The Truth He Left Me With - Chapter 4
This is completely a work of fiction intended for a specific group of audience for entertainment purposes. In cae it isn't clear by now, don't own any of the characters, they belong to the wonderful Mr. Dhar. It contains mature themes and explicit content (comin' up pretty soon 😉) so minors DNI!!!
Sooo, here's chapter 4-The Interrogation. Do tell me what y'all think, I literally live for your comments. And in case you're wondering, I do take requests!
Uzair's POV
The room was a sensory vacuum. White walls, white light, and the rhythmic, metallic drip of a leaky faucet somewhere in the hallway. It was designed to make a man crawl inside his own head and tear the walls down from the inside.
My hands were zip-tied to the arms of the chair-heavy-duty polymer that bit into my wrists every time I breathed. My ribs, the ones Hamza had cracked in the warehouse, were a dull, throbbing choir of pain.
The door opened.
He didn't walk in like a soldier. He walked in like a man coming home after a long shift. He was carrying a tray with two cups of tea and a small plate of biscuits. The smell of the cardamom hit me before he even spoke, a cruel, aromatic ghost of our mornings in Karachi.
He set the tray on the metal table between us. He didn't look at me. He meticulously arranged the spoons, his movements precise and calm.
"Sugar?" he asked.
I spat at his boots. The copper taste of blood was still thick in my mouth. "Tu ne namak khaya tha mera, Hamza. Aur ab chai pilane aya hai?" (You ate my salt, Hamza. And now you’ve come to make me drink tea?)
He paused, a spoon midway to his cup. He finally looked up. His eyes weren't the eyes of the boy I’d mentored. They were cold, architectural, and ancient.
"Namak ka karz chuka raha hoon, Uzair," he said softly, stirring the tea. "Tum zinda ho. Yehi tumhara hissa hai." (I am paying the debt of that salt, Uzair. You are alive. That is your share.)
"Zinda?" I let out a jagged, breathless laugh that sent a spike of fire through my side. "Is pinjre mein? Tu ne mujhe becha hai, Jaskirat. Tune har us raat ko becha hai jab hum ne ek hi chhat ke neeche saans li thi." (Alive? In this cage? You sold me, Jaskirat. You sold every night we breathed under the same roof.)
He didn't flinch at the name. He picked up his cup and took a slow, deliberate sip.
"I didn't sell you," he said. "I salvaged you. There’s a difference."
He stood up and walked behind me. I felt the hair on my neck rise. I couldn't see him, but I could feel the heat of his presence, the familiar scent of his tobacco and sandalwood with an undertone of something so uniquely Hamza, I could've sobbed at the relief that he was real and not a fragment of my imagination my traitorous mind had conjured.
_____
The Flashback
The sterile white light of the cell flickered and died, replaced by the heavy, gold-dusted heat of a Karachi evening.
We were on the roof of the safehouse in Gulshan, the city below us a sprawling, chaotic beast of sirens and salt air. A power outage had plunged the block into darkness, leaving only the distant, rhythmic growl of generators. Hamza-no, he was just Hamza then-was perched on the edge of the low concrete wall, his silhouette sharp against the orange haze of the horizon.
He was meticulously cleaning the carbon buildup off his 9mm, his movements so calm they felt like a prayer.
"The Lyari boys are moving too fast, Hamza," I’d said, pacing the length of the roof. My shirt was sticking to my back, the tension in my chest tighter than the humidity. "Rehman is paranoid. If we don’t hit the West Wharf shipment tonight, he’s going to start looking for a scapegoat. The rhythm is off. I can feel it."
Hamza didn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Tum hamesha shuk-i-mizaj rehte ho, Uzair. Relax." (You’re always so suspicious, Uzair.)
"In this life, 'shuk' is what keeps you breathing," I snapped, stopping in front of him. "Don't tell me you don't feel the weight in the air."
He finally set the gun down on his folded jacket. He stood up slowly, closing the distance between us until the heat radiating from him was the only thing I could feel. He didn't reach for his weapon. Instead, he reached out and pressed his thumb firmly into the center of my forehead, right between my eyes.
"Focus on me," he whispered, his voice a low, grounding vibration. "Not the wharf. Not Rehman. Just here."
"Hamza-"
"Chup," he commanded softly, moving his hand to cup the back of my neck. His fingers were rough, calloused, but his touch was impossibly light. "If the world burns down tonight, it burns. But right now, the air is still. Your heart is beating. Look at me. Does my face look like a lie to you?"
I had looked into those eyes-the same eyes that were now staring at me in a cold interrogation room-and I had seen a home. I had leaned forward, resting my forehead against his, breathing in the scent of his tobacco and the faint, sharp tang of gun oil.
"Wada karo," I’d whispered against his skin. "Promise me that when the noise starts, you’ll be the one to pull me out."
He had tightened his grip on my neck, pulling me just a fraction closer. "Jahan tum jaoge, wahan main hoon, Uzair. Hamesha." (Wherever you go, I am there, Uzair. Always.)
I had believed him. I had anchored my soul to that promise, never realizing that he wasn't anchoring me to safety-he was just marking the spot where he would eventually bury me.
________
Present
He reached down and adjusted the zip-ties. He didn't tighten them. He shifted them so they sat on the unbruised skin of my wrists.
It was a mercy. And it felt like a hot iron pressed to my soul.
"Don't touch me," I hissed.
"You’re feverish," he noted, his voice right next to my ear. "If the infection sets in, Bansal won't let me keep you here. He’ll move you to the Black Site. You know what happens there."
I closed my eyes. "Toh hone do. Kam se kam wahan dushman ka chehra toh dushman jaisa hoga." (Then let it happen. At least there, the face of the enemy will look like an enemy.)
He leaned over, his hands resting on the back of my chair. For a second, our heads were inches apart. I could hear his heartbeat-steady, rhythmic, lying to me just like he had for five years.
"Tumhari maut se kisi ka bhala nahi hoga," he whispered. "Mera bhi nahi." (No one benefits from your death. Not even me.)
He walked back to the table and pushed the tea toward me. "Drink. It’s got enough sugar to keep you conscious for the next round."
_________
Hamza's (Jaskirat’s) POV
I walked out of the holding room, the heavy steel door thudding shut behind me with the finality of a coffin lid. I didn't stop until I reached the reinforced glass of the observation deck. I leaned my forehead against the cool surface, letting the chill dull the frantic, rhythmic heat pulsing in my temples.
My hands were shaking. I shoved them into the pockets of my tactical trousers, pinning them against my thighs before Bansal-or the cameras-could register the tremor.
On the other side of the glass, Uzair was a jagged silhouette in the sterile white light.
"Jaskirat."
The way he said it... it wasn't just a name. It was a claim. It carried the weight of every night we spent in the humid dark of Karachi, when the world was just the four walls of a safehouse and the heat of our own skin. It carried the memory of the way he’d look at me in the early hours of the morning-defenseless, stripped of the "Lion" persona, belonging only to the man he thought I was.
Hearing my real name in that voice-the one he only used when the doors were locked and the guns were put away-sent a visceral spike of electricity through me that almost brought me to my knees. It wasn't just fear. It was a memory of his mouth, of his breath against my neck, of the way he’d pull me closer as if I were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
Focus, Jassi. Focus. He’s a target. You’re an operative.
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood. I had spent years mastering the "void"-that expressionless, architectural stare. I had to be the wall he broke himself against. But it’s hard to be a wall when you can still feel the phantom pressure of his fingers tracing the scars on your ribs.
"He’s not breaking," Bansal’s voice cut through the static in my brain. The old man was standing behind me, smelling of stale coffee and clinical detachment. "He’s looking at you like he wants to tear your throat out, Jaskirat. Or something else entirely. We’re wasting time."
"He's not a target, sir," I said, my voice coming out flat, mechanical, scrubbed of every Urdu lilt. I kept my eyes fixed on the monitor, watching the way Uzair’s chest rose and fell. I knew that rhythm. I had fallen asleep to it a thousand times. "He's an asset in transition. If we break the psyche too fast, we lose the nuance. I’m... managing him."
"You’re too close," Bansal noted, leaning in. "I’ve seen this before. Deep cover blurs the lines. You start to believe the intimacy was the truth and the mission was the lie."
"It’s not intimacy," I lied, the word feeling like a hot coal in my throat. "It’s leverage. I know exactly which buttons to press because I’m the one who installed them."
I watched Uzair on the screen. He had finally reached for the cup. His long, capable fingers-the ones that had held me with a tenderness that still made my lungs ache- were trembling against the porcelain. He took a sip, and for a fraction of a second, his eyelids fluttered shut.
I knew that look. It was the look he had right before he’d lean in, his forehead resting against mine, letting the world outside vanish.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to smash the glass and tell him that I still remembered the mole on his shoulder. I wanted to tell him that every time I touched him, I wasn't Jaskirat the Agent; I was just a man who was terrified of losing the only home he’d ever found.
But I just stood there, a ghost in a tactical vest, watching the man I’d loved drink the tea I’d served him in a cage.
"Give me another forty-eight hours," I told Bansal, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. "I’ll get the sleeper cell locations. But I do it my way. No physical coercion."
"And if he doesn't talk?"
I looked at Uzair-the man who knew the sound of my real name better than my own mother did.
"He'll talk," I said, my heart feeling like it was being crushed by a hydraulic press. "Because he’s realizing that I’m the only person in this entire country who actually knows who he is. And a man will do anything to stay in the sight of the only person who truly sees him. Even if that person is his executioner."
I turned and walked away, my boots clicking rhythmically on the linoleum. Focus, Jassi. But the air in the hallway felt too thin, and my skin felt too tight, still humming with the memory of a man who was currently sitting in a chair, zip-tied and broken, because I was the one who had taught him how to trust.
_____________
Okay, I know I know. You probably hate me and my baby Jassi by now but please be patient for a while. It'll all be worth it, I promise!
Aur ek din ke liye itni kadvahat kaafi hai ya aur janna chahoge? Do tell me in the comments!
Tags: (thank you so much for being the support system I never knew I needed, my shaylaaas💓😭
@lakshana-ke-lakshan
@sunxister21
@hamzair
@screwyoubatjokesiscanon
@batata04
