( just finished Khakee: the bihar chapter and mann karan tacher is looking extra fine 😔 sad to see nothing about him and if and if anyone wants fic about him I am ready)
मेरे रश्के क़मर तूने पहली नज़र
जब नज़र से मिलायी मज़ा आ गया
ना अनजान हो गया हम फ़ना हो गए
ऐसे तू मुस्कुरायी मज़ा आ गया
Ayesha was looking at some fruits in the market intending to buy them for the shop , the sound of a jeep could be heard and people were making way for it to pass .
Ayesha looked up and saw a black jeep parked across from her and in front of a dress shop she instantly knew that one it was Rehman's dakait gang , and with the amount of security she assumed it must be one of Rehmans family members.
She tried not to look in that direction but couldn't help but notice an elegant woman coming out of the with a little boy behind her , she was walking with grace and her aura was that of a queen , she must be ulfat dakait wife of rehman.
Ayesha diverted her gaze and continued with her shopping not knowing she had caught someone's gaze , as she was walking away a man's stern voice called out "zara rukiye" she stopped and remained calm but inside she was exploding.
Hare ram! hare Krishna! hare ram! she was chanting in her mind as she turned around and she saw a man walking towards her , she recognised him he was the man she saw on the Billboard when she first entered lyari, he was uzair baloch brother of rehman .
Haye bhagwan! Main kaha phas gayi what does he want from me she thought to herself her heart stopped for a minute, her breath hitching.
"yeh aapka kuch gir gaya hai" he showed her the lemon she accidentally dropped, relief washing over her she noticed he was staring right at her "sukriya" she thanked lowering her gaze not daring to meet his eyes " uzair " another voice called out from behind.
Bhagwan ka lakh lakh sukhra hai ! she thought to herself "mujhe abh jaana hoga" he said to phir jaldi se ja na ! she thought to herself "aur sambhalke jaaye taki apka nimbu phir na gir jaye" Ayesha simply nodded waiting for him to go and slowing pulled up her gaze looking at him " khuda hafiz" he added before walking away .
She quickly turned around and strodded in the opposite direction letting out a sigh of relief, pagal admi ! she thought to herself who gives someones dropped lemon like that with such seriousness she thought to herself making a displeased face.
"kya hua Bhai!" Uzair asked in annoyance "oho! kon thi wo?" Donga asked teasing him " uska kuch saman gir gaya tha-" before uzair could defend himself another voice soke " humme sab dikhta hai, hum jante hain uss nazariye ko!" uzair playfully hit the man .
He turned his head and looked at the silhouette of the girl he just encountered mesmerised by her , and smiled to himself
As Ayesha reached the shop she saw the members of babu dakait s gang coming out "yeh chikna lychee kaha se laya" baby dakait lipped his lips as he looked at hamza one of his members saw her and whistled , she ignored them and walked inside.
"Babu dakait ko lakwa padne ke bad usne rehman baloch se Larne ke liye Arshad papu ke sath haath mila liya hai" "aaj ki Tarik mein takriban ek tihari lyari per Arshad papu aur babu dakiat ka kabza hai "
It was nighttime and a knocking was heard outside the store aalam opened it " Kal ke function mein rehman khud nahi ayega per uska beta Naeem zaror ayega dulhe ke bachpan ka dost hain wo " a man entered inside he looked surprised to see them and he Stopped walking "Rizwan hamza aur ayesha " "hamza , ayesha Rizwan " aalam introduced "iski kismat acchi thi aate hi Arshad papu ke gang mein shamil ho gaya " hamza and Rizwan shook hands and ayesha and Rizwan just nodded at each other in acknowledgement.
"Kuli mein se nikalte waqt naem per babu dakait ke teen ladies hamla karenge " "agar naem ko bacha sake ek jhatke mein rehman dakait ki nazar mein a jayega " hamza thought for a minute.
Ayesha felt bad thinking about a poor child crossed between the politics of his father and grandfather he was like a sacrificial lamb waiting to be slaughtered .
"Goli kahen se bhi nikal sakti hain, isme tumhare jaan ka katthra ho sakta "
"Chalega ya koi aur tarqeeb lagaye " " mein bacha lunga ladke ko " Hamza replied looking down " mein bhi koshis karoungi ki woh jinda bache " Ayesha added "fikar mat karo " Hamza looked up " mein aur ayesha bache ki baccha lenge " .
The wedding was filled with laughter and songs , people were dancing around and enjoying , Hamza and ayesha were serving drinks to the guest .
Some guests stared at Ayesha she was wearing a simple white salwar with her duppata over her head , it didn't go unnoticed by her , from the outside Ayesha looked like a gentle beauty and no one could detect the beast inside her .
Ayesha met hamza again at aalams stall "sab badhiya, hmm" Ayesha nodded her head " orange dijiye, orange hi chahiye sabko " hamza diverted the question.
Aalam suddenly stopped " yeh hain naem " both hamza and Ayesha slowly turned their head to look at the boy .
The boy was wearing a light blue pathani suit with a cream vest, everyone was greeting him as he entered , then a young boy was running behind him Swinging from his arm "baccha kon hai iske saat" hamza asked, Ayesha had already seen that boy before with his mother, but wasn't the eldest son supposed to come alone .
"Yeh rehman baloch ka chota ladka hai , faizal " shit ayesha thought to herself why couldn't the little one just stay at home just for today .
"Ek kaam karo tum dono naem per dihan do , mein bache ko Sambhalta hoon " hamza walked side by side following naem and Ayesha was just behind hamza .
The continued service but their whole attention was on naem, aalam called Faizal over to his stall .
Naem had finished clicking photos with the groom and was walking to the exit , naem called Faizal over and at that moment Ayesha noticed three men getting off a bike she poked hamza to make him look.
Ayesha and hamza looked at each other as faizal was running towards his brother ayesha pulled him back and one of the man yelled "maar motherchod" there were bullets flying everywhere and naaem was backed behind a pillar by one of his bodyguard.
People were running away and getting injured, hamza put a table as a protective layer between the bullets and ayesha and Faizal , ayesha hugged the boy tight trying to calm him .
Hamza looked over the table at the three man while ayesha was signalling the boy to shush "hamza you go to naaem I will look after faizal " ayesha urged him .
Hamza took a gun from one of the men laying in his own blood and started shooting with his hair perfectly in the wind like he was in a movie ayesha looked at him thought damn! why is his hair better than hers .
Hamza kept on shooting them and duct down to see naem alone hamza was trying to run towards naem but faizal was trying to stop him ayesha gently pulled him back "beta aap fikar mat karo woh bhaiya thik hoge " hamza was now behind a pillar continuing to shot at the men, he ran behind from the pillar shooting and pulling naem back as he was trying to run away from the pillar .
Hamza held the boy behind and continued shooting as it hit one of the man's ears the three of them were running away but hamza didn't care and picked up one of the gun and continued shooting walking towards them .
Aalam was now with Faizal and ayesha quickly ran towards the injured boy in his light blue suit now covered with his own blood .
Ayesha pressed her white dupatta in his wounds trying to stop blood coming out, The boy couldn't see properly "you will be fine don't worry" she gently comforted him , ayesha didn't know who she was trying to convince the boy laying in his own pool of blood or herself .
Ayesha gently squeezed his hands trying to bring him comfort in his last moment . A thought passed over her did her father felt the same thing when he was shot by the terrorist repeatedly , was he also hopeless as he was laying there breathing his last breath , she could see her father laying in his own pool of blood But the difference was no one was there to save him or give him some comfort in his last moment .
Tears spilled down ayesha check unknowingly as hamza came up to her seeing her trying her best to revive the boy , aalam walked towards them "maar gaya yeh , bhaag yaha se " hamza took off his vest and pressed it against naem "aree bacche ko goli laggin hain " "Aree goli lag gayee , koi doctor hai , koi ambulance bulaya " the screams of hamza and aalam could be heard calling out to call the ambulance naem blood was now on hamza shirt as he pressed his vest to the boys chest .
Ayesha was in guilt blaming herself that an innocent life could've been saved by her if only she had been fast , Ayesha walked towards faizal her white salwar soaked in blood, she approached him and gently whispered "don't worry your brother will be alright " she knew even the little boy knew it was lie .
मेरे रश्के क़मर तूने पहली नज़र
जब नज़र से मिलायी मज़ा आ गया
ना अनजान हो गया हम फ़ना हो गए
ऐसे तू मुस्कुरायी मज़ा आ गया
Ayesha was looking at some fruits in the market intending to buy them for the shop , the sound of a jeep could be heard and people were making way for it to pass .
Ayesha looked up and saw a black jeep parked across from her and in front of a dress shop she instantly knew that one it was Rehman's dakait gang , and with the amount of security she assumed it must be one of Rehmans family members.
She tried not to look in that direction but couldn't help but notice an elegant woman coming out of the with a little boy behind her , she was walking with grace and her aura was that of a queen , she must be ulfat dakait wife of rehman.
Ayesha diverted her gaze and continued with her shopping not knowing she had caught someone's gaze , as she was walking away a man's stern voice called out "zara rukiye" she stopped and remained calm but inside she was exploding.
Hare ram! hare Krishna! hare ram! she was chanting in her mind as she turned around and she saw a man walking towards her , she recognised him he was the man she saw on the Billboard when she first entered lyari, he was uzair baloch brother of rehman .
Haye bhagwan! Main kaha phas gayi what does he want from me she thought to herself her heart stopped for a minute, her breath hitching.
"yeh aapka kuch gir gaya hai" he showed her the lemon she accidentally dropped, relief washing over her she noticed he was staring right at her "sukriya" she thanked lowering her gaze not daring to meet his eyes " uzair " another voice called out from behind.
Bhagwan ka lakh lakh sukhra hai ! she thought to herself "mujhe abh jaana hoga" he said to phir jaldi se ja na ! she thought to herself "aur sambhalke jaaye taki apka nimbu phir na gir jaye" Ayesha simply nodded waiting for him to go and slowing pulled up her gaze looking at him " khuda hafiz" he added before walking away .
She quickly turned around and strodded in the opposite direction letting out a sigh of relief, pagal admi ! she thought to herself who gives someones dropped lemon like that with such seriousness she thought to herself making a displeased face.
"kya hua Bhai!" Uzair asked in annoyance "oho! kon thi wo?" Donga asked teasing him " uska kuch saman gir gaya tha-" before uzair could defend himself another voice soke " humme sab dikhta hai, hum jante hain uss nazariye ko!" uzair playfully hit the man .
He turned his head and looked at the silhouette of the girl he just encountered mesmerised by her , and smiled to himself
As Ayesha reached the shop she saw the members of babu dakait s gang coming out "yeh chikna lychee kaha se laya" baby dakait lipped his lips as he looked at hamza one of his members saw her and whistled , she ignored them and walked inside.
"Babu dakait ko lakwa padne ke bad usne rehman baloch se Larne ke liye Arshad papu ke sath haath mila liya hai" "aaj ki Tarik mein takriban ek tihari lyari per Arshad papu aur babu dakiat ka kabza hai "
It was nighttime and a knocking was heard outside the store aalam opened it " Kal ke function mein rehman khud nahi ayega per uska beta Naeem zaror ayega dulhe ke bachpan ka dost hain wo " a man entered inside he looked surprised to see them and he Stopped walking "Rizwan hamza aur ayesha " "hamza , ayesha Rizwan " aalam introduced "iski kismat acchi thi aate hi Arshad papu ke gang mein shamil ho gaya " hamza and Rizwan shook hands and ayesha and Rizwan just nodded at each other in acknowledgement.
"Kuli mein se nikalte waqt naem per babu dakait ke teen ladies hamla karenge " "agar naem ko bacha sake ek jhatke mein rehman dakait ki nazar mein a jayega " hamza thought for a minute.
Ayesha felt bad thinking about a poor child crossed between the politics of his father and grandfather he was like a sacrificial lamb waiting to be slaughtered .
"Goli kahen se bhi nikal sakti hain, isme tumhare jaan ka katthra ho sakta "
"Chalega ya koi aur tarqeeb lagaye " " mein bacha lunga ladke ko " Hamza replied looking down " mein bhi koshis karoungi ki woh jinda bache " Ayesha added "fikar mat karo " Hamza looked up " mein aur ayesha bache ki baccha lenge " .
The wedding was filled with laughter and songs , people were dancing around and enjoying , Hamza and ayesha were serving drinks to the guest .
Some guests stared at Ayesha she was wearing a simple white salwar with her duppata over her head , it didn't go unnoticed by her , from the outside Ayesha looked like a gentle beauty and no one could detect the beast inside her .
Ayesha met hamza again at aalams stall "sab badhiya, hmm" Ayesha nodded her head " orange dijiye, orange hi chahiye sabko " hamza diverted the question.
Aalam suddenly stopped " yeh hain naem " both hamza and Ayesha slowly turned their head to look at the boy .
The boy was wearing a light blue pathani suit with a cream vest, everyone was greeting him as he entered , then a young boy was running behind him Swinging from his arm "baccha kon hai iske saat" hamza asked, Ayesha had already seen that boy before with his mother, but wasn't the eldest son supposed to come alone .
"Yeh rehman baloch ka chota ladka hai , faizal " shit ayesha thought to herself why couldn't the little one just stay at home just for today .
"Ek kaam karo tum dono naem per dihan do , mein bache ko Sambhalta hoon " hamza walked side by side following naem and Ayesha was just behind hamza .
The continued service but their whole attention was on naem, aalam called Faizal over to his stall .
Naem had finished clicking photos with the groom and was walking to the exit , naem called Faizal over and at that moment Ayesha noticed three men getting off a bike she poked hamza to make him look.
Ayesha and hamza looked at each other as faizal was running towards his brother ayesha pulled him back and one of the man yelled "maar motherchod" there were bullets flying everywhere and naaem was backed behind a pillar by one of his bodyguard.
People were running away and getting injured, hamza put a table as a protective layer between the bullets and ayesha and Faizal , ayesha hugged the boy tight trying to calm him .
Hamza looked over the table at the three man while ayesha was signalling the boy to shush "hamza you go to naaem I will look after faizal " ayesha urged him .
Hamza took a gun from one of the men laying in his own blood and started shooting with his hair perfectly in the wind like he was in a movie ayesha looked at him thought damn! why is his hair better than hers .
Hamza kept on shooting them and duct down to see naem alone hamza was trying to run towards naem but faizal was trying to stop him ayesha gently pulled him back "beta aap fikar mat karo woh bhaiya thik hoge " hamza was now behind a pillar continuing to shot at the men, he ran behind from the pillar shooting and pulling naem back as he was trying to run away from the pillar .
Hamza held the boy behind and continued shooting as it hit one of the man's ears the three of them were running away but hamza didn't care and picked up one of the gun and continued shooting walking towards them .
Aalam was now with Faizal and ayesha quickly ran towards the injured boy in his light blue suit now covered with his own blood .
Ayesha pressed her white dupatta in his wounds trying to stop blood coming out, The boy couldn't see properly "you will be fine don't worry" she gently comforted him , ayesha didn't know who she was trying to convince the boy laying in his own pool of blood or herself .
Ayesha gently squeezed his hands trying to bring him comfort in his last moment . A thought passed over her did her father felt the same thing when he was shot by the terrorist repeatedly , was he also hopeless as he was laying there breathing his last breath , she could see her father laying in his own pool of blood But the difference was no one was there to save him or give him some comfort in his last moment .
Tears spilled down ayesha cheeks unknowingly as hamza came up to her seeing her trying her best to revive the boy , aalam walked towards them "maar gaya yeh , bhaag yaha se " hamza took off his vest and pressed it against naem "aree bacche ko goli laggin hain " "Aree goli lag gayee , koi doctor hai , koi ambulance bulaya " the screams of hamza and aalam could be heard calling out to call the ambulance naem blood was now on hamza shirt as he pressed his vest to the boys chest .
Ayesha was in guilt blaming herself that an innocent life could've been saved by her if only she had been fast , Ayesha walked towards faizal her white salwar soaked in blood, she approached him and gently whispered "don't worry your brother will be alright " she knew even the little boy knew it was lie .
Ooh, don't you find it strange?
Only thing we share is one last name
Ayesha met hamza her supposed brother in the jeep travelling to the helicopter taking them to Pakistan, neither of them spoke with the other, they were a pair of strangers with the same last name paired up to infiltrate lyari.
Ayesha looked at hamza who looked like he had seen things far beyond his understanding his presence had a sense of maturity far beyond his years, when the jeep stopped she knew it was time to get off.
As she was carrying out her luggage she felt a muscular hand stopping her "mujhe karne do" he muttered taking the luggage from her ,she widened her eyes and thanked him, he did not respond and walked towards the helicopter.
She gave her ticket to a man and climbed up sitting next to hamza, he was very quiet and didn't utter a single word he kept glancing outside the desert filled path lost in his own world.
After a few hours they reached the afganistan-pakistan border, they stood in line to get their visit approved hamza slipped two notes inside their passport.
Hamza asked two-three bus drivers where their route was, Ayesha was following him like a child running behind their mother, they finally found a bus travelling towards Karachi.
The drive was long and it was evening when they reached Karachi., Ayesha was tired and kept on dozing off she suddenly felt something to lean on , it was Hamza giving him her shoulder so she could rest on it.
Ayesha quietly leaned her head and slept soundly while he was staring at his surroundings.
After they got off the bus they walked until they reached a sign board written in bold letters lyari, during their walk they saw a billboard with the faces of two men one being written as rehman dakait and the other being uzair baloch.
They kept walking until they reached the name of a store given to them Aalam juice centre was written on the shop "darling !darling dil kyu todaa peelo peelo aalam juice soda " could be heard screaming by a man in his early 50 s he was trying to attract customers.
They went inside and sat down at a table , they were immediately served with two drinks Ayesha calmly sipped it amongst the humid temperature of Karachi finally finding some relief in the cold drink meanwhile hamza was glupping the drink like water without any break .
Hamza went to the counter to pay , he said something to the older man both of them turning around to look at Ayesha , but his face was soon filled with disappointment as he walked towards her even though he didn't say a word she knew what he wanted to say .
They walked outside the shop walking not knowing where their destination would be, Ayesha turned back to the man who was staring back at them words being unspoked between them .
They walked the streets of lyari, hamza tried to find a job but it was to no avail Ayesha could see how these men looked at her like a meat in the butcher shop ,staring at her with lust filled eyes hamza could too , that is why he kept her behind him being her shield .
It was nighttime when they found themselves at the same juice centre as earlier, it was dark with the only light being from the street lamps.
Ayesha walked towards the old man cleaning his store trying to persuade him to let them stay for the night as she reached him the man suddenly pulled her inside and shoved her ,she was about to ask him what he was doing.
Whe she heard the voices of a group of people outside they were faint but from her calculation they were right page where hamza was left standing.
One of them was saying "oho mastuni baloch! Yeh to baloch lag raha he!" "Beautiful" Ayesha cringed at the man's word he sounded like a creep flirting ,just as she was about to look the old man signalled her to stay where she was .
The sounds of fighting and grunting could be heard in the streets the old man quickly closed his the just as the screams of hamza were echoing.
"mera bhai-" She asked worried about hamza wanting to look outside but her sentence was cut off " Bahar janne ki socho bhi mat , jo haal tumhare bhai ka kar rahe hai usse bhi bura haal tunhara kar denge " he warned his voice serious .
the weight of the situation sat in , a weird feeling twisting in her guts , if this is what they could do to a man with a build like hamza what could they have done to a girl like her if she hadn't been shoved inside the shop at the right time the thought made her shiver and she had Goosebumps .
The sounds of fighting went on for a couple of minutes before finally stopping at police sirens , Ayesha couldn't sleep all night praying that hamza would be safe and fine .
As soon as the sun was up Ayesha ran outside the shop worried and saw hamza laying on top of a dustbin , she ran towards him " bhaiya! bhaiya!"' she called out desperately trying to wake him up, another voice came behind her "oye beta uth" .
Hamza slowly opened his eyes his head buzzing from last night's fight ,he saw a pair of worried eyes staring down at him .
Ayesha helped him sit up not caring that she was getting herself dirty and gently tried to remove the dirt ,sweat and blood from his face her duppata getting stained.
Aalam gave him some food and hamza ate it like a starving man who hasn't eaten for weeks , Ayesha kept on cleaning his face her eyes filled with sadness .
"Naam kya hai? " the man asked " Ayesha ali mazari " Ayesha replied "aur tumhara? " he asked hamza " hamza ali mazari " he replied his voice lowered " beta naam kya hai? " He asked again leaning forward his voice firm .
"Hamza ali mazari " Hamza s voice was now firm as he looked at aalam .
A year had passed with hamza and aalam and they started feeling like family in this strange land , Ayesha laughed as aalam scholded hamza for using the juice maker very fastly .
Sometimes when she looked at aalam she would see some resemblance to her father with how much care and love he had provided for her ...
Hamza was still as quiet as ever keeping to himself she saw the sadness in his eyes , maybe he was like her longing for something he couldn't have...
Hamza was sitting in the dark gazing at the moon , Ayesha slowly sat beside him and looked where he was staring at" you know my father used to look at the moon whenever he was lost in his thought" she revealed breaking the silence between ,hamza looked at the girl ,so strong yet so vulnerable.
" his death is the reason I am here , he was supposed to be here with my mom and me celebrating his 50th birthday, I was never supposed to be here . I could've become a famous lawyer by now " she laughed but her laugh was filled with pain" but I guess some things are just not in our control" she wiped her tears and stared at him her smile trying to comfort him .
Hamza put his hand on the girl's back gently rubbing it as she leaned forward and rested herself against him feeling the same comfort she felt with her father in Hamza's embrace.
From that day onwards Hamza felt less like a stranger and more like a brother she had known forever .He was still quite not speaking much but he still took care of her like an older brother would.
Aalam took them at Washma Butt to drink tea , he greeted the owner and sat aside , he told them this was the place he used to work at when he first entered lyari.
"the tea here reminds me of my home" aalam revealed bits and pieces of his past "kahan hai aapka Ghar " just as hamza asked that question, someone served us three glasses of tea .
"rehman dakait ke gang mein ghusna asan nahi hoga " his voice now lost the playfulness now serious " lyari main jitne bhi gang hai woh subh kom ke hisab se bate Hui hai , tu baloch hai isliye rehman baloch ki gang mein ghus sakta hai " he revealed some information about the gangs .
" Babu dakait rehman dakait dono ke naam mein dakait lagta hai " hamza asked " dono baap bete hai kya ? Par baap bete hone ke baad bhi rehman dosare gang mein kyu hai? " Ayesha added further questioning aalam .
Aalam leaned Forward "lyari kehta hai rehman dakait babu dakait ki najayaz aulat hai "Ayesha opened her mouth in surprise "jis din rehman ko yeh baat pata chali osi din uski ammi kai inteqam ho gya ""kehte hai rehman ne jahalat mein ake apni maa ka qatal kar diya " the surprise turned into shock if a man could kill the very woman who gave life to him , how dangerous was he .
As hamza and Ayesha took a sip of the tea both of them spat it out at the same time , Ayesha schrunched up her face in pure disgust the salty flavour still in her tongue as aalam was laughing at both of them , the rest of the time spent there they discussed the gangs around lyari.
P.s - hope you like it I know it is very boring 😞😭😔so forgive me the next chapter will be a little more intresting
I do not support the character! This is just pure fiction and for the the actor only- again- I DO NOT SUPPORT THE CHARACTER.
Pairing: Major iqbal x Nurse!Indian!reader
Synopsis: Major iqbal. Amongst other ISI officers, and khanani brothers get attacked on the way to there headquarters in Islamabad. Few nurses and doctors were rushed in a undisclosed location in lahore. To treat them, amongst them was a nurse, stuck in Pakistan, who had entered Pakistan on a short-term medical visa and was unable to leave after borders were sealed.
(A little change in the story- rehman was not killed- and the weapons for the Amristar attack had reached them- the attack was planned for 25th August. But due to the incident it was stopped immediately)
PART I | PART II
The rest of the day disappeared into reports and files, collecting scans, analyzing them with the doctors, documenting every injury, every medication that would be needed. Yet beneath all of it, something refused to settle. A quiet, persistent worry lingered in my head. The fear of being caught here caught in something I didn’t fully understand. Something that felt bigger than me, as if I had stepped into the edge of something vast, dangerous, and already in motion.
I was only a temporary nurse at Jinnah. Six months. That was all it was ever meant to be. A good hospital, a rare opportunity. I applied, they accepted, and I didn’t think twice. I couldn’t afford to. I filed the visa, crossed borders, told myself it was just work. I didn’t know where I was walking into. I ended up in a camp. Not a hospital. Not really. A place that breathed secrecy. ISI everywhere, possible terrorists, men who watched more than they spoke, men who carried silence like a weapon. Some of them weren’t just soldiers. Some of them felt like something else entirely. And they hated India. They hated Indians. I was Indian.
Every step I took felt wrong, like I was already being counted. Measured. I kept my head down, my voice soft, my hands steady but inside, everything was screaming. I needed to be careful. Careful with my words, my expressions, my pauses. Careful not to ask too much. Careful not to exist too loudly. I didn’t know what was keeping me safe. Luck, maybe. Or negligence. They still hadn’t pulled the records of the outsider doctors and nurses. My name was still buried somewhere in a file no one had bothered to open yet. I lived in that delay. I breathed inside it. But delays end. Someone would remember. Someone always does. I wasn’t a spy. I wasn’t trained, wasn’t planted, wasn’t anyone important. I was just a nurse doing her job. A girl who stitched wounds and followed charts and swallowed her fear. But they wouldn’t see that. To them, I wouldn’t be a person, but a threat.
The day dragged on. I wasn’t placed in a ward, but in a room packed with monitors and files, screens glowing softly, papers stacked high, cables humming under the weight of injured bodies we weren’t allowed to see. The doctors and nurses brought in with me were each assigned a patient file. Heads down. Hands moving. No questions. Even though the room was full, it was unnaturally silent. Fear had a soundlessness to it. Armed men stood at every table, one for each of us, close enough that I could feel their presence without looking up. They listened. They watched. They memorized. Talking wasn’t allowed—not even a quiet how are you. No reassurance. No humanity. Words were permitted only when they served the work. Anything else felt dangerous. The gate creaked open. Beyond it was the ward room, barely a few steps away, close enough to hear the machines, close enough to remind us what waited there. Those were the only two spaces we were allowed to exist in. The room of files. The ward of bodies.
Always with guards.
Every movement was escorted. Every pause observed. It felt less like a workplace and more like containment as if we weren’t here to heal, but to be watched while we tried.
The room spoke in sounds instead of voices.
Every morning, they reminded us. The same words. The same tone. That we were serving the country. That we were healing great warriors. Officers. Men who had sacrificed everything. They said it like a prayer, like a warning. I listened. I nodded. I kept my face neutral. I learned quickly what not to ask. I learned to keep my eyes on the files, my fingers steady, my breathing slow. I worked when I was told to. I followed orders. I didn’t react when armed men stood too close, when their shadows fell over my charts. I played along. Because in a place like this, survival didn’t come from truth. It came from obedience.
6 PM
As I finished the files sorting them, memorizing them, I stretched, just slightly. Tired. Exhausted. I was used to it. I’d done twenty-four, even forty-eight hour shifts before. This wasn’t new. I placed the file back on the table quietly and glanced around. The armed men stepped forward immediately. Watching. “Ji… ye ho gaya hai,” I murmured, picking the file back up. Right. Even stretching wasn’t allowed now. Great. God, I was starving. The last thing I’d eaten was yesterday. My stomach twisted, but I didn’t let it show. One of the armed men signaled for me to stand, the barrel of his gun guiding the movement. He led me back into the ward. I was meant to stay by his side now, on the sofa behind the last bed. His bed was the second last one. I sat there, still. Waiting. We weren’t allowed to leave until the vans came again to take us back to those rooms. Back to what I was supposed to call home now.
Iqbal was resting, lying still with his eyes closed as I sat on the sofa. The white floor. The white lights. The white walls. Everything sterile, cold, and depressing like every hospital ward I’d ever known, yet somehow worse here. Emptier. I let my eyes wander to the other nurses working in silence, then further to the beds. To the patients. Some were burned. Badly. Skin wrapped and raw, the smell faint but unmistakable. I forced myself not to stare. The armed man at the gate stepped in with a tray. Food, most likely. His voice cut through the quiet. “Major Iqbal.” I stood immediately. My hospital slippers clicked against the floor as I took the tray from his hands. Dinner, I assumed. When I turned back toward the bed, Iqbal was awake. His gaze locked onto me. It was always like that with him sharp, assessing. Not loud. Not rushed. Just watching, as if he was reading something I didn’t know I was showing.
Scary?
Maybe.
Or maybe it was the way he never looked away.
I placed the tray on the side table, adjusted the bed behind him without a word. I pulled out the folded table, unfolded it, set it across the bed, and placed the tray down carefully. I peeled the foil back slowly, deliberately, hands steady, expression blank. Then I turned to walk back to the sofa. “Kahan jaa rahi hain, nurse sahiba?” His voice stopped me. I turned around. His gaze was already on me. It always was. “Wahan akeli baith kar bhi kya hi karengi.” Before I could respond, before I could even think of an excuse he spoke again, calm, almost casual. “Mufeed hoga agar aap yahin baith kar kuch baat hi kar lein. Aapka samay bhi jaldi beet jaayega.” Useful. Conversation. Time passing faster.
The word jerk flashed through my mind. Was he… flirting?
I didn’t answer. Saying no didn’t feel like an option here. So I did the only safe thing I complied. I pulled the stool closer and sat beside the bed, hands folded in my lap, eyes careful. Silent. Listening.
He took a spoonful of the soup, tasting it as if he had nowhere else to be. No urgency. No complaint beyond the words themselves. Then his head turned toward me again. “Khana toh bada beswaad dete hain.” The statement wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even dissatisfied. It was observational like he was testing how I would respond. I lifted my gaze slowly. It was the first time I spoke since sitting down, and the sound of my own voice felt louder than it should have in the sterile quiet of the ward. “Sir…” I began, then corrected myself mid-thought, smoothing my tone. “Hospitals ka khana aisa hi hota hai. Aur yehi aapke liye mufeed hota hai.” Plain. Professional. Nothing he could pull apart.
For a moment, he only nodded slowly, as if considering not just the food, but me. His attention drifted back to the tray. Another spoonful. The metal clicked softly against the bowl, the sound sharp in the silence. Then, without looking at me, he raised his hand slightly. Not enough to command. Just enough to draw attention. “Aur aap humein sir keh kar mat bulaiye.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “Humein yeh mehfooz nahi lagta.”
The words settled heavily between us. Safe. The irony wasn’t lost on me not here, not in a place guarded by guns and locked gates. I felt my shoulders stiffen, my instincts urging me to respond carefully, to not ask why, to not let confusion show on my face. I nodded once, quietly, unsure what he expected next. My hands rested in my lap, fingers lightly curled, every muscle aware of his presence beside me.
Iqbal took another spoonful of soup. His breathing was soft but deliberate, even it carrying a weight of authority, of control. Every inhale, every exhale, seemed to belong to him alone in the room. I sat on the stool, quiet, fidgeting with the watch on my wrist, the small metal links clicking faintly against my fingers. “Janti hai kisi nurse ko yahan? Koi qareebi jo aapke saath yahan layi gayi ho?” His voice broke the silence, calm, casual but each word felt like a test. I looked up, shaking my head slowly. “Ji… nahi, Major sahab.” The new name made him smirk, just slightly. That tiny movement was enough to send a ripple through the room as his gaze returned to me. “Chaliye, acha hi hai,” he said, taking another spoon, turning back to the soup as if the conversation had never happened. Then, still casually, he added, “Yahan se bhagne ki ghustakhi mat kijiye ga, nurse sahiba… samajhdar lagti hai. Yaqin hai koi bewafai ka kaam nahi karegi.” My gaze stayed fixed on him, searching for something, anything to read. But he was unreadable. Cold. Controlled. And I… I was naive.
“Ghustakhi ki toh…” he paused, taking another spoonful, calm, casual, as if he were talking about the weather, not about my life. “…sidha mari jayegi.” Shivers ran down my spine. My hands clenched slightly in my lap. My throat tightened. I stayed perfectly still, as still as the white walls around us. He sipped his soup, talking like it was nothing like death was a matter of routine. For him, it wasn’t nothing. But for me… it was everything.
“Kal hi koi nurse,” he said quietly, “shak ki nazron mein aa gayi thi. Yahan se bhagne ki koshish kar rahi thi.” I looked up sharply. He took another spoonful of soup, unbothered, as if he were continuing a story halfway through. “Toh kya usse-?” I stopped myself. The words refused to come out whole. He exhaled, almost amused, a breath that turned into the faintest smile as he looked at me. “Mar diya.” The word landed between us like something solid. Heavy. Final.
He smiled as if he had said nothing of consequence. As if he hadn’t just spoken about an innocent nurse dying. As if a life ending was a routine detail, barely worth mentioning. Something inside me shifted quietly, irrevocably. That was when it hit me. I wasn’t just stuck in a hostile place. I was trapped in something far darker than I had understood. A place where killing wasn’t shocking. Where it wasn’t even questioned. Where fear replaced law, and power decided what was just. No one had protested. No one had asked why. No one had cared enough to slow down their day. I sat there, frozen, my pulse roaring in my ears, realizing that survival here didn’t depend on innocence or truth. It depended on obedience. And on staying invisible long enough to keep breathing.
He turned back, taking the last spoonful of soup, finishing it deliberately before setting the spoon down. The soft clink of metal against the bowl echoed in the quiet room, unnaturally loud. “Chaliye,” he said, turning toward me as casually as if nothing had happened. “Chai hi pi lete hain. Khana toh beswaad milega.” He called an armed man over, giving instructions for two cups of chai. I stayed on the stool, waiting, silent, aware of every sound the soft hum of the monitors, the faint scrape of boots on the floor, my own pulse ticking like a clock in my ears.
I picked up the mess tray first, setting it down carefully on the side table. Every movement measured, controlled, as if one wrong motion could draw his attention or judgment. Then I returned to the stool, sitting stiffly, my hands resting lightly in my lap. When the cups arrived, I rose slowly, careful not to spill or draw attention. I held one cup in my hand and stepped toward Iqbal. As I handed it to him, his fingers brushed mine. Just slightly longer than necessary. A spark of awareness ran through me, sharp and unwelcome. His gaze met mine for the briefest instant, intense and unreadable. I felt it press against me, a weight I couldn’t shift. I lowered my eyes immediately, staring at the floor, my chest tightening, every instinct screaming to stay calm, stay invisible.
He lifted the cup, finally letting go of my hand. I returned to the stool, settling back slowly, the warmth of my own cup in my hands almost comforting. Yet the memory of his touch lingered, along with the unspoken weight of his gaze. Every second stretched. The room felt smaller, colder, quieter. Even holding the cup became a conscious act, a reminder that every micro-movement was being measured, judged. I sipped carefully, letting the steam curl upward, tasting the chai, listening to nothing but the soft noises around us. And in that silence, I realized again just how fragile my position was, how even this small ritual, two cups of tea carried more meaning than I could ever voice.
I didn’t like chai. The memory flashed, how I had always been the only one in my house who never drank it. Everyone else drank chai, steaming cups in hand, murmuring over gossip and stories. I drank coffee. Always coffee. Now, I held the cup in my hands, not drinking, just letting it warm me. A shield, a prop, something to ground me.
Iqbal took a sip of his chai and noticed, I was sure of it. His gaze flicked to me, measuring, reading. “Kya hua, nurse sahiba… chai pasand nahi karti?” he asked, his voice calm, casual, yet carrying that subtle weight that made my stomach tighten. I blinked, shaken out of my thoughts, and met his eyes briefly before lowering mine. I shook my head lightly. “Ji… hum chai nahi peete.” I took a tiny sip anyway, careful to turn my head just so, careful that he could see but not read me completely. His gaze followed, amused just slightly, the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips. “Kamal hai. Aap pehle bata deti… apki pasand mangwa dete,” he said, leaning back just enough to seem casual, yet attentive. I shook my head, managing a tiny, controlled smile. “Ji… koi baat nahi, Major sahab. Hum pi le ge,” I said softly. I stopped myself from smiling further. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I had to stay neutral at all costs. This place… it was emotionless. Cold. Controlled. And him, he seemed cruel. Very cruel. My instinct screamed it. Every measured word, every glance, every pause… it carried it. I held the cup tighter, the warmth seeping into my hands, but it did little to steady the unease curling in my chest
Silence settled between us. This time, he didn’t break it.
I drank the chai slowly, not liking it, forcing each sip down because it was the only thing I had right now. The bitterness lingered on my tongue, grounding me in the present. I kept my posture steady, my expression neutral, even as my thoughts refused to slow. As soon as I finished, movement stirred in the ward. Armed men entered, their voices low but commanding as they called out for the nurses. The vans had arrived. Chairs scraped softly. Nurses stood, one by one, lining up in quiet obedience. I rose, walked to the dustbin, and dropped the empty cup inside. The hollow sound it made echoed briefly before disappearing into the hum of the room. I turned only to stop at the sound of his voice behind me.
“Aaj raat ache se soyiye ga, nurse sahiba. Khuda hafiz.”
There was a smirk in his tone. Like the words carried something else beneath them. Like he knew something I didn’t. I nodded softly, keeping my face composed. “Khuda hafiz,” I murmured. Then I walked out of the ward. This time, I didn’t turn around. I didn’t look back. I just walked straight ahead, measured, controlled, joining the line as we were led out. But I knew. I knew his gaze was still on me. Heavy. Unmoving. Following me long after I had left the room.And that was somehow worse than watching him watch me.
I do not support the character! This is just pure fiction and for the the actor only- again- I DO NOT SUPPORT THE CHARACTER.
Pairing: Major iqbal x Nurse!Indian!reader
Synopsis: Major iqbal. Amongst other ISI officers, and khanani brothers get attacked on the way to there headquarters in Islamabad. Few nurses and doctors were rushed in a undisclosed location in lahore. To treat them, amongst them was a nurse, stuck in Pakistan, who had entered Pakistan on a short-term medical visa and was unable to leave after borders were sealed.
(A little change in the story- rehman was not killed- and the weapons for the Amristar attack had reached them- the attack was planned for 25th August. But due to the incident it was stopped immediately)
PART I
I was moved again back into the van, the doors shutting with the same final sound. The drive was shorter this time. When we stopped, we were led into a different section of the camp, quieter, guarded, controlled. This area was meant for us. Rooms. Assigned quarters for doctors and nurses. Some doctors were told they would be staying for full twenty-four-hour shifts. A few nurses too, only when required, only when ordered. Sometimes by the doctors. Sometimes directly by the officers. By the Khanani brothers. By Major Iqbal himself. The rest of us were confined to the nursing block. I was led to my room. It was small. A single bed pushed against the wall, thin mattress, a set of curtains instead of a proper divider. A narrow window let in just enough light to remind me it was still day outside. The walls were plain, worn in places, functional rather than comforting. Not good. Not terrible. Just enough to exist in.
I set my things down slowly, taking it in. This wasn’t a hospital ward. This wasn’t home either. It was livable. Barely. And that, I realised, was intentional. The door closed behind me, not locked, but not something I felt free to open either. I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, listening to the unfamiliar quiet. Somewhere nearby, voices echoed faintly. Footsteps passed. Orders were being given. This was where we would stay. Where we would wait. Where we would be called from—when needed. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, the reality settling in piece by piece. I wasn’t just here to assist. I was here on command. On notice. On someone else’s time. And until they decided otherwise, this room, average, temporary, controlled was all I had.
The building I’d been in earlier was probably the hospital. I sat down on the edge of the bed and looked out through the window. Outside, the view was plain and colourless, open ground, a few scattered quarters, and armed, i figured.
THE NEXT MORNING
I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay down around one, drifted off for barely an hour, then woke up at two and after that, there was no real sleep. Just staring at the ceiling, sitting up, lying back down again. Time moved strangely, stretched thin in the dark. Eventually, the sky began to lighten. Dawn crept in through the window, pale and colourless. Around 5:30, an alarm rang somewhere in the camp, sharp, mechanical, impossible to ignore. By six sharp, the vans were back outside. The doors were banged open one after another. Orders were shouted. Nurses and doctors were moved out quickly, no explanations given, herded back into the vans as if this was routine. As if this was how mornings were meant to begin now.
We reached the building under constant watch. The armed men never left, always there, always close. Security was excessive, almost deliberate. Two men for every one of us. No gaps. No blind spots. Inside the ward, the lights flicked on one by one, harsh against the early hour. Most of the injured were still asleep, bodies sunk into the beds, machines humming softly beside them. The armed men issued brief commands, directing us to our assigned patients. No discussion. We moved immediately. Files were handed over by the doctors, names, notes, instructions. Nurses only.
My gaze found him again as I walked across the ward. He was lying still, eyes closed, breathing steady. I approached quietly, keeping my movements measured. Opening the file, I scanned through it medications listed, scans ordered, tests pending. Everything documented. Everything controlled. I glanced at him once more before returning my focus to the file, settling back into routine. This was the safest place to be inside the work, inside the procedure, where nothing showed, and nothing could be questioned.
I placed the file down gently and began clearing the side table beside his bed, discarding the used medication strips and syringes the local nurses had left behind. I noted each one carefully, writing them down for recordroutine, precise, necessary.
Then his voice came from beside me.
“Subah bakhair, Nurse sahiba.”
I startled slightly despite myself, a small reflex I corrected immediately. My gaze shifted to him. He was awake now, lying there against the pillows, eyes open and alert. Injured, restrained to the bed by circumstance, yet there was nothing fragile about the way he looked. Even like this, he didn’t seem vulnerable.
“Subah bakhair, sir,” I replied, steady, professional, as my hands returned to their work.
I tilted my head slightly as I sorted through the medicines, the soft clink of glass and foil filling the brief silence."Badi khamosh rehti hain aap…” he said, turning his head to look at me from the side. I didn’t stop what I was doing. My hands continued moving, measured, deliberate. “Ji, haan,” I replied evenly, without looking up. “Hum zyada baat nahi karte.”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he spoke, casual, almost conversational. “Zyada baat karna shuru karein,” he said, voice low, “waise bhi khuda jaane ab kab tak aapko yahin rehna hai.” I lifted the empty metal tray and walked toward the wooden cabinet, its surface worn smooth with use.. “Waise bhi yahan aapko humare siwa kisi aur se baat karne nahi denge”
The sentence hung unfinished behind me.
I paused, just before kneeling down. Not enough for it to be obvious. Just enough for the words to register fully. Then I lowered myself, opened the cabinet, and reached inside. Clean supplies. Orderly rows. Familiar things. I took out a fresh gauze roll and closed the cabinet softly.
I placed the gauze roll onto the metal tray and walked back to the side table beside his bed, setting it down carefully. As I turned my head slightly, I spoke, my tone genuinely confused. “Aapke siwa?” I asked. “Main samjhi nahi…?” He let out a light chuckle, turning his face forward as he pushed himself up a little. “Apne patient ke siwa kisi doctor ya nurse se baat karne ki ijazat nahi.” My eyes stayed on him as I moved closer, adjusting the bed behind him. “Lekin hum baaki nurses-” “Nahi,” he cut in, turning his head back toward me. “Kisi se bhi nahi.”
I froze for a moment. Oh. The understanding settled in slowly, heavier than I expected. I turned away, giving myself the distance of movement, and reached for the cotton and the cream. One by one, I placed them onto the metal tray beside the gauze roll, aligning everything neatly. I didn’t respond. I kept my eyes on the tray, my hands steady, choosing silence and routine over words as I continued with my work.
“Kahan se ki thi aapne nursing?” he asked. I stopped mid-step. Shit. Indian. Trained at an Indian institute. That truth couldn’t surface here. Not in this room. Not with him watching. “Uh-ji, yahin,” I answered after a measured pause. “Jinnah Hospital se.” I moved closer, lifting my hands to his head, carefully loosening the gauze roll I had wrapped there the previous day. My fingers remained steady, practiced, professional, even as I felt his gaze sharpen. “Kaafi achi hain aap apne kaam mein,” he said slowly. His eyes searched my face this time, lingering longer than necessary, as if weighing something unsaid. “Waqt ke saath ho jaata hai, ji,” I replied, keeping my voice even. I continued unwrapping the roll, layer by layer, refusing to meet his eyes.
As I finished unwrapping the dressing on his head, the doctors entered for the morning round. Armed men followed closely, their eyes never leaving the room, watching every movement as they walked beside the doctors. They moved from bed to bed, stopping briefly at each. When they reached us, the instructions were given calmly but firmly to leave all the wounds exposed. The local nurses would handle the scans and further tests. I was told I wouldn’t be accompanying them. Being a nurse from outside, I wasn’t permitted to move around freely. I nodded once in acknowledgment. The doctors stepped away soon after, the armed men shifting forward instead, their presence heavier now. Under their watch, I began rewrapping the wounds, my hands steady, my focus fixed, aware of every second passing. I finished just as the local nurses arrived, transferring him carefully from the bed to the wheelchair. I remained where I was silent, still, because I wasn’t allowed to speak. And because, in that moment, silence felt safer than anything I could’ve said.
They left with Major Iqbal soon after. I moved toward the side table, disposing of the unwrapped rolls and the used medication packets. Every motion was deliberate, careful not to draw attention. In a low voice, I asked one of the men for fresh sheets to change the bedding while he was gone. He studied me for a brief moment before nodding, then turned and walked away to retrieve them.I changed the bedding, slow and methodical, until there was nothing left to do. One of the armed men then guided me toward the sofa at the entrance of the ward, signaling for me to sit and wait. I took the corner seat, resting my elbow on the armrest, my head leaning into my hand. The stillness settled in around me, heavy and unfamiliar. Sleep came without warning, probably because I hadn’t slept all night. I remained seated as I drifted off, body upright, half-aware even in rest. Time passed quietly. When I stirred, the armed men were still there. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to watch. Always watching.
After a while, they returned with the reports and files. I was still seated where I’d been left, asleep—exhausted, completely unaware of them entering the ward. The doctors followed close behind, their voices calling out to me as they approached. I startled awake, disoriented for a second, before standing up quickly and moving toward the bed. As I rushed forward, the armed man fell in step behind me, his presence steady and unyielding.
After a while, they returned with the reports and files. I was still seated where I’d been left, asleep exhausted, completely unaware of them entering the ward. The doctors followed close behind, their voices calling out to me as they approached. I startled awake, disoriented for a second, before standing up quickly and moving toward the bed. As I rushed forward, the armed man fell in step behind me, his presence steady and unyielding.
The nurses helped Iqbal settle back onto the bed while I stood there as the doctors finished explaining the schedule. I nodded once, having noted everything—three medicines at 4:30 a.m., saline at five, one in the morning, another in the afternoon, and the last set at night. There was nothing more to say. The doctors moved on, the armed men remaining behind. I stayed where I was, calm on the surface, aware that from this point on, every hour and every dose would be watched.
Everyone left once again, leaving only Iqbal and me in the ward. I walked over and handed the medication chit to the armed men stationed at the doorway. Of course, I couldn’t leave the ward not even to fetch medicines. Everything had to be requested through them. There was always someone assigned, someone to be informed whenever i or any other nurse needed anything. I checked the time.
8:57 a.m. already?
It had been 6:32 the last time I’d looked.
I turned back toward the bed, reaching for the stand where the IV strips would be placed, setting it in position and preparing everything in advance.
"Khairiyat se soyi nhi?" Iqbal spoke. My attention shifted to him almost instinctively. I shook my head faintly, the smallest motion. “Paraye bistar par kaise neend aati,” I said softly, more to myself than to him. “Begani jagah hai.” For a moment, there was only the quiet hum of the ward—the distant clink of metal, the slow, steady rhythm of machines. Then I felt it. His gaze. Fixed. Unmoving. “Aadat daal lijiye, nurse sahiba,” he said at last, his voice calm, almost reasonable. “Yehi aap ke liye mufeed hoga.” I looked away, my jaw tightening. “Koshish karenge,” I murmured, my hands betraying me as they fidgeted with the IV stand, adjusting it though it was already perfectly aligned. Anything to stay occupied. Anything to avoid his eyes. The silence stretched again longer this time. He didn’t rush it. When I finally glanced back, his expression had shifted. The corners of his mouth curved upward, slow and deliberate, his gaze dropping briefly before lifting to meet mine again. The smirk wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “Yahan se bahar,” he said quietly, each word measured, “toh aap waise bhi jaa nahi sakti.” The words settled into the room like weight. I stood there, my breath steady by force alone, my face composed the way training had taught me but inside, something tightened. This wasn’t concern. This wasn’t reassurance. It was a reminder. I didn’t know what he was thinking. I only knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t good. And as the realization sank in slow, unwelcome, undeniable, I understood just how alone I was. Locked in the ward. Watched at the door. And possibly caught in something I had never imagined becoming part of.
that's it for today😭 umm yeahhsahsh its slow burn toh it will go like this only yall
I do not support the character! This is just pure fiction and for the the actor only- again- I DO NOT SUPPORT THE CHARACTER.
Pairing: Major iqbal x Nurse!indian!reader
Synopsis: Major iqbal. Amongst other ISI officers, and khanani brothers get attacked on the way to there headquarters in Islamabad. Few nurses and doctors were rushed in a undisclosed location in lahore. To treat them, amongst them was a nurse, stuck in Pakistan, who had entered Pakistan on a short-term medical visa and was unable to leave after borders were sealed.
(A little change in the story- rehman was not killed- and the weapons for the Amristar attack had reached them- the attack was planned for 25th August. But due to the incident it was stopped immediately)
PART II
23rd August 2009, 11:27 AM. Millet road, Faisalabad near lahore
Major Iqbal, a few ISI officers, and the Khanani brothers were returning to the ISI headquarters in Islamabad when the convoy slowed near Faisalabad. Then,gunshots. Sharp, distant. Before anyone could react, a blast tore through the air beside their vehicle, the force throwing the convoy into chaos. Metal screamed, bodies jolted, blood followed. Badly injured, they were pulled out by security and rushed to a safer location as headquarters was alerted. Minutes later, army special forces arrived from Lahore and took control of what was now clearly an planned attack.
Lahore,Jinnah Hospital, Faisal Town.
The hospital was overflowing. Patients lined the corridors, the waiting room packed shoulder to shoulder, the lobby loud with coughs, murmurs, and the receptionist calling names that barely cut through the noise. Doctors moved quickly between beds, nurses slipping in and out of wards, a routine, relentless. Jinnah Hospital was vast, efficient, alive. Then the sirens cut through it all. A government convoy forced its way through the gates, red lights flashing. Armed men stepped out, special forces, army boots echoing against the floors as they pushed through the crowd without warning. Panic rippled. Doctors and nurses were pulled from wards and offices alike, dragged out mid-duty, questions unanswered, the hospital’s order unraveling in seconds.
The doctors and nurses were shoved into black vans, their protests and questions swallowed by the noise and the officers’ silence. One by one, they were forced inside until two vans were filled, the doors slammed shut and locked from the outside. By the end of it, around ten doctors and nineteen nurses had been taken—pulled from their duties, from the hospital, without explanation.
Undisclosed location, Lahore.
Major Iqbal, the Khanani brothers, and the other injured ISI officers were moved to a government-controlled camp, its location kept classified. Security surrounded the area from every side. Not long after, the black vans arrived too, passing through the gates and out of sight.
Readers pov
They pushed us toward the building, grips tight on the doctors as they were dragged along. Stretchers moved past in a rush,men laid out, injured, faces tight with pain as they were taken inside first. I looked again, closer this time. The uniforms. The tags. ISI. Something settled in my chest, cold and unavoidable. The pieces finally aligned.
This wasn’t random.
This was why we had been brought here.
I mentally face-palmed myself. No. This couldn’t be happening. I looked around, armed guards, high fences, the building waiting ahead, and the truth crept in, slow and heavy. This wasn’t a brief stop or a misunderstanding. It was going to take time. A long time. And somewhere in that moment, it became clear there was no chance I’d be going back to my country anytime soon.
An armed man grabbed my arm and pulled me forward, dragging me inside. The building was larger than it looked from the outside, cleaner, more controlled. We were taken into a room lined with hospital beds, each one occupied. Injured men lay there, some unconscious, some barely holding on. Doctors moved quickly between them, voices low but urgent, while a few nurses were already assisting. As I stepped further in, assignments were being made names called, patients pointed out, everyone being placed where they were needed.
The man pressed a file into my hands and pointed toward the second last bed. I opened it as I walked, my steps unsteady. The name stood out instantly. Major Iqbal. I halted beside the bed, the weight of it sinking in. A doctor was already there, focused, hands moving with quiet urgency as treatment continued.
The doctor instructed me to cover the wounds as he called for the required medications. He lay on the bed, conscious but still, the injuries exposed with a thin layer of antiseptic cream applied over them. I stepped forward quietly, picked up the gauze roll, and removed the small metal clip, unwrapping it with practiced hands. Keeping my focus on the task, I said in a calm, formal tone, “Aap uth kar baith jaiye. Main aapki dressing karne aayi hoon.”
I placed the unwrapped gauze roll neatly onto the metal tray. As he attempted to sit up, there was a brief struggle, the movement clearly uncomfortable. I moved in immediately, supporting him with a steady hand while adjusting the bedframe, raising it carefully to bring him into a more upright position. Once he was settled, I ensured his posture was stable before stepping back to continue.
I picked up the gauze roll, my eyes briefly scanning the injuries, his forehead, his hand, his arms, assessing, prioritising. I moved to begin with the wound on his forehead when an armed man stopped beside the bed, standing close, watchful. I didn’t look at him directly, but the presence was enough to make me pause. After a second’s hesitation, I adjusted the metal table beside me, creating space, grounding myself back into routine.
Major Iqbal noticed. His gaze followed the small break in my movements before he spoke, his voice calm despite everything.
“Itna hichkichaiye mat, doctor sahiba… koi takalluf hai toh bataiye.”
My eyes lifted to his for the first time, the moment brief but deliberate.
“Ji…?” I asked politely, already lowering my gaze back to the gauze in my hands.
“Hum doctor nahi, nurse hain, sir.”
Iqbal’s lips curved slightly,not quite a smile, more of a smirk,as he gave a small nod. Then his gaze moved past me, settling on the armed guard standing beside the bed. Without saying much, just a brief look and a quiet instruction, he signalled for him to step away. The guard hesitated for a moment, then turned and left, the space around the bed finally easing.
I finally relaxed as the guard left. Picking up a piece of cotton, I applied another layer of cream, then raised my hand to gently brush aside a few strands of hair to properly examine the wound. I pressed the cotton against his forehead with care, precise and practiced. I could feel his gaze on me, steady and assessing, but I didn’t let it affect my work.
“Aap jaanti hain,” he said, breaking the silence, his voice lower now, measured, “jab tak hum theek nahi honge, tab tak aap yahan se kahin ja nahi sakti.”
My hands paused for just a second. Then I continued, smoothing the gauze into place, keeping my tone and movements calm, professional. My suspicion settled into certainty. I had known this was coming—this was exactly how it would unfold.
“Ji… haalat dekh kar maloom ho gaya tha,” I said evenly, continuing my work without looking up. Inside, the calculation had already begun. One month. Two, maybe. That was manageable. At least, that’s what I told myself as I kept my hands steady and my focus where it belonged.
He exhaled slowly. “Iqbal,” he said quietly, his gaze steady on me as I finished dressing the wound on his forehead. "Y/N,” I replied, stepping back once the bandage was secured, the injury finally covered.
I moved to the burn wound on his hand and examined it methodically. “Zakhm kaafi saare hain,” he stated, lifting his hand as instructed. “Ji,” I acknowledged, neutral, supporting his hand only to the extent required. His gaze remained on me. “Kya lagta hai aapko… kab tak theek honge yeh?” I turned to the tray, applied the cream onto a fresh piece of cotton, and prepared the dressing. “Yeh doctor hi bata paayenge,” I replied evenly, “scan aur kuch tests ke baad.”
For a moment, there was silence as I carefully wrapped his hand, making sure the dressing was applied neatly and securely. Once satisfied, I placed the used supplies back on the metal tray and disposed of the waste, my movements deliberate and precise. “Kaha ki hai aap?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet. I paused, back still turned as I discarded the cotton. My mind raced for a brief second, did he already know I was from India? Was it safe to be honest? I took a controlled breath, letting the thoughts settle, and continued my task without hesitation. "Lahore,” I said simply, measured, letting my tone remain neutral.
Suddenly, the room filled with movement. Heavy security poured in, boots sharp against the floor, presence immediate and suffocating. They headed straight toward the bed. One of them stood out, an official, senior by the way the others fell back. I slowed my work deliberately, hands still occupied, ears sharper now. Iqbal acknowledged him with a brief greeting. “Saale Indians,” the man scoffed, voice loud and unfiltered. “Soch rahe the bach kar nikal jaayenge.” I kept my head down, fingers adjusting the dressing, every motion careful, unhurried. “Ek ek ko track kar liya hai humne,” he continued, confidence bordering on cruelty. “Allah kasam, ek ek ko cheer denge.” The words hung in the air. I didn’t react. I didn’t look up. I focused on the task in front of me steady hands, even breathing listening without seeming to listen, aware that in this room, silence was safer than response.
An armed officer appeared behind me, motioning that it was time to leave. He waited silently as I carefully finished the last of my work, folding the gauze and returning the tray to its place. Then, with a firm but controlled grip, he guided my arm, gently steering me away from the side of the bed. Step by step, I followed, the floor echoing under our feet as we moved toward the door. Just before reaching it, I turned—once. My eyes met his. His gaze was fixed on me, unwavering, intense, as if he could see every thought crossing my mind. A shiver ran down my spine, but I drew in a steady breath, forcing my shoulders to relax. I let the image linger for a heartbeat longer before forcing myself to look forward again. The hallway stretched ahead, fluorescent lights casting long shadows. Step by careful step, I walked out, leaving the room behind—but the memory of that gaze stayed, heavy and impossible to shake.
THIS WASNT VERYYY FUNNN. IT WAD BORING BUT TRUST ME ON THIS ONE GUYS 🙏😭 trust the process isme zada kuch nhi tha. Boring thi ik but this js the beginning shuru shuru mai sab nhi hogaaa. I go with slowburn. I you guys hate me for slow slow but hahwhshss trust your chatpati lekhika🫶💌🧸
The boys, the girls
They all like Carmen
She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes
She laughs like God
Her mind's like a diamond
Audiotune lies
She's still shining
Like lightning, whoa, whoa
White lightning
I've got thick skin and an elastic heart
But your blade it might be too sharp
I'm like a rubber band until you pull too hard
I may snap and I move fast
But you won't see me fall apart
'Cause I've got an elastic heart
Oh, who is she?
A misty memory
A haunting face
Is she a lost embrace?
~the year 2002~
The sounds of bullets were echoing in the shooting room it was as if Divya was taking out her frustration on the dummy . She didn't care if passersby thought she had gone mad she kept on going until she ran out of bullets, as she was refilling the bullets .The sounds of footsteps could be heard coming towards her .
"Miss Divya malhotra" a voice called out , she turned around and put her gun down , it was a man in his late 50 s his aura like a lion in the jungle , he had a frame of authority , he walked forward and extended his arm towards her "Ajay Sanyal Head of the indian intelligence bureau" Divya quickly saluted the man "jai hind sir" "no need for formalities miss Divya" he said trying to ease the tension Divya reluctantly took his hand and shaked it , "I had an important matter to discuss with you, Divya" he revealed .
Divya found herself sitting stiff and still in front of the man " I have heard a lot about you from mister ashok sharma" " it was unfortunate what happened to your father" Divya looked down she was trying not to remember the unfortunate events of her past " what is the purpose of this talk , sir " she asked her voice firm .
"Miss Divya , I think you are aware of the recent attacks by the Pakistans terrorist organisation, these attacks are increasing day by day and there is nothing right now we could do about it " " Divya, i want to destroy terrorism from its roots " his voice firm like a lion roaring ,she looked up at him his eyes now filled with something more than rage " I want the terrorist to think twice before they plan another attack in India" he leaned forward his eyes meeting hers .
"i want you to go as a spy , to infiltrate the gangs of lyari , it may be a long process Divya , but it is an necessary one " Divya continued to stare at the man , it was as if she was thinking of something.
" Are you ready for this Divya ? " he asked his voice steadily and calmly " I am more than ready , sir" she replied her voice steady and loud " i will destroy each and everyone who have caused the death of innocent people, I will be like a parasite I will suck their blood and by the time they realise it the damage will be done " ajay sanyas smiled at the girl whose spirits were up , he was very confident in his choice .
" from now you will crawl into a new skin ,you are not Divya anymore"
The girl looked at the reflection of herself she was wearing a black abaya , her hair put in a simple braid covered with a dupatta, her eyes lined with kohl , her nose having a small nose pin ,
She had left everything behind
Her family
Her past
Her memories
And
Her love
the girl in the reflection was not Divya . It was Ayesha , the main reason for major iqbals downfall...
Hope you enjoyed this chapter it was a very short one but I didn't know how to write how she became a spy so forgive me guys 😭also do you want to know more about Divya's "love" 😏😏
I do have to warn you that the third and fourth chapter might be lengthy and a bit boring so hehe again forgive me for that 😔😭😔😞
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
A/N: Okay so this one- this one is gonna go crazy. Its the short first Chapter, thats supposed to start a long story. Please read the Disclaimer, it's very important to me that my readers understand that- what I write, is not intended to romanticize harmful actions- its used in this chapter to set of the fire, to narrative into the story that is going to unfold and grow- like the characters. I will never, ever never, write Non-Con sex. It's not gonna happen here, nor in other chapters, because we love a plot that goes from hate to desperate need for each OTHER. One sided lust is not sexy after all. Enjoy!
Disclaimer;
The following content is a work of purely fictional dark romance. It contains graphic depictions of psychological warfare, physical violence, and intense power dynamics that are intended for an adult audience.
Important Note on Content and Themes:
Non-Romanticization of Real-World Harm: This story is a dark "enemies-to-lovers" trope within a fictional "spy thriller" setting. It is in no way intended to romanticize, excuse, or encourage violence against women, domestic abuse, or non-consensual harm in the real world. Violence is a tragedy; in fiction, it is used here as a narrative device to explore extreme emotional stakes and high-tension character dynamics-
Fictional Context: The actions of the characters—Major Iqbal and the Reader—are driven by their roles as antagonists (against each other) in a high-stakes espionage setting. Their "obsession" and "aggression" are theatrical elements of the "Dark Romance" subgenre and do not reflect healthy or acceptable real-life behavior!
Reader Discretion: This story includes themes of captivity, BDSM-adjacent power play (non-consensual in context), and graphic language. If you are sensitive to themes of confinement or physical altercation, please proceed with caution or choose not to read.
Warnings: big warnings for this one! Dark Romance, Graphic Violence, Blood, Captivity, Non-consensual Power Exchange, Verbal Abuse & Degradation,Toxic Obsession, Restraints, Enemies to lovers, Iqbal being utterly in awe with Reader already, Reader being a badass.
Part 1 of ?
The humidity of Karachi cloyed at your skin, thick with the scent of salt air and diesel exhaust. You had been ghosting through the labyrinthine alleys of Lyari for hours, the vibrant chaos of the neighborhood providing the perfect cover—or so you thought.
You’d left three of his top informants bleeding out in a tea shop three streets back, their blood staining the dusty floorboards. You were a phantom, a viper in the tall grass of the city, and you were one mile away from the extraction point.
Then, the world closed in..
It wasn't the Major. Not yet. It was his hounds.
Two black SUVs screeched onto the narrow dirt road, cutting off your path. Men in tactical gear swarmed from the shadows of the crumbling apartment blocks, their weapons raised. You fought like a demon—breaking the nose of the first man who grabbed you, driving a concealed blade into the thigh of another—but the sheer weight of numbers bore you down. A heavy rifle butt slammed into the back of your skull, and the vibrant colors of Lyari dissolved into a sickening black.
Five miles away, in a dark room, a phone vibrated on a desk.
Major Iqbal picked it up on the first ring. His face was a mask of cold, military discipline, but his eyes were restless, haunted by the months he had spent chasing a ghost across the subcontinent.
"Speak," he commanded.
"Sir... we have her. In Lyari. She took down four men, but we have the target secured. She’s alive. Like you ordered."
Iqbal stood up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor. For the first time in weeks, the tension in his shoulders snapped, replaced by a terrifying, electric surge of triumph. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection ghostly against the night sky.
"Is she bound?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, predatory purr that made the soldier on the other end of the line hesitate.
"Yes, Major. Double-shackled. We're transporting her to the cellar now."
Iqbal closed his eyes, a slow, dark smile spreading across his face. He could almost smell the ozone of the chase ending.
He could almost feel the heat of your defiance. The hunt was over, and the real game—the one he had been playing in his head every night since you first crossed his path—was finally beginning.
"Do not touch her," Iqbal whispered, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone. "Do not speak to her. Do not even look at her more than necessary. She is mine. Keep her in the dark until I arrive. I want her hungry, I want her angry... and I want her waiting for me."
He hung up, his breath hitching with a sick, excited anticipation. He grabbed his coat, the adrenaline hit making his heart hammer against his ribs.
"Finally," he breathed to the empty room. "Finally, Zahreeli... let's see how you look in my cage."
The air in the cellar didn’t just smell of damp earth and rust; it smelled of defeat. Or at least, that was what Major Iqbal intended.
You hung from the reinforced ceiling beams, your wrists raw where the heavy iron chafed against your skin. Your toes barely grazed the cold concrete floor. Every muscle in your body was screaming, a dull, throbbing reminder of chase through the jagged terrain of the border, but you refused to let your head hang.
To drop your gaze was to admit he had finally broken you—and you weren’t ready to give him that satisfaction. Not yet.
The heavy steel door at the top of the stairs groaned on its hinges. The rhythmic, deliberate click of polished boots against stone echoed through the small room, each step a calculated beat of psychological warfare.
You didn't need to look up to know it was him. You could feel the shift in the room’s pressure—the way the oxygen seemed to thin the moment Major Iqbal stepped into the light.
"Three months," he said, his voice a low, gravelly sandpaper rasp that vibrated in the small space. "Three months, forty-two men lost, and a trail of wreckage that stretches from Lahore all thr way back here"
He stepped into your line of sight, stopping just inches away. He looked immaculate, his uniform crisp, his presence suffocating. He didn't look like a man who had been hunting a shadow; he looked like a predator who had finally cornered a prize he intended to keep.
He reached out, his gloved hand gripping your chin with a bruising force, tilting your head back so you were forced to meet his dark, frenetic eyes. There was a terrifying heat behind them—a mixture of pure, unadulterated hatred and a twisted, obsessive hunger.
"My little zahreeli," he hissed, the word rolling off his tongue like a caress and a curse. "You’ve spent so long spitting your venom into my operations. Did you really think I wouldn't eventually come to milk it from you?"
You didn't flinch. Instead, you gathered the copper-tasting saliva in your mouth and spat directly onto the polished leather of his holster. You offered him a jagged, bloody smile.
"You're late, Major," you rasped, your throat dry but your tone dripping with venom. "I expected you hours ago. You're losing your touch. Or maybe you just enjoyed the chase too much to let it end?"
His eyes flashed—a dangerous, electric spark of anger. His grip tightened on your jaw until you heard the faint creak of bone, but you only widened your grin. You knew exactly which buttons to push.
You had spent months studying his tactics, his temper, his pride. You knew that beneath that disciplined Pakistani Major was a man who was dangerously close to the edge.
"You have a lot of spirit for a woman who is currently at my mercy," Iqbal whispered, leaning in so close you could smell the faint scent of tobacco and expensive sandalwood on his skin.
"But we both know I don't do things quickly. I’ve imagined this moment every night since you blew that depot in Muzaffarabad. I’ve thought about all the ways I could make you scream like the pathetic little bitch that you are"
He let go of your chin, only to trail a finger down the line of your throat, his touch terrifyingly light.
"You think you’re a soldier? An agent of the state?" He let out a dark, mocking laugh that sent a shiver down your spine despite your bravado. "To me, you are just a nuisance I am going to domesticate. I’m going to strip away that 'spy' until there is nothing left but the girl who dared to cross me."
"Try it," you challenged, your voice dropping to a dangerous simmer. "But remember, Major... even a caged viper can still bite. And I’ve been saving my best poison just for you."
The air between you was thick, charged with a heavy, suffocating tension that neither of you would acknowledge, but both felt like a physical weight.
It was a battle of wills, a sick game of power where the lines between hatred and obsession had long since blurred.
He stepped back, his gaze raking over you with a cold, clinical possessiveness. He reached for a heavy leather strap resting on a nearby table, his movements slow and deliberate.
"I counted on that," he said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "Now, let's see how loud you can hiss when I truly give you something to cry about."
He approached you with the slow, predatory grace of a man who had already won, the knife’s edge dancing inches from your skin.
"They told me you were a professional," he murmured, the blade’s tip tracing the line of your jaw, leaving a thin, stinging trail of heat in its wake. "But this isn't professional, is it? This is personal. You didn't just sabotage my shipments; you enjoyed watching my world burn. I can see it in your eyes—that same fire that's going to consume you tonight."
He leaned in closer, his body a solid wall of heat against your trembling frame. He wanted to see the pupils of your eyes dilate with fear. He wanted to hear your breath hitch. He shifted his weight, bringing his head level with yours, his ear just inches from your mouth as he whispered a foul, degrading promise of what the knife would do next.
You didn't hesitate. You didn't pull away. You lunged.
Your teeth sank into the cartilage of his ear with the ferocity of a starving animal. You clamped down, grinding your jaw, tasting the sudden, metallic explosion of his blood filling your mouth.
Iqbal let out a sound that wasn't a exactly a scream—it was a guttural, shocked roar of pure agony. He didn't pull away immediately; the sheer audacity of the strike seemed to paralyze him for a split second.
You felt the warm spray of crimson hit your cheek, the copper tang coating your tongue as you tore at him, refusing to let go until he violently shoved his forearm against your throat, choking you until your vision blurred and you were forced to release him.
He staggered back, his hand flying to the side of his head. Blood poured through his fingers, staining his pristine sleeve, dripping onto the concrete like heavy rain.
The silence that followed was deafening. You spat a mouthful of his blood onto the floor between his boots, your chest heaving, a wild, manic glint in your eyes. "Does that feel like a 'domesticated' woman to you, Major?!" You rasped, your voice thick with gore. "I told you. I’m a viper. Even if you pull my fangs, I’ll find a way to make you bleed."
Iqbal stood frozen. The pain was clearly excruciating—his breath was coming in ragged, shallow bursts—but he didn't strike you. He didn't reach for his gun.
Slowly, he lowered his hand. His ear was a jagged, ruined mess of red. He looked at the blood on his palm, then looked back at you.
And then, he smiled.
It wasn't a smirk of superiority; it was a wide, terrifying expression of genuine, dark-hearted awe. He looked at you the way a scientist might look at a new, lethal element, or a zealot might look at a miracle. His eyes were wide, bright with a sick, newfound respect that was far more dangerous than his anger.
"Subhan'Allah," he breathed, his voice trembling with a mixture of shock and twisted ecstasy. He wiped a smear of blood across his own lip, tasting it, his gaze never leaving yours. "You really are a monster. I’ve broken colonels who didn't have half the venom you just put into that bite."
He stepped back toward you, ignoring the blood ruined his uniform, his presence now humming with a terrifying, redirected energy. The sexual tension had shifted; it was no longer just a power play. It was a collision.
"You want to play rough, zahreeli?" he whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, hungry promise. He grabbed the front of your shirt, the fabric groaning under his fist. "Fine. I was going to be methodical. I was going to be patient. but if you want to fight like a beast, I’ll treat you like one. And believe me... I’ve always preferred the ones that bite."
His knife didn’t just cut through your shirt; they bit into the air with a rhythmic, metallic snip-snip that sounded like the ticking of a clock counting down your remaining dignity. Iqbal moved with a new, terrifying fluidity. The pain from his ear seemed to have fueled a dark adrenaline, turning his movements from military precision into something more fluid, more predatory.
He didn't just rip the fabric. He took his time, the cold steel of the blade grazing your skin, hovering over your heart, then your collarbone, teasing the boundary between a scratch and a wound.
"Pain is a bore, isn't it?" he mused, his voice sounding almost conversational if not for the ragged edge of lust beneath it.
He tossed the ruined scraps of your shirt into the shadows. "Pain is a soldier’s language. You’ve been trained to eat pain for breakfast. You’ve got a high threshold, don't you? You think you can just grit your teeth, wait for the blow, and feel like a martyr when it’s over. Im not letting you bitch~"
He stepped closer, his chest bare where he had unbuttoned his own tunic to reveal skin splattered with the blood you had drawn from him. He looked like a devil carved from marble.
"But I’m not going to give you that satisfaction," he whispered, his hands—slick with his own drying blood—sliding over your bare shoulders. He didn't hit you. Instead, he began to massage the bruised muscle, his touch disturbingly gentle, mocking the violence of the situation.
"I’m going to use pleasure. I’m going to use the way your body betrays you. I’m going to make you feel things in this cellar that will make you hate yourself more than you could ever hate me."
Your breath hitched, a traitorous reaction you couldn't suppress. The contrast of his blood-sticky palms against your cold skin was an electric shock.
"Fuck you, Iqbal," you snarled, but the venom lacked its usual sting. The air was too heavy, the silence of the cellar pressing in on you like a physical weight.
"Language, zahreeli," he chuckled, his hand moving down to the waistband of your trousers. He didn't pull. He just hooked a finger inside, the pressure subtle but absolute.
"You’re so focused on being a hero. But look at your heart—it’s racing. Not with fear. No, we’re past fear. It’s racing because you’ve never been touched by a man who knows exactly how to ruin you."
He leaned in, his mouth hovering just over yours, not quite touching. You could taste the copper on his breath.
"I’m going to keep you on the edge of a scream for hours. I’m going to touch you until you forget your mission, your country, and your own damn name. I’m going to make you beg for the knife, just to have a different kind of sensation to focus on."
He reached for a small, velvet-lined box on the table you hadn't noticed before. Inside sat a row of delicate, weighted silver chains and a small bottle of oil that smelled of jasmine and iron.
"You think you’re a viper?" he asked, his eyes dark with a perverse, focused delight. He began to coat his fingers in the oil, the scent filling the small space, masking the smell of damp earth. "I’m going to turn that venom into honey. I’m going to spend the rest of the night proving that no matter how much you bite, your body belongs to the man who finally broke its spirit."
He looked at you, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face
"Now... let's see how long that fierce tongue of yours stays sharp when I start showing you exactly how much I've been thinking about this."
The rhythmic clink-clink-clink of the heavy ceiling chains was the only sound in the room as Iqbal reached for the pulley system. His eyes never left yours—not for a second—as he began to lower you. The sudden slack in the iron was a shock to your system; the blood rushed back into your numb arms with a stinging, pins-and-needles agony that made your vision white out for a split second.
"Careful now, my little viper," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating purr. "I wouldn't want you to faint before the real work begins."
As your toes touched the cold, grimy concrete, he moved with the efficiency of a man handling high explosives. He didn't set you free; he simply traded your heavy burden for something more intimate. He produced the silver chains—delicate, deceptively thin, and weighted with small, polished lead balls at the ends. They were designed not just to restrain, but to pinch, to chafe, and to remind the wearer of their cage with every single movement.
The second the heavy iron shackles clicked open and fell to the floor with a deafening clang, the world slowed down.
You didn't wait for him to secure the new restraints. You didn't wait to catch your breath. You used the very moment of transition—the heartbeat where his hands were occupied with the silver links—to strike.
With a guttural, animalistic shriek of pure, unadulterated rage, you lunged.
Your legs, though cramped and trembling, carried you forward with the force of a coiled spring. You didn't just punch; you drove your entire body weight into him, your fingers curling into claws aimed straight for his eyes.
Iqbal wasn't fast enough to avoid the initial collision. Your forehead slammed into his nose with a sickening crunch, and for a glorious, fleeting second, you saw him stagger.
You were a whirlwind of teeth and nails, a blur of bronze skin and desperate violence. You reached for the jagged ruined mess of his ear again, your fingers digging into the open wound, pulling with the intent to rip it clean off his head. You wanted him dead.
You wanted his blood to coat the floor until you both slipped in it. You wanted to hear his soul leave his body in this godforsaken hole.
"Die!" you hissed, the word a spray of crimson spit against his cheek. "Die, you fucking dog!"
You managed to get a hand around his throat, your thumb pressing into his windpipe, while your other hand fumbled for the knife he’d left on the edge of the table. Your fingers brushed the cold steel—you had it, you almost had it—
But Iqbal wasn't screaming.
Through the haze of your own adrenaline, you heard it: a low, breathless sound. A laugh.
He caught your wrist in a grip that felt like a hydraulic press, the bones of your arm groaning under the pressure. With his other hand, he grabbed your waist and slammed you back against the stone wall with such force that the air was driven from your lungs in a pathetic gasp.
He pinned you there, his body crushing yours into the cold rock. His nose was pouring blood, his ear was a shredded disaster,—but his eyes were shining with a terrifying, holy light.
"Subhan’Allah," he whispered, his voice thick with blood and a deranged, religious fervor. He leaned his forehead against yours, breathing in the scent of your sweat and your fury as if it were the finest incense. "Glory be to Him who created such a creature. Look at you... a goddess of spite. A masterpiece of malice."
He looked at you with a devotion that was more frightening than any blade. It was the look of a man who had finally found the one thing in the world he deemed worthy of his own cruelty.
"He made you for me," Iqbal breathed, his hand sliding up to cup your face, his thumb smearing the blood from his broken nose across your cheekbone. "He knew I was bored. He knew the world was empty. So He gave me an equal to tame. He gave me a woman who would rather burn the world than bow her head."
"I'll... kill you..." you gasped, your vision swimming, your strength finally flagging as the adrenaline dump began to take its toll.
"Perhaps," he said, his voice suddenly dropping into a dark, clinical coldness. "But not today. Today, you learn the cost of striking me."
The shift in his energy was instantaneous. The awe remained, but the indulgence was gone. He didn't use the tools. He used his hands.
The first blow was a sharp, open-palmed crack across your face that sent your head snapping to the side, you were already exhausted- from the days before.
He caught you before you hit the ground, yanking you up by the hair, his face a terrifyingly calm contrast to the violence of his movements.
"Again," he commanded, his voice a low growl. He struck you again—not to kill, but to dominate, each blow calculated to bruise the spirit as much as the flesh.
You fought back with everything you had left, swinging your heavy, silver-chained wrists, spitting curses in Hindi that would have made a sailor blush, but he was a mountain of muscle and focused obsession.
He systematically dismantled your defense. His strikes weren't as harsh as usual - after all, you were a God-given gift to him ..but he did wore you out.
"Stop~" he hissed, his hand tightening around your throat as he pressed you down toward the concrete. " Stop, and I might let you sleep.."
"Never-" you wheezed, your eyes puffed, one of them already swelling shut, but the fire in your pupils was still burning.
He let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh—a sound of pure, twisted pride. "Good. I'd hate it if it were easy."
He delivered one final, heavy blow to the side of your temple. The world didn't just go dark; it shattered. The last thing you felt was the cold floor meeting your cheek and the heavy, possessive weight of his hand resting on the back of your neck, claiming you even in the silence of your unconsciousness..
"Then I'll make you hate pleasure more than pain once you wake up.."
Divya could still remember the last memory she had of her father.
It was a sunday morning
"Divya beta!" a voice rang out , "Divya kahan hai ?" Adiya asked his wife . "Maharani apne kamre mein hogi" Nandini replied sarcastically as she kneaded the roti dough .
"PAPA!" a loud voice called out soft footsteps were heard running towards him "apne mujhe bulaya" she asked breathless " lo aa gayi maharani !" her mother muttered " MAAA!" Before she could retord her father suddenly stopped " tum dono maa beti ka jagra shuru mat karo aur tujhe aaj college nahi jana ?" , "papa aap bhi ! Aaj to sunday hai " she replied coquettishly her mother just rolled her eyes and divya stuck out her tongue.
Divya was an single child born to Captain aditya Malhotra and Nandini Malhotra ,the beloved and only daughter of the couple , her father was in the army while she was studying to be a lawyer Nandini often remarked that being lawyer was the right choice for Divya with how much she retorted and how sharp her tounge was .
" I have to leave Tomorrow morning , beta can you please pack my bag " aditya asked , "are aap pichle hafte hi to aaye the " nandini examined her husband worried " Nandini I am a soldier my first priority is my country" he replied trying to tame her ,"ok fine pitashree I am going upstairs " Divya replied before she went upstairs
Divya started taking out her father's clothes from the closet and neatly packing them before opening the suitcase just then she saw a small red velvet box inside , she examined the box just then she heard a voice behind her " open it beta!" It was her father who was smiling and looking at her cheekily .
Divya opened the velvet box and saw two gold bangles the one she had wanted for months , the one she was secretly saving up money to buy it "kaisa laga mera gift? " aditya asked his daughter who was jumping and making noises in delight.
"ahhhh! Papa i love it so much '' she shrieked before she jumped into her father's arm and hugged him "aree aree kya huwa ?" her mother asked her as she was standing in the doorway holding a belan in her hand .
Divya showed her the bangles as she was jumping around in a bliss ,"aree ap bhi na, aap ke lad pyaar ne isko bigaada hai !" Nandini scolded Aditya while Divya was sticking out her tongue and dancing, aditya just looked at his wife and daughter , this was his entire world and smiled wishing things would stay like this forever .
"aap kab wapas aayenge" nandini as she asked her husband staring at him with worry filling his eyes " jaldii" he replied as he finished buttoning his uniform buttons " pakka?" Nandini asked with uncertainty '"pakka " he promised and gently kissed her head assuring her .
The way to the airport felt way too long and as aditya got out of the car as divya followed him until he reached the gate of the airport.
As Divya turned around walking to her car she heard her father calling for her ,she turned around and saw him spreading his hand
she ran up to him and hugged him as if he would disappear in thin air if she let go" "papa aap please sahi salamat rehna !" Divya wishpered against his chest while aditya stroked the hair of his little girl assuring her nothing will happen to him. " be good meri gudiya " he wishpered against her as she let go he mouthed " and don't fight with your mom" "but papa that is my job she replied pouting and letting go her father who was going inside the airport gate she waved bye to her father as he was entered the gate .
She felt her heart being heavy seeing her father go away never knowing when he will come back .
Months passed since her father had left home, there was limited contact with where he was posted., it was rare for him to get good signal but whenever they talked he would always end the sentence with "take care of your mom,ok" she would just roll her eyes and laugh but always replying she would .
The ringing of the telephone was loud Divya and Nandini were sitting on the sofa watching a movie , "ruko mein dekhti hun" Nandini said before she got up to pick up her phone " hello" she answered after a few minutes she suddenly dropped the telephone she was holding "maa" Divya called out .
Nandini couldn't balance herself and fell down on the floor , Divya yelled and ran towards her mother who was in a state of shock "kya hua maa!" She asked about holding her mother, not a single word left Nandini's mouth and tears were dripping down her face like a rain unwilling to stop , " you--ur fathe--r" she let out sobbing holding Divya's arm life she was the only life line she had left "your father is goneee " she let out weiling, words coming out of her mouth like a broken cd player .
Divya's world felt like it was spinning her father the man who gave birth to her ,who raised her ,the only man in the world who would love her without any condition ,who would have given the world for her was dead .
Her father alongside seven other brave soldiers attacked by the Pakistani militant group , they were killed in an open fire by the militant group.
Divya slowly walked towards the body wrapped in white the same one she used to hug, the place where she found the most comfort , she gently lifted the cloth and saw her father face pale and blue with several bullet shot in his face and body she gasped and let out a shaky breath as she gently touched her father's face and stroked it , tears sliping down her face hitting the pale body laying beneath but there was no one to wipped her tears now , she looked his hand swollen and blue but it still had the bracelet she had made for father's day on his hand .
Divya lost her balance and fell down near his body sobbing as she holding the hand who taught her how to walk , the hand she used to hold when she was scared but there was no fimilarity of warmth left.
The day of the funeral was the darkest day of her life , she saw how the sindoor her mother used to apply for her father being wiped out , the bangles he used to gift her as presents being shattered , she was not wearing the colourful saree her father used to love on her but a plain white saree making her look shattered and haggered.
"Divya " a voice called her she turned around and saw a man in his mid forties walking towards her " I am ashok sharma , your father was a very good friend of mine " "it's such a shame he was a very good person, I am sorry for your loss beta "
Divya let him in the kitchen sat him down and poured him water "your fathers death was such an unfortunate event " Divya sat opposite him her head down down "what was the cause behind his death?" She asked her voice hoarse " the attack was arranged by Pakistani terrorist group HuJI there were twenty five militants and they were led by major iqbal kashmiri, they even have the one of the head of our soldier sliced and carried across the line of control to Pakistan"
Divya listened intently but did not reply instead she looked up to him her eyes blood shot and as if the rage of a goddess had consumed her ,"what's on your mind , Divya" he asked surprised but intrested in her thought.
"revenge"
(this a fic of the movie dhurandhar all the copyright belongs to aditya dhar and any resemblance to any living or dead person is purely coincident)
I am so sorry if this is cringe but this is Divya's backstory and for Divya's father I have taken an actual event organised by ilyas kashmiri who arjun Rampal character major iqbal is inspired , I am so sorry if this is disrespectful it was never my intention to disrespect anyone
germansingergirl
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yousharknotpass
