset even formulate a response to an ISI handler's father praising him over his own son? “Iqbal bhai bohot mehnat kar rahe hain Pakistan ko uske mukaam tak pohonchane ki.”
[“Brother Iqbal is working very hard to take Pakistan to its rightful destination.”]
Another loud, dismissive laugh breaks from Jahangir’s throat. “Lundfakir koshish! Aaj tak kuch nahi ukhaad paya.”
[“A useless effort! He hasn't managed to achieve a single damn thing to this day.”]
Hamza leans back.
“Basheer, maine kaha hai jab Sanaz ghar par ho inhe bahar matt laya karo,” Iqbal’s voice cuts through the tension as he enters the house, visibly exhausted, kicking off his shoes by the threshold. [“Basheer, I told you, don’t bring him out here when Sanaz is in the house.”]
“Maaf kijiyega,” Basheer mutters quickly, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair and dragging the old man back toward the isolation of the inner quarters.
[“Forgive me.”]
Iqbal sinks heavily onto the adjacent seat, loosening his collar as his sharp intelligence eyes lock onto Hamza’s. “Achcha kiya tu agaya. Bade Sahab ne milne bulaya hai.”
[“It’s good that you came. The Big Boss has called us for a meeting.”]
Hamza gives a silent nod.
Meanwhile, inside the quiet bedroom, Sanaz calmly wraps her fingers around Safeena’s tiny wrist, checking her pulse while the little girl distractedly drives a small toy car across the mattress. The door clicks open, and Iqbal and Hamza enter the room with muted steps, taking their seats along the edge of the bed.
“Reports normal hain, speech mein bhi improvement ho rahi hai,” Sanaz states. [“Reports are normal, and there’s an improvement in her speech as well.”]
Iqbal’s exhausted features soften as he looks at his daughter. “Haan, humsheera. Tumne kaha tha toh maine bahar se do tote laya. Ab dono aapas mein jhagadate rehte hain.”
[“Yes, sister. You had suggested it, so I brought two parrots from outside. Now both of them just keep fighting with each other.”]
Near the window frame, a large iron cage houses two vibrant parrots actively bickering on their wooden perch. “Meethu bolo, meethu bolo,” the red one squawks aggressively, while the green one peaks back at it, chattering, “Meethu love Safeena.”
[“Say Meethu, say Meethu... Meethu loves Safeena.”]
The little girl’s face lights up. She climbs out of the sheets and toddles over to the window, pressing her small hands against the bars as she mimics them. “Meethu love Safeena.”
Sanaz quietly organizes the medical paperwork, handing the latest clinical trajectory sheets to Iqbal. He accepts them with a grateful nod, his eyes lingering on the data before he turns and leaves for his study to file them away.
Hamza watches the little girl, a rare, genuinely gentle expression breaking through his hardened exterior. He reaches out, lightly patting her tiny shoulder as he pulls a small, plush squishy toy from his pocket. “Aapko khargosh bohot pasand hai na?”
[“You like rabbits a lot, don’t you?”]
Safeena nods eagerly, wrapping her small hands completely around the toy. She turns back toward him, her tiny fingers tentatively reaching out to grasp Hamza's massive, scarred hand. “Shu... kriya...”
[“Th... ank you...”]
The hands of a gunman holding something so fragile is heavy.
“Chocolate, chocolate,” Safeena murmurs, shifting her focus as she pats insistently at Sanaz’s lap. It’s an unwritten rule now; every appointment concludes with a hidden treat.
“Here it is,” Sanaz smiles softly, pulling a small chocolate slab from her medical bag and handing it over.
The little girl sits back, proudly opening her drawing book to display her latest masterpiece. It’s a collection of colored lines: a basic stick figure with “Abbu” scribbled over it, a dark, heavy figure labeled “Dada,” and a bright yellow figure carefully marked “Doktor.”
Hamza leans his massive frame over her shoulder, pointing a thick finger at the blank space on the page. “Aur main kahan hoon?”
[“And where am I?”]
Safeena tilts her head, blinking up at his towering silhouette. “Aap... kon?”
[“Who are... you?”]
He lets out a low, deeply amused chuckle. “Hamza.”
“Hanza...”
“HaMza,” he repeats patiently, placing a emphasis on the syllable.
“Hammmza.”
He lets out a mock defeatist sigh, rolling his eyes. Sanaz chuckles at his bruised ego, leaning forward. “Aur main kon hoon?”
[“And who am I?”]
“Doktor Sanaz.”
“Good girl.”
Hamza huffs, looking between the two of them with a faint smirk. “This isn't fair.”
The light moment pauses as Safiya enters the room, carrying a plastic sipper bottle filled with milk and a small bowl of assorted dry fruits. “Chalo baby, shyam ka naashta kar lo.”
[“Come on baby, have your evening snack.”]
Safeena pouts, crossing her small arms. “Mujhe... choco milk... chahiye.”
[“We don’t have that right now, you can drink it tomorrow, okay?”]
The little girl aggressively shakes her head, pushing the sipper bottle away. Before a tantrum can spark, Hamza gently catches her small hands in his palms, drawing her focus away from the resistance. “Aise nahi karte. Abbu ke jaise strong banna hai na?” He gestures toward a framed photograph on the nightstand—a younger, proud Iqbal holding a tiny, newborn Safeena.
[“We don’t do that. You want to be strong like your father, right?”]
She looks at the photo as she nods slowly.
“Doodh piyogi?” Hamza asks softly.
[“Will you drink your milk?”]
“Haan.”
Sanaz twists off the restrictive cap of the sipper to make it easier for her, handing the bottle over as Safeena takes a compliant sip.
A sharp, clear throat breaks the silence from the doorway.
They all glance up.
Major Iqbal is standing by the frame, his uniform perfectly adjusted. The domestic intermission is officially over. Safiya quickly steps into the room, lifting the child into her lap to quietly feed her the dry fruits.
“Tum bhi aaogi humare saath?” He questions.
[“Will you also come with us?”]
Sanaz nods, slightly confused. “Kyun kya hua? Saath mein Bade Sahab ka treatment kar dungi.”
[“Why, what happened? I'll handle the Big Boss's treatment at the same time.”]
Iqbal gives a grim, formal nod. “White House pe nahi bulaya. Humare ISI ke daftar pe bulaya hai.”
[“We haven't been called to the White House. We've been summoned to our ISI office.”]
“Oh...” She looks at Hamza. They don’t need doctors at an intelligence headquarters. This is an interrogative tactical zone. But she does want to go, she needs to see the belly of the beast.
“Waise aana chaho toh aa sakti ho,” Iqbal says, a subtle, mocking smirk playing on his lips. “Abhi kal hi toh nikah hua hai, Hamza ke bina chain kahan?”
[“Though, if you want to come, you can. Your marriage just happened yesterday after all, where would you find peace without Hamza?”]
A rare, sudden flush of heat rises to her cheeks, but she keeps her composure intact. “Ji... Aaungi.”
[“Yes... I will come.”]
“Darna nahi.”
[“Don't be afraid.”]
“Darna kyun?” she questions immediately. [“Why should I be afraid?”]
“Arey doctor ho, farishte ka roop hote hain. Tum kahan humare jaise jalladon ka kaam jaanti ho?” Iqbal chuckles. [“Oh, you're a doctor, the form of an angel. How would you know the work of executioners like us?”]
Hamza’s sharp gaze cuts across the room, instantly noticing the microscopic clench in her jaw. Farishte ka roop. Of course, she’s no angel—She knows the executioner's trade better than Iqbal ever will. But Hamza stays entirely silent, letting his Bagh play her part.
“Shayad aaj jaan lungi, Iqbal bhai,” she replies flatly.
[“Perhaps I will find out today, Brother Iqbal.”]
“Heh,” he looks at her, turning toward the door. “Chalo fir.”
[“Heh. Let's go then.”]
Major Iqbal, Rizwan, Hamza, and Sanaz walk out into the cool Karachi evening, climbing into the fortified vehicle to drive straight toward the ISI's den.
The heavy vehicle rolls up to the unmarked perimeter, the tires crunching against the gravel as the doors click shut behind them. Inside the dark cabin, Hamza reaches out a hand firmly gripping Sanaz’s fingers.
All around them in the vehicle transit, thick stashes of illicit cash are packed into heavy crates. It’s the sixty-thousand-crore fake currency shipment that Khanani is preparing to bleed into the Indian banking system.
Hamza had already routed the raw intelligence wire back to New Delhi, but R&AW was still frantically figuring out how to structurally intercept a pipeline this massive. Beside the cash, crates of military-grade arms and black-market rifles are laid bare, while a few young recruit boys sit on rugs on the concrete floor, quietly whispering their prayers.
As the group enters the dimly lit office, Major Iqbal casually removes his shades, his posture instantly aligning with the room’s hierarchy.
Dawood Ibrahim sits squarely in the center of the leather grid, a slight, gravelly cough rattling his chest as he takes a slow drag from a thick, burning cigar. Around the polished mahogany table, the elite architecture of the underworld is already fully assembled, Khanani, Mir, Azam, and Bhuttovi sitting in tight, silent formation.
Dawood’s heavy eyes shift toward the doorway, his brow furrowing slightly as his gaze lands on her. “Sanaz?”
Khanani lets out a smooth, dismissive chuckle, waving his hand to diffuse the scrutiny. “Jaane do, bhai. Nayi nayi dulhan hai.” He reaches onto the side console, pulling out a stack of fresh local newspapers and handing them over to her. “Wahan baith jao.”
[“Let it be, brother. She's a newlywed bride... Sit over there.”]
Sanaz lets out a quiet sigh, accepting the papers as she takes her seat on the plush leather sofa, while the men gather tightly around the map on the table.
“Humare sabse kaabil SP ko maara, din dahade...” Dawood mutters, the thick smoke from his cigar swirling toward the ceiling fan. “Kisne?”
[“They killed our most capable SP, in broad daylight... Who did it?”]
“Media reports keh rahi hai TeT ke militants ne kiya hai. Sach ya Jhooth, pata nahi,” Mir answers, checking his ledger.
[“Media reports are saying TET militants did it. Truth or lie, we don’t know.”]
“Ek imaandar officer ko dhundhna hoga. Kaam aur bhi zyada badh gaya,” Dawood huffs, his shaky, aging fingers tapping the ash off his cigar. “Pata lagao kisne kiya hai.”
[“We’ll have to find a compliant officer. The workload has increased even more... Find out who did this.”]
“Aur us agent ka kya hua?”
[“And what happened to that agent?”]
“Aakhir kaar humein mil hi gaya,” Iqbal’s voice turns entirely icy. “Humare saath rehkar humari mukhbari karta tha.”
[“We finally caught him. He was staying with us while operating as an informant against us.”]
Across the room, Hamza and Sanaz simultaneously gulp, their ears completely alert to any specific names or operational cells being named.
“In hindustaniyon ne jung ka ailan kar diya hai,” Dawood growls, leaning over the table as his gaze burns into his commanders. “Iqbal, Mir, Azam... Maqsad ki taiyaari karo. Is baar bees nahi, chaalis mujahidinon ko bhejo. Naye saal ke din Hindustan mein Allah ka keher barsega. Itna khoon bahao, itna khoon bahao ke inke aansu kam pad jaaye.”
[“These Indians have declared war. Iqbal, Mir, Azam... prepare for the objective. This time, don’t send twenty, send forty militants. On New Year’s Day, God’s wrath will rain upon India. Shed so much blood, so much blood that their tears fall short.”]
Iqbal nods instantly, his eyes shifting toward Hamza’s coordinates. “Hamza... Jab main bolun, hathiyaar pohonch jaane chahiye.”
[“Hamza... When I give the word, the weapons must reach their destination.”]
“Yahan par taiyaari?” Sanaz’s voice cuts through the heavy masculine tension from the sofa. “Jis agent ko aapne pakda hai woh yeh sab jaanta hoga.”
[“Preparations over here? The agent you’ve captured must know about all of this.”]
“Muridke kaisa rahega?” Hamza mutters quickly. [“How about Muridke?”]
The men around the table nod in agreement.
Dawood turns his head toward the sofa, his expression shifting into a strange, nostalgic gaze as he gestures toward her. “Sanaz, yahan baitho. Bilkul Marukh ki yaad dilati hai.”
[“Sanaz, sit here. You remind me exactly of Marukh.”]
Sanaz tilts her head slightly. “Marukh?”
“Marukh. Beti nahi, beta hai,” Dawood murmurs, a bitter, weary sigh escaping him as he reflects on his bloodline. “Mera kaam sambhalna chahti thi, lekin maine use Dubai bhej diya achchi zindagi ke liye. Ab lagta hai uski jagah Moin ko Dubai bheja hota toh achcha hota. Khair, kaam hojana chahiye.”
[“Marukh. Not a daughter, she’s like a son to me. She wanted to take over my business, but I sent her to Dubai for a better life. Now I feel it would have been better if I had sent Moin to Dubai instead of her. Anyway, the work must be done.”]
“Hojayega.”
[“It will be done.”]
“Allah Hafiz.”
The aging don leaves on shaky, unstable legs, surrounded by a heavy wall of armed guards.
Iqbal stands up next. “Sanaz sahi keh rahi hai. Mir... Samaan taiyyar karo.”
[“Sanaz is right. Mir... prepare the equipment.”]
He walks toward the back corridor, fully convinced that her proactive suggestion about checking the informant’s knowledge was born out of absolute loyalty to them. “Maze ki baat yeh hai ki, humne khabri ko kaid karke rakha hai.”
[“The fun part is, we have kept the informant captured right here.”]
Hamza and Rizwan follow closely behind him alongside Mir. Sanaz stares down at the newspaper in her lap for a few agonizing seconds, her fingers digging into the paper before she stands and follows them slowly into the concrete corridor. She clutches the fabric of her dupatta tightly around her chest, her composure fracturing as her heartbeat begins to steadily rise.
“Hamza pata hai, 1971 ke jung ke baad Pakistan mein dukh ka mahol tha. Us waqt main sirf che saal ka tha. Zia-ul-haq ne jo baat boli thi woh mere zehan mein bas gayi.” Iqbal’s voice echoes hollowly as they descend into the dimly lit subterranean chamber. “Bleed India with a thousand cuts.”
[“Hamza, you know, after the 1971 war there was an atmosphere of grief in Pakistan. At that time I was only six years old. The words Zia-ul-Haq spoke became engraved in my mind... Bleed India with a thousand cuts.”]
The heavy steel door swings open, revealing the absolute horror of the ISI extraction cell.
On the central concrete slab lies a man, completely stripped of his clothing and his dignity.
Every single inch of his raw skin has been pierced with thick, heavy needles. Each needle is attached to long, taut iron chains hanging directly from the high ceiling grid above.
Hamza halts right in front of the slab, his features freezing into a flat mask to avoid displaying an ounce of emotion. Rizwan steps up behind him, his face visibly turning pale and uncomfortable. Sanaz hovers just outside, five feet away, but the fluorescent lighting leaves nothing to the imagination. She can see everything.
“Bilkul aisi haalat karunga main uss mulk ki,” Iqbal murmurs. He pulls on a pair of thick, insulated leather gloves, pointing directly at the brutalized body on the stone.
[“I will reduce that country to exactly this state.”]
He steps into the immediate space of the torture rig, his gloved fingers wrapping tightly around the cluster of chains hooked into the flesh of the man's face. “Kitne kaafir agents aaye tere saath?”
The captive lets out a raw scream that tears through the concrete walls. “Kahan deployed hain? Bol beta!” Iqbal tugs sharply at the iron links.
“Shh shh, arey main tujhe nahi maarunga. Seedhe-seedhe bol de.” No answer. Iqbal’s face twists into pure rage. “Bol madarchod!”
[“How many infidel agents came with you? Where are they deployed? Speak, son! ... Shh shh, look, I won't kill you. Just tell me directly. ... Speak, you motherfucker!”]
With a brutal jerk, Iqbal wrenches the chains upward.
The immense force rips dozens of needles straight out of the man's facial tissue simultaneously, the thick crimson blood splattering across the concrete floor and the edges of the slab.
The sheer brutality of the extraction causes even Hamza's hardened frame to flinch for a microsecond.
Outside the door, Sanaz instantly shifts her eyes away, making her feel physically sick to her stomach.
The captive man speaks nothing. Mir steps forward, handing a thick, heavy iron chain to the Major. Iqbal wraps the metal around his gloved fist.
“Bohot kathor maans hote hain yeh,” Iqbal murmurs, and with a sudden swing, he smacks the iron heavy against the man's raw chest. The chains attached to the ceiling ripple violently with the concussive force. “Pyaar nahi samajhte.”
[“They possess very stubborn flesh... They don’t understand kindness.”]
Stepping a fraction closer, her hands cold beneath her dupatta, Sanaz forces her voice into a low whisper. “Iqbal Bhai, mar jayega woh. Aur... humein extraction ke liye iska zinda rehna zaruri hai.”
[“Brother Iqbal, he will die. And... we need him alive for extraction.”]
Iqbal slowly straightens his posture, turning his head toward her with a condescending smile. “Dekha humsheera, farishte abhi bhi dushman ki fikr kar rahe hain.”
[“See, sister? The angels are still worrying about the enemy.”]
She shakes her head smoothly, “Bas extraction ki. Aap chahe toh ise zinda rakhkar treat kar sakte hain aur information bhi...”
[“Only about the extraction. If you want, you can keep him alive, treat him, and the information as well...”]
“Koi zarurat nahi,” Mir interrupts flatly, his voice devoid of a single shred of humanity as he adjusts the tracking equipment. “Tadapne do saale ko.”
[“No need. Let the bastard writhe in pain.”]
The luxury SUV cuts back to the streets of Lyari.
“Bwahhhh.”
The bathroom door slams open as Rizwan bends over the porcelain basin, violently throwing up everything in his stomach. Sanaz stands right beside him, her expression exhausted but calm as she gently pats his trembling back, helping him through the physical shockwaves of the trauma they just witnessed.
He is still visibly green, completely broken by the horrific sight of the needle rig. Hamza steps into the perimeter, his face unreadable as he places a clean glass of water and a targeted sedative pill on the marble counter.
Sanaz reaches up, rubbing her temples aggressively as a throbbing pressure builds behind her eyes. “Itna sar kabhi nahi dukhta. Tum kaise theek ho?” she mutters toward her husband, genuinely baffled by his stony resilience.
[“My head never aches this much. How are you perfectly fine?”]
Hamza lets out a slow, deadpan sigh, his. “I took a nervous dump.”
A heavy, collective sigh escapes the room. Despite the elite training, the fake names, and the R&AW badges—they all finally share a completely normal, human reaction to the horrors of the war they are fighting.
The three of them pull into a tight embrace.
A sharp buzz vibrates against the counter. Hamza reaches down, flipping open his phone to read the encrypted text gleaming on the screen:
“Lashari ne confirm kar diya hai. Omar aur uske saathi shaheed hogaye. SP ka khel khatam.”
[“Lashari has confirmed. Omar and his companions have been martyred. The SP's game is finished.”]
Sanaz crosses her arms. “Naye saal aane mein bas teen mahine bache hain. Waqt bohot kam hai. Kya karein?”
[“There are only three months left until the New Year. Time is very short. What do we do?”]
Hamza sets the phone down.
“Jameel sahab se baat karte hain. Rizwan South Karachi, main Lyari aur North Karachi, Sanaz clifton aur karachi ke bahar ke networks ko contact karne ki koshish karo. Hum khud saare terrorists ko nahi rok sakte, unknown gunmen ki zarurat hai,” Hamza suggests, his voice dropping into a flat, strategic baritone.
[“Let’s speak with Mr. Jameel. Rizwan, you handle South Karachi; I will take Lyari and North Karachi; Sanaz, try to contact the networks in Clifton and outside Karachi. We cannot stop all these terrorists by ourselves—we need unknown gunmen.”]
Sanaz tilts her head slightly. “Sirf gunmen?”
[“Only gunmen?”]
Hamza’s expression remains entirely unreadable as he delivers the final directive.
“UNKNOWN KILLING MACHINES.”
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Update : i have seen THAT pic (yk, that horror one) many times now at diff places (dont ask where) and i accidentally got over my trauma of that pic via exposure therapy 💀👍🏽
Yawr so I see ur edits on insta too and I just want to say aapka creations bohot badhiya hai
Lekin ek idea hai ki kya aap ek edit ban sakte woh song "mere saas ke 3 bete theeno mazedaar hai" ke saath BUT WITH REHMAN HAMZA AND UZAIR or whoever else u feel is suitable 🙏🙏🙏
Fandom: Dhurandhar. Word count: 6,988. Ship: Hamza Ali Mazari + Reader (F). Rating: Explicit. Status: Complete NAUGHTY ALPHABET One-Shot. Some things might not be accurate as this is my personal interpretation. This one is long because I TOOK my time. Enjoy. ^^
A — Aftercare [देखभाल / دیکھ بھال]
HE NEVER, EVER misses.
The second the storm passes, his dominance completely melts into a quiet devotion. Sometimes his aftercare looks like pulling your spent body flush against his chest, holding you tight and rocking you slowly like a baby until the last of your trembling stops.
He is incredibly meticulous about your comfort. Hamza will bring warm, damp towels to gently wipe the sweat and slick from your skin, or carry you directly into a quick warm shower if you're too weak to stand on your own. He takes pride in leaving you feeling entirely clean, fresh, and safe.
Only when you are tucked safely under the heavy winter blankets will he finally step away to clean himself up, returning quickly to slot his large frame right beside yours.
His care is deeply romantic: soft kisses pressed to your temple, warm hands gently squeezing your waist, and calloused thumbs wiping away any stray tears. If the vulnerability of the comedown makes you shy, he’ll drop a joke to break the tension and chase away your embarrassment.
And if you're hungry? He’s out of bed in an instant, shifting into the kitchen to prepare something warm and quick: a bowl of steaming soup or a cup of warm milk; ensuring you are fully nourished before he lets you sleep.
B — Body Part [शरीर का अंग / جسم کا حصہ]
Personally, he doesn’t have a single favorite part of you—he worships your entire canvas.
He will kiss the soft skin at the back of your knees, caress the crook of your elbows, or bite the shell of your ear just to hear you gasp.
He wants all of you.
But if he absolutely had to choose, his first answer would always be your face.
He is captivated by the shape of your eyes when you look at him, the line of your nose, and the soft curve of your lips. He will spend hours just tracing your cheeks with his thick thumbs. His second choice would be your hands; he loves the contrast of intertwining his large, rough fingers with yours. And, of course, your waist, where his hands instinctively gravitate to pull you flush against his hips or give a playful squeeze.
When it comes to pure intimacy, it’s your breasts.
He loves the heavy, warm weight of them filling his palms, squeezing them firmly or taking the peaks into his mouth to drive you mad. Down between your thighs, he is entirely fascinated by your clit; he loves how such a tiny, hyper-sensitive organ can completely dismantle your sanity the moment his fingers start to play with it.
As for Hamza’s favorite parts of himself?
He takes immense pride in his long, wild dark hair, his broad, coarse-haired chest, and his hands. He views his upper body as a canvas of his own power, constantly decorating his thick wrists and fingers with heavy chains, solid bracelets, expensive watches, and prominent rings that click dangerously against everything he touches.
C — Cum [वीर्यपात / انزال]
He releases an incredible amount.
Because his early adulthood was violently stripped away by the grinding gears of duty, warfare, and high-stakes infiltration, he carries a deep fear of entirely losing his grip on reality.
When he is inside you, he will deliberately force himself to slow down the moment he feels your walls begin to clench—god, that tight, desperate squeeze drives him straight to the brink of madness.
When the dam finally breaks, his release is thick, heavy, warm, filling you to the brim. He is vocal in the dark, though he rarely lets out a conventional moan; instead, he vents the pressure through guttural grunts, sharp hisses, and breathless curses he simply cannot contain.
In the absolute throes of his high, your name is the only word that rips past his lips.
Unless you are giving him head, he deeply dislikes the idea of cumming on your face or your chest; even when it happens during oral sex, a wave of endearing embarrassment washes over him, and he’ll immediately begin using his fingers or a towel to gently wipe his release off your skin. If he is going to spill outside of you, his preferred canvas is your thighs, your hips, or the dip of your waist; though his absolute favorite spot will always be directly between your vulva, leaving you completely stuffed and marked by him.
When it comes to your climax, he is a relentless hunter. He will ruthlessly chase your pleasure first, letting you come directly against his shaft, his thick thighs, or right into his mouth. He doesn’t care if you feel messy or clumsy in the heat of the moment; he will devotedly lick away every single drop you give him.
D — Dominance [प्रभुत्व / غلبہ ]
For a man navigating a world as lethal as Hamza's, dominance is a survival mechanism.
But the second he finds himself with you, the armor completely drops. To your absolute surprise, the giant, battle-hardened man becomes a gentle protector at home. No matter how much blood, anger, or violence he encounters in the streets of Karachi, he refuses to let even a drop of that poison touch you.
When he dominates you in your day-to-day life, it is never cold or aggressive.
It looks like him playfully sweeping you off your feet, swirling you around the room despite your protests, or planting sudden bites on your neck and cheeks. He expresses his control by annoying you when you're already irritated.
During intimacy, he is entirely the giver, exploring every inch of your body like a conqueror who worships the land. If you start acting a bit too bratty or defiant, he has no problem delivering a sharp, playful slap to your thigh, cupping your jaw firmly in his large palm, or giving a steady, demanding tug to your hair—but he will never, ever be rough enough to cause you actual pain.
Yet, as much as he thrives on pinning your body beneath his massive frame, he is utterly obsessed with the moments you choose to turn the tables. When you squeeze the dense muscle of his arms, sink your teeth into his chest, or aggressively haul him down by the heavy silver chains around his neck, it drives him wild.
He will happily yield to you, letting you take the reins, use his body, and play the master; right up until your thighs grow tired, and he seamlessly reclaims control to finish what you started.
E — Experience [अनुभव / تجربہ]
He is still learning.
Emotionally and romantically, Hamza has never allowed another human soul to get this close to him. Every day with you is uncharted territory, a slow process of mapping out what makes you feel safe, what ignites your passion, and exactly how you need to be loved.
He communicates through these quiet observations. He still occasionally tries to bury his troubles deep inside until you pick up on his mood and call him out; but the years of unbreakable trust you’ve forged always win, and he eventually lays his guards completely bare. He never, ever believed he’d be capable of loving someone after the absolute wreckage of his past—yet here he is helplessly obsessed with you.
When it came to the language of love, he entered your life with zero experience.
Back in Punjab, his younger days were entirely consumed by his studies or running around playing with his sisters. The moment he grew into his frame, he enrolled straight into the Army, trading his youth for grueling training blocks. Even later, when he transitioned to R&AW, his world narrowed down to the bare minimum, with his close friend Rizwan being his only real anchor.
His understanding of a woman's emotional depth was truly cracked open the day he witnessed the heavy aftermath of Rehman Dakait’s son passing away. He had stood by, shocked, watching Ulfat slap Rehman in her blinding grief. Hamza had braced himself for a violent, underworld retaliation; but instead, Rehman had simply pulled her into his chest, holding her tight while murmuring, "Meri jaan."
That single moment taught Hamza the true meaning of restraint.
It taught him how to absorb a woman's pain rather than fighting it. He had always possessed a natural warmth, teasing and joking with his sisters, and he brought that exact same gentle light home to you; manifesting in warm hugs, forehead kisses, and a constant, reassuring presence.
Physically, his slate was entirely clean before you; he had absolutely zero experience beyond standard hugs and innocent kisses.
The man didn't even know how to properly deepen a kiss. But what he lacked in experience, he made up for in an eagerness to learn. Together, you took it slow and steady, turning intimacy into a shared language. Because of his background, he was thoroughly educated on female physiology, making him hyper-attentive the moment clothes hit the floor.
He is a constant checker during sex, his low voice always dropping to ask a protective, "Aap theek ho?"—only picking up the pace when he feels your nod.
Their very first night together was unforgettable.
He didn't finish comically fast; instead, the absolute shock of the new sensation forced him into a state of hyper-focus, taking about fifteen grueling minutes of pure, jaw-clenching mental control before he finally let himself let go.
Now, he has found his rhythm. He can regulate his control realistically without it feeling artificial, but even when he hits his limit, his physical stamina ensures he has more than enough fuel left in the tank to keep going and take care of you.
F — Favorite Position [पसंदीदा आसन / پسندیدہ پوزیشن]
Truth be told, every single position with you is his favorite.
As long as he is losing himself inside you, the arrangement of your bodies doesn’t matter.
But if he were forced to choose, his absolute top pick is classic missionary.
He loves you flat on your back, completely open, vulnerable, and yielding to his massive frame. Whether your legs are dangling helplessly beside his thick hips, looped over his broad shoulders, or pushed all the way up to your chest to give him maximum depth. It allows him to drive into you as deeply as physically possible while keeping his eyes locked entirely on your face, devouring every single undone expression and catching every broken moan that escapes your lips.
His second favorite is cowgirl, letting you take the reins.
He is utterly obsessed with watching you bounce and grind directly on top of him. Whether you are deliberately sliding your wetness up and down his shaft or rotating your hips in a slow, agonizingly perfect circle to milk him, his gaze never leaves you. He lies back, his vision filled entirely with the way your face flushes and the heavy bounce of your breasts with each thrust. His hands never stay still here; they anchor firmly to your hips, guiding your rhythm and occasionally pulling you down harder against his length.
For the quiet, lazy mornings when the Karachi winter chill lingers in the room, he prefers a slow, side-lying style from behind. He will pull your body tight against his chest, hook one of your legs over his hip, and slowly, gently sink into you. It is a soft wake-up call, filled with heavy, warm breathing against your neck and lazy, comforting thrusts.
However, on those rare nights when the undercover stress completely boils over and he is entirely out of his mind, his restraint shatters. He will flip you onto your stomach, forcing your face down into the pillow and pinning your ass up in the air. He drives into you from behind, the heavy impact of his hips smacking roughly against yours in a punishing, relentless rhythm.
Yet, even in this consuming frenzy, his protective core never truly vanishes; he will eventually lean all the way down, burying his face in your hair and crushing you beneath his massive weight—never fully enough to hurt you, but just enough to feel your heartbeat—before pulling your hips back down to continue claiming you until you are both completely spent.
G — Goofy [मज़ाकिया / مزاحیہ]
He isn't entirely goofy or clumsy in the heat of the moment, his focus is far too intense for that. Instead, his playful side manifests as heavy teasing and soft mockery designed to test your absolute sanity by the end of the night.
He loves to use your own confidence against you.
If you are the one straddling him and trying to dominate the room, he’ll just lie back with a smug, knowing smirk and challenge you: "Bas aise hi dekhogi ya kuch karogi bhi?" [Are you just going to stare at me like that, or are you actually going to do something?]
If you start to hesitate or get overwhelmed by his sheer size, he will ruthlessly throw your own words back in your face, whispering, "Tumne hi toh kaha tha, ab pichche matt mudo." [You were the one who said it, now don't turn back.]
It’s only afterward, when the heavy tension has entirely melted from the room, that his truly goofy side comes out. He will crack an absurd joke or tease you gently, pulling you out of your post-intimacy embarrassment just to see you smile.
H — Hair [बाल / بال ]
Let’s be entirely real: the man is a walking canvas of masculine hair.
From the gorgeous, luscious, silky waves cascading all the way down to his waist, to the coarse, dark hair dusting his broad chest, stomach, and strong arms—he is completely untamed.
But do not confuse his ruggedness for a lack of hygiene. Hamza is meticulously clean. Those waist-length waves clearly have a dedicated routine; the man undoubtedly possesses a secret stash of premium hair serums and styling creams to keep his curls looking that effortlessly perfect.
When it comes to his lower half, he keeps things strictly realistic for an undercover man. He doesn't have perfectly smooth, hairless pubes; he simply doesn't have the time or the headspace to worry about full body shaving. (What am I even writing at this point?)
He will occasionally trim for basic comfort, but if he’s deep in the middle of a high-stakes assignment, he lets it stay natural. Fortunately, he is circumcised and highly disciplined about his personal hygiene, ensuring everything stays completely fresh. (I hate dicks.)
My baby's nails are always trimmed short, smooth, and perfectly clean, meaning his hands are completely safe whenever they are tracing the sensitive skin of your thighs.
I — Insecurity [असुरक्षा / عدم تحفظ]
Hamza carries a quiet insecurity about how you truly perceive him.
He is terrifyingly aware of the blood on his hands and the dark, violent nature of his undercover work. Because of this, he is constantly terrified that you will eventually look at him and see nothing more than a ruthless killing machine; he bends over backward every single day to ensure you never feel an ounce of that coldness at home.
He is plagued by the lingering fear that one day his dangerous world will completely implode, catching you in the crossfire—which is why his protective instincts border on an absolute obsession.
During intimacy, this insecurity manifests as an intense fear of physically hurting you.
Even when he is completely undone by his own burning desires, he remains incredibly careful with his strength. If he ever accidentally pushes too hard, bites too deep, or causes you even a flash of physical discomfort, the entire mood shatters instantly.
He will stop dead in his tracks, pulling away immediately as unshed tears well up in his green eyes. He will hold your face in his large palms, his voice breakin: "Mujhe maaf kar do, seherzadi." [Forgive me, my princess.] He will immediately wrap you in a tight, apologetic embrace, rushing to bring you medication or antiseptics if the skin is marked.
Furthermore, if you ever voice insecurities regarding your own autonomy, he will sit with you for hours, completely silent, listening intently before offering grounding words and gentle advice to rebuild your peace of mind.
J — Jealousy [ईर्ष्या / حسد]
Hamza is fundamentally not a jealous man.
He is entirely secure in the foundation of the relationship you’ve built together. He doesn't harbor toxic, controlling thoughts; he genuinely does not care what clothes you choose to wear, who you spend your time with, or where you go out in the city.
However, if a stranger out in public dares to stare at you with untoward intentions or attempts to flirt with you, his demeanor shifts instantly. He won't make an explosive scene; instead, he will simply cast a sharp look that promises violence toward the offender while casually sliding a possessive hand onto the dip of your waist.
He doesn't view the situation through the lens of bruised male pride; his primary instinct is always to check in on your comfort level, ensuring you feel completely safe in the environment.
But if someone genuinely crosses the line and threatens your peace?
He never turns that anger inward, and he will never question your character or your loyalty.
Instead, he handles the threat at the source, charging straight at the offender like a lethal force of nature. You know his violent capabilities all too well—he would not hesitate for a single second to take a life if someone actually dared to harm you or even thought about laying a finger on you.
Yet, for all his overwhelming protectiveness and his terror of a life without you, he is entirely devoid of selfishness: if you ever chose to walk away from him of your own free will, his devotion means he would let you go, prioritizing your happiness over his own.
K — Kinks [विचित्र आदतें / عادات]
He doesn't rely on hardcore kinks.
His desires are far too grounded in pure physical and emotional connection. However, his dangerous undercover lifestyle naturally bleeds into the bedroom, giving him a few highly specific, lethal turn-ons that completely test your sanity.
First is a subtle gunplay.
It is never reckless or hardcore; instead, after ensuring the weapon is completely empty and cleared, he loves to trail the heavy, ice-cold steel of the barrel along the burning skin of your neck, down the center of your chest, and across the dip of your waist.
He does it purely to tease you, anchoring his dark gaze to your face just to watch your eyes widen and hear your breath hitch against the cold metal. He is hyper-aware of the line between dark thrill and genuine discomfort, and the second he senses you tensing uncomfortably, the weapon is put away.
Second, he is utterly obsessed with visual ownership.
Nothing drives him crazier than seeing you dressed in his oversized black kurta or button-down shirt, wearing nothing underneath but a pair of panties—or completely bare.
The sight of his fabric swallowing your smaller frame is a massive trigger for him. He will trail his large hands up the exposed skin of your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh possessively. He loves keeping his shirt on you while he handles you, pinning you down and sliding his thick, long fingers between your folds.
He will lean down, his dropping to a low, vibrating whisper against your ear: "Itna yaad kar rahi thi mujhe?" [Were you missing me this much?]—before effortlessly sliding two fingers deep inside to ruthlessly tap against your sweet spot until you're begging.
Finally, he has a low-key fondness for restraints.
As seen when you click those plush metal cuffs around his wrists, he doesn’t mind the thrill of being restrained or pinning you down in return. Because the foundation of your relationship is built on years of unbreakable trust, he finds an intense psychological satisfaction in surrendering control or completely taking yours; though, true to his protective nature, a single word or wrong look from you will make him freeze and abort the play instantly.
L — Location [स्थान / مقام]
No lube, no protection, from the kitchen floor to the ceiling… Ok enough.
To be entirely fair, the geography doesn't matter to him. The moment the tension snaps and you are both ready, he will take you exactly where you stand.
But while the bed is an obvious staple for his long, exhausting nights, his absolute favorite playground is the bathroom.
The man’s estate is elite for a reason, specifically designed with massive, interconnected mirrors that face one another. He loves to exploit every single angle. Sometimes, it looks like him pinning you flat against the steaming shower tiles, his large hands mapping every inch of your skin before he hooks his arms under your thighs, lifting your entire weight effortlessly to fuck you standing up against the rush of water.
On lazy, exhausted nights, it shifts to slow thrusts while you are both submerged in the warm water of the bathtub. But his absolute favorite move is lifting you onto the wide marble counter, pressing you back against the glass so you are forced to watch the endless, breathless reflections of your bodies writhing in his tight grasp.
His secondary choice is the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the estate.
(I know what kind of a man you are, Hamza). When the midnight hours hit and the staff has completely cleared out, he will turn off every single light in the wing. In the heavy, pitch-black dark of the night, he will bend you room-facing or push you forward until your breasts are pressed flat against the cool, unforgiving glass.
The contrast of the freezing window against the scorching heat of his frame driving into you from behind is enough to completely shatter your sanity.
Beyond that, he has a dangerous fondness for bending you flat across the smooth, cold ceramic of the dining table after a late dinner, or clearing the heavy paperwork off his desk in his private work studio to claim you amid the shadows of his operations.
And for the sweltering summer nights? Shifting you right to the edge of the private, moonlit pool; where the water laps against your lower back while he anchors his hands to your hips.
M — Masturbation [हस्तमैथुन / مشت زنی]
Since you entered his life, it is a rare occurrence.
The real thing will always be his ultimate sanctuary, so he only ever resorts to pleasuring himself when you are miles away, the undercover operational stress becomes entirely unbearable, or he is simply missing you to the point of literal heartache.
His approach to it betrays the deep respect at the core of his character. Hamza doesn't keep a single explicit or compromising photo of you stored on his phone. From his perspective, keeping a partner's private, intimate images locked in a digital device feels inherently wrong and cheapens what you share.
While he completely trusts you and would never restrict you from sending them if you truly wanted to, he chooses never to ask.
Instead, he relies entirely on his own vivid memory. He closes his eyes and calls upon the exact shape of your face in the dark, the specific cadence of your voice, and the breathless whimpers you make when he’s driving into you.
He built a mental archive of every second spent in your arms, using that intense imagination to fuel slow, heavy strokes until he releases with a shattered, hard climax.
The moment he is clean, a wave of boyish vulnerability washes over him; he’ll pout to himself in the quiet room and send a quick, sheepish text: "Sorry, couldn't control myself today." You instantly decode the hidden meaning behind the words, quickly typing back a reassuring, "It's okay, meri jaan. No worries. I'm not mad." to completely soothe his mind, keeping him company over text until he finally drifts off to sleep.
Conversely, he is absolutely thrilled when the tables are turned.
Hamza harbors zero toxic double standards; he is supportive of you masturbating and exploring your own body. He finds it incredibly hot that you are in tune with your own desires, and if you ever tell him that you took care of yourself while thinking of him, it sends his ego through the roof, leaving him desperate to get back to you and show you exactly what happens when he handles the task himself.
N — No [नहीं / نہ]
The word "No" is an immutable law to him.
The second it leaves your lips, everything grinds to an immediate halt. Because of the heavy, violent wreckage of his past: where he ruthlessly hunted down and killed his sisters' rapists and narrowly escaped a similar horrific fate himself; he carries an understanding of bodily autonomy. He takes your consent with life-or-death seriousness. There is no hesitating, no questioning, and no coaxing; if you say no, he pulls away instantly and will apologize quietly if he feels he crossed a boundary.
Because of this deeply rooted respect, heavy degradation, dehumanization, or humiliation kinks are absolute hard turn-offs for him. He utterly loathes derogatory slurs, and hearing terms like "whore," "slut," or the heavily loaded Urdu/Hindi equivalent "raand" in an intimate setting completely ruins his mood and genuinely annoys him.
While he is a man of the trenches who will absolutely curse under operational stress, he strictly filters his mouth when he is with you.
Instead, any "humiliation" he inflicts is strictly playful, deeply cultural, and affectionate. He loves to affectionately drop a teasing "khotti" (donkey) when you do something silly, or mimic formal distance by calling you "Sahiba" or a simple "idiot" just to see you pout.
When he talks dirty to you, his words focus entirely on the raw reality of your shared pleasure. He will confront you directly in the dark, his voice low and steady as he murmurs, "You're so wet," "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" or "You look so good when you're fucked by me." It is intensely hot, but it never crosses the line into filthy disrespect.
His secondary, massive turn-off is performance: faking an orgasm or forcing a moan will instantly shut him down. Hamza doesn’t want an act; he wants you completely undone, a genuine, whimpering mess in his arms. Because he has spent years hyper-focusing on your physiology and studying every micro-expression your body makes, he can catch a fake reaction instantly.
But more than that, you never have a reason to perform for him; his physical precision is so absolute, and his understanding of exactly what triggers your pleasure is so precise, that he will always guide you to a real finish every single time.
O — Oral [मुख मैथुन / اورل]
He loves giving it infinitely more than receiving.
No matter the time or place, his default prelude is always to slide down between your thighs to eat you out first. Whether you spread your legs for him or he has to gently coax them open himself, he is completely ruthless down there. He will start by tasting the soft, outer skin of your thighs before diving his tongue deep into your seam, lapping all the way from your entrance to the hyper-sensitive peak of your clit.
If he feels like his access is restricted, his large fingers will firmly spread your lips apart so he can run his tongue up and down or in a frantic, zig-zag motion that completely drives you wild. He harbors absolutely zero shyness in your bed; he will happily trail his tongue lower to lick at your perineum or rim, the bridge of his long nose brushing heavily against your tiny, swollen bud with every stroke.
He will devotedly lick away every single drop of slick and sweetness you give him until you are completely undone.
When the tables are turned and you drop to your knees to take him into your mouth, he becomes incredibly gentle. The tight warmth of your throat completely dismantles his iron control. Because he is intensely aware of his massive size, he deliberately grips the headboard or the sheets to keep himself from bucking his hips, terrified of accidentally gagging or hurting you.
However, when he gets too close to the edge, his primal instincts take over, forcing him to deliver a few helpless, shallow thrusts into your heat. Yet, right before the dam breaks, his protective focus snaps back; he will gently, firmly guide your face away from his length, choosing to spill his heavy, thick release across his own stomach and thighs rather than risking your discomfort.
P — Pace [गति / رفتار]
During intimacy, his baseline rhythm is slow and gentle.
He takes his sweet time embedding himself inside you, letting your body adapt to his massive size before he ever even thinks about picking up the speed or adding a rougher edge to match your desires.
Hamza deliberately avoids reckless, high-speed pounding; his mind knows all too well that moving too fast without proper alignment can cause painful friction, tearing, or even hurt him if the angles aren't perfectly calibrated.
For a man like him, accuracy will always triumph over raw speed.
He is entirely focused on precision placement. He will casually slide his large hands under your thighs or lift your hips to adjust your spine, ensuring that every single thrust; whether it is a punishingly slow drag or a mounting, rhythmic drive, strikes your sweet spot with unerring certainty.
Q — Quickie [जल्दीबाजी / جلدی بازی]
A standard quickie is something he fundamentally dislikes.
To him, a rushed encounter carries too many risks—if you aren't fully slick, aroused, or mentally prepared, the friction could easily hurt you, which is a boundary he refuses to cross.
Furthermore, Hamza views sex as an entire all-consuming experience rather than a mere physical chore to be checked off. If he is going to claim you, he demands the full, unhurried depth of it. (I genuinely think he's an INTJ).
On the rare occasions when time is severely limited but the mutual longing is burning too hot to ignore, he won’t force a hurried completion. Instead, he will redirect that intense energy into heavy, breathless make-out sessions.
He will pin you against the nearest wall, devouring your mouth, squeezing your waist, and leaving your senses completely spinning; giving you just enough of a taste to keep you intoxicated until he can finally bring you home and take his time properly.
R — Romance [रोमांस / رومانسک]
Outside the bedroom, his romance is grounding.
It exists in the quiet, domestic moments; the lingering pressure of his lips against your forehead, the protective way his large hand swallows yours out in public, and the soft sweet nothings he murmurs into your ear when the world gets too loud.
He is a man who shows his love through observation, constantly surprising you by remembering the smallest, most obscure details you’ve ever shared with him, or bringing home thoughtful gifts just to watch your face light up.
During sex, his romantic soul completely colors the physical act, turning raw passion into a form of worship. Mid-thrust, he will frequently pause his rhythm just to raise your hands and press tender, reverent kisses against your knuckles, or slide his large palms down to gently squeeze your knees.
If your hair falls into your eyes, his thick fingers will tenderly comb the long waves away from your face, anchoring his gaze to yours so he can devour your expressions with clarity.
If the intensity of the pleasure brings overwhelmed tears to your eyes, his dominance completely melts; he will softly wipe the moisture away with his thumbs, pressing comforting, quiet kisses to your cheeks.
He is a man deeply rooted in the heavy, poetic traditions of his homeland—he will lean down, his low, vibrating voice brushing like a scorching velvet promise against your collarbones as he whispers Ghalib's timeless words:
"Ishq mujh ko hua na tha pehle, aag ik dil mein laga gayi wo shakhs."
[I had never been in love before, but that person set a fire ablaze within my heart.]
He loves to explore your skin with gentle reverence, trailing warm kisses across the soft swell of your stomach or burying his face completely between your heavy breasts to hide from the world.
And when the storm has finally passed and you are both spent, his favorite place to rest is flat on his stomach with his heavy head resting directly on your chest, completely still, falling asleep to the rhythm of your heartbeat.
The absolute intoxication—the surroor—he feels when he is inside you is completely matched by his staggering, relentless stamina. Thanks to his grueling years of elite military and operational training, his body is built for extreme endurance, a trait that translates into a terrifyingly beautiful work capacity between the sheets.
Hamza can quite literally go on for hours without his rhythm faltering.
When he is driving into you, his mental control allows him to pace himself perfectly, hitting his own climax at around fifteen to twenty minutes. If you are the one down on your knees giving him oral, the sheer, tight heat of your mouth speeds up his clock slightly, bringing him to the edge in about ten to fifteen minutes.
His body is so intensely responsive to your essence that he doesn't even need direct stimulation to get worked up; merely sliding down between your thighs and eating you out is enough to make him rock-hard and leaking slick against his own skin.
But hitting his limit once means absolutely nothing to his endurance.
Hamza doesn’t experience a draining cooldown period; he simply does not get tired. The second he clears his release, his breath will catch, his jaw will clench, and he will immediately rally for more rounds. He will shift your bodies into entirely different positions, lifting you up, turning you over, and relentlessly chasing your pleasure over and over again until your own legs are trembling too much to hold him.
T — Toys [खिलौने / کھلونے]
Hamza is devoid of a fragile male ego.
He doesn't view intimacy through a lens of insecure competition; therefore, he never looks at your personal toys as a threat to his masculinity. When he is away on high-stakes, deep-cover assignments for weeks at a time, he is comforted knowing you have a tiny vibrator and a clitoral suction toy to take care of your needs.
When he is home, those exact devices become weapons of absolute pleasure in his large, capable hands. He loves to integrate them into your sessions to tease you or ruthlessly push you over the edge. Sometimes, he will wrap his massive frame around you from behind, holding you completely captive against his chest while he presses a vibrator firmly against your swollen clit, using his other hand to deeply finger-fuck you until your spine goes completely fluid.
Other times, if you've been acting a bit too bratty or defiant, his dominant side will emerge; he will slide a smooth glass dildo—perfectly sized for your comfort—inside you, forcing you to ride it while he holds back his own release, making you weep and beg for his real, thick cock until you're desperately crying out, "Mujhe tum chahiye..." [I want you...]
Furthermore, he is completely unbothered when the tables are turned.
Hamza has zero reservations about you introducing toys to his own body. When you take control and press a buzzing vibrator directly against the hyper-sensitive tip of his length, the unfamiliar intensity of the vibration drives his mind straight into a wall, forcing guttural, breathless curses from his throat as he fights a losing battle against his own stamina.
U — Uncovering [अनावृत होना / بے نقاب ہونا]
He almost never reveals his body completely naked.
Even during the height of intimacy when you are entirely bare beside him, he prefers to keep a barrier up: remaining either fully dressed in his black kurta and pyjamas or, at the very least, keeping his pants on.
This isn't out of a lack of desire, but rather a deeply rooted psychological shield.
He has willingly shown you his skin and the map of violent scars earned from his years in the Army and deep-cover operations, but shedding his clothes entirely still feels like stripping away his ultimate defense mechanism. The trauma of his past and the constant threat of his present make total exposure a massive hurdle.
However, because of the unbreakable trust you two share, he is actively learning. Slowly, and without a single shred of shame or judgment, he is practicing letting his guard down. With every passing month, he unbuttons a little more, undressing in front of you and allowing himself to be fully uncovered, trusting your hands to soothe the ghosts stitched into his skin.
V — Voice [आवाज़ / آواز]
His voice is soft, smooth, and deeply manly.
He entirely avoids the cliché of a cartoonishly raspy or artificially deep and husky growl. Instead, when he speaks to you at home, his tone is incredibly gentle, measured, and slow. When the operational stakes rise and he gets intensely serious, his pitch naturally drops into a lower, more throaty resonance, but it always remains perfectly clear and distinct.
During intimacy, he is entirely quiet, preferring to let the sound of your pleasure fill the room.
He never lets out loud, high-pitched moans; instead, his surrender manifests as a series of heavy, involuntary grunts, sharp hisses, and quiet whimpers he simply cannot control as his stamina is pushed to its absolute limits.
You will hear low, breathless "Ah"s or "Uh"s vibrating deep in his chest, or the ragged sound of your own name slipping past his lips the exact moment his breath hitches and he loses his grip on his restraint.
W — Weight [वज़न / وزن]
Clocking in at an imposing 90 to 92 kilograms.
He is massive in every sense of the word: built with wide, intimidating shoulders spanning well over 50 inches, arms that easily double the size of your head, and thick forearms resembling tree trunks.
His full, broad chest tapers down into a thick, solid stomach that pushes out just a bit with raw mass, yet remains anchored by hard, underlying abs. Combined with his wide hips and dense, heavy thighs, he possesses the kind of thick, imposing frame that completely swallows you whole.
To be absolutely clear: this is NOT a "dad-bod."
He doesn't possess a soft, hanging tummy or a lack of definition.
Instead, Hamza carries the dense build of a man who avoids artificial gym-shredding and lean aesthetics, opting instead for sheer power. He looks exactly like what he is: an elite undercover asset who trains ruthlessly and eats six massive meals a day just to fuel his staggering bulk.
With 18-inch biceps framing your view, his sheer mass makes him capable of effortlessly lifting your entire weight with a single hand and tossing you around the room; yet, true to his nature, he channels that overwhelming strength into holding you with the most careful reverence.
X — X-Ray [एक्स-रे / ایکسرے]
He is long, thick, and heavily veined.
(Why am I writing this?) In a natural, soft state, his length rests around six inches, extending to a commanding seven inches when fully hard. The coloration is slightly darker than the rest of his skin tone, with thick, prominent veins wrapping intensely along the sides of his shaft.
Because he is circumcised, there is no foreskin to obscure his form; his flushed, flared tip remains fully exposed at all times, darkening to a deep purple or heavy reddish hue when his arousal peaks. (I still hate dicks).
But it is his sheer girth that presents five to six inches around. Sliding into you, his immense thickness stretches your soft, plush frame impossibly wide, completely stuffing you to the absolute limit and leaving zero room for doubt about exactly who owns your body.
Y — Yearning [तड़प / تڑپ]
His mind doesn’t often let itself dwell on thoughts of sex.
Because he carries the crushing weight of his operational duties, his default state is to compartmentalize his desires and ruthlessly ignore any distracting urges. He leaves the initiation of intimacy entirely in your hands: and the moment you reach for him, he yields completely, welcoming your body with an intense, deep-seated hunger he otherwise keeps locked away. He desires your soft curves fiercely, but his work demands total focus.
The true depth of his yearning reveals itself the second the pressure lets up.
When the weekend finally arrives or his high-stakes workload dips, his armor completely falls away. He dedicates every spare hour exclusively to you, refusing to leave your side.
He handles his downtime with zero half-measures: either his heavy, tired head is resting quietly in your lap while you brush through his thick curls, or his mouth is buried deeply between your thighs, completely lost in tasting every single drop of your pleasure.
Z — Zzz [नींद / نیند]
Falling asleep immediately after sex is a concept that does not exist to him.
No matter how physically spent or exhausted he is from the grueling rounds and his intense stamina, his protector instinct immediately transitions into aftercare. He will tenderly and thoroughly clean your body, soothe any soreness, and tuck you securely into the bed.
Once you are comfortable, he steps back into his shadowy reality.
While you rest, he will either lie quietly beside you or quietly slip away to his desk to finalize his dark operational tasks, silently compiling data and transmitting crucial, dangerous intel back to R&AW under the cover of night.
If you happen to wake up in the dark and find him working, you simply have to call out to him; the second he closes his laptop, you can slide right into his arms, cuddling close against his massive, warm chest.
No matter what, he will wrap his arms around you and wait, remaining wide awake and watchful in the dark until he is certain you have fallen asleep first before he finally allows his OWN EYES TO CLOSE.
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Fandom: Dhurandhar. Word count: 6,988. Ship: Hamza Ali Mazari + Reader (F). Rating: Explicit. Status: Complete NAUGHTY ALPHABET One-Shot. Some things might not be accurate as this is my personal interpretation. This one is long because I TOOK my time. Enjoy. ^^
A — Aftercare [देखभाल / دیکھ بھال]
HE NEVER, EVER misses.
The second the storm passes, his dominance completely melts into a quiet devotion. Sometimes his aftercare looks like pulling your spent body flush against his chest, holding you tight and rocking you slowly like a baby until the last of your trembling stops.
He is incredibly meticulous about your comfort. Hamza will bring warm, damp towels to gently wipe the sweat and slick from your skin, or carry you directly into a quick warm shower if you're too weak to stand on your own. He takes pride in leaving you feeling entirely clean, fresh, and safe.
Only when you are tucked safely under the heavy winter blankets will he finally step away to clean himself up, returning quickly to slot his large frame right beside yours.
His care is deeply romantic: soft kisses pressed to your temple, warm hands gently squeezing your waist, and calloused thumbs wiping away any stray tears. If the vulnerability of the comedown makes you shy, he’ll drop a joke to break the tension and chase away your embarrassment.
And if you're hungry? He’s out of bed in an instant, shifting into the kitchen to prepare something warm and quick: a bowl of steaming soup or a cup of warm milk; ensuring you are fully nourished before he lets you sleep.
B — Body Part [शरीर का अंग / جسم کا حصہ]
Personally, he doesn’t have a single favorite part of you—he worships your entire canvas.
He will kiss the soft skin at the back of your knees, caress the crook of your elbows, or bite the shell of your ear just to hear you gasp.
He wants all of you.
But if he absolutely had to choose, his first answer would always be your face.
He is captivated by the shape of your eyes when you look at him, the line of your nose, and the soft curve of your lips. He will spend hours just tracing your cheeks with his thick thumbs. His second choice would be your hands; he loves the contrast of intertwining his large, rough fingers with yours. And, of course, your waist, where his hands instinctively gravitate to pull you flush against his hips or give a playful squeeze.
When it comes to pure intimacy, it’s your breasts.
He loves the heavy, warm weight of them filling his palms, squeezing them firmly or taking the peaks into his mouth to drive you mad. Down between your thighs, he is entirely fascinated by your clit; he loves how such a tiny, hyper-sensitive organ can completely dismantle your sanity the moment his fingers start to play with it.
As for Hamza’s favorite parts of himself?
He takes immense pride in his long, wild dark hair, his broad, coarse-haired chest, and his hands. He views his upper body as a canvas of his own power, constantly decorating his thick wrists and fingers with heavy chains, solid bracelets, expensive watches, and prominent rings that click dangerously against everything he touches.
C — Cum [वीर्यपात / انزال]
He releases an incredible amount.
Because his early adulthood was violently stripped away by the grinding gears of duty, warfare, and high-stakes infiltration, he carries a deep fear of entirely losing his grip on reality.
When he is inside you, he will deliberately force himself to slow down the moment he feels your walls begin to clench—god, that tight, desperate squeeze drives him straight to the brink of madness.
When the dam finally breaks, his release is thick, heavy, warm, filling you to the brim. He is vocal in the dark, though he rarely lets out a conventional moan; instead, he vents the pressure through guttural grunts, sharp hisses, and breathless curses he simply cannot contain.
In the absolute throes of his high, your name is the only word that rips past his lips.
Unless you are giving him head, he deeply dislikes the idea of cumming on your face or your chest; even when it happens during oral sex, a wave of endearing embarrassment washes over him, and he’ll immediately begin using his fingers or a towel to gently wipe his release off your skin. If he is going to spill outside of you, his preferred canvas is your thighs, your hips, or the dip of your waist; though his absolute favorite spot will always be directly between your vulva, leaving you completely stuffed and marked by him.
When it comes to your climax, he is a relentless hunter. He will ruthlessly chase your pleasure first, letting you come directly against his shaft, his thick thighs, or right into his mouth. He doesn’t care if you feel messy or clumsy in the heat of the moment; he will devotedly lick away every single drop you give him.
D — Dominance [प्रभुत्व / غلبہ ]
For a man navigating a world as lethal as Hamza's, dominance is a survival mechanism.
But the second he finds himself with you, the armor completely drops. To your absolute surprise, the giant, battle-hardened man becomes a gentle protector at home. No matter how much blood, anger, or violence he encounters in the streets of Karachi, he refuses to let even a drop of that poison touch you.
When he dominates you in your day-to-day life, it is never cold or aggressive.
It looks like him playfully sweeping you off your feet, swirling you around the room despite your protests, or planting sudden bites on your neck and cheeks. He expresses his control by annoying you when you're already irritated.
During intimacy, he is entirely the giver, exploring every inch of your body like a conqueror who worships the land. If you start acting a bit too bratty or defiant, he has no problem delivering a sharp, playful slap to your thigh, cupping your jaw firmly in his large palm, or giving a steady, demanding tug to your hair—but he will never, ever be rough enough to cause you actual pain.
Yet, as much as he thrives on pinning your body beneath his massive frame, he is utterly obsessed with the moments you choose to turn the tables. When you squeeze the dense muscle of his arms, sink your teeth into his chest, or aggressively haul him down by the heavy silver chains around his neck, it drives him wild.
He will happily yield to you, letting you take the reins, use his body, and play the master; right up until your thighs grow tired, and he seamlessly reclaims control to finish what you started.
E — Experience [अनुभव / تجربہ]
He is still learning.
Emotionally and romantically, Hamza has never allowed another human soul to get this close to him. Every day with you is uncharted territory, a slow process of mapping out what makes you feel safe, what ignites your passion, and exactly how you need to be loved.
He communicates through these quiet observations. He still occasionally tries to bury his troubles deep inside until you pick up on his mood and call him out; but the years of unbreakable trust you’ve forged always win, and he eventually lays his guards completely bare. He never, ever believed he’d be capable of loving someone after the absolute wreckage of his past—yet here he is helplessly obsessed with you.
When it came to the language of love, he entered your life with zero experience.
Back in Punjab, his younger days were entirely consumed by his studies or running around playing with his sisters. The moment he grew into his frame, he enrolled straight into the Army, trading his youth for grueling training blocks. Even later, when he transitioned to R&AW, his world narrowed down to the bare minimum, with his close friend Rizwan being his only real anchor.
His understanding of a woman's emotional depth was truly cracked open the day he witnessed the heavy aftermath of Rehman Dakait’s son passing away. He had stood by, shocked, watching Ulfat slap Rehman in her blinding grief. Hamza had braced himself for a violent, underworld retaliation; but instead, Rehman had simply pulled her into his chest, holding her tight while murmuring, "Meri jaan."
That single moment taught Hamza the true meaning of restraint.
It taught him how to absorb a woman's pain rather than fighting it. He had always possessed a natural warmth, teasing and joking with his sisters, and he brought that exact same gentle light home to you; manifesting in warm hugs, forehead kisses, and a constant, reassuring presence.
Physically, his slate was entirely clean before you; he had absolutely zero experience beyond standard hugs and innocent kisses.
The man didn't even know how to properly deepen a kiss. But what he lacked in experience, he made up for in an eagerness to learn. Together, you took it slow and steady, turning intimacy into a shared language. Because of his background, he was thoroughly educated on female physiology, making him hyper-attentive the moment clothes hit the floor.
He is a constant checker during sex, his low voice always dropping to ask a protective, "Aap theek ho?"—only picking up the pace when he feels your nod.
Their very first night together was unforgettable.
He didn't finish comically fast; instead, the absolute shock of the new sensation forced him into a state of hyper-focus, taking about fifteen grueling minutes of pure, jaw-clenching mental control before he finally let himself let go.
Now, he has found his rhythm. He can regulate his control realistically without it feeling artificial, but even when he hits his limit, his physical stamina ensures he has more than enough fuel left in the tank to keep going and take care of you.
F — Favorite Position [पसंदीदा आसन / پسندیدہ پوزیشن]
Truth be told, every single position with you is his favorite.
As long as he is losing himself inside you, the arrangement of your bodies doesn’t matter.
But if he were forced to choose, his absolute top pick is classic missionary.
He loves you flat on your back, completely open, vulnerable, and yielding to his massive frame. Whether your legs are dangling helplessly beside his thick hips, looped over his broad shoulders, or pushed all the way up to your chest to give him maximum depth. It allows him to drive into you as deeply as physically possible while keeping his eyes locked entirely on your face, devouring every single undone expression and catching every broken moan that escapes your lips.
His second favorite is cowgirl, letting you take the reins.
He is utterly obsessed with watching you bounce and grind directly on top of him. Whether you are deliberately sliding your wetness up and down his shaft or rotating your hips in a slow, agonizingly perfect circle to milk him, his gaze never leaves you. He lies back, his vision filled entirely with the way your face flushes and the heavy bounce of your breasts with each thrust. His hands never stay still here; they anchor firmly to your hips, guiding your rhythm and occasionally pulling you down harder against his length.
For the quiet, lazy mornings when the Karachi winter chill lingers in the room, he prefers a slow, side-lying style from behind. He will pull your body tight against his chest, hook one of your legs over his hip, and slowly, gently sink into you. It is a soft wake-up call, filled with heavy, warm breathing against your neck and lazy, comforting thrusts.
However, on those rare nights when the undercover stress completely boils over and he is entirely out of his mind, his restraint shatters. He will flip you onto your stomach, forcing your face down into the pillow and pinning your ass up in the air. He drives into you from behind, the heavy impact of his hips smacking roughly against yours in a punishing, relentless rhythm.
Yet, even in this consuming frenzy, his protective core never truly vanishes; he will eventually lean all the way down, burying his face in your hair and crushing you beneath his massive weight—never fully enough to hurt you, but just enough to feel your heartbeat—before pulling your hips back down to continue claiming you until you are both completely spent.
G — Goofy [मज़ाकिया / مزاحیہ]
He isn't entirely goofy or clumsy in the heat of the moment, his focus is far too intense for that. Instead, his playful side manifests as heavy teasing and soft mockery designed to test your absolute sanity by the end of the night.
He loves to use your own confidence against you.
If you are the one straddling him and trying to dominate the room, he’ll just lie back with a smug, knowing smirk and challenge you: "Bas aise hi dekhogi ya kuch karogi bhi?" [Are you just going to stare at me like that, or are you actually going to do something?]
If you start to hesitate or get overwhelmed by his sheer size, he will ruthlessly throw your own words back in your face, whispering, "Tumne hi toh kaha tha, ab pichche matt mudo." [You were the one who said it, now don't turn back.]
It’s only afterward, when the heavy tension has entirely melted from the room, that his truly goofy side comes out. He will crack an absurd joke or tease you gently, pulling you out of your post-intimacy embarrassment just to see you smile.
H — Hair [बाल / بال ]
Let’s be entirely real: the man is a walking canvas of masculine hair.
From the gorgeous, luscious, silky waves cascading all the way down to his waist, to the coarse, dark hair dusting his broad chest, stomach, and strong arms—he is completely untamed.
But do not confuse his ruggedness for a lack of hygiene. Hamza is meticulously clean. Those waist-length waves clearly have a dedicated routine; the man undoubtedly possesses a secret stash of premium hair serums and styling creams to keep his curls looking that effortlessly perfect.
When it comes to his lower half, he keeps things strictly realistic for an undercover man. He doesn't have perfectly smooth, hairless pubes; he simply doesn't have the time or the headspace to worry about full body shaving. (What am I even writing at this point?)
He will occasionally trim for basic comfort, but if he’s deep in the middle of a high-stakes assignment, he lets it stay natural. Fortunately, he is circumcised and highly disciplined about his personal hygiene, ensuring everything stays completely fresh. (I hate dicks.)
My baby's nails are always trimmed short, smooth, and perfectly clean, meaning his hands are completely safe whenever they are tracing the sensitive skin of your thighs.
I — Insecurity [असुरक्षा / عدم تحفظ]
Hamza carries a quiet insecurity about how you truly perceive him.
He is terrifyingly aware of the blood on his hands and the dark, violent nature of his undercover work. Because of this, he is constantly terrified that you will eventually look at him and see nothing more than a ruthless killing machine; he bends over backward every single day to ensure you never feel an ounce of that coldness at home.
He is plagued by the lingering fear that one day his dangerous world will completely implode, catching you in the crossfire—which is why his protective instincts border on an absolute obsession.
During intimacy, this insecurity manifests as an intense fear of physically hurting you.
Even when he is completely undone by his own burning desires, he remains incredibly careful with his strength. If he ever accidentally pushes too hard, bites too deep, or causes you even a flash of physical discomfort, the entire mood shatters instantly.
He will stop dead in his tracks, pulling away immediately as unshed tears well up in his green eyes. He will hold your face in his large palms, his voice breakin: "Mujhe maaf kar do, seherzadi." [Forgive me, my princess.] He will immediately wrap you in a tight, apologetic embrace, rushing to bring you medication or antiseptics if the skin is marked.
Furthermore, if you ever voice insecurities regarding your own autonomy, he will sit with you for hours, completely silent, listening intently before offering grounding words and gentle advice to rebuild your peace of mind.
J — Jealousy [ईर्ष्या / حسد]
Hamza is fundamentally not a jealous man.
He is entirely secure in the foundation of the relationship you’ve built together. He doesn't harbor toxic, controlling thoughts; he genuinely does not care what clothes you choose to wear, who you spend your time with, or where you go out in the city.
However, if a stranger out in public dares to stare at you with untoward intentions or attempts to flirt with you, his demeanor shifts instantly. He won't make an explosive scene; instead, he will simply cast a sharp look that promises violence toward the offender while casually sliding a possessive hand onto the dip of your waist.
He doesn't view the situation through the lens of bruised male pride; his primary instinct is always to check in on your comfort level, ensuring you feel completely safe in the environment.
But if someone genuinely crosses the line and threatens your peace?
He never turns that anger inward, and he will never question your character or your loyalty.
Instead, he handles the threat at the source, charging straight at the offender like a lethal force of nature. You know his violent capabilities all too well—he would not hesitate for a single second to take a life if someone actually dared to harm you or even thought about laying a finger on you.
Yet, for all his overwhelming protectiveness and his terror of a life without you, he is entirely devoid of selfishness: if you ever chose to walk away from him of your own free will, his devotion means he would let you go, prioritizing your happiness over his own.
K — Kinks [विचित्र आदतें / عادات]
He doesn't rely on hardcore kinks.
His desires are far too grounded in pure physical and emotional connection. However, his dangerous undercover lifestyle naturally bleeds into the bedroom, giving him a few highly specific, lethal turn-ons that completely test your sanity.
First is a subtle gunplay.
It is never reckless or hardcore; instead, after ensuring the weapon is completely empty and cleared, he loves to trail the heavy, ice-cold steel of the barrel along the burning skin of your neck, down the center of your chest, and across the dip of your waist.
He does it purely to tease you, anchoring his dark gaze to your face just to watch your eyes widen and hear your breath hitch against the cold metal. He is hyper-aware of the line between dark thrill and genuine discomfort, and the second he senses you tensing uncomfortably, the weapon is put away.
Second, he is utterly obsessed with visual ownership.
Nothing drives him crazier than seeing you dressed in his oversized black kurta or button-down shirt, wearing nothing underneath but a pair of panties—or completely bare.
The sight of his fabric swallowing your smaller frame is a massive trigger for him. He will trail his large hands up the exposed skin of your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh possessively. He loves keeping his shirt on you while he handles you, pinning you down and sliding his thick, long fingers between your folds.
He will lean down, his dropping to a low, vibrating whisper against your ear: "Itna yaad kar rahi thi mujhe?" [Were you missing me this much?]—before effortlessly sliding two fingers deep inside to ruthlessly tap against your sweet spot until you're begging.
Finally, he has a low-key fondness for restraints.
As seen when you click those plush metal cuffs around his wrists, he doesn’t mind the thrill of being restrained or pinning you down in return. Because the foundation of your relationship is built on years of unbreakable trust, he finds an intense psychological satisfaction in surrendering control or completely taking yours; though, true to his protective nature, a single word or wrong look from you will make him freeze and abort the play instantly.
L — Location [स्थान / مقام]
No lube, no protection, from the kitchen floor to the ceiling… Ok enough.
To be entirely fair, the geography doesn't matter to him. The moment the tension snaps and you are both ready, he will take you exactly where you stand.
But while the bed is an obvious staple for his long, exhausting nights, his absolute favorite playground is the bathroom.
The man’s estate is elite for a reason, specifically designed with massive, interconnected mirrors that face one another. He loves to exploit every single angle. Sometimes, it looks like him pinning you flat against the steaming shower tiles, his large hands mapping every inch of your skin before he hooks his arms under your thighs, lifting your entire weight effortlessly to fuck you standing up against the rush of water.
On lazy, exhausted nights, it shifts to slow thrusts while you are both submerged in the warm water of the bathtub. But his absolute favorite move is lifting you onto the wide marble counter, pressing you back against the glass so you are forced to watch the endless, breathless reflections of your bodies writhing in his tight grasp.
His secondary choice is the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the estate.
(I know what kind of a man you are, Hamza). When the midnight hours hit and the staff has completely cleared out, he will turn off every single light in the wing. In the heavy, pitch-black dark of the night, he will bend you room-facing or push you forward until your breasts are pressed flat against the cool, unforgiving glass.
The contrast of the freezing window against the scorching heat of his frame driving into you from behind is enough to completely shatter your sanity.
Beyond that, he has a dangerous fondness for bending you flat across the smooth, cold ceramic of the dining table after a late dinner, or clearing the heavy paperwork off his desk in his private work studio to claim you amid the shadows of his operations.
And for the sweltering summer nights? Shifting you right to the edge of the private, moonlit pool; where the water laps against your lower back while he anchors his hands to your hips.
M — Masturbation [हस्तमैथुन / مشت زنی]
Since you entered his life, it is a rare occurrence.
The real thing will always be his ultimate sanctuary, so he only ever resorts to pleasuring himself when you are miles away, the undercover operational stress becomes entirely unbearable, or he is simply missing you to the point of literal heartache.
His approach to it betrays the deep respect at the core of his character. Hamza doesn't keep a single explicit or compromising photo of you stored on his phone. From his perspective, keeping a partner's private, intimate images locked in a digital device feels inherently wrong and cheapens what you share.
While he completely trusts you and would never restrict you from sending them if you truly wanted to, he chooses never to ask.
Instead, he relies entirely on his own vivid memory. He closes his eyes and calls upon the exact shape of your face in the dark, the specific cadence of your voice, and the breathless whimpers you make when he’s driving into you.
He built a mental archive of every second spent in your arms, using that intense imagination to fuel slow, heavy strokes until he releases with a shattered, hard climax.
The moment he is clean, a wave of boyish vulnerability washes over him; he’ll pout to himself in the quiet room and send a quick, sheepish text: "Sorry, couldn't control myself today." You instantly decode the hidden meaning behind the words, quickly typing back a reassuring, "It's okay, meri jaan. No worries. I'm not mad." to completely soothe his mind, keeping him company over text until he finally drifts off to sleep.
Conversely, he is absolutely thrilled when the tables are turned.
Hamza harbors zero toxic double standards; he is supportive of you masturbating and exploring your own body. He finds it incredibly hot that you are in tune with your own desires, and if you ever tell him that you took care of yourself while thinking of him, it sends his ego through the roof, leaving him desperate to get back to you and show you exactly what happens when he handles the task himself.
N — No [नहीं / نہ]
The word "No" is an immutable law to him.
The second it leaves your lips, everything grinds to an immediate halt. Because of the heavy, violent wreckage of his past: where he ruthlessly hunted down and killed his sisters' rapists and narrowly escaped a similar horrific fate himself; he carries an understanding of bodily autonomy. He takes your consent with life-or-death seriousness. There is no hesitating, no questioning, and no coaxing; if you say no, he pulls away instantly and will apologize quietly if he feels he crossed a boundary.
Because of this deeply rooted respect, heavy degradation, dehumanization, or humiliation kinks are absolute hard turn-offs for him. He utterly loathes derogatory slurs, and hearing terms like "whore," "slut," or the heavily loaded Urdu/Hindi equivalent "raand" in an intimate setting completely ruins his mood and genuinely annoys him.
While he is a man of the trenches who will absolutely curse under operational stress, he strictly filters his mouth when he is with you.
Instead, any "humiliation" he inflicts is strictly playful, deeply cultural, and affectionate. He loves to affectionately drop a teasing "khotti" (donkey) when you do something silly, or mimic formal distance by calling you "Sahiba" or a simple "idiot" just to see you pout.
When he talks dirty to you, his words focus entirely on the raw reality of your shared pleasure. He will confront you directly in the dark, his voice low and steady as he murmurs, "You're so wet," "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" or "You look so good when you're fucked by me." It is intensely hot, but it never crosses the line into filthy disrespect.
His secondary, massive turn-off is performance: faking an orgasm or forcing a moan will instantly shut him down. Hamza doesn’t want an act; he wants you completely undone, a genuine, whimpering mess in his arms. Because he has spent years hyper-focusing on your physiology and studying every micro-expression your body makes, he can catch a fake reaction instantly.
But more than that, you never have a reason to perform for him; his physical precision is so absolute, and his understanding of exactly what triggers your pleasure is so precise, that he will always guide you to a real finish every single time.
O — Oral [मुख मैथुन / اورل]
He loves giving it infinitely more than receiving.
No matter the time or place, his default prelude is always to slide down between your thighs to eat you out first. Whether you spread your legs for him or he has to gently coax them open himself, he is completely ruthless down there. He will start by tasting the soft, outer skin of your thighs before diving his tongue deep into your seam, lapping all the way from your entrance to the hyper-sensitive peak of your clit.
If he feels like his access is restricted, his large fingers will firmly spread your lips apart so he can run his tongue up and down or in a frantic, zig-zag motion that completely drives you wild. He harbors absolutely zero shyness in your bed; he will happily trail his tongue lower to lick at your perineum or rim, the bridge of his long nose brushing heavily against your tiny, swollen bud with every stroke.
He will devotedly lick away every single drop of slick and sweetness you give him until you are completely undone.
When the tables are turned and you drop to your knees to take him into your mouth, he becomes incredibly gentle. The tight warmth of your throat completely dismantles his iron control. Because he is intensely aware of his massive size, he deliberately grips the headboard or the sheets to keep himself from bucking his hips, terrified of accidentally gagging or hurting you.
However, when he gets too close to the edge, his primal instincts take over, forcing him to deliver a few helpless, shallow thrusts into your heat. Yet, right before the dam breaks, his protective focus snaps back; he will gently, firmly guide your face away from his length, choosing to spill his heavy, thick release across his own stomach and thighs rather than risking your discomfort.
P — Pace [गति / رفتار]
During intimacy, his baseline rhythm is slow and gentle.
He takes his sweet time embedding himself inside you, letting your body adapt to his massive size before he ever even thinks about picking up the speed or adding a rougher edge to match your desires.
Hamza deliberately avoids reckless, high-speed pounding; his mind knows all too well that moving too fast without proper alignment can cause painful friction, tearing, or even hurt him if the angles aren't perfectly calibrated.
For a man like him, accuracy will always triumph over raw speed.
He is entirely focused on precision placement. He will casually slide his large hands under your thighs or lift your hips to adjust your spine, ensuring that every single thrust; whether it is a punishingly slow drag or a mounting, rhythmic drive, strikes your sweet spot with unerring certainty.
Q — Quickie [जल्दीबाजी / جلدی بازی]
A standard quickie is something he fundamentally dislikes.
To him, a rushed encounter carries too many risks—if you aren't fully slick, aroused, or mentally prepared, the friction could easily hurt you, which is a boundary he refuses to cross.
Furthermore, Hamza views sex as an entire all-consuming experience rather than a mere physical chore to be checked off. If he is going to claim you, he demands the full, unhurried depth of it. (I genuinely think he's an INTJ).
On the rare occasions when time is severely limited but the mutual longing is burning too hot to ignore, he won’t force a hurried completion. Instead, he will redirect that intense energy into heavy, breathless make-out sessions.
He will pin you against the nearest wall, devouring your mouth, squeezing your waist, and leaving your senses completely spinning; giving you just enough of a taste to keep you intoxicated until he can finally bring you home and take his time properly.
R — Romance [रोमांस / رومانسک]
Outside the bedroom, his romance is grounding.
It exists in the quiet, domestic moments; the lingering pressure of his lips against your forehead, the protective way his large hand swallows yours out in public, and the soft sweet nothings he murmurs into your ear when the world gets too loud.
He is a man who shows his love through observation, constantly surprising you by remembering the smallest, most obscure details you’ve ever shared with him, or bringing home thoughtful gifts just to watch your face light up.
During sex, his romantic soul completely colors the physical act, turning raw passion into a form of worship. Mid-thrust, he will frequently pause his rhythm just to raise your hands and press tender, reverent kisses against your knuckles, or slide his large palms down to gently squeeze your knees.
If your hair falls into your eyes, his thick fingers will tenderly comb the long waves away from your face, anchoring his gaze to yours so he can devour your expressions with clarity.
If the intensity of the pleasure brings overwhelmed tears to your eyes, his dominance completely melts; he will softly wipe the moisture away with his thumbs, pressing comforting, quiet kisses to your cheeks.
He is a man deeply rooted in the heavy, poetic traditions of his homeland—he will lean down, his low, vibrating voice brushing like a scorching velvet promise against your collarbones as he whispers Ghalib's timeless words:
"Ishq mujh ko hua na tha pehle, aag ik dil mein laga gayi wo shakhs."
[I had never been in love before, but that person set a fire ablaze within my heart.]
He loves to explore your skin with gentle reverence, trailing warm kisses across the soft swell of your stomach or burying his face completely between your heavy breasts to hide from the world.
And when the storm has finally passed and you are both spent, his favorite place to rest is flat on his stomach with his heavy head resting directly on your chest, completely still, falling asleep to the rhythm of your heartbeat.
The absolute intoxication—the surroor—he feels when he is inside you is completely matched by his staggering, relentless stamina. Thanks to his grueling years of elite military and operational training, his body is built for extreme endurance, a trait that translates into a terrifyingly beautiful work capacity between the sheets.
Hamza can quite literally go on for hours without his rhythm faltering.
When he is driving into you, his mental control allows him to pace himself perfectly, hitting his own climax at around fifteen to twenty minutes. If you are the one down on your knees giving him oral, the sheer, tight heat of your mouth speeds up his clock slightly, bringing him to the edge in about ten to fifteen minutes.
His body is so intensely responsive to your essence that he doesn't even need direct stimulation to get worked up; merely sliding down between your thighs and eating you out is enough to make him rock-hard and leaking slick against his own skin.
But hitting his limit once means absolutely nothing to his endurance.
Hamza doesn’t experience a draining cooldown period; he simply does not get tired. The second he clears his release, his breath will catch, his jaw will clench, and he will immediately rally for more rounds. He will shift your bodies into entirely different positions, lifting you up, turning you over, and relentlessly chasing your pleasure over and over again until your own legs are trembling too much to hold him.
T — Toys [खिलौने / کھلونے]
Hamza is devoid of a fragile male ego.
He doesn't view intimacy through a lens of insecure competition; therefore, he never looks at your personal toys as a threat to his masculinity. When he is away on high-stakes, deep-cover assignments for weeks at a time, he is comforted knowing you have a tiny vibrator and a clitoral suction toy to take care of your needs.
When he is home, those exact devices become weapons of absolute pleasure in his large, capable hands. He loves to integrate them into your sessions to tease you or ruthlessly push you over the edge. Sometimes, he will wrap his massive frame around you from behind, holding you completely captive against his chest while he presses a vibrator firmly against your swollen clit, using his other hand to deeply finger-fuck you until your spine goes completely fluid.
Other times, if you've been acting a bit too bratty or defiant, his dominant side will emerge; he will slide a smooth glass dildo—perfectly sized for your comfort—inside you, forcing you to ride it while he holds back his own release, making you weep and beg for his real, thick cock until you're desperately crying out, "Mujhe tum chahiye..." [I want you...]
Furthermore, he is completely unbothered when the tables are turned.
Hamza has zero reservations about you introducing toys to his own body. When you take control and press a buzzing vibrator directly against the hyper-sensitive tip of his length, the unfamiliar intensity of the vibration drives his mind straight into a wall, forcing guttural, breathless curses from his throat as he fights a losing battle against his own stamina.
U — Uncovering [अनावृत होना / بے نقاب ہونا]
He almost never reveals his body completely naked.
Even during the height of intimacy when you are entirely bare beside him, he prefers to keep a barrier up: remaining either fully dressed in his black kurta and pyjamas or, at the very least, keeping his pants on.
This isn't out of a lack of desire, but rather a deeply rooted psychological shield.
He has willingly shown you his skin and the map of violent scars earned from his years in the Army and deep-cover operations, but shedding his clothes entirely still feels like stripping away his ultimate defense mechanism. The trauma of his past and the constant threat of his present make total exposure a massive hurdle.
However, because of the unbreakable trust you two share, he is actively learning. Slowly, and without a single shred of shame or judgment, he is practicing letting his guard down. With every passing month, he unbuttons a little more, undressing in front of you and allowing himself to be fully uncovered, trusting your hands to soothe the ghosts stitched into his skin.
V — Voice [आवाज़ / آواز]
His voice is soft, smooth, and deeply manly.
He entirely avoids the cliché of a cartoonishly raspy or artificially deep and husky growl. Instead, when he speaks to you at home, his tone is incredibly gentle, measured, and slow. When the operational stakes rise and he gets intensely serious, his pitch naturally drops into a lower, more throaty resonance, but it always remains perfectly clear and distinct.
During intimacy, he is entirely quiet, preferring to let the sound of your pleasure fill the room.
He never lets out loud, high-pitched moans; instead, his surrender manifests as a series of heavy, involuntary grunts, sharp hisses, and quiet whimpers he simply cannot control as his stamina is pushed to its absolute limits.
You will hear low, breathless "Ah"s or "Uh"s vibrating deep in his chest, or the ragged sound of your own name slipping past his lips the exact moment his breath hitches and he loses his grip on his restraint.
W — Weight [वज़न / وزن]
Clocking in at an imposing 90 to 92 kilograms.
He is massive in every sense of the word: built with wide, intimidating shoulders spanning well over 50 inches, arms that easily double the size of your head, and thick forearms resembling tree trunks.
His full, broad chest tapers down into a thick, solid stomach that pushes out just a bit with raw mass, yet remains anchored by hard, underlying abs. Combined with his wide hips and dense, heavy thighs, he possesses the kind of thick, imposing frame that completely swallows you whole.
To be absolutely clear: this is NOT a "dad-bod."
He doesn't possess a soft, hanging tummy or a lack of definition.
Instead, Hamza carries the dense build of a man who avoids artificial gym-shredding and lean aesthetics, opting instead for sheer power. He looks exactly like what he is: an elite undercover asset who trains ruthlessly and eats six massive meals a day just to fuel his staggering bulk.
With 18-inch biceps framing your view, his sheer mass makes him capable of effortlessly lifting your entire weight with a single hand and tossing you around the room; yet, true to his nature, he channels that overwhelming strength into holding you with the most careful reverence.
X — X-Ray [एक्स-रे / ایکسرے]
He is long, thick, and heavily veined.
(Why am I writing this?) In a natural, soft state, his length rests around six inches, extending to a commanding seven inches when fully hard. The coloration is slightly darker than the rest of his skin tone, with thick, prominent veins wrapping intensely along the sides of his shaft.
Because he is circumcised, there is no foreskin to obscure his form; his flushed, flared tip remains fully exposed at all times, darkening to a deep purple or heavy reddish hue when his arousal peaks. (I still hate dicks).
But it is his sheer girth that presents five to six inches around. Sliding into you, his immense thickness stretches your soft, plush frame impossibly wide, completely stuffing you to the absolute limit and leaving zero room for doubt about exactly who owns your body.
Y — Yearning [तड़प / تڑپ]
His mind doesn’t often let itself dwell on thoughts of sex.
Because he carries the crushing weight of his operational duties, his default state is to compartmentalize his desires and ruthlessly ignore any distracting urges. He leaves the initiation of intimacy entirely in your hands: and the moment you reach for him, he yields completely, welcoming your body with an intense, deep-seated hunger he otherwise keeps locked away. He desires your soft curves fiercely, but his work demands total focus.
The true depth of his yearning reveals itself the second the pressure lets up.
When the weekend finally arrives or his high-stakes workload dips, his armor completely falls away. He dedicates every spare hour exclusively to you, refusing to leave your side.
He handles his downtime with zero half-measures: either his heavy, tired head is resting quietly in your lap while you brush through his thick curls, or his mouth is buried deeply between your thighs, completely lost in tasting every single drop of your pleasure.
Z — Zzz [नींद / نیند]
Falling asleep immediately after sex is a concept that does not exist to him.
No matter how physically spent or exhausted he is from the grueling rounds and his intense stamina, his protector instinct immediately transitions into aftercare. He will tenderly and thoroughly clean your body, soothe any soreness, and tuck you securely into the bed.
Once you are comfortable, he steps back into his shadowy reality.
While you rest, he will either lie quietly beside you or quietly slip away to his desk to finalize his dark operational tasks, silently compiling data and transmitting crucial, dangerous intel back to R&AW under the cover of night.
If you happen to wake up in the dark and find him working, you simply have to call out to him; the second he closes his laptop, you can slide right into his arms, cuddling close against his massive, warm chest.
No matter what, he will wrap his arms around you and wait, remaining wide awake and watchful in the dark until he is certain you have fallen asleep first before he finally allows his OWN EYES TO CLOSE.
Masterlist. Tags: (comment to be tagged or removed). Vote, comment and follow for more updates. @rishwatkhor @afortoru @torumii @bittermiseryy @legendmoonstone @bway43 @dhoodhsoda @precioussophia @astrellapyxis @anxiousbeeing @youngloreninja @gulaabjamun08 @noor-archive @heartsforyouworld @harrystyleskiwi9 @angelicyuna @willowsgoldenhour @evemystjade @st4rmiist @pn28 @laal-pari @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @precioussophia @pleasetagmejaaneman @sugarvibez @avasif @carmenred28 @velvetdakait @khoonaurkhanjar @dumdumdaisy @cloudyparadoxqueen @batata04 @debsreads21 @vaari-javaan @hamzakamehroomkurta ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
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Hi all! This is Sudi aka @hamzair-is-my-otp . I have been thinking of somethings that will help out fandom be alive and I'm here to share it.
I'm thinking of starting a discord for this fandom (if there's already one let me know!)
I don't know how many of you are in HP fandom but they regularly conduct writing fests and prompt challenges based on specific tropes. Or based on the month. I was thinking why not do the same to our fandom too. Let me know everyone's thoughts on this.
The prompts won't just be for a specific pairing every time. It would vary. Like if a prompt is given, anyone can use it for any pairing. Because our fandom is small compared to many other fandoms who write fics within themselves for specific pairings and I want everyone to be involved in any way possible, I'm thinking of weekly stuff too.
I want volunteers who would help me do this (if we're doing it). Not just with discord, but also to brainstorm prompt ideas. Anyone can volunteer.
People are leaving this fandom because of personal commitments or less engagement to their fics or due to harassment. We can't do anything about the first one, it's life. But if you're leaving because of the other two, please stay, let's start something new and make this fandom stronger. Let's all write more and make the anons grow tired.
Everyone please reblog and comment on fics that you like. Please don't be silent. Even a heart or two in the comment section would make the author happy.
Prompts would not just be about hamzair, rehmat, hamlina but also the ones with OCs, readers, major Iqbal, SP Aslam, and anything that's posted as a fic. Basically any and every pairing you want to make.
This is not just limited to fics, you can also draw, write poetry, do whatever you want with said prompts but be involved in whatever way you can.
Kindly reblog this. I can only tag a limited amount of people in this. Others also tag everyone on your list. Let this spread to even the smallest writer. We need everyone to keep this fandom's light bright and shining.
Honestly Dhurandhar movies and this fandom has been playing a MAJOR role in helping me through my own personal struggles and depression. I know it's the same for many of you, even if it's not said out loud. That's one of the main reasons I don't want this fandom to die.
I know we have a mix of school students, college students, and working adults here, so please don't worry about deadlines. These events will be completely flexible with long submission windows and short-word, one-shot options, so you can join in whenever life and exams give you a break.
I'm requesting everyone who reads this post to comment their HONEST opinions on this. Even if it's negative, it's welcome because this is an initial discussion, not a forced conclusion. Thankyou ❤️
Act II: SHOAL, Chapter Twelve: PART TWO, Part One.
They Spoke Their Vows Over Graves Yet to Be Dug
[Hello guys, I don't usually say this, but now I have to. This chapter took me nearly a week to write, with half of my days dedicated to it. It's over 15,000 words. So I'd appreciate it if you could vote up, comment, follow and share this and the other chapters. Thank you, and enjoy! <3 TMI: I was blushing and giggling while writing.]
THE MAULVI SLOWLY rotates his head, eyes locking onto my position through the sheer, light pink mesh of my bridal veil. "Sanaz Siddiqui, bint-e-Ahmad Siddiqui, Hamza Sahab ke saath, bees lakh rupaye Meher ke iwaz, kya aapko yeh nikah qubool hai?"
["Sanaz Siddiqui, daughter of Ahmad Siddiqui, with Mr. Hamza, in exchange for a mandatory dowry of twenty lakh rupees, do you accept this marriage?"]
A heavy, sudden lump forms in my throat.
"Qubool hai."
"Dusri baar."
"Qubool hai."
"Aakhri baar."
["A final time."]
"Qubool hai."
The contract is religiously validated. The Maulvi smoothly slides the official legal documents across the low wooden table. Hamza reaches forward, his hand anchoring the page as he signs his name in permanent black ink before passing the script directly over to me. I accept the fountain pen, my wrist completely steady as I trace my strokes onto the line.
Our names are locked together on the same document.
Hamza Ali Mazari and Sanaz Siddiqui.
Not Jaskirat Singh Rangi and my own true, forsaken name.
The priest recites the final blessings, his voice dipping into a soft melody as he officially declares us bound, before sliding the ledger over to the flanking perimeter to finalize the witness grid. "Mubarak ho," he murmurs.
["Congratulations."]
Behind Hamza's broad shoulders, Jameel Jamali steps forward, taking the pen to sign as the official witness from the groom's side. Khalid uncle leans over my shoulder, signing gracefully to anchor my family cover. But the contract requires one final signature to be legally bulletproof under state law.
Without a single trace of hesitation, Rizwan steps directly into the light of the alcove, smoothly taking the pen to seal the final witness box. I track his posture from behind my veil, and a rare, genuine smile breaks across my lips.
Before we can even shift our weight to stand, Jameel Sahab's wife smoothly steps forward, sweeping a massive, heavily embroidered ceremonial veil completely over both our heads. The thick silk cuts off the glare of the ballroom chandeliers, instantly trapping us inside a small, warm sanctuary. She carefully places the holy Quran and a gold-rimmed mirror flat onto the cushions right between our laps.
"Ek dusre ko pehli baar naqab se hatt kar dekho," she instructs softly from outside the drapes. ["Look at each other for the very first time without the veil."]
We both tilt our heads downward.
Locked inside the quiet shadow of the silk tent, my eyes track the clear reflection in the glass, tracing the dark lines of the premium Surma I applied to his waterline just an hour ago. Through the mirror, his gold-flecked green eyes slowly shift, locking onto my coordinates with a slow smirk that fractures the hard lines of his jaw.
A genuine, breathy smile breaks across my lips.
He reaches out, his warm hand firmly pressing mine flat against the leather binding of the holy book, anchoring our unified souls over un-dug graves.
Once the veil is lifted, we migrate toward the main reception floor, our movements instantly swarmed by the high-society Karachi crowd as cameras flash continuously to log our alignment. We stand positioned on the golden stage for a massive group photograph, flashing flawless civilian smiles for the archive.
The inner circle steps up to deliver their tributes. Alam bhai steps in, presenting us with a heavily wrapped kitchen grinder. A loud, helpless laugh escapes my lips as Hamza shakes his head, setting the domestic appliance aside with an amused grunt.
Yalina follows, gifting us a set of beautiful, custom-crafted couple's bracelets. Jameel Sahab and his wife step into our immediate space to deliver the traditional matriarchal fortress, pressing their hands firmly over our heads. "Nazar na lage aur humesha khush rahe."
["May the evil eye never touch you, and may you remain happy forever."]
Next in the queue is Rizwan. Hamza arches a sharp eyebrow. "Kya laya humare liye?"
["What have you brought for us?"]
Rizwan flashes a highly satisfied grin, handing over a sleek rectangular box. Hamza tears open the premium wrapping paper... revealing a high-end, multi-blade electric trimming set complete with shaving cream and soothing aftershave gels. I throw my head back completely, a roaring, unbridled laugh escaping my throat as I look at his stunned expression.
"Dekh lo jijaji, Sanaz sahiba ki ichcha puri karni padegi," Rizwan teases ruthlessly, gesturing toward the razor kit.
["Look here, brother-in-law, you'll have to fulfill Lady Sanaz's wish now."]
"Main tera jija kabse ban gaya, saale?" Hamza deadpans instantly.
["Since when did I become your brother-in-law, you bastard?"]
"Exactly," Rizwan counters smoothly as he adjusts the cuffs of his own heavily embroidered ceremonial kurta. "Jabse maine witness ki jagah pe sign kiya."
["Exactly. Ever since I signed in the witness box."]
Before Hamza can counter-strike, Rizwan pivots directly toward me, sliding a second, much smaller box into my painted palms. I look down at the label: it's a clinical tube of baby rash cream.
"Incase he doesn't shave," he whispers conspiratorially.
Another laughter breaks past my lips, my eyes crinkling with real warmth as I tuck the box into my bridal clutch. "Bohot shukriya, bhaiya."
["Thank you so much, brother."]
Major Iqbal steps through the crowd, flanked by Khanani and the deadpan presence of SP Chaudhry Aslam. The SP doesn't bother greeting a single civilian in the room; moving with the rigid, heavy arrogance of a man who owns the state's brute force, he simply pulls out a chair and sits flat at the table.
Major Iqbal steps up onto the platform, offering Hamza a firm embrace before turning his sharp gaze toward me.
"Humsheera," Iqbal murmurs smoothly, drawing me into a paternal hug that smells subtly of expensive tobacco. "Pakistan mein tum dono ishq ki buniyad banoge."
["Sister, the two of you will become the very foundation of love in Pakistan."]
As they clear the immediate space, Khalid uncle steps forward into our grid. His face is lined with a deep gravity as he takes Hamza's large, calloused hands into his own. "Apni bhatiji saupi hai aapko. Achche se rakhna."
["I have entrusted my niece to you. Take good care of her."]
Hamza offers a slow, deeply respectful nod, his royal pagh catching the golden chandelier light. "Aap fikr na karein, Kashmiri Sahab."
["Do not worry, Mr. Kashmiri."]
Then, Uncle turns to me. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, a proud, profoundly sorrowful smile fracturing his lips as he speaks into the fabric of my veil. "Itni jaldi badi ho jaogi socha nahi tha. Apni khabar pohonchate rehna."
["I never thought you'd grow up so quickly. Keep sending your updates to me."]
My chest aches under the heavy weight of my parents' gold chain hidden beneath my clothes. I track the raw emotion in his eyes, realizing with a sharp pang that I still haven't broken the ultimate operational protocol to tell him the truth.
He genuinely believes I am sacrificing my entire womanhood-marrying a ruthless, blood-stained Lyari gangster-solely to anchor the logistics of my deep-cover assignment. He has no idea that the man next to me is my sanctuary.
Maybe one day.
A woman dressed in plain clothes navigates through the elite guests, holding the hand of a small boy. The facial recognition software in my brain instantly records the data. Rehman Dakait's widow.
She halts right at the edge of the stage, standing mere inches from Hamza's towering frame. For a long, suffocating eternity, she simply stares, her eyes completely vacant of life before she finally forces the words past her lips.
"Uzair humari aakhri umeed hai. Marna nahi chahiye."
["Uzair is our last hope. He must not die."]
She turns her head slowly, casting a long, unreadable look toward me, her lips offering a tiny, tragic mimicry of a smile before she turns to walk away.
The little boy-Faizal, if my forensic memory serves me correctly-suddenly darts forward. He wraps his small arms around Hamza's knee, saying absolutely nothing before running back to track his mother's footsteps.
God... I cannot even begin to calculate the sheer helplessness of what that woman must be feeling in this room. She is standing here seeking protection from the new kingpin, completely oblivious to the reality that the gorgeous, green-eyed groom standing on this stage is the exact person who executed her husband in cold blood, dismantled her family's syndicate, and systematically sent her brother-in-law to a prison.
I tilt my head slightly, tracking Hamza's profile.
I see his gaze completely falter.
His eyes drop to the floor, refusing to hold the gaze of a single asset or handler in the alcove. But within a fraction of a second, the deep-cover conditioning overrides the guilt; he lifts his chin, a smile remounting his features as he turns to greet the next line of high-society guests.
Hamza lifts his hands, carefully removing the heavy pagh from his head and setting the structured velvet aside before walking purposefully over to the table. Major Iqbal, Mir, SP Chaudhry Aslam, Khanani, and Jameel sit closely packed around the dark wood, their figures shrouded in a thick haze of tobacco smoke.
"Sab khairiyat? Khana wana khaya?" Hamza questions smoothly.
["Is everything alright? Did you all eat?"]
"Arey tum dulhe ho, aaj aish karo," Khanani speaks up, a low chuckle rippling through the older men at the table.
["Hey, you're the groom today, just enjoy yourself."]
Hamza echoes the chuckle, casually pulling out a chair to sink his frame into the seating grid alongside them. I follow a few paces behind his shadow, adjusting the heavy silk drape of my veil to ensure my positioning allows me to intercept every single syllable dropped.
Major Iqbal leans back, a fresh cigarette clamped between his lips as he flickers a lighter. "In hindustaniyon pe kabhi bharosa nahi karna chahiye," he mutters under his breath, his eyes narrowing into cold slits as the flame catches. "Bhag gaya sala."
["Never trust these Indians. The bastard ran away."]
"Pinda ki baat kar rahe hain?"
["Are you talking about Pinda?"]
They offer grim nods.
"Kal Uzair Dubai se wapas aa raha hai," SP Chaudhry Aslam speaks up suddenly. He exhales a dense, gray plume of smoke straight into the air between them, his hard eyes locking directly into Hamza's coordinates. "Tu mere beech mein nahi aayega."
["Tomorrow, Uzair is returning from Dubai. You will not get in my way."]
Hamza doesn't flinch.
"Baloch."
"Agar dagabazi ki, toh maarne se pehle tujhe randwa bana dunga," Aslam promises flatly.
["If you play double games, I will make you a widower before I kill you."]
I feel my heart drop straight into my stomach. He is openly stating that the absolute first consequence of Hamza's betrayal will be my execution.
"Aur Jameel Sahab, aapko khassi," the SP adds without a single trace of emotion.
["And Mr. Jameel, you get castrated."]
Hamza remains entirely motionless. SP Chaudhry Aslam slowly rotates his head, his piercing gaze cutting straight through the sheer mesh of my veil, tracking my stiffening posture.
"Iske piche piche matt ghum. Tu Ashraf hai na?" he barks.
["Don't keep following behind him. You are an Ashraf, aren't you?"]
"Ji," I nod slowly.
Aslam turns back to the table, dismissing my presence with a harsh, cynical flick of his wrist as he delivers the final, "Yeh Baloch kisi ke sage nahi hote. Woh kehte hain na, magarmach pe bharosa kar sakte hain, magar baloch pe nahi."
["These Baloch belong to no one. As they say, you can trust a crocodile, but never a Baloch."]
I let out a slow sigh. I look directly at the SP. "Balochon ke khilaf itni nafrat kyun?"
["Why so much hatred against the Baloch?"]
SP Chaudhry Aslam doesn't even flinch. He simply lets out a rough huff, blowing another thick stream of gray smoke into the space between us. "Nabbe ke daur mein mera ek baloch dost hua karta tha. Mera nikah tayy tha, lekin fir pata chala yeh dost peeth peeche meri hone waali biwi ko-" He stops mid-sentence, casually gesturing with a blunt, heavy twist of his fist.
"Back in the nineties, I used to have a Baloch friend. My wedding was fixed, but then I found out that behind my back, this friend was with my bride-to-be-"]
My eyes widen as the graphic implication logs into my brain.
"Fir kya tha," Aslam continues flatly, his tone as casual as if he were recounting a standard traffic stop. "Operation ke waqt bandook ki nali uske taraf bhi mudayi, aur shaheed hogaya bhadwa. Uske aantein kaat kar apni bewafa mangetar ke darwaze par latka diya."
["So what happened next? During a field operation, I turned the barrel of my gun toward him too, and the bastard became a 'martyr.' I cut out his intestines and hung them right on the doorstep of my unfaithful fiancée."]
A dead silence drops over the entire table. We all just stare at him.
I blink twice. "Kabhi therapy jaane ka socha hai aapne?"
["Have you ever thought about going to therapy?"]
Hamza's eyes practically pop out of his skull.
Hamza lets out a loud, violent cough to clear his throat.
He shoots up to his full height, his hand instantly wrapping around my forearm with a tight, non-negotiable grip.
He physically drags my pearl-encrusted frame away from the table, completely cutting off the grid before his new bride accidentally gets us executed before the wedding reception even concludes.
"Therapy kya hota hai?" I hear from a distance.
["What is therapy?"]
"...massage." Jameel lies smoothly.
["...a massage."]
"Main woh sab shauk nahi rakhta," Aslam grunts, dismissing the entire concept of psychological well-being with a wave of his hand.
["I don't indulge in those kinds of luxuries."]
Hamza drops us onto the chairs of a secluded corner table, completely isolated from the primary crowd. He lets out a heavy, exhausted breath, running a hand over the back of his neck. "Bohot dimag kharab hogaya hai aaj. Kuch khaa lete hain."
["My mind is completely fried today. Let's just eat something."]
I nod quietly, settling into the plush velvet seat.
The porcelain plates are already set before us, flanked by heavy silver utensils. We take a few generous scoops of aromatic, saffron-stained biryani and a couple of charred kebabs from the serving platters. He sinks into the chair right beside me, our shoulders brushing as he starts eating. I take a few bites as well, but the intense, raw spice of the green chilies hits the back of my throat, causing me to let out a soft, sudden cough.
He stops immediately, "Bohot teekhi hai?" he questions, his hand already reaching across the table to pass me a small dish of milk sweets to neutralize the heat.
["Is it very spicy?"]
I shake my head slightly. "Shayad. Lekin main khaa lungi."
["Maybe. But I'll manage to eat it."]
"Pakka?" he presses, his gaze searching mine to ensure his diva isn't just enduring the discomfort for the sake of the script.
["Are you sure?"]
I give him a reassuring nod.
I take small bites of the sweet, letting the milk cream soothe the sharp burn on my tongue, and drink a slow sip of water before returning to the plate.
The food is absolutely ravishing, rich with traditional spices, even if the raw heat still pricks at my senses. "Itna achcha khana, ghar jaane ke baad nahi milega," I groan softly, already mourning the culinary transition.
["We won't get such good food once we go home."]
"Aapko lagta hai maine apne ghar mein koi tayari nahi ki?" he asks. ["Do you think I haven't made any preparations at my house?"]
I look up.
"Aap bilkul sahi soch rahi ho. Main dabbe pack karwa ke le jaunga," he finishes with a completely straight face.
["You are thinking absolutely right. I am going to get boxes packed and take them with us."]
I let out a sharp, incredulous huff.
The absolute imagery of a formidable cartel kingpin hoarding leftover catering containers from his own high-society wedding to haul back to his headquarters is unhinged.
"Chutiyap," I mutter under my breath.
["Nonsense."]
"Haw, gaali di!" he gasps in mock betrayal, his shoulders shaking with a low, silent chuckle.
["Wow, you swore!"]
"Bakwas band karo," I snap affectionately.
["Stop talking nonsense."]
"Oye, main achcha kaam kar raha hoon," he replies, his tone suddenly dropping into a softer frequency as he leans closer into my space. "Jitna hum ek din mein khatam kar sakenge, utna hi humare ghar mein rahega. Baaki sab Lyari mein baat diya jayega."
["Hey, I'm doing a good deed. Whatever we can finish in a day will stay at our house. The rest will all be distributed in Lyari."]
A quiet, unexpected warmth blooms deep in my chest. Aww.
He isn't just playing the part for the state cameras; he is fully adopting the soul of the Sher-E-Baloch, protecting the impoverished families of the corridor even on his own wedding night.
"Kaash Shirani sahab yahan hote," I mutter wistfully, remembering the loyalty of the old Baloch commander who looked at him like a son.
["I wish Mr. Shirani were here."]
"SP ke saamne?" Hamza shakes his head slowly, "Nikah mein khoon ki holi kheli jaati fir."
["In front of the SP? A bloodbath would have been played out at the wedding then."]
"Mujhe pata hai," I concede quietly, tracking the heavy silver patterns on my sleeve. "Magar maine dekha hai Balochistan mein sab aapko kitna chahte hain. Mere hisab se unka haq banta tha aapke khaas din mein shaamil hone ka."
["I know. But I've seen how much everyone loves you in Balochistan. In my opinion, they had a right to be part of your special day."]
The crowd outside sees a powerful Balochi leader cementing his domain, and the elders in the mountains mourn the absence of their favorite commander. But the crushing reality sits heavily inside our locked perimeter.
He is neither Pakistani, nor is he Baloch.
After finishing the main course, we transition to the dessert spread. I am currently scraping the edges of my eighth individual bowl of premium ice cream, entirely unbothered by the fact that our designated waiter is giving me highly judgmental looks every time he clears the table grid.
Hamza tracks my spoon with deep amusement. "Aathwi katori hai. Aur kitna khao gi?"
["This is your eighth bowl. How much more are you going to eat?"]
"Mujhe pata hai itne stress mein kitna glucose chahiye hota hai," I counter flatly, deploying my medical authority to defend my sugar intake. "Aur upar se, meetha khaane waale log humesha meethe hote hain."
["I know exactly how much glucose the brain requires under this level of stress. And besides, people who eat sweets are always sweet."]
His eyes darken instantly, a roguish smirk fracturing his features. "Achcha? Mujhe chakkna padega fir."
["Oh really? I'll have to taste and see then."]
Before I can calculate his trajectory, his hand darts across the table, wrapping firmly around my wrist. He lifts my hand to his lips and deliberately sinks his sharp teeth into the soft skin.
I let out a sharp, muffled yelp of surprise.
I watch in absolute disbelief as he lightly sucks against the skin, leaving a prominent, dark pink mark blooming right there on the back of my hand. The absolute menace just gave me a love bite in the middle of a high-society wedding. I huff in exasperation, forcefully pushing his chest away to reclaim my space.
He leans back in his plush chair, a thoroughly satisfied hum vibrating through his throat. "Mm, meetha toh hai, aur thoda namkeen bhi."
["Mm, it's sweet, and a little salty too."]
"Kya namkeen hai Hamza sahab?"
["What's salty, Mr. Hamza?"]
The amused voice of Jameel Sahab's wife cuts through our space. My spine straightens instantly as she walks over and seats herself at our table. Jameel Sahab follows closely behind, flanked by the deadpan forms of Alam bhai and Rizwan.
Hamza doesn't even, his fingers reach into a nearby platter, snatching a savory cracker and cracking it cleanly between his teeth. "Yeh khaste biscuit."
["These crispy biscuits."]
A collective chuckle ripples through the older phantoms of the cell.
They just stand there, staring at the two of us with knowing, deeply affectionate expressions. The shared scrutiny forces a deep blush to spread collectively across our faces. Hamza and I look at each other, the ridiculous tension breaking as we both burst into a wave of shy, helpless giggles.
"Aise matt dekho," I mutter, my voice dropping into a soft whisper as I look away from his gaze.
["Don't look at me like that."]
"Tum matt dekho!" he fires back instantly.
["You don't look at me!"]
Unable to handle the sheer heat in his eyes under the cell's watch, I grab the loose, heavy edge of my light veil and pull the sheer fabric completely over my face, hiding my expression from the world.
Jameel Sahab shakes his head warmly, gesturing for the inner circle to vacate our radius. "Pagal hain dono. Inhe akela rehne do."
["They're both crazy. Leave them alone."]
The very millisecond the group steps away to monitor the ballroom, Hamza leans his frame forward. Moving with a breathtaking audacity, he ducks his head straight under the cascading drapes of my sheer pink veil.
Slap.
I bring my hand up, delivering a light, sharp slap directly against the matte skin of his cheek, my eyes flashing with a mix of adoration and warnings. "Ashiqui nahi chal rahi yahan."
["We aren't shooting an Aashiqui movie scene here."]
He doesn't move.
The rich, heavy notes of his spiced tobacco, the sharp metallic sting of fresh Surma, and that ridiculous, sweet trace of the strawberry lip balm still clinging to his mouth.
"Aashiqui nahi?" he murmurs. "Toh phir kya chal raha hai, Sanaz Sahiba? Humara toh nikah ho gaya."
["Not romance? Then what exactly is going on here, Lady Sanaz? Our marriage vows are already sealed."]
Before I can formulate a clinical response, his warm hands reach through the silk folds, gripping the contours of my waist. A sudden, violent shiver ripples straight down my spine. I place my painted palms against his broad chest, trying to maintain a fraction of defensive distance. "Aap zara kentrol kijiye."
["You need to control yourself a little."]
He lets out a deeply amused laugh. My face is burning. I pick up my spoon and finish the last of the melting ice cream. Fortunately, the high-society guests are far too occupied with their own superficial networking grids to notice our isolated table, and the crowd is visibly thinning out as the midnight hours tick away.
"Rukhsati ka samay hogaya hai," Jameel Sahab's voice cuts through our space.
["It is time for the bride's departure."]
We rise from the table. Major Iqbal and Khanani remain anchored at the main VIP table, tracking our exit with cold intelligence eyes. Hamza steps into his role with flawless professionalism to bid everyone their formal, state-mandated goodbyes. I follow closely in his shadow, embracing Khalid uncle, Jameel's wife, and Yalina as we move toward the heavy double doors.
Suddenly, Rizwan cuts directly into our path. "Meri behen apne sasural jaa rahi hai..." he wails dramatically, his eyes watering so intensely that he is actively crying more than anyone else in the entire venue at this point.
["My sister is leaving for her in-laws' house..."]
A fleeting wish that my actual family, my mother and father, could be here to witness this. But tracking Rizwan's performance, I can only stare at him in sheer disbelief.
Hamza rolls his green eyes, his hand dropping weightily onto his enforcer's shoulder as he shuts down the unnecessary drama. "Humare saath hi rahegi woh, saale."
["She is going to be staying right with us, idiot."]
Rizwan instantly looks up, dropping the tears within a split-second as he pulls Hamza into a grinning embrace. "Hamza bhai!"
["Brother Hamza!"]
This ridiculous, high-tier acting.
I trace the visual layout of the hall one last time as we step toward the exit doors. I am completely certain that despite the traditional wedding music playing over the speakers, not a single soul is genuinely crying at this wedding.
Through the half-open door of the venue. "Uffo, yeh baarish rukne ka naam hi nahi le rahi," Jameel Sahab's wife mutters, pulling her heavy shawl tighter around her shoulders as she watches the sky crack with pale lightning.
["Ugh, this rain just refuses to stop."]
"Nikah ke din baarish... Manhus hota hai," another voice chimes in from the shadows of the veranda.
["Rain on the wedding day... it's an ill omen."]
We sit inside the heavy frame of his SUV, the exterior decorated in traditional trailing white flowers that smell faintly of sweet jasmine against the cold air.
Rizwan takes the wheel, setting the vehicle into gear for the long drive back down the coast toward the dense sanctuary of Hamza's bungalow in Lyari. Behind us at the venue, the elite catering logistics are already being handled, the leftover food packed into crates to be quietly distributed across the neighborhood blocks by Hamza's trusted street enforcers.
Within a few hours, the vehicle clears the heavy iron security perimeters of the estate. Hamza slides out first, walking around the hood to hand me down from the high running board, the heavy silk of my bridal dress rustling against the gravel.
As the front doors swing open, the stark architectural contrast hits me immediately. His sanctuary is modern-all clean lines, expansive glass panels, polished marbles, and stark minimalist tracking lights. It is the absolute antithesis of my own vintage, stone Victorian estate in Clifton.
Rizwan and the crew begin hauling my heavy luggage through the foyer shifting the trunks into the master suite directly adjacent to Hamza's personal quarters. I remind myself that this isn't a permanent, domestic relocation; the deep-cover assignment still dictates my weekly medical travel back to Clifton to manage Dawood's clinical treatments.
But for now, the front line is here.
Hamza guides me slowly down the quiet, dimly lit corridor toward my assigned room. The very moment we step across the threshold, he closes the distance behind me, wrapping his massive arms around my shoulders and resting his chin firmly against the top of my head.
"Kaisa laga kamra?" he murmurs into my hair.
["How do you like the room?"]
I look up, my gaze sweeping across the space, and a sudden wave of genuine emotion catches in my throat. He has memorized every single aesthetic preference from my room in Clifton. The hyper-modern layout of the bungalow has been completely softened inside these four walls: outfitted with soft silk bedsheets, delicate lace canopy curtains draping the bedposts, warm vintage lamps, and classical brass clocks ticking softly on the side tables.
But sitting perfectly enthroned right in the dead center of the silk mattress is my favorite plush tiger. The large stuffed animal has been adorned with traditional gold jhumkas dangling from its plush ears, and someone has gone through the absolute trouble of pinning a tiny, matching bridal veil securely onto its fuzzy head.
A helpless chuckle breaks through my throat.
"Aapko yaad tha," I mutter softly. ["You remembered."]
"Maine kaha tha na, jaan. Jo tum dogi usi se hum ghar banayenge," he replies smoothly. ["I told you, didn't I, my life? Whatever you give, we will build our home out of it."]
A soft, genuine smile breaks across my lips. I tilt my head slightly back to catch his reflection in the polished glass of the wardrobe. "Toh us din aap Sher-E-Baloch bankar nahi, Jaskirat bankar baat kar rahe the."
["So that day, you weren't speaking as the Sher-E-Baloch, you were speaking as Jaskirat."]
The immediate space between us goes completely still. "Haan, Shayad..." he whispers into the dark.
["Yes, maybe..."]
I turn around inside his embrace. "Shayad?"
["Maybe?"]
He hums, a low, melancholy sound. He slowly detaches his hands from my waist, taking a step back. "Mujhe nahin pata. Jis din hum pehli baat mile the... Us din Rehman ko maar kar aisa lag raha tha ki ab jaakar Hamza paida hua hai. Mere andar ka Jaskirat mar chuka hai, seherzadi."
["I don't know. The day we first met... after killing Rehman that day, it felt like only now Hamza has been born. The Jaskirat inside me is dead, my princess."]
He swallows hard, his jaw tight under the dense texture of his black beard. "Us din ke baad se zinda raha toh sirf junoon. Apne desh ko salamat rakhne ka junoon. Aur iske liye agar mujhe in bhediyon ke saath milkar rehna pade, toh mujhe khushi khushi manzoor hai."
["Since that day, if anything remained alive, it was only passion. The passion to keep my country safe. And for that, if I have to live alongside these wolves, then I accept it with absolute happiness."]
I voice the question that has been lingering in the deep recesses of my mind. "Main Jaskirat se milti toh mujhse mohabbat nahi karte na?"
["If I had met Jaskirat, you wouldn't have loved me, right?"]
Hamza shifts his gaze back to me as a deadpan glint enters his eyes. He slowly crouches down, bringing his frame level with my seated posture. "Jab main Jaskirat tha, tab aap aathvi mein thi."
["When I was Jaskirat, you were in the eighth grade."]
I stare at him, my mouth slightly agape. I blink once. Twice. "Khotta."
["Donkey."]
He lets out a low, vibrant chuckle. "Apne baare mein nahi batati aap, sirf mujhse sawal karti hain."
["You never tell me anything about yourself, you only question me."]
"Batane layak kuch nahi hai," I reply flatly.
["There's nothing worth telling."]
"Achcha?" He steps right back into my immediate space, his towering frame casting a long, warm shadow over me. "Tum masum toh nahi ho, Sanaz. The conduct criminals or prisoners for Operation Dhurandhar. Aisa kya gadar macha rahi thi aatvi mein?" he jokes.
["Really? You aren't innocent either, Sanaz. The conduct criminals or prisoners for Operation Dhurandhar. What kind of chaos were you causing back in the eighth grade?"]
"Yeh sawal toh main bhi aap se puchh sakti hoon," I fire back instantly.
["I could ask the exact same question of you."]
The playful edge in his expression softens, "Puchh sakti ho. Zakhm bohot gehre hain," he replies, "Aur aaj iski dawa nahi. Mauka mile toh sab bata dunga."
["You could. The wounds are very deep, and tonight there is no medicine for them. If the opportunity comes, I will tell you everything."]
I nod slowly, accepting the tactical boundary. We step fully into the plush, custom-designed room as I bend down, clicking off my heavy bridal heels one by one, letting out a soft sigh of physical relief. "I'm shocked you didn't pick our room."
Our.
"Oh, you want to, huh?" Hamza counters smoothly as he slides off his own formal shoes. He moves into the space, carefully picking up the structured velvet pagh and setting it down onto the vanity table.
I sink onto the edge of the silk bedsheets, lifting the large tiger plushie directly into my lap. My painted fingers slowly trace the soft texture of its synthetic fur, my thumb brushing against the heavy golden jhumkas dangling from its ears before lifting the edges of the miniature bridal veil pinned to its head.
"Ise dulhan sajane ki kya zarurat thi? Isi se shaadi karni thi kya aapko?"
["What was the need to dress this thing up as a bride? Did you want to marry it or something?"]
He lets out a soft, breathy huff, leaning his broad shoulders against the wooden frame of the bedpost. "Yeh tum ho, Sanaz."
["That is you, Sanaz."]
"Main?" I look from the stuffed animal back to him, my eyebrows knitting together in confusion. I had only ever considered the plushie as a silent friend through the loneliest nights of the deployment.
["Me?"]
"Agar main R&AW ka Babbar Sher hoon, toh fir tum Khudsari Bagh ho."
["If I am R&AW's Asiatic Lion, then you are the fierce independent Tiger."]
A tiger is completely sovereign, navigating the dense, dangerous shadows entirely on its own terms; it doesn't need a pack to survive, moving with a silent grace that commands absolute territory. Meanwhile, a lion rules directly through the strength of its pride; commanding its territory through unified structure, strategic hierarchy, and collective dominance, exactly like the massive R&AW enforcer standing before me.
I set the plush tiger safely down onto the vintage side table. My expression drops its playful edge. "Kal Uzair wapas aa raha hai. Main nahi chahati... ki firse ek bachche ki bali di jaaye."
["Tomorrow Uzair is returning. I don't want... another child to be sacrificed again."]
Hamza blinks, his eyes widening slightly as the sudden realization hits him. "Tumne woh baatein suni thi."
["You heard those things."]
I give him a firm nod. My mind instantly flashes back to the visit in Balochista -the exact moment he took me to the mountains, surreptitiously plotting the complete execution of the SP using a localized suicide bomber, thinking he had isolated himself entirely from me. I heard every single syllable of the blueprint.
He lets out a long breath, "Theek hai. Aaj humara khaas din hai. Sirf aaj main tumhari yeh baat sununga. Lekin Sanaz yaad rakhna, yahan jaan ki koi kimat nahi hoti."
["Alright. Today is our special day. Only for today will I listen to this request of yours. But remember Sanaz, over here, life carries absolutely no value."]
I look at him closely, letting the cold reality of his words settle into the room, choosing to keep my thoughts locked behind my lips.
Hamza shifts his frame closer to my space. "Thak gayi ho?"
["Are you tired?"]
I nod again. He reaches out, his warm hand gently anchoring mine for a brief, reassuring second. "Fresh ho jao. Raat hogayi hai. Kal bohot kuch karna hai."
["Go freshen up. It's late tonight. We have a lot to execute tomorrow."]
He slowly retreats toward the master suite threshold, his hand lingering on the doorframe as he casts one final, watchful look across my face. "Kisi cheez ki zarurat ho toh... Main yahin hoon, paas waale kamre mein."
["If you need anything at all... I am right here, in the next room."]
The heavy door clicks softly into place as he exits the perimeter. I let out a long, exhausting sigh. I lift my arms, carefully unpinning the massive, light pink bridal veil from my hair and sliding off the heavy weight of the gold-and-pearl wedding jewelry, placing them piece by piece into an open storage carton.
I step toward the vanity mirrors to begin unfastening the heavy, complex layers of my bridal attire when two large, warm hands smoothly slide over my eyes from behind, plunging my vision into darkness.
"Hamza...?" I breathe out.
"Pichche matt mudna," his gravelly baritone vibrates right against the shell of my ear. ["Don't turn back."]
A small, knowing smirk touches my lips under the shadow of his palms. "Kyun? Mujhe toh laga tha tum apne room mein the? Biwi ke bagair ek pal nahi reh sakte?"
["Why? And here I thought you were in your own room? Can't live a single moment without your wife?"]
"Maine kaha tha agar kuch zarurat ho toh main hoon yahan," he counters smoothly.
["I told you, if there was a need for anything, I am right here."]
"Mujhe zarurat nahi kisi cheez ki," I reply flatly.
["I don't have a need for anything."]
He slowly releases his grip, his hands leaving my face. The very second I pivot on my bare feet to face him, I find the formidable Sher-E-Baloch staring down at me with a genuinely offended sulking expression.
A helpless, breathy giggle breaks past my guard.
He looks completely ridiculous right now. He has shed the heavy, structured jacket of his wedding sherwani along with all the elite jewelry, standing in his kurta and pyjama. His thick, long dark hair has been pulled back into a completely unruly, messy top-knot bun-held together securely by my own scrunchie, which has clearly been permanently drafted into his personal possession.
His playful expression recedes slightly, "Pakka, seherzadi? Main aadhe ghante mein Balochistan ke liye nikal raha hoon."
["Are you sure, my princess? I am leaving for Balochistan in half an hour."]
My amused smile drops instantly, immediately calculating the logistical nightmare of his timeline. "Abhi? Hamza, das bajj rahe hain. Kamse kam das ghante lagenge. Fir tumhe wapas bhi aana hai, aur SP, aur Uzair-"
["Right now? Hamza, it's ten o'clock. It will take at least ten hours. Then you have to come back too, and the SP, and Uzair-"]
Before my brain can spiral into full strategic overdrive, he lifts his hand, firmly pressing his fingers flat across my lips to silence my analytical defense. "Bharosa karo. Zyada waqt nahi lagega. Sab sambhal lunga."
["Trust me. It won't take much time. I will handle everything."]
I let out a long, defeated sigh against his palm, nodding slowly. He lowers his hand, "Rizwan rahega yahan, aur baaki ki security toh hai hi. Main apne kuch logo ko lekar jaunga."
["Rizwan will stay here, and the rest of the security apparatus is already in place. I will only take a few of my own men with me."]
I give him another small nod. He stands there, his fingers suddenly executing a slow wiggle right against the contour of my waist.
"Toh fir kisi cheez ki zarurat..." he trails off smoothly.
["So then, a need for anything..."]
I freeze for a microsecond, staring directly into his face. I glare at him. "Seedha seedha bola nahi jata kapde utarne hain?"
["Can't you just say it straight out that you want to take my clothes off?"]
Hamza's entire system short-circuits. He violently chokes on his own breath,"Sanaz," he gasps out, his large hands freezing mid-air.
"Bohot battameez ho," he drawls out slowly as he tries to recover his shattered composure.
["You have absolutely no manners."]
"Baagh kaha tha na," I remind him smoothly, tilting my head back. "Ladayi mein jeet baagh ki hi hoti hai, sher ki nahi."
["You called me a tiger, didn't you? In a fight, victory always belongs to the tiger, never the lion."]
"Achcha? Fir ladayi shuru karte hain," he counters, a dangerous, beautiful smirk fracturing his features. He steps forward to press my frame firmly against his chest.
["Oh really? Then let the fight begin."]
I let out a soft chuckle against his shoulder, tracking the clock on the side table. "Bees minute, Hamza Sahab. Jo karna hai kar lo."
["Twenty minutes, Mr. Hamza. Do whatever you want."]
"Bas tumhari ibadat," he whisper sends a sudden shiver straight down my spine.
["Only your worship."]
His large hands reach up to the back of my head, tracking and removing the remaining bobby pins anchored into my hair. He caresses the dark lengths gently, freeing the tightly bound strands until the full volume of my hair cascades down my shoulders. I slide the heavy locks forward over my collarbones, before rotating my body around, presenting my back to him.
He leans down, his long fingers working against the intricate ties at the back of my bridal sharara suit. "Isme gaanth ban gaya hai," he whispers, his breath warm against my bare skin as he carefully picks at the knotted silver ribbons.
["A knot has formed in this."]
"Dhyaan se Hamza Sahab, dori bohot naazuk hai," I warn him.
["Carefully, Mr. Hamza, the string is very delicate."]
"Mujhe naazuk cheezein ko pareshan karne mein maza aata hai," he murmurs ruthlessly. Without warning, he executes a sudden, firm tug on the ribbon. The brief force jerks my entire body backward, pressing my spine flush against his solid chest.
["I enjoy troubling delicate things."]
I let out a sharp, startled yelp. "Kathor."
["Cruel."]
He simply leans his head down, burying his face into the curve of my neck to leave a lingering, warm kiss against my skin before returning his focus to the knot. Once the fasteners are cleared, his hands slide under the hem of the heavily encrusted kurti, tugging the stiff, structured fabric up past my arms and chest. The design is suffocatingly narrow, the material catching stubbornly against my shoulders.
"Aaram se, main saans nahi le paa rahi," I gasp out.
["Go easy, I can't breathe."]
"Yeh itni tight kyun hai?" he grunts in frustration. He applies a secondary, much harder tug to the fabric-and the kurti finally breaks free, sliding completely off my head. The sudden release of tension sends his frame falling backward, landing with a heavy, muffled thud flat onto the silk mattress behind me.
["Why is this so tight?"]
I let out a long, dramatic huff of air.
I am officially never asking this man for wardrobe assistance ever again.
I violently shake out my dark hair to clear it from my face, sinking down onto the edge of the plush bed. Fortunately, the loose, flowing parts of the sharara pants won't require his aggressive intervention.
Suddenly, I feel the warm tracking of his palm sliding right beneath the clasp of my bra.
"Aye, aye, aye, laale-aage main khud kar lungi," I snap instantly, swatting his hand away.
["Hey, hey, hey, boy-I'll handle the rest myself."]
He lets out a low, thoroughly satisfied chuckle, pulling his hands back as he pushes himself up on the mattress. "Jaisa aap kahein. Mera irada sirf madad karne ka tha. Lekin mujhe nahi lagta woh comfortable hai."
["Whatever you say. My intention was only to help. But I don't think that thing is comfortable."]
His green eyes drop, tracking the surface of my skin.
I follow his gaze down, noticing the bright red lines and deep friction dents left behind by the rigid underwires and constant structural pressure of the bridal wear. It will fade within an hour once the skin acclimates back to normal atmospheric levels.
"Main kapde badal lungi," I reply, shifting my focus back to the storage carton. ["I'll change my clothes."]
He hums softly, his frame rising from the mattress as he re-establishes his disciplined posture. "Nikalta hoon."
["I'm leaving now."]
I stand up in unison with his movement, the bare soles of my feet cooling against the floor. He reaches out, wrapping his large, warm fingers gently around my hand to lift it to his lips, leaving a quiet kiss right over the dark pink spot he left behind earlier. "Apna khayal rakhna."
["Take care of yourself."]
With a final, sharp look that locks our shared operational baseline into place, he turns and exits the room, the heavy door clicking securely into its frame.
Left alone in the quiet sanctuary, I quickly strip out of the remaining heavy bridal gear, pulling on a comfortable set of cotton nightclothes after running a swift shower.
I sink back onto the edge of the silk bedsheets, the vintage lamps casting a warm, amber glow across the lace curtains as I sit directly beneath the spinning fan, drying the damp lengths of my hair with a towel.
My phone buzzes softly on the side table. I pick up the device, and the text message blinking on the screen instantly makes me roll my eyes:
[Your wish is my command (availability: till midnight).]
Aapka hukum SAR AANKHON PAR.
Masterlist.
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Act II: SHOAL, Chapter Twelve: PART ONE, Part Two.
They Spoke Their Vows Over Graves Yet to Be Dug
[Hello, guys. This chapter took me nearly a week to write, with half of my days dedicated to it. It's over 15,000 words. So I'd appreciate it if you could vote up, comment, follow and share this and the other chapters. Thank you, and enjoy! <3 TMI: I was blushing and giggling while writing.]
"MEHNDI LAGAKE RAKHNA, Doli saja ke rakhna..."
[Apply mehndi, keep the doli decorated...]
The iconic music of the classic Bollywood melody blasts through the heavy speaker stacks, vibrating right through the floorboards of the heavily guarded wedding venue.
The courtyard is a swirling vortex of color and noise; distant relatives roaming around with plates of sweets, children running wildly past the floral arrangements, and security details subtly blending into the periphery.
I sit positioned in the center of a heavily decorated, plush stage, framed by massive, cascading curtains of deep sap green and glittering molten gold.
Surrounding me are the women of our integrated Balochistan network, Jameel Sahab's wife, his sharp-eyed daughter Yalina, and a cluster of local henna artists meticulously tracing intricate geometric lines across my palms.
Across the lawn, Rizwan is waving his arms wildly, yelling over the roar of the bass directly at the mixing booth. "Chacha, thoda aur tezz bajao!"
["Uncle, play it a little louder!"]
The DJ glares back over his headphones with an expression of pure offense. "Chacha dikh raha hoon tujhe?"
["Do I look like an uncle to you?"]
I shake my head slowly, a faint smile breaking through my clinical guard. I shift slightly against the soft cushions, the heavy, premium fabric of my sap-green bridal sharara catching the light, its dense embroidery of golden lace and polished stones glittering with every microscopic movement.
"Lene tujhe oo gori, Aayenge tere sajna..."
[To take you, girl, your beloved will come.]
Right on cue.
Aagaya.
Hamza steps onto the open porch, his towering, six-foot-plus silhouette instantly dominating the entire entrance. My breath catches slightly in my throat.
He is completely color-coordinated with my stage-wearing a rich, matching sap-green silk kurta that stretches across the massive width of his shoulders, paired with traditional, loose Balochi-style pyjamas that sway with his heavy, deliberate stride. His long, dark waves are loosely swept back, his green eyes instantly sweeping the crowd to lock directly onto mine.
"Arey arey, Hamza Sahab, yahan ladkiyon ki mehfil hai. Aap jaiye apne doston ke saath!" one of the aunties calls out teasingly, lifting her hands to playfully bar his entry into the female courtyard.
["Oh my, Mr. Hamza, this is a gathering for the ladies. Go join your friends!"]
"Arey main uska hone wala Shauhar hoon," Hamza argues back.
["Hey, I'm her husband-to-be."]
"Shauhar ko intezaar karna padta hai!" the aunties shoot back uniformly, completely unbothered by his imposing frame as they literally shoo the Sher-E-Baloch away from the carpeted pavilion.
["The husband has to wait!"]
He lets out a defeated sigh, running a large hand through his dark curls before turning on his heel. He walks across the open courtyard, his loose pyjamas swaying as he takes a seat on the opposite porch, settling down among his trusted circle of enforcers.
My eyes trace his silhouette as he instantly shifts his posture, falling into a deep, relaxed conversation with my uncle. I pretend to focus on the henna artists, but I keep an unbroken watch on their coordinates.
"Hamza ji toh bohot bechain hain," Yalina whispers conspiratorially beside me, a small, playful smirk dancing on her lips as the henna artist carefully traces patterns along her palms. "Line mein rakhiyega unhe."
["Mr. Hamza is exceptionally restless. Keep him in line."]
"Eh, aise baat karte hain mardon ke baare mein? Bewakoof," an older woman sharply chimes in from the side.
["Hey, is that how you speak about men? Foolish girl."]
Jameel Sahab's wife instantly steps into the line of fire, lifting a hand to gently shield her daughter. "Arey bachchi hai. Aage jakar samajh jaayegi."
["Oh, she's just a child. She'll understand down the road."]
"Aage jaakar? Waise hi bohot der hogayi hai. Inka bhi nikah jaldi karwa dijiye, haan," the elder retorts flatly, adjusting her traditional dupatta with a dismissive click of her tongue.
["Down the road? It's already getting late. Get her married off quickly too, yes."]
Yalina's eyebrows draw together into a defiant frown, her posture stiffening. "Mere paas woh sab ka samay nahi hai. Islamabad mein waise bhi bohot kaam hote hain mujhe."
Islamabad. I tilt my chin slightly, "Tum bhi doctori padh rahi ho na?"
["You're studying medicine too, aren't you?"]
She turns her head toward me, offering a swift nod of confirmation. "Haan."
["Yes."]
My mind instantly begins to run the diagnostic algorithms behind my eyes. She is a legacy asset-the daughter of a cold-blooded, first-generation R&AW agent who has mastered the shadows of Karachi for nearly four decades.
Is Jameel Sahab training her to replicate my exact blueprint?
A female medical officer with an unshakeable civilian cover, positioned perfectly inside the capital grid to handle the next generation of deep-cover executions?
Looking at her youthful, unblemished face, I can't determine if the warmth in her eyes is genuine civilian ambition, or the icy, calculated mask of a rising phantom.
Jameel Sahab settles onto the wooden bench right next to Hamza's massive frame, letting out a low, gravelly chuckle as he slaps a hand against his knee. "Oye, tera muh kyun fula hai? Has le, mehendi hai teri."
["Hey, why is your face swollen with a pout? Smile a little, it's your own mehndi ceremony."]
"Sanaz ke saath baithi aurton ne ise bhaga diya," Alam bhai interjects smoothly, cutting through the grass with a silver tray balanced expertly on his forearm as he distributes chilled glasses of juice to the inner circle.
["The women sitting with Sanaz chased him away."]
Jameel scoffs, waving a hand dismissively at the glass. "Arey Alam miya, aaj bhi juice pilaoge? Kuch sharab warab mangwao."
["Oh come on, Mr. Alam, you're serving us juice even today? Get some alcohol or something."]
"Abhi laya," Alam replies with a nod, melting back into the shadows of the catering corridor to fulfill the order.
Suddenly, the speakers take a violent, catastrophic shift in frequency.
"Kamariya kare lapalop-
Lollipop lage lu."
Across the lawn, Rizwan freezes mid-stride, his expression morphing into panic. He practically sprints toward the sound booth, his eyes wild. "Arey DJ, kya baja raha hai!"
["Hey DJ, what on earth are you playing!"]
The DJ looks up, entirely defensive as he taps the mixing console. "Bhojpuri gaane trending hain!"
["Bhojpuri songs are trending right now!"]
"Hatt udhar se warna Hamza bhai tera news trending kar denge!" Rizwan snaps aggressively, physically shoving the man aside to forcefully hijack the auxiliary cable and shuffle his own pre-approved, encrypted personal playlist.
["Get out of here, otherwise Hamza Bhai will make your news trending."]
"Arey aapko pata hai Fatima ki beti ne kya kiya..." The waves of the aunties' gossip begin to blur into a hum against my auditory nerves.
[Hey, do you know what Fatima's daughter did....]
"Aaplog thoda shant rahiye," the henna artist suddenly interrupts, her voice carrying the exhausted friction of someone who has been bending over her work for hours. She doesn't lift her eyes from my skin, her fingers remaining entirely steady.
["All of you please be quiet for a moment."]
The entire cluster of women instantly shuts up, an indignant silence settling over the pavilion. I keep my posture perfectly rigid. The cold, wet paste has completely mapped my lower extremities, covering my skin from my feet up to the curve of my calves, while my hands and forearms are locked in an intricate, dark green grid of geometric lines. She is currently tracing the final, microscopic details onto my palms.
I clear my throat, my voice cutting cleanly through the sudden quiet of the stage. "Hamza."
Across the wide expanse of the courtyard, his head snaps up instantly.
"Aap bhi mehendi lagwa lijiye," I prompt smoothly.
["Come get some henna applied as well."]
"Jaa mere veere!" Jameel Sahab laughs boisterously, putting his full weight into a heavy, teasing shove against Hamza's massive shoulder.
["Go on, my brother!"]
"Jaa raha hoon, dhakelo matt," Hamza grumbles back good-naturedly, swatting Jameel's hand away as he straightens his sap-green kurta.
["I'm going, don't push me."]
As his towering silhouette approaches the bridal stage, the surrounding women break into a chorus of muted giggles, Yalina offering me a swift, knowing smirk before the entire group systematically vacates the pavilion, leaving our space to collide in absolute isolation.
He steps onto the carpeted platform, the sheer mass of his frame instantly shifting the air density inside the drapes. Without a single shred of hesitation, he settles his large body down on the cushions right beside me, deliberately leaning in to bump the hard width of his shoulder solidly against mine.
"Aakhir paas bulane ka bahana dhundh hi liya na?" he murmurs in a deep tone meant only for my ears, a highly satisfied grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
["You finally found an excuse to call me close, didn't you?"]
I look down at my wet, painted palms, completely unable to strike him back, before lifting my chin to glare at his teasing profile.
"Riwaz hai, khotte."
["It's tradition, you donkey."]
The henna artist smoothly applies the dark green paste across the wide expanse of Hamza's large palms and across the rough skin on the back of his hand.
His body heat is radiating so intensely that the wet lines dry out almost instantly, the moisture evaporating into the warm courtyard air. My own application is finalized a moment later.
I carefully move my painted fingers to pay the artist her fee, and she gathers her kits, vacating the space with a respectful nod.
Hamza rests his large hands flat on my thighs, but his index finger begins to move in a silent pattern against the fabric of my Shalwar. My eyes track the microscopic movements mapping the shapes and letters he is tracing in invisible ink.
A circle.
A heart.
A square.
Then, the script changes to letters.
S-A-N-A-Z.
Princess.
Love.
Cute.
Rude.
His finger strokes, starting a new word.
J-A-S-K...
Suddenly, his entire frame goes completely rigid. His finger freezes static against the cloth, a imperceptible tremor running through his knuckles before he forcefully cuts the trajectory, writing a completely different sequence over the lines.
H-A-M-Z-A.
I swallow the heavy lump in my throat, deciding to shatter his internal isolation. I tilt my chin up, locking my gaze onto his profile as I deliberately offer him my painted right hand, ensuring my fresh henna doesn't smudge.
"Aapne kaha tha na ki sirf aapka rang chadhega mujh par?" I remind him. "Chadha do."
["You said only your color would leave its mark on me, didn't you? Leave it."]
A slow, profoundly soft smile fractures the hard lines of his face.
He reaches down, his fingers carefully wrapping around a half-empty henna tube left on the cushion. Leaning his torso over my hand, he uses the fine tip to trace a sequence of tiny characters into a hidden, deep crease of my palm-a sacred, invisible space where no syndicate enforcer or tracking grid will ever notice it.
Jaskirat.
He caps the tube, "Gehra rang chadhega," he replies, his deep voice carrying the absolute gravity of a blood oath.
["The color will leave a deep, permanent mark."]
I let out a breathy, challenging hum, my heart beating irregularly against my ribs. "Achcha? Itna vishwas hai khud ke pyaar par?"
["Oh really? You have that much faith in your love?"]
He keeps his gaze locked entirely onto mine, "Khud par."
["In myself."]
I let out a soft huff, my cheeks flushing a furious, betraying pink under his intense stare as I quickly look away.
"Bohot baatein kar li, wapas jao ab," Jameel Sahab's wife commands with an effortless matriarchal authority. ["You've talked quite enough, go back now."]
Hamza lets out a low, rough huff of annoyance, shifting his mass a few inches away on the plush cushions, but stubbornly refusing to actually vacate the bridal stage. She smoothly settles her frame right between us, the other women trailing in behind her to reclaim their positions.
She looks at my face, her expression softening into genuine warmth. "Kitni pyaari lag rahi ho. Meri jawani ke din yaad aagaye jab Jameel sahab se mera nikah hua tha."
["You look so lovely. It brings back the days of my youth, when I was wed to Mr. Jameel."]
A soft, nostalgic chuckle escapes her lips as she glares out across the lawn. "Kya naache the woh vidayi ke waqt." Through the gaps in the green-and-gold drapes, I track her line of sight; Jameel Sahab is standing near the opposite porch, as he simply stares back at his wife through the distance.
["How brilliantly he danced during the farewell ceremony."]
"Kaafi mohabbat karte hain aapse," Hamza murmurs quietly from the side.
["He loves you very much."]
Before the sentiment can linger too heavily, a catering attendant approaches the stage carrying a heavy, traditional brass hookah, carefully placing the#glowing apparatus right beside.
Jameel's wife reaches out, smoothly wrapping her fingers around the mouthpiece and taking a slow, practiced drag, the water in the glass base bubbling loudly before she exhales a dense cloud of fragrant smoke into the evening air.
I gasp softly, "Aap toh bohot cool ho."
["You are exceptionally cool."]
She lets out a deep, amused chuckle, her eyes crinkling. "Try karogi?"
["Want to try?"]
I offer a slow nod of my head.
She quickly slides out her personal tip and slips in a fresh, sterile pipe extension, handing the hose over to my painted fingers.
I lean forward, pulling a very slight, cautious breath of air through the tube... and instantly explode into a violent coughing.
She immediately reaches over, robustly patting my back as I try to regain my posture. "Chhoti ho. Kabhi aur try karna hoga toh mujhse seekh lena."
["You're too young. If you ever want to try it again some other time, just learn it from me."]
God.
That tasted absolutely horrific. My medical brain is violently recoiling from the toxin entry. How the hell do people even do this voluntarily?
Before I can fully recover, Hamza's large, calloused hand reaches across the space, smoothly taking the hose right from my grasp. He lifts the pipe to his lips and takes a long, heavy, and effortless drag-his broad chest expanding beneath his sap-green kurta before he exhales a thick, perfectly controlled plume of white smoke straight out into the courtyard air.
I narrow my eyes into two lethal slits, "Yeh kya naya natak hai? Aapne toh bola tha cigarette chhor rahe ho?"
["What is this new drama? You explicitly told me you were quitting cigarettes?"]
"Try kar raha hoon bola tha," he counters smoothly, as he casually hands the hose back to the matriarch.
["I said I was trying to quit."]
Jameel's wife slips her original pipe extension back into place, taking another relaxed drag as she waves a dismissive hand toward my frustration. "Arey jaane do na, Sanaz. Mard nahi piyenge toh kaun piyega?"
["Oh let it go, Sanaz. If the men don't smoke, then who will?"]
Ugh. I roll my eyes. The cultural compliance regarding these absolute health hazards is entirely beyond my cognitive thinking.
"Galat kaam ko badhava do bass," Yalina mumbles flatly from the row behind us, her thumbs moving with lightning speed as she types a response against her illuminated smartphone screen.
["Just go ahead and encourage wrong habits."]
"Oh, har waqt phone mein lagi rehti hai, yeh galat nahi hai?" Jameel Sahab's wife snaps instantly, physically snatching the device straight out of her daughter's hands.
["Oh, and being glued to your phone every waking second isn't wrong?"]
"Ammi, kya kar rahi ho-"
["Mother, what are you doing-"]
Before the phone screen can go dark, the tinny audio from her speakers bleeds directly into the air.
"I wanna big house, big cars and big rings,
But 사실은 I don't have any big dreams-"
"Kya kuch bhi sunte rehti hai aajkal," her mother grumbles, looking at the foreign text on the screen with deep skepticism.
["What on earth is this nonsense you keep listening to these days."]
"Arey aapki beti bhi?" another aunty pipes up from the corner, adjusting her heavy gold bangles with a knowing shake of her head. "Din bhar chikne ladkon ko tadti rehti hai meri beti."
["Oh, your daughter too? My girl spends the entire day staring at these smooth, hairless boys."]
"Humara music taste achcha hai," Yalina counters defensively.
["Our music taste is perfectly fine."]
"Achcha? Achcha toh humare zamane mein hota tha. Mohammad Rafi, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Noor Jehan, Kumar Sanu."
["Fine? Real music belonged to our era. Mohammad Rafi, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Noor Jehan, Kumar Sanu."]
"Woh sab bhi sunti hoon, mere k-pop sunne se kya dikkat hai aapko?" Yalina retorts, aggressively snatching her phone back into her possession.
["I listen to all of them too, what exactly is your problem with me listening to K-Pop?"]
"Ke pop? Maine dekhi hai aaj kal li ladkiyon ki khi-khi. Chini ladke pasand aate hain sabko. Tumlogo ko na desi mardon ki qadar hi nahi hai. Chikne ladkon ko dekhkar dimag kharab hogaya hai," the elder aunty lectures flatly, pointing a finger out across the courtyard toward the opposite porch. "Arey mard toh Hamza jaisa hota hai, itni lambi muchche aur daadhi."
["K-Pop? I've seen the giggling of today's girls. Everyone is obsessed with these East Asian boys. You generation has absolutely no appreciation for traditional, local men. Your brains are ruined from looking at those hairless boys. A real man is supposed to look like Hamza-with a massive mustache and a heavy beard."]
Yalina looks up from her screen, her expression entirely deadpan. "Toh fir jin aurton ko muchche aati hain woh sab mard hain?"
["Then by that logic, are all women who get mustaches considered men?"]
The entire pavilion instantly freezes.
I hide the twitch of amusement at the corner of my lips, "Bura matt maniyega lekin har insaan ki apni alag pasand hoti hai," I state smoothly, "Kehne ko toh mujhe bhi aise karre mard achche nahi lagte. Lekin main Hamza ko ek baar bina daadhi ka zarur dekhna chahungi."
["Don't take it personally, but every individual has their own specific preferences. Frankly, I don't care much for overly rugged men either. But I would certainly like to see Hamza completely clean-shaven at least once."]
Jameel Sahab's wife gasps loudly, her hands flying to her chest in sheer horror. "Ya Allah, Sanaz, tum bhi?"
["Oh my God, Sanaz, you too?"]
I lean back. Here we go again.
"Dekho Hamza. Tumhari biwi tumhari muchche mundwana chahti hai," Jameel Sahab's wife challenges as she tries to provoke the warlord's pride.
["Look Hamza. Your wife wants you to shave your mustache."]
Hamza doesn't even blink. He takes a relaxed drag from his glass pipe. "Mundwa lunga. Lekin abhi nahi."
["I'll shave it. But not right now."]
They immediately turn to look at each other before aggressively nodding and patting his arm as he walks past. "Yeh hui na baat!" The man has officially secured the ultimate aunty approval card.
["Now that's what I'm talking about!"]
"Daadhi bhi saath mein," I call out flatly after his silhouette. If he only shaved the mustache and left the heavy beard, his facial mapping would look... entirely distorted, a specific aesthetic imbalance that I would personally, highly dislike.
["The beard comes off with it too."]
Before the teasing can escalate, another elder aunty checks her heavy gold wrist watch and gasps dramatically. "Arey bohot der hogayi. Mujhe jana hoga."
["Oh, it's gotten exceptionally late. I must leave."]
"Kya hua Afreen behen?"
["What's the matter, sister Afreen?"]
"Mere bete ki teesri shaadi hai."
["It's my son's third marriage."]
What.
My eyelids blink rapidly, "Teen biwiyan sambhal lete hain aapke bete?" I question, my voice entirely deadpan as I look at her. "Bade achche insaan lagte hain."
["Your son can manage three wives? He must be an exceptionally good man."]
She lets out a soft, dismissive chuckle, waving her hand, "Arey bilkul. In ladkiyon ka koi ghar nahi tha, aur humein kaamwa-unki madad bhi karni thi."
["Oh, absolutely. These girls had no home to call their own, and we needed a maid-needed to help them."]
I offer a tight nod of compliance. Hamza's green eyes darken. He knows the gritty, predatory mechanics of this turf better than anyone.
"Khuda haafiz," she bids quickly, disappearing into the exit corridor.
With the night deepening into the late hours, the matriarchs systematically shoo Hamza off the stage again, forcing him back to the opposite porch where he continues to drink and chat in muted, low frequencies with Jameel Sahab, Alam bhai, and Khalid uncle.
One by one, the civilian guests trickle out of the heavy iron gates until the sprawling compound lapses into an eerie, profound quiet.
Right on cue, a loud growl echoes directly from my stomach. The exhaustion of the day has completely drained my reserves.
Recognizing the shift, the remaining core elements of our network migrate toward the massive wooden dining table where plates of rich, aromatic local delicacies have been laid out under the terrace lights.
Because the heavy, dark green henna has completely immobilized my hands and forearms, Jaskirat and Mustafa smoothly slide into the chairs on either side of me. Carefully cutting the meat and manually lifting the food to my lips, ensuring not a single drop smudges the intricate patterns drying on my skin.
Between bites, Rizwan pulls out his smartphone, flashing a quick, highly satisfied grin as he clicks a few candid, high-resolution pictures of our alignment.
"Nikah se pehle dulhan ko muh matt dikhana!" Jameel's wife suddenly orders with a dramatic flare, aggressively grabbing Yalina's wrist to drag her daughter away toward the inner residential quarters before the official vows can be logged.
["Don't you dare show your face to the bride before the official marriage ceremony!"]
The heavy wooden doors click shut behind them. The distant dholaks have stopped.
Only spies left.
The shoal of sharks is officially assembled. We sit positioned around the circular table.
Jameel Sahab starts the briefing. "Gurbaaz ko pakad liya gaya hai. Drugs seize hogaye hain. Baaki ke sources ko dhundhna jaari hai."
["Gurbaaz has been apprehended. The narcotics have been seized. The search for the remaining distribution sources is ongoing."]
"Dawood gusse mein hai," I mutter quietly, tracing the logistical map of the D-Company transit lines.
["Dawood is absolutely furious."]
"Lekin woh mujhpar bharosa zaroor karega," Hamza counters. "SP ka kuch karna padega."
["But he will definitely still trust me. We'll have to do something about the Superintendent of Police."]
"Uske saath puri Lyari task force hai. Rangers hain. Chaalis logo ko maarega?" Alam bhai questions sharply.
["He has the entire Lyari task force with him. The Rangers are there. Are you going to slaughter forty men?"]
Hamza shakes his head slowly, his brow furrowing as he confronts the tactical bottleneck. "Wahi toh samajh nahi aa raha. Shirani Sahab se baat ki hai. Woh intezaam karenge."
["That's exactly what I can't seem to figure out. I've spoken with Mr. Shirani. He will make the necessary arrangements."]
He turns his sharp. "Rizwan, pata lagane ki koshish karo ki kis kis ko mujhpar shaq hai. Waqt bohot kam hai."
["Rizwan, try to find out exactly who suspects me. Our time is exceptionally short."]
"Chalo aaram karo sab jaakar," Jameel Sahab instructs, breaking the tension as he stands up from the table. We all rise in unison, the core elements of the cell vacates the room, their quiet footsteps disappearing into the night.
Left alone, Hamza looks down at my frame. "Clifton wapas?"
["Back to Clifton?"]
I offer a silent nod. Moving together, we navigate the space toward the massive, marble-tiled bathroom. Because my arms and legs are still bound by the heavy layer of cracking, dark green paste, he steps into my space to help me. He turns the water faucet on, his hands surprisingly gentle as he begins to wash the dried henna off my skin.
"Yaad hai na, nikah tak chehra nahi dikhana hai," he murmurs under his breath, his head stubbornly averted toward the wall, trying to honor the tradition.
["You remember, right? You aren't supposed to show your face to me until the wedding vows are taken."]
"Theek hai," I drawl out with a soft, teasing amusement, watching his large fingers rubbing the flakes of henna smoothly off the curves of my calves. A sudden wave of giggles escapes my lips. Reaching down with my clean wrists, I forcefully catch his jawline, turning his face straight back toward me.
["Fine."]
"Zaalim," he grumbles.
["Cruel woman."]
I reach out, locking my fingers firmly within his large grasp. The henna paste has already left a subtle, vibrant orange pigment across his palms, a fresh chemical stain that will transform into a deep, blood-brown shadow by tomorrow morning.
I look up at his towering frame, my pulse taking a violent spike against my ribs. Pushing past my own boundaries, I step forward-positioning my bare feet straight onto the polished leather of his heavy shoes, tilting my head back.
"Nikah tak intezar nahi kar sakti."
["I can't wait until the wedding vows."]
He stares down into my face. "Shararati."
["Mischievous."]
Without a single word of warning, he leans his massive down, the coarse strands of his dark waves brushing against my temple as his teeth suddenly sink into the soft skin of my cheek.
I let out a startled gasp, the raw pressure of the bite vibrating right down my spine. The man is taking his apex lion persona entirely too seriously.
"Kya bola tha, muchche nahi pasand, huh?" he nuzzles his face aggressively against mine, the thick, rough texture of his beard scratching against my flushed skin as a helpless whine escapes my throat. For God's sake, his dominance is absolute.
["What was it you said? You don't like the mustache, huh?"]
"Jaldi se kiss karo," I demand breathlessly.
["Kiss me right now."]
"Nahi karunga," he refuses smoothly, satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he tests my patience.
["I won't."]
My eyes narrow further, my fingers tightening against his shoulders. "Karlo, fir mauka nahi milega."
["Just do it, you won't get another chance later."]
He freezes. "Standard," he murmurs, his deep voice dropping into a sacred whisper meant only for my matrix. "Tum jaanti ho, mujhe pasand hai ki tum apne khwahishon ko mere saamne parasne se darti nahi."
["You know how much I love that you are never afraid to lay out your desires before me."]
Before the syllables can even fade into the bathroom, I wrap my arms tightly around the massive width of his shoulders. Hamza leans his heavy torso lower, completely obliterating the remaining distance between us as he finally seals our lips in a deep, concussive, and breathlessly consuming kiss-locking our souls together under the running water.
The massive grand ballroom is breathtaking.
The entire arena has been custom-styled in cascading drapes of soft blush pink and deep ocean blue-our favorite tones interwoven seamlessly together with heavy, glittering accents of liquid gold curtains and premium floral architecture.
Even through the tinted glass panes of the private lounge room, I can track the heavy influx of high-society Karachi and Lyari guests beginning to fill the floor, the massive crystal chandeliers overhead casting a brilliant fracture of light across the crowd while live singers perform classical melodies on the distant main stage.
Damn.
I let out a quiet breath behind my teeth. I never once thought I would ever inherit such a big fat wedding manifest.
I pull the velvet drapes completely shut, cutting off the surveillance line to the crowd, and pivot back toward the bright lights of my vanity mirror.
Currently, my wardrobe is a hilarious, highly classified contradiction. I am wearing a pair of simple, casual civilian shorts on my lower half, while my torso is locked inside a masterpiece of haute couture, a heavily embroidered, light pink bridal kurti dense with hundreds of real freshwater pearls, intricate stone layout, and structured full sleeves.
The tailoring is so ruthlessly precise and tight against my frame that I physically cannot even crouch without risking a catastrophic stitch fracture.
Across the lounge, Hamza is still lounging around in his regular, everyday cotton kurta. We have officially shattered every single traditional rule of the nikah protocol; he is just casually sitting on the plush velvet couch, an electric blow dryer humming loudly as he style-trains his long, damp dark locks.
The heavy lounge door swings open with a sudden click.
"Baaji, aap ready ho-" Yalina starts, the words instantly freezing in her throat as her eyes widen in absolute shock. Directly behind her, her mother lets out a dramatic, breathy gasp of pure scandal.
[Sister, are you ready-]
"Hamza, tum pitoge mere haathon!" Jameel Sahab's wife roars instantly, her heels clicking aggressively against the floorboards.
["Hamza, you are going to get a beating from my hands!"]
Hamza lets out a low, deeply annoyed groan, switching off the power button on the dryer as he looks up through his dark curls. "Aap log kab aaye?"
["When did you guys even arrive?"]
"Bahar niklo! Haya hai?" she snaps fiercely, stepping into his space to literally slap the electric blow dryer straight out of his large hand as if he is nothing more than her troublesome, adopted son. "Sanaz akeli kaise taiyyar hogi?"
["Get out of here! Do you have even a shred of shame? How is Sanaz supposed to get ready all by herself?"]
Defeated by the supreme matriarchal command, Hamza gathers his heavy, premium wedding outfit from the rack and retreats into the attached washroom with a muttered sigh.
They step into my space, carefully gripping the stiff, pearl-encrusted fabric of the pink kurti to adjust the alignment perfectly against my shoulders. Next, Yalina reaches down for the massive, cascading flared sharara pants.
She catches the hem of my casual shorts and pauses, dropping her voice into a fast whisper as she slides the heavy bridal trousers up my legs. "Nahi, aap shorts mein hi raho. Underwear mein bohot uncomfortable mehsus hota hai."
["No, stay in your shorts. It feels incredibly uncomfortable in standard underwear under all this weight."]
I let out a breathy chuckle of pure relief as her fingers deftly slide the heavy drawstring up to my waist, expertly tying the secure knots but keeping the tension loose and forgiving enough so the weight of the heavy stone embroidery doesn't bruise or cut into the skin of my hips.
I force a soft, genuine smile to my lips, tracking their movements in the large vanity mirror.
Even though it has merely been a short week since our operational alignments shifted into this domestic territory, I have continuously noticed how deeply, unshakeably close they are to Hamza.
It is entirely understandable; Jameel Sahab is our absolute brother-in-arms, a hardened, first-generation R&AW asset who has anchored the shadow networks of this city long before we ever crossed the border.
But watching his wife and daughter accept me into their circle with that same protective familiarity leaves a complex trace in my thoughts. I still don't know for certain if both of them are fully cognizant of our real identities, or if they simply see us through the state-mandated script.
They guide me down into the plush velvet chair.
Yalina handles my hair, expertly brushing through the lengths before pulling it back into a structured bun-an elegant, intricately pinned arrangement that sits perfectly at the nape of my neck. As she finishes, a few loose, textured locks are left to fall slightly over the sides of my face, softening it.
It looks beautiful.
"Main saare zevar upar waale kamre se le aayi hoon," Jameel's wife announces smoothly, gesturing with her chin toward the opposite furniture grid. "Aur aapki heels bhi rakhi hain."
["I have brought down all the jewelry from the upper room. And your heels are kept there as well."]
I offer a disciplined nod, gently squeezing her hand. "Shukriya. Ab aap dono bhi taiyyar ho jao. Aage main sambhal lungi."
["Thank you. Now both of you should go get ready as well. I'll handle the rest from here."]
"Sach mein? Bohot kuch baaki hai," Yalina counters, glancing at the heavy cosmetic layout on the marble counter.
["Really? There's still quite a lot left to do."]
I give her a nod. reassuring nod. Her mother smiles warmly, lifting a hand to press a soft touch near my temple. "Nazar naa lage."
["May the evil eye never touch you."]
With that final maternal blessing, the two women vacate the private suite. The second the door clicks shut, I step across the floor, turning the deadbolt into place with a heavy snap. Left entirely alone in the isolation of the lounge, I lean my back against the wood and let out a shuddering sigh.
The bathroom door swings open with a soft click, and Hamza steps back into the lounge. My breath stalls for a fraction of a second.
He is wearing a heavy, masterfully embroidered bridal kurta that perfectly mirrors the intricate pearl-and-stone architecture of mine, but rendered in a deep, dusky pink tone that stretches flawlessly across the massive width of his shoulders. The structured, heavy groom's jacket is still draped over his forearm.
I turn back toward the vanity glass, picking up a cosmetic brush. "Kitna waqt bacha hai aur?"
["How much time do we have left?"]
He lifts his wrist, his eyes tracking the silver dial of his Rolex. "Ek ghanta."
["One hour."]
I nod, settling firmly back into my plush styling chair. "Aajao, aapka makeup karti hoon."
["Come here, let me do your makeup."]
"Mera?" He freezes on the carpet, his green eyes widening as he points an index finger directly at his own chest. "Mera?"
["Mine? Mine?"]
"Jaldi aao."
["Come quickly."]
He walks over and sinks his frame onto the opposite chair, his knees practically touching mine in the tight space. I lean forward, applying a smooth, hydrating layer of premium moisturizer across his skin before running a swipe of lip balm over his dry lips.
Before I can even recap the tube, his tongue darts out, casually licking the entire application away. "Mmm, strawberry."
"Chaatna nahi tha," I snap.
["You weren't supposed to lick it."]
"Sorry," he murmurs with a sheepish, completely whipped grin fracturing his rugged features.
I let out a sharp huff of irritation, reapplying a fresh, generous layer. It's a high-end matte formula-engineered to provide deep, clinical hydration without leaving a single trace of shine on his mouth. I shift my weight closer, my knees locking against his thighs as my hands fly up to firmly hold his jawline.
Since I obviously can't pluck his thick eyebrows an hour before the nikah, I use a fine spoolie brush to gather the dense hairs straight, organizing the lines into a structured, clean frame.
A sudden wave of pure feminine jealousy ripples through my chest; it is biologically unfair how this man casually possesses longer eyelashes and thicker brows than me without even trying.
Reaching back onto the marble counter, I select a high-grade CC cream. I study the fluid carefully, praying to the cosmos that this specific formula won't accidentally oxidize and turn the Sher-E-Baloch into a pale, pasty ghost on his own wedding stage.
I deliberately refuse to touch any heavy concealers; I have absolutely no intention of masking his natural freckles or the beautiful, rich skin tone that defines his physical majesty.
He watches the product. "Wow, yeh mujhe gora kar dega?"
["Wow, will this make me fair?"]
"Bakwas band karo," I order flatly.
["Stop talking nonsense."]
I apply the cream with fast, blending the fluid seamlessly across his skin until his complexion assumes a flawless, matte finish. Thankfully, the product adapts beautifully to his skin chemistry.
"Aankhein upar," I command softly, leaning my face mere inches from his profile.
["Look up."]
He immediately tilts his gaze toward the ceiling panels. Holding my breath to maintain absolute stability, I slide a traditional silver applicator loaded with dark Surma cleanly across his lower waterline.
A single, heavy tear wells up at the corner of his eyes from the sharp sting of the powder, but true to his training, he doesn't flinch or utter a single complaint.
I reach up, carefully brushing through the deep volume of his dark hair, gently weaving the thick front sections into a clean, structured braid that travels smoothly along the side of his skull toward the back.
Just as I reach into the vanity tray to anchor the strand with a metal pin, his large hand rises, gently wrapping around my wrist to halt my motion.
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches deep into the pocket of his dusky pink sherwani, pulling out a simple, familiar elastic loop of black fabric.
A soft emotional smile plays on my lips as I stare at the object in his palm.
The scrunchie.
Our absolute, sacred origin.
I accept the fabric loop from his fingers, using it to securely gather his heavy hair back at the nape of his neck, allowing the dark, dense waves to fall fluidly over his broad back while leaving a few stray, textured strands out to frame his sharp cheekbones.
"So pretty," I mutter under my breath, my hands dropping to affectionately squish the skin of his cheeks.
He tilts his jaw, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly against the pad of my thumb. "Ab meri baari."
["Now it's my turn."]
I snap my hands. "Tum mera makeup nahi kar rahe, Hamza. Mujhe apni jaan se bohot pyaar hai."
["You are absolutely not doing my makeup, Hamza. I love my life way too much."]
"Makeup nahi, jaan," he chuckles deeply.
["Not makeup, my life."]
He turns on his heel to retrieve the heavy velvet box from the sofa. He opens the latch with a soft, mechanical click, revealing a magnificent maangtika.
The metal is a premium, understated light gold-devoid of any harsh, garish yellowish tint- engineered to march with the pearl-and-stone architecture of my light pink kurti.
He steps back into my space, his presence completely blocking out the vanity lights. He lifts the golden ornament, his large fingers steady as he prepares to drop it down.
But instead of tracing the traditional, straight center parting of my hair, he pauses.
He guides the jewel slightly to the side, letting the light gold cluster drape elegantly over the soft, textured locks framing my temple, before securing the delicate chain into the side of my bridal bun with a steady press of a bobby pin.
"Chalo ab hato, mujhe apna makeup bhi karna hai," I prompt, as I gently nudge his massive frame.
["Alright, move aside now, I need to do my own makeup too."]
He shifts his weight away slightly, his eyes never leaving my reflection. I smooth on a layer of moisturizer and a thick, protective shield of lip balm before retrieving my concealer wand.
I rarely have any operational need for heavy cosmetic coverage, but over the past few months, the intense stress of the deployment has manifested as persistent hormonal acne along my chin line.
I meticulously blend the product to mask the blemishes before sweeping a thin layer of foundation across my skin. Hamza offers no comment, tracking my movements with a quiet, fascinated intensity. I dust a soft flush of rose blush across the apples of my cheeks, the tip of my nose, and the edge of my chin.
He finally vacates my immediate vanity space completely to finalize his own groom architecture, sliding a set of heavy traditional bracelets over his wrists, anchoring his rings, and letting the dense, multi-layered ceremonial necklaces settle weightily against his broad chest.
"ओरी सखी मंगल गावो री,
धरती अम्बर सजाओ री,
उतरेगी आज मेरे पिया की सवारी..."
["Oh my dear friends, sing the auspicious wedding songs, decorate the earth and the sky, for today my beloved's procession shall arrive..."]
Next, I sketch a very subtle, precise wing of eyeliner and coat my lashes in a dense, thick layer of black mascara to elongate my gaze. I line the contours of my lips with a sharp brown pencil, filling the center with a muted nude pink lipstick.
Finally, I press a single, microscopic purple dot directly between my eyebrows. This traditional marker is my cultural protocol I choose not to argue with.
I adjust the heavy, pearl-laden earrings pulling at my lobes and center the dense necklaces cascading over my kurti. My fingers slightly tremble as I reach down into the vanity drawer, pulling out a tiny, velvet-lined box. I lift a exceptionally thin, delicate gold chain and clasp it around my neck, letting it rest deeply underneath the heavy wedding stones.
Hamza's sharp gaze tracks the movement instantly, his brow furrowing as he steps closer. "Yeh kyun?"
["Why this?"]
"Ammi... Maa ki shaadi ka zevar hai. Papa ne taufe mein diya tha unhe. Bas yehi ek aakhri nishani bachi hai mere paas," I reply.
["It's Mother... it's my mother's wedding jewelry. Father had given it to her as a gift. This is simply the very last memory I have left of them."]
He offers a deeply understanding nod. Reaching out with a surprising gentleness, his index finger softly traces the line of the thin gold chain against my skin. "Unhe yaad karti ho na?"
["You miss them, don't you?"]
I remain completely silent. I look down, sliding my silver bridal anklets over my feet, the tiny metallic bells letting out a soft, melodic chime with every movement. His gifted platinum anklets remain safely entombed within the floorboards of my Clifton house.
Hamza sinks back onto the vanity stool, his large hands steady as he carefully guides a set of thick, rigid bridal bangles over my wrists, followed by an intricate hand-flower bracelet that links directly to the rings on my fingers, my nails painted a matching dusky pink.
"Ishq ka rang toh bohot gehra chadha hai," he whispers as he turns my right hand over. His thumb gently brushes against the deep, blood-red "जसकीरत" beautifully embedded into the hidden creases of my palm. His own hand application has developed into an equally rich, dominant mahogany shade.
["The color of love has left an exceptionally deep mark."]
"Taiyyar ho, Sanaz Sahiba? Ya fir abhi bhi koi kasar baaki hai?"
["Are you ready, Lady Sanaz? Or is there still something left to fulfill?"]
I shake my head slowly. "Taiyyar hoon. Humesha ke liye."
["I am ready. For eternity."]
He straightens to his full height, smoothly donning the heavy, masterfully embroidered long groom's jacket over his dusky pink kurta before stepping into his polished leather shoes. He bends down, his shoulder supporting my frame as he helps me slide my feet into my three-inch bridal heels.
He lifts the sheer, light pink bridal veil, placing the fabric carefully over the neat-yet-messy structure of my bun before handing the cascading edge to my left fingers. He looks at my reflection in the large mirror.
Suddenly, his finger travels to the corner of his own eye, retrieving a spec of dark Surma from his waterline, and gently dabs the black mark right behind the shell of my ear.
"हेरी कोई काजल लाओ री,
मोहे काला टीका लगाओ री,
उनकी छब से दिखूं में तो प्यारी..."
["Oh someone bring the black kohl, place a protective dark mark upon me, so that I may look beautiful reflecting his magnificent visage..."]
My throat tightens.
I turn my body around completely, facing his frame. I lift the heavy, structured traditional groom's turban into my hands. Hamza instantly responds to my stance, bowing his head deeply before my chest, his long eyelashes fluttering shut as he yields his entire sovereignty to my touch.
I carefully place the pagh onto the crown of his head, anchoring his destiny to mine.
"Nikah Mubarak ho, Jaskirat."
["May your wedding vows be blessed, Jaskirat."]
The heavy double doors of the private lounge swing open, and we step out into the sprawling expanse of the main hall.
"Mashallah, dekho toh inhe..." voices whisper in a blurred chorus, the sound rising over the soft hum of the live music.
["Praise be to God, look at them..."]
The scale of the venue is staggering from this point. The entire space is a masterpiece of high-society opulence, anchored by vast, pristine sheets of polished marble flooring that reflect the brilliant, warm glow of the massive crystal chandeliers. Intimate clusters of candlelit tables stretch across the floor, heavily adorned with cascading floral arrangements of roses and marigolds that fill the air with a dense, sweet fragrance.
"Aao, maulvi Sahab aa gaye hain," Jameel Sahab instructs in a low, disciplined murmur, cutting through the noise to guide our path.
["Come, the priest has arrived."]
The Maulvi is already seated on a low, pristine white sheet spread across the floor, a large ledger open before him.
Moving slowly, I sink down onto the cushions. Hamza seats his frame directly across from my coordinates, his dusky pink embroidered jacket catching the golden candlelight.
Right on cue, the phantoms of the network silently shift into their designated security positions, creating a flawless human perimeter around the table. Behind Hamza's broad back, the execution line stands in perfect, lethal uniformity: Rizwan, Jameel Sahab, and Alam bhai. Behind my shoulders, the protective legacy grid locks into place: Jameel's wife, Yalina, and Khalid uncle.
The civilian guests look on from the distance, completely blind to the reality that the two most dangerous assets on the Indian payroll are about to sign a blood oath under the very nose of the Pakistani establishment.
"Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim..." the priest begins, his voice resonant as he recites the sacred Khutbah, the classical Arabic verses.
["In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful..."]
The Maulvi adjusts his spectacles, his pen poised over the thick, crisp pages of the state ledger. He shifts his gaze toward the groom's coordinates. "Hamza Sahab, Khalid Sahab ke khandan se Sanaz Sahiba ke saath, bees lakh rupaye meher ke iwaz, kya aapko yeh nikah qubool hai?"
["Mr. Hamza, with Lady Sanaz from the family of Mr. Khalid, in exchange for a mandatory dowry of twenty lakh rupees, do you accept this marriage?"]
"Qubool hai," Hamza answers without a single millisecond of hesitation
["I accept."]
"Dobara kahiye."
["Say it again."]
"Qubool hai."
"Teesri baar."
["A third time."]
The ink settles.
"QUBOOL HAI."
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Wherein They Are Ordered to Love, for the Sake of the Crown
"HONSLA. EENDHAN. BADLA.”
["Courage. Fuel. Revenge."]
Ajay Sanyal’s voice is remarkably quiet.
I offer a disciplined nod, keeping my forearms resting flat against the glass surface of the briefing table.
“Gurbaaz ke baare mein suna,” Sushant chimes in from the corner of the room, his eyes scanning the latest surveillance sheets. “India aate hi hum use extract kar lenge.”
["I heard about Gurbaaz. The moment he touches Indian soil, we will extract him."]
I lean my torso slightly forward, my fingers tightening against the edge as I lock eyes with my handlers. The request I am about to make isn't standard agency protocol, but it is non-negotiable for my conscience. “Kya main ek cheez maang sakta hoon?”
["Can I ask for one thing?"]
Sanyal tilts his head, gesturing for me to continue.
“Jameel Sahab aapko saari khabar pohonchate hain. Main chahta hoon ki jab uska extraction ho... use rehab mein le jaya jaaye.”
["Mr. Jameel sends you all the intelligence files. I want that when his extraction happens... he should be taken directly to a rehabilitation facility."]
A soft, knowing smile fractures Sushant’s professional mask. “Abhi bhi fikr hai dost ki.”
["Still looking out for your friend."]
I offer a single nod, a heavy lump forming in my throat as I swallow down the residual grief. I steady my breathing, “...Maa aur Jasleen kaisi hain?”
["...How are Mother and Jasleen?"]
Sanyal checks the localized domestic ledger before looking up at me. “Tumhari maut ka bahana banakar, Indian government unhe abhi tak 30,000 bhejti hai har mahine. Sunne mein aaya hai Jasleen journalist ban gayi hai. Corrupt leaders aur politicians ka parda faash karna chahti hai.”
["Using the pretext of your death, the Indian government still sends them 30,000 rupees every single month. Word has it that Jasleen has become a journalist. She wants to expose corrupt leaders and politicians."]
The words hit my chest with a sudden, suffocating pride. My little sister, fighting the same monsters in the light that I am executioning in the shadows.
“Sir, she’s here,” a crisp, disciplined voice interrupts through the comms line. Meera steps into the room, and directly behind her silhouette, the door swings wide to reveal the absolute sovereign of my universe.
Sanaz.
She steps through the threshold looking breathtakingly, unapologetically sophisticated—wearing a crisp, tailored premium shirt tucked into sleek flared trousers, her leather ankle boots clicking sharply against the floorboards, her heavy coat draped loosely across her shoulders.
Her fingers move to smoothly tuck the heavy silver handgun back into the concealed inner lining of her garment before the door even clicks shut behind her.
She doesn't waste a single second on pleasantries. Her eyes sweep the room, locking instantly onto the handlers. “Mujhe Dubai kyun bulaya, sir?”
["Why did you summon me to Dubai, sir?"]
“Pehle baitho,” Sanyal instructs calmly, gesturing to the vacant leather seats across from my position.
["Sit down first."]
Sanaz slides into the seat, her movements graceful and fluid, with Meera settling smoothly right by her side as the architecture of the Dubai briefing officially aligns.
“Bohot din ho gaye, socha tum dono se mil loon,” Sanyal says, “Tum dono ke reports dekhe maine, Sushant aur Meera ki badaulat. Kaafi interesting case hai.”
["It's been a long time, thought I'd meet you two. I saw both of your reports, courtesy of Sushant and Meera. It's quite an interesting case."]
Sanaz subtly shifts in her leather chair, her eyes dropping toward the glass table for a fraction of a second, a rare flicker of genuine embarrassment crossing her features. The realization that she had spend months meticulously flagging me as a tier-one localized terrorist threat in her encrypted data pools is hitting the room.
“Lekin isse yeh saabit hota hai ki tum dono apna role kaafi achche tareeke se nibha rahe ho,” Sanyal continues, “I want... the ties to be stronger.”
What.
“I want you to get married under the civilian guise.”
Sanaz’s head snaps up immediately, her clinical composure completely fracturing. “What?” She blinks rapidly, her voice sharpening with tactical resistance. “Why? I don't think it will be—”
“It will be helpful,” Meera interrupts smoothly, leaning forward to lay out the operational architecture. “Imagine, Pakistan already knows you two and your personas. No one will question why an elite Clifton doctor is associating with a Lyari cartel figure. You two are close to the similar people and belong in the same circle.”
“It's just for the cover, anyway,” Sushant adds, offering a casual, unbothered shrug from the corner of the room. “Hai na, Jaskirat?”
["Right, Jaskirat?"]
Sanaz lets out a sharp, unapologetic scoff, cutting a sideways glance at my massive frame. “Woh jawab nahi dega. Pehle se hi mara jaa raha tha shaadi karne ke liye.”
["He won't answer. He was already dying to marry me anyway."]
God.
The exposure.
I instantly drop my gaze toward my hands on the table, my jaw tightening as I desperately try to suppress the furious, betraying flush of embarrassment rising up my neck.
Sanyal’s eyebrows draw together into a heavy frown. He leans his torso closer over the table, slowly pulling a crisp cigarette from his silver case. His sharp eyes bore directly into mine, stripping away the humor of the room. “Is it true? You love her?”
I take a deep breath as I lift my head to lock eyes with the man who commands my life.
“I love her.”
Sanyal clicks his metal lighter, the flame illuminating the hard, ruthless lines of his face as the first trail of smoke curls into the air. He looks at the two of us—two elite, highly decorated phantoms who have given up our names, our lands, and our souls for the tricolor flag.
“Love is a leverage, kids.”
“I won't stop you. Lekin mission ke beech mein kuch nahi aana chahiye,” Sanyal commands. ["I won't stop you. But nothing should come between you and the mission."]
“Everything will be arranged,” he continues, ash falling from his cigarette into the glass tray. “Get married, build your shoal. Hamza, Sanaz, Rizwan, Jameel, and Alam.”
“Alam bhai too?” Sanaz gasps softly as her fingers tighten against the leather armrest of her chair. “Pakistan mein aadhe se zyada log spy hain kya?”
["Alam brother too? Are more than half the people in Pakistan spies?"]
Sanyal lets out a low, deeply amused chuckle, the hard lines around his eyes crinkling. “Bohot kuch nahi pata hai aapko.”
["There is a great deal you don't know yet."]
Sanaz’s eyes subtly dart toward the corner of the room, instantly tracking the angles of the vents and the dark ceiling panels. “I don't think we should discuss everything openly like this...”
["I don't think we should discuss everything openly like this..."]
“It's fine. No cameras, we've checked,” Meera assures her flatly, her hands resting calmly over her electronic tablet.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the skyscraper, the sprawling Dubai skyline is rapidly bleeding into a dark, heavy indigo twilight.
Sanaz takes a slow, deep breath, her chin tilting upward as she addresses the handler with an unvarnished clarity. “So... you want us to build a family. What about me, sir?”
“You'll continue to work as D's physician. What else?” Sanyal counters.
“I don't want to build a family in a traditional way,” she states firmly.
“That can be managed,” Sanyal replies smoothly. He lazily cuts his sharp gaze sideways, locking onto my massive frame across the table. “What do you think?”
I offer a single, quiet nod.
Sanaz scoffs, leaning forward as she shoots a fiercely protective, incredulous look straight at the IB Chief. “Sir, aap usse kya poochh rahe hain? Mujhse puchiye. He isn't the one pushing out kids from between his legs.”
["Sir, why are you asking him? Ask me. He isn't the one pushing out kids from between his legs."]
Sanyal freezes mid-breath, his hand holding the lit cigarette static in the air as the bluntness of Dr. Siddiqui’s boundary registers across his bureaucratic circuits. He slowly offers a sharp nod, clearing his throat. “Humein bass ek perfect cover chahiye. Those things are very optional nowadays. We aren't living in the 70s.”
["We just need a perfect cover. Those things are very optional nowadays. We aren't living in the 70s."]
“Get Vasectomy and Salpingectomy,” Meera suggests from the side table, her voice entirely flat, as if she is recommending a standard software upgrade for two field assets.
I swallow hard.
Pehle circumcision, ab yeh.
Sanyal tracks the slight tightening of my jaw, his eyes narrowing through the drifting tobacco smoke. “Are you okay, Jaskirat? Did you have different plans?”
I shake my head immediately, my voice leveling out into the foundational creed of a soldier who gave up his sovereignty a decade ago. “No, sir. Marrying or becoming a parent wasn't my priority. It has always been about protecting my country.”
Sanaz cuts her eyes sideways, letting out a sharp, highly skeptical roll of her eyelids. “Achcha?”
["Oh really?"]
The small, mocking syllable snaps something clean in my chest.
I turn my massive frame slightly in the leather chair, locking my eyes directly onto her elegant profile.
“Haan,” I reply, “I was eager to marry you because I love you, not because I was pushing thirty. There's a difference.”
["Yes."]
Sanaz stops mid-breath. In the corner of the room, Sushant aggressively clears his throat, his eyes shifting awkwardly between us as he hastily tries to defuse the situation.
“Theek hai,” he commands softly, lifting a hand. “Calm down.”
["Alright."]
Sanyal calmly presses the tip of his half-burnt cigarette against the edge of the glass tray, extinguishing the flame before dropping the remaining filter straight into his coat pocket.
His sharp eyes lock back onto the space between us. “Bharat apna rukh badal raha hai. Humne middle-east se dosti karna shuru kar diya hai, taaki Pakistan ko economically weak bana sake.”
["India is changing its stance. We have started building ties with the Middle East, so that we can weaken Pakistan economically."]
I clench my jaw. “Woh bhi humari tarah soch rahe hain. Dawood ne Khanani ko 60 hazar crore fake Indian currency bhejne bola hai.”
["They are thinking exactly like us. Dawood has ordered Khanani to transmit sixty thousand crores in fake Indian currency."]
Sanaz takes a slow breath of the medical authority she commands inside White House 13. “Dawood is still walking, but he's getting weaker. Aakhri saansein gin raha hai.”
["He is counting his final breaths."]
“Good,” Sanyal flatly approves. “Keep him alive but unmovable.”
He reaches down, sliding a set of heavily encrypted, thick security manifests across the glass surface of the briefing table toward our hands. “After your marriage, you both will have a free hand.”
Our eyelids widen slightly at the same time. A free hand.
Sushant steps forward from the shadow of the wall, a fiercely proud smile on his face. “Gadar macha do.”
["Unleash absolute havoc."]
I can’t help but let out a low chuckle. I look down at the files before lifting my head, “Ab Pakistan ka mustakbil, HINDUSTAN tay karega.”
["Now the future of Pakistan will be decided by India."]
The room shifts into motion. The briefing is officially concluded. We all rise from the leather chairs simultaneously, the heavy tension of the safehouse dissolving into a flurry of disciplined, emotional handshakes and brief, solid embraces between the phantoms.
Meera steps closer to Sanaz, her expression softening with a rare, profoundly maternal warmth as she wraps her arms around her shoulders. She leans her face close to the side of her dark head, her voice a breathlessly sacred whisper against her hair.
“Yaad rakhna, Dharmo Rakshati Rakshitah.”
["Remember—the duty protects those who protect it."]
They leave the briefing room. step closer to the massive floor-to-ceiling glass window, the cool drafts of the air conditioning rustling through the long, dark curls of my hair as it falls over my shoulder and across my broad back.
Through the pane, the sprawling grid of the Dubai night looks like a constellation of cold diamonds, entirely blind to the shadow wars shifting its tectonic plates.
Sanaz doesn't look at me. She sweeps her coat off the leather chair, letting the fabric drape over her shoulder as she cuts a sharp line toward the exit.
I instantly track her motion, my body moving on raw instinct as I follow her silhouette out of the operations room and down the dimly lit hallway toward the lift lobby.
The heavy chrome elevator doors slide open with a soft hiss. Sanaz steps inside the metallic cage, turning her elegant profile toward the control panel to press the ground floor button.
“Aaj khush toh bohot hoge tum,” she says, her voice dripping with a biting sarcasm that echoes off the polished steel walls.
["You must be very happy today."]
Before the automated doors can slide shut to lock me out of her universe, I launch forward, the heavy fabric of my dark traditional shalwar swaying aggressively against my shins as I cross the threshold, entering her perimeter just as the metal panels seal us inside the moving box.
The elevator drops, the sudden shift in gravity pulling at my chest. I step closer, my massive frame towering over her sideways stance, “Do hafte se call kar raha hoon, uthaya kyun nahi?”
["I've been calling you for two weeks, why didn't you pick up?"]
Sanaz keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead on the glowing digital floor counter, “Saare intel bheje toh the.”
["I sent all the intelligence reports."]
A low, rough growl of frustration escapes my throat.
“Main Intel ki baat nahi kar raha. Kab tak mujhse naraz rahogi?”
["I'm not talking about Intel. How long will you stay angry with me?"]
“Jab tak mera mann karega tab tak. Kya kar loge?” She tilts her chin up sharply. “Tum bhi toh manane nahi aaye.”
["For as long as I damn well please. What are you going to do about it? You didn't exactly come to win me back either."]
I deliberately shift my mass, letting the heavy frame of my shoulder bump solidly against hers in the tight space. “Achcha, kaise manaun tumhe?”
["Oh really? How exactly should I win you back then?"]
Sanaz scowls instantly, her hands flying up to aggressively push against the iron-hard width of my chest. But before she can establish her distance, I reach down, my massive forearms locking beneath her thighs as I effortlessly hoist her entire body clean off the metal floor. “Aise chalega?”
["Will this do?"]
“Hamza, main koi khilauna nahi hoon, neeche utaaro!” she shrieks in a breathy, furious whisper, her legs violently kicking out in the air like an angry, trapped cat as she claws at my shoulders.
["Hamza, I am not a toy, put me down!"]
I let out a low, rough huff of amusement, slowly letting her feet slide back down to meet the polished surface of the elevator floor.
“Tumhara dimaag kharab hai?” she snaps, her fingers flying to frantically fix the dark strands of her wind-tousled hair, her chest heaving irregularly beneath her tailored shirt.
["Have you completely lost your mind?"]
“Hogaya hai tumhari wajah se,” I counter heavily. I step closer, trapping her against the steel mirror line. “Bina ek bhi din chhore maine tumhe message kiya hai, lekin tumne ek bhi reply nahi diya. Manane nahi aaya? Jaise ki main tumhare ghar aata aur tum mujhe dhakke markar bahar nahi nikaal deti?”
["It has been ruined because of you. Without skipping a single day, I messaged you, but you didn't give a single reply. I didn't come to win you back? As if I would have come to your house and you wouldn't have physically shoved me out the door?"]
She glares up at me.
My expression softens. I look down at her beautiful, flushed face,
“Aakhir kaisa gunaah hogaya hai mujhse, Sanaz?”
["What kind of ultimate sin have I committed, Sanaz?"]
“Tumne jhooth bola.”
["You lied."]
I let out a weary sigh. “Woh toh tumne bhi bola. Fir hum dono gunhegar hue.”
["Well, you lied too. Then we are both sinners."]
“Meri baat alag hai,” she counters instantly. ["My case is different."]
I lean my torso closer into her, my frame casting a heavy shadow over her stance.“Alag kaise? Sanaz, agar humari mohabbat ek Saazish thi, toh fir uss daldal mein sabse pehle main dooba tha.”
["Different how? Sanaz, if our love was a conspiracy, then I was the very first one to drown in that quicksand."]
She swallows hard. “Main kaise maan loon jo bhi pal humne bitaye woh jhooth nahi the?”
["How am I supposed to believe that all the moments we spent together weren't a lie?"]
“Main—” I break off, stepping back a single inch into the center of the cage. “Saabit karo ki woh sab jhooth tha. Dikhao mujhe tum kya sochti ho, ki saaro cheeze panno par likhi hui thi.”
["I— Prove that it was all a lie. Show me what you think, that everything was simply written down on pages."]
Sanaz stands completely frozen.
“Nahi bata sakti na?” I prompt softly.
["You can't say it, can you?"]
She shifts her head, looking away from my reflection.
“Sanaz, khud se sawal puchcho. Kya tumhe jo mehsus hua woh jhooth tha? Meri chahat jhooth thi? Jaise maine tumhe chhua woh jhooth tha?”
["Sanaz, ask yourself. Was what you felt a lie? Was my desire a lie? The way I touched you, was that a lie?"]
She is younger than me by almost eight years.
I have never once doubted her fierce professionalism or her razor-sharp clinical skills as a deep-cover asset. But standing this close to her in the trapped in the raw silence of our history, the structural reality of our age gap hits me.
Her cognitive processing is still trying to balance the rigid rules of the agency training manuals against the volatile, terrifying reality of a human heart. She is trying to protect herself from the blast radius of a warlord's devotion—completely unaware that the uniform beneath my clothes matches her own.
She replies. “Chahat bhi toh dhoke se shuru hui thi. Just because you're good with me doesn't mean you love me.”
["Even our desire began with a deception. Just because you're good to me doesn't mean you love me."]
I am almost entirely helpless before her structure.
“Then teach me. Sikhao mujhe main tumhe kaise pyaar karun.”
["Then teach me. Teach me how I should love you."]
She keeps her eyes fixed firmly on the glowing display above the door, refusing to look at the raw transparency of my expression.
“Saadgi se.”
["With honesty."]
The digital counter chimes softly. The elevator lands on the third floor.
“Shiddat se.”
["With passion."]
The lift drops again. Second floor.
She finally breaks her stance, her head slowly turning as her eyes swing over to lock directly onto mine.
“Sarmad tak.”
["Until eternity."]
The heavy chrome doors slide open with a long hiss, revealing the sprawling, brightly lit ground floor lobby of the skyscraper.
The outside world waits to reclaim us.
But Sanaz doesn't step out immediately. She halts right on the threshold, slowly looking over her tailored shoulder.
I have never seen her wield before.
“Sirf mera haq hoga tum par.”
["Only I will have a claim over you."]
In a universe where my identity, my blood, and my body belong entirely to the state, she draws a line in the sand and claims my entire existence for herself.
“Aur hum kabhi juda nahi honge.”
["And we will never be separated."]
I step closer to her.
“SARMAD KE PAAR TAK.”
["Beyond eternity itself."]
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