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STITCHES & SECRETS
Where Chaos Meets Care
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Some things are stitched. Some things are hidden. And in Lyari, both can be dangerous.
⚠️ CONTENT WARNING / DISCLAIMER
This work contains themes of crime, gang violence, political conflict, and morally grey characters.
Romantic arcs involve slow-burn tension, power dynamics, and intimacy.
All characters depicted are adults.
This is a work of fiction, inspired by cinematic elements, not a retelling.
Reader discretion advised.
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CHAPTER 4 — AFTER HOURS
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Lyari General Hospital changed its personality after midnight.
During the day, it shouted.
At night, it whispered—like the walls themselves were tired of witnessing too much.
Dr. Nida Abbas signed the last file of the hour and leaned back in her chair, rolling her neck once.
“Bas,” she muttered. “Agar koi abhi dramatic entry maarega na—”
Right on cue, the emergency doors burst open.
Nida was already standing.
“Trauma one. Blood group check karo. Oxygen ready rakho.”
Her voice didn’t rise. It never did.
This wasn’t bravery. It was repetition.
Two floors above, in a dimly lit administrative corridor that most staff forgot existed, three men stood around a desk that hadn’t been used in years.
“Aaj raat hospital use hone wala hai,” the man from local intelligence said quietly. “Sirf fifteen minutes. Asset injured hai. Officially civilian case.”
Iqbal’s face didn’t change.
“Minimal. Doctor trustworthy hai.”
A flicker. Not recognition — assessment.
“Main visible nahi rahunga,” Iqbal said. “No panic. No disruption.”
He stepped back into the shadowed corridor, already invisible.
Nida finished suturing and pulled off her gloves.
“Nurse, vitals monitor pe rakho. Agar pain zyada ho, call karna.”
She washed her hands, exhausted but steady, when the head nurse approached her.
“Doctor sahiba… ek special case hai.”
Nida sighed. “Special cases normal ward mein nahi aate.”
The nurse hesitated. “Upar se bola gaya hai.”
The nurse lowered her voice. “Naam nahi bataya. Sirf itna kaha—quietly handle karna hai.”
Nida stared for a second. Then nodded.
“Trauma two. Aur kisi ko nahi batana.”
The patient arrived without sirens.
Just a stretcher pushed too carefully for Lyari.
Nida clocked it instantly.
“Close the curtain,” she said.
As she examined the wound, she felt it — that subtle pressure of being observed.
The man standing near the doorway wasn’t in uniform, but his posture gave him away immediately.
Straight spine. Stillness. Control.
“Major,” she said quietly.
He inclined his head. “Doctor.”
“So,” she murmured, working, “aaj aap balloons ya birthday ke liye nahi aaye.”
“Operational necessity,” he replied.
She snorted softly. “Achha.”
They worked without stepping on each other.
Didn’t ask stupid questions.
When equipment was delayed, it arrived faster than usual.
When someone tried to peek, they were redirected politely but firmly.
At one point, Nida glanced up. “Aapka aadmi bahar kaafi zyada tense hai.”
“He shouldn’t be,” Iqbal said. “Aap yahan hain.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Trust?”
She smiled faintly. “Fair.”
Two hours later, the patient was stable.
Nida stepped out, shoulders heavy.
“Done,” she said. “He’ll live.”
Iqbal nodded once. Relief, carefully hidden.
She waved it off. “Kaam hai.”
Silence settled between them — not awkward, just late-night quiet.
Finally, she said, “Aap roz yeh nahi karte.”
“Rare cases,” he replied. “Unpredictable ones.”
She leaned against the counter. “Lyari mein unpredictable normal hota hai.”
He looked around. “Exactly.”
A nurse passed by, whispering to another, “Aaj hospital unusually shaant hai.”
Nida huffed. “Nazar mat lagao.”
Iqbal allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
“You manage chaos well,” he said.
“Majboori,” she replied. “Aur thora sa zidd.”
He studied her. “Effective combination.”
She looked at him then — really looked.
“You don’t belong in places like this,” she said calmly.
He didn’t argue. “Neither do you.”
She shrugged. “Par hum dono yahin hain.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Filhaal.”
When he finally left, there was no announcement.
Nida watched the corridor return to normal — noise creeping back in, tension redistributing itself.
She picked up the next file.
Lyari didn’t wait for anyone.
Lyari General Hospital was at its most dangerous during visiting hours.
Not because of emergencies.
Dr. Nida Abbas stood at the nurses’ station, scanning a chart with one eye and watching a heated argument over a wheelchair with the other.
“Woh wheelchair meri phuppo ke liye hai,” a man insisted.
“Phuppo chal sakti hain,” the nurse replied flatly. “Aapke chacha stretcher pe hain.”
“Par phuppo ko baithna pasand hai.”
Nida didn’t look up. “Phuppo ko patience bhi pasand karni chahiye.”
The man blinked. “Doctor?”
“Haan. Aur yeh hospital hai, drawing room nahi.”
He retreated, offended but defeated.
Nida exhaled slowly and rubbed her temple. She had slept exactly four hours, one of which had been stolen by a dream where her pager kept ringing but the screen was blank.
Aaj ka din aisa hi lag raha tha.
By eleven a.m., the rumors began.
It started with a whisper near the pharmacy.
“Kisi bohot bade aadmi ka kaam chal raha hai upar.”
By eleven-fifteen, it had evolved.
“Intelligence ka banda aaya hai.”
By eleven-thirty, it was fully unhinged.
“Army ka Major hospital takeover kar raha hai.”
Nida looked up from her notes. “Kaun takeover kar raha hai?”
The intern straightened instantly. “Ma’am, suna hai orders aaye hain upar se.”
“Orders kaunsi cheez ke?” she asked.
“Files… access… silence…” He leaned in. “Aur bol rahe hain—unka naam lena mana hai.”
Nida stared at him for a long second.
“Kam piya karo,” she said calmly. “Dimagh zyada daudta hai.”
She was halfway through rounds when administration finally cracked.
A clerk scurried up to her, breathless. “Doctor Abbas, aap se baat karni thi.”
“Agar yeh budget ka hai, toh main behri hoon,” Nida replied, flipping a chart.
“Upar se instruction aayi hai,” he whispered dramatically.
She sighed. “Yahan sab upar se hi aata hai. Direct bolo.”
He swallowed. “Kuch files temporarily shift karni hain. Aur—”
“And please koi unnecessary discussion na ho.”
Nida closed the file slowly.
“Sunain,” she said, voice even. “Is ward mein unnecessary sirf ek cheez hoti hai—panic. Aur woh main allow nahi karti.”
The clerk nodded vigorously. “Ji ji. Bilkul.”
She handed him the file. “Jaaiye. Aur drama kam rakhiye.”
By afternoon, the hospital was buzzing like a beehive with caffeine addiction.
Security was suddenly very polite.
Even the lift worked properly for once.
Nida noticed all of it and commented on none of it.
She had a patient refusing medication because “ghar ka nuskha zyada strong hota hai” and another insisting his BP machine was “biased.”
“Doctor sahiba,” the second one complained, “jab main ghar pe check karta hoon, bilkul normal hota hai.”
“Ghar ka BP machine shayad aapko emotionally support karta hai,” Nida replied. “Yeh wala sach bolta hai.”
During a brief lull, she finally sat down.
The nurse beside her whispered, “Doctor… suna hai woh khud aaye hue hain.”
Nida didn’t react. “Kaun woh?”
The nurse hesitated. “Wahi… jin ka naam nahi lena.”
Nida pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Dekho,” she said patiently, “jab tak koi patient mere saamne nahi aa raha, tab tak mujhe farq nahi padta kaun kis ka boss hai.”
The nurse nodded, awed. “Aap bohot strong hain.”
Nida looked at her. “Main bohot thaki hui hoon.”
At 5:47 p.m., a memo circulated.
All departments: Maintain routine operations. No deviations.
Nida read it once and slid it under her file.
“Finally,” she muttered. “Kisi ko toh sense hai.”
The intern peeked over her shoulder. “Ma’am… aapko darr nahi lagta?”
She glanced at him. “Tumhe lagta hai mujhe time milta hai darr ke liye?”
He thought about it. “Nahi.”
“Bas,” she said. “Answer mil gaya.”
When her shift finally ended, Nida washed her hands slowly, deliberately.
The hospital was still noisy.
The rumors were still floating.
Life was still happening.
Whatever had passed through the building that day had done so quietly — like a shadow that didn’t ask to be acknowledged.
She grabbed her bag and headed out.
At the gate, the guard saluted someone just out of her line of sight.
Some days were not for curiosity.
Some days were only for survival, sarcasm, and getting home in one piece.
Lyari General Hospital shouted behind her.
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