Wrong number, right person
Disclaimer: This is a purely fictional work inspired by the electrifying performances of the actors on screen. It has absolutely nothing to do with real-life terrorists or such individuals.
Requested by @tanipartner I hope you enjoy reading this...
Plot : Before he was the dreaded Sher-e-Baloch, Rehman was just a kuchupuchu amateur who couldn’t kidnap a toddler if they were duct-taped to his arm. Once he was offered his first big job , snagging a minister’s daughter for political clout he botched the coordinates and accidentally abducted a human lightning bolt. Instead of a bargaining chip, he ended up kidnapping Ulfat who was 50% fire, 50% attitude, and 100% the person who would eventually run his life. It's a one shot as I don't have any plans to write it further...
The rain in the city didn't fall; it attacked. Rehman stood in the shadows of the apartment complex, his cheap leather jacket soaking through. He checked the crumpled note in his pocket for the tenth time.
Apartment 4 - Green door. Tall. Extremely white and beautiful. High heels.
He was a fixer for the Gulzar gang, but mostly he just fixed flat tires and moved heavy crates. This was his shot. If he brought in the Minister’s daughter, he wouldn’t be sleeping on a cot in the back of a warehouse anymore.
A figure emerged from the lobby. Tall, wrapped in a trench coat, balancing a stack of books and an umbrella. High heels clicked rhythmically against the pavement , her face glowing like tubelight.
"Target spotted," Rehman whispered into his dead radio. He couldn't afford the batteries, but he liked the drama of it.
He moved. It wasn't elegant. He tripped slightly over a curb, recovered with a grunt, and threw the burlap sack over the figure's head just as she reached for her car door.
"Don't make a sound!" he barked, his voice cracking slightly.
The figure didn't scream. Instead, a muffled, incredibly annoyed voice came from inside the sack.
"Are you joking? Is this a prank? Because if it is, the dry cleaning bill for this coat is going to be your inheritance."
Rehman froze. He’d expected sobbing, he’d expected "Please don't hurt me!" He hadn't expected a lecture on laundry. He hoisted her over his shoulder , she was surprisingly light, but she started kicking with a precision that suggested she knew exactly where a man’s kidneys were.
"Ow! Stop that! I’m kidnapping you for political leverage!"
"You’re kidnapping me for a lawsuit, you bumbling giant! Put me down!”
The drive to the basement was less of a high-stakes kidnapping and more of a verbal execution.
Rehman’s van, a rattling 2008 model with a persistent check engine light and a lingering scent of damp turmeric, was not designed for a high-class passenger. Especially not one stuffed into a burlap sack in the back.
"Are we traveling in a motorized trash can, or did you specifically seek out a vehicle that has survived a literal war zone?" Ulfat’s voice muffled through the fabric, but the sharp edge of it cut through the engine’s roar.
"Quiet! I’m a professional!" Rehman yelled over his shoulder, swerving to avoid a pothole.
"Professional? The only thing you’re professional at is giving me a concussion," she snapped as her head thudded against the metal interior. "I swear, if this sack isn't organic cotton, I’m suing you for criminal negligence of my skin barrier. You absolute ghonchu (idiot)! Is this how you treat a lady? Even a common street thief has better suspension than this."
Rehman gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. "It’s a kidnapping! It’s supposed to be uncomfortable!"
"There is a difference between 'hostage-level discomfort' and 'this-is-unhygienic-and-offensive-to-my-ancestors' discomfort," she shouted back. "I can smell the old samosas in here, you bhondu . It’s an insult to the culinary arts. May your next meal be as bland as your personality."
"Hey! My personality is fine!"
"Your personality is a beige wall in a dark room. You’re a ullu ka patha (son of an owl) with the navigational skills of a blind pigeon. Did we just hit a cat? Tell me we didn't hit a cat, or I will haunt your bloodline."
"It was a speed bump!" Rehman roared, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the van's fading upholstery.
By the time they reached the basement, Rehman was sweating more than his hostage. He hauled her out of the van, trying to maintain some semblance of tough guy energy.
"Down the stairs. Watch your step," he muttered, trying to be helpful but sounding like he was choking on his own pride.
"Oh, now he’s a gentleman," Ulfat scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "After tossing me around like a sack of low-grade basmati. Watch my step? My step would be fine if I weren't wearing a potato bag, you akalkot (brainless) giant."
He shoved her gently into the chair. When he finally pulled the sack off, he expected her to be blinking back tears. Instead, she was staring at his shoes.
"Flip-flops? You kidnapped me in rubber flip-flops?" She looked up, her eyes wide with genuine horror. "Is this the state of the underworld today? No wonder the economy is failing. You’re a disgrace to the criminal fraternity."
Rehman looked down at his blue slippers, then back at her. "They’re comfortable! And I was in a hurry!"
"You’re a disaster," she sighed, leaning back and surveying the room. "The dust in here is older than my grandmother. Are you planning to ransom me, or are you hoping I’ll die of an asthma attack first? Because let me tell you, if I go, I’m taking your reputation with me."
Rehman tried to puff out his chest. "Listen, lady. I have a gun." He patted his waistband.
"Do you? Or is it just a very heavy stapler you’re using to compensate for your lack of planning?" She didn't even flinch. She just pointed to a corner. "There is a spider over there that looks more organized than you. Move that crate. I need a footrest."
"I... I’m not moving a crate for you."
“Mister flip-flop ," she said, her tone suddenly dropping into a low, velvet-smooth command that made his heart do a strange, uncoordinated flip. "My legs are cramping. If I get a blood clot, I can’t walk to the phone to tell your boss what a 'good job' you did. Move. The. Crate."
He grumbled, cursed under his breath in three different dialects, and moved the crate.
As he set it down, he caught the scent of her perfume, something like jasmine and expensive spite, cutting through the basement's musk. He looked up and found her watching him, a small, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She wasn't just bossing him around, she was testing him. And he was failing miserably by being... helpful.
"Tinde ka tukda ," she whispered, her eyes dancing with a mix of amusement and something else , something that made Rehman feel like he was the one trapped in a sack.
"Don't call me that," he muttered, his voice unusually husky.
"Then do something worth respecting," she challenged, leaning her head back against the cold wall. "Start with the tea. Cardamom. Two sugars. And if it's lukewarm, may your favorite cricket team lose every match for a decade."
Rehman turned to the small camping stove in the corner, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was supposed to be the predator here, but as he reached for the tea kettle, he had a sinking feeling he’d just been caught in a trap he didn't want to leave.
Ulfat walked over to the single table in the room. She swiped a finger across the surface and held it up, showing him a thick layer of grey dust.
"If I’m going to be 'held' here, I refuse to catch a lung infection. Where are the cleaning supplies?"
"I don't have—"
"Find them. And while you're at it, this light is giving me a migraine. It’s flickering at a frequency that is frankly illegal." She sat back down, crossing her legs with a sharp snap. "Well? Don't just stand there looking like a confused bear. Move."
Rehman found himself halfway to the stairs before he stopped. "Wait! I’m the boss here! I have the... I have the power!"
Ulfat didn't even look at him. She was already picking up one of the books she’d dropped . "You have a flickering lightbulb and a kidnapping charge for the wrong person. I have the patience of a saint, but it’s wearing thin. Get the broom, Pakau praani . And if you’re lucky, I won't tell your boss you’re a complete failure."
Rehman grumbled, his ears burning a bright red. He went upstairs. He found a broom. He found a new lightbulb.
As he worked, he caught himself stealing glances at her. She was reading calmly, the harsh light softening against the curve of her cheek. She looked... focused. Elegant. Totally out of place in his gritty world.
When he finished sweeping, he accidentally knocked over his water bottle. Without thinking, Ulfat reached out, caught it before it hit the floor, and handed it back to him without looking up from her book.
Their fingers brushed.
Rehman felt a jolt, not like a punch, but like a low-voltage wire hitting his chest. He pulled his hand back quickly, his heart hammering against his ribs for a reason that had nothing to do with the police.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"Your pulse is racing," Ulfat remarked, finally looking up. Her gaze was softer now, curious. "Are you that afraid of me, Ghonchu?"
"I'm not afraid of anything," he lied, his voice barely a whisper.
"Liar," she teased, a small, genuine smirk playing on her lips. "Now, go get me some tea. And if it's not hot, I'm extending my 'ransom' by another ten thousand.”
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