#mohammad alam

[whereissanz]

Close to him is a dangerous place to be.

[whereissanz]

Act I: SLITHER, Chapter Seven:

And the Prey and the Hunter Both Forgot Who Was Who

​​"KHANANI BHAI, LIGHTER pass karna."

​["Khanani brother, pass the lighter."]

​My voice is flat over the roar of the Karachi airport arrivals terminal.

I reach into my vest pocket, pulling out a thick, premium cigar and clipping the end. Khanani steps into my space, the sharp click of his metal lighter sparking a bright amber flame against the dawn.

I lean forward, taking a long drag until the tip glows a fierce crimson.

​My dark sunglasses rest lazily on the bridge of my nose. Beside me, Amarjit stands in silence. To the passing crowds flowing out of the terminal doors, we look like nothing more than elite, high-society businessmen waiting for a corporate flight.

In reality, Dawood has sent word of a high-value international dealer landing today.

​My eyes lazily trace the sea of faces until they suddenly lock onto a tall, broad-shouldered man cutting through the crowd. He wears a heavy black leather jacket over a crisp white t-shirt, a single sling bag draped across his chest.

His hair is short, his facial hair groomed.

​His face...

​The air leaves my lungs.

​Before my trained instincts can stop me, my hand flies up, yanking the dark sunglasses straight off my eyes. The half-smoked premium cigar slips clean through my numb fingers, tumbling against the hard concrete of the asphalt below, sparks scattering across my boots.

I don't even look down.

​A wave of memories violently floods my brain, dragging me straight back to the blood-soaked dirt of Punjab. The bone-crushing hugs. The taste of revenge. The cold, damp concrete of the jail cells. The sacred, unbreakable promises whispered in the dark when we had nothing but our names.

​My heart skips a few violent beats against my ribs.

​Compose yourself.

I force my features back into a mask of unbothered stone, sliding the dark sunglasses back over my eyes to hide the sudden, dangerous fire in my gaze. I take three heavy steps forward, breaking away from the SUV to meet the group.

​There are three other men walking with him, their heads wrapped in traditional turbans. I step into their circle, extending a firm hand to shake theirs one by one as they introduce themselves in heavy, thick accents. I don't pay attention to a single syllable of their names. My internal processor is entirely focused on the leather jacket standing a foot away.

​Finally, one of the older men gestures toward the tall figure, offering a warm smile. "Aur yeh hai Gurbaaz Singh. Pyaar se inhe sab Pinda bulate hain."

​["And this is Gurbaaz Singh. Everyone affectionately calls him Pinda."]

​A slow smile pulls at the corner of my mouth, my jaw tightening until the bone aches under my beard as I reach out, my hand firmly gripping his in an ironclad handshake.

​I know. I have known that name ever since I learned the alphabets.

The heavy doors of the SUV thud shut, sealing the four of us inside the plush, air-conditioned cabin as the convoy rolls out of the airport grid.

Rizwan takes the wheel, his eyes alert in the rearview mirror, while Khanani occupies the front passenger seat. In the back, Gurbaaz-Pinda-and I sit side-by-side.

I keep my gaze locked out the tinted window, deliberately refusing to turn my head toward him. I break the quiet with a casual question. "Waise kahan se ho Pinda sahab?"

["By the way, where are you from, Master Pinda?"]

Gurbaaz casually leans back into the leather upholstery, his shoulders loose. "Pathankot jaante ho paaji?"

["Do you know Pathankot, brother?"]

I offer nothing more than a low hum in response.

Pathankot. The name echoes like a gunshot in the caverns of my memory. That soil was once my home.

Khanani clears his throat from the front seat, turning around to face the back. "Saman ki list hai?"

["Do you have the list of goods?"]

Gurbaaz nods smoothly, reaching into his leather jacket to pull out a folded piece of paper, handing it over. Khanani snaps it open, his eyes scanning the handwritten lines before a dry, incredulous chuckle escapes his lips. "Sau kilo feem, nabbe kilo khargosh, eksau biss kilo mandakini... Pura Hindustan nashedi banana hai kya?"

["One hundred kilos of opium, ninety kilos of rabbit, one hundred and twenty kilos of mandakini... Do you plan to turn the whole of India into drug addicts?"]

Gurbaaz and Khanani trade a low chuckle. I keep my face completely straight, my jaw locked behind my sunglasses.

Twenty minutes later, the convoy pulls up near Major Iqbal's territory, idling right outside Zahid's shop-the exact location Iqbal had pointed out to me on the day I had explicitly planned my meeting with Sanaz.

We all exit the vehicles, filing through the non-descript storefront and entering the back rooms. Inside, the space opens up into a massive, heavily secured warehouse clearing.

Major Iqbal is already waiting for us in the center of the room. He steps forward with a booming laugh, enveloping me in a heavy hug before pivoting to warmly welcome Gurbaaz and his turbaned companions.

The security detail and the other travelers immediately scatter around, pulling up heavy wooden chairs. Suddenly, the distinct click of footsteps echoes from the back corridor.

Iqbal lifts a hand, pointing directly behind my shoulder with a sharp, knowing smile. "Hamza inse milo, yeh hai Zahid Akhund."

["Hamza meet him, this is Zahid Akhund."]

I pivot slowly. Standing before me is a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses and a traditional prayer cap perched on his head. He looks like an ordinary, meek shopkeeper.

"Sachcha Pakistani," Iqbal adds, his tone dripping with dark pride. "Waise miya pehle Zahoor Mistry ke naam se mashhur the."

["A true Pakistani. By the way, the gentleman was previously famous by the name of Zahoor Mistry."]

The name drops into the room like a live grenade. Zahoor Mistry. The operative from the 1999 Kandahar IC-814 hijacking.

Zahid offers a greasy smile, extending his right hand toward me to seal the alliance.

I don't move a muscle.

Sensing the rejection, Zahid quickly lets out a forced, high-pitched laugh, pulling his hand back and smoothing down his vest to salvage his dignity. "Aap hi ki dukan hai Iqbal bhai," he mutters quickly, deflecting the tension as he slides into a nearby chair.

["This shop belongs entirely to you, Brother Iqbal."]

I walk over to the main table, dropping heavily into the seat directly opposite Gurbaaz. I lean back, casually lifting one leg to rest my ankle over my other knee.

"Shuru karte hain."

["Let's begin."]

A large, rectangular platter is placed directly in front of Gurbaaz. Divided into neat, metallic sections, it looks less like a smuggling evaluation and more like a high-end tasting menu, except instead of appetizers, it is filled with small plastic pouches of white substance, sterile syringes, and liquid vials.

Looking at the spread, I can already feel a violent vein throbbing at my temple. I am genuinely losing my mind.

Gurbaaz leans over the plate with an infuriatingly casual focus. He begins evaluating the inventory one by one of a seasoned culinary critic-dabbling a pinch of powder onto his lower lip, rubbing it against his gums, and sniffing a micro-dose straight through his nose to test the purity.

I sit dead still across the table.

"Hash - 90 kg..." [Hashish]

"Khargosh - 110 kg..." [Pure Cocaine]

"Chika Powder - 100 kg..." [Brown Sugar Heroin]

"Mandakini - 120 kg..." [Crystal Meth]

"Safeda - 100 kg..." [Amphetamines]

"Feem - 110 kg..." [Raw Opium]

"Cham Cham - 120 kg..." [MDMA / Ecstasy]

"Dubai Dashing - 110 kg..." [Ketamine Blend]

"Lollipop - 100 kg." [Narcotic Lozenges]

This entire display is giving me literal cancer. What the hell is this? Some kind of a five-star international buffet?

"Pure sola crore," Khanani concludes, tapping the ledger with a heavy finger, a greedy gleam in his eye. "Hindustan mein kamsekam yeh eksau bees crore ka bikega."

["Total sixteen crore. In India, this will sell for at least one hundred and twenty crore."]

One of Gurbaaz's turbaned associates leans in, murmuring in a thick Punjabi accent. "Sola mein deal karein?"

["Shall we close the deal at sixteen?"]

Gurbaaz lets out a slow, satisfied breath, setting down a tiny glass vial of liquid meth back into its designated section. He wipes his fingers on a handkerchief, "Done karo ji."

["Lock it in, sir."]

"Itne saare... drugs, border ke uss paar jayega kaise?"

["So many... drugs, how will they cross the border?"]

The question leaves my mouth.

"Dada ka business hai, paaji. Isse pehle bhi bohot kuch kiya hai humne," Gurbaaz answers with an infuriatingly relaxed shrug, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. "Aur aap toh honge na deliver karne ke liye border tak."

["It's grandfather's business, brother. We've done a lot more than this before. And you'll be there to deliver it to the border, won't you?"]

I offer a tight nod.

Major Iqbal pushes his chair back, standing up with an authoritative scrape against the concrete. "Hamza, jitna bhi saaman hoga sab aaj raat tak Zahid ki dukan se border tak pohonch jana chahiye. SP rahega tere saath. Baaki aage ka Pinda sambhal lenge."

["Hamza, whatever goods there are, it all must reach the border from Zahid's shop by tonight. The SP will be with you. Pinda will handle the rest ahead."]

Before the meeting can dissolve, Gurbaaz steps into the clearing, spreading his arms wide with a loud, booming laugh. "Oo paaji, pehli baar Pakistan aaye hain. Kuch mahol toh bana do."

["Oh brother, it's my first time in Pakistan. At least set up some sort of vibe for us."]

Iqbal lets out a low, patronizing chuckle, shaking his head as he adjusts his collar. "Arey nahi miya. Aaj mujhe Muridke jaana hai, jumme ka din hai. Lekin Hamza hai yahan, woh karayega imtezaam."

["Oh no, sir. Today I have to go to Muridke, it's Friday. But Hamza is here, he will make the arrangements."]

The absolute hypocrisy of this man.

Major Iqbal exits through the back corridor, his security trail following him out. The warehouse grows quiet. Gurbaaz slowly turns his entire frame toward me.

I lift my head slightly, "Club shab hai yahan."

["There are clubs and stuff here."]

"Oo hum koi canedda se aaye hain?" Gurbaaz fires back instantly, a genuine smirk breaking through his groomed beard.

He steps closer, his voice dropping into a register that carries the heavy, unspoken weight of our shared promises. "Humein toh jamta hai yaaron ke sath desi tashan."

["Oh, what, do you think we've come from Canada? We only enjoy a raw, local showdown with brothers."]

A slow controlled smile pulls at the corner of my mouth and I nod.

ओ मेरा दिल था अकेला तूने खेल ऐसा खेला.

(Oh, my heart was lonely, until you played such a game.)

The dhol beats vibrates straight through the expanse of my garden, accompanied by a dozen rough, deep male voices singing in aggressive unison.

My house is completely overrun with guests. This evening is testing the absolute outer limits of my psychological sanity in every possible way.

तेरी याद में जागूं रात भर.

(In your memory, I stay awake all night long.)

"Oye SP mere veere!" Jameel shouts over the music, practically throwing his entire weight forward to envelop the police chief in a crushing hug. "Bilkul pathan lag raha hai. Mera matlab tu pathan hi hai, lekin yeh shawl-"

["Hey SP, my brother! You look like a true Pathan. I mean, you are a Pathan, but this shawl-"]

SP Chaudhary Aslam doesn't move a muscle. He sits rigidly on the plush center sofa, a sharp expression fixed on his face, his massive frame completely wrapped in a thick, traditional tribal shawl over a white kurta.

He looks less like a party guest and more like a landmine waiting for someone to step on him.

A few feet away, Khanani sits back, lazily blowing dense plumes of grey smoke into the air. My eyes filter past the crowd, scanning the area near the roaring fireplace.

There stands Gurbaaz.

The Indian dealer has a heavy glass of raw whisky clamped in his hand, his posture completely loose as he stands in front of one of my decorative marble animal statues.

He is actively talking to it.

He tilts his head, mutters something confidential into the carved stone ear, and then literally wraps his free arm around the marble in a deep, emotional embrace.

I let out a heavy, exhausted sigh.

बाज़ीगर ओ बाज़ीगर तू है बड़ा जादूगर.

(O player, O gambler, you are a great magician.)

I break away from the main seating area, walking over to the custom drinks stall setup in the corner where Alam bhai is preparing mixers for the crowd.

I lean against the counter, my voice dropping into an irritated mutter. "Jabse aaya hai nashe mein hai. Kya karun iska?"

["Ever since he arrived, he's been completely wasted. What do I do with him?"]

Alam bhai doesn't look up from his ice bucket, his movements calm. "Pehle dhyaan rakh apna."

["First, take care of yourself."]

"Kiska dhyaan rakhne ko bol rahe ho Alam miya?" Jameel suddenly pops out of absolute nowhere, his face beaming as he wedges himself between us at the bar.

["Whom are you telling him to take care of, Master Alam?"]

"Mehmano ki," Alam bhai replies smoothly without blinking. The two older men trade a low, knowing chuckle. Alam looks at Jameel, tilting a bottle. "Kya banaun aapke liye?"

["The guests. What shall I make for you?"]

"Ek kaam karo, cheeku shake bana do," Jameel orders. ["Do one thing, make me a sapodilla shake."]

Alam nods, reaching for the blender. I look between the two of them, the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly standing up. "Mujhe theek nahi lag raha. Kuch bura hone wala hai."

["I don't feel right about this. Something bad is about to happen."]

Both of them simultaneously pause. They turn their heads, looking at me for one heavy second before reaching out and casually patting my back in the dismissive, patronizing comfort of senior spies who have survived a hundred regular execution orders.

Senior spies. They've seen too much blood to care about a bad feeling.

"Aap log tamasha dekhte rehna," I mutter sarcastically, pulling away from the counter.

["You guys just keep watching the entertainment."]

I stride back through the smoke and the roaring chorus of Baazigar, dropping heavily onto the sofa right next to SP Chaudhary Aslam.

ओ तेरे प्यार पे क़ुरबान मेरा दिल मेरी जान.

(Oh, sacrificed upon your love is my heart and my soul.)

SP Chaudhary Aslam lifts his glass, taking a slow sip before his eyes shift sideways to look at me. His voice drops below the roar of the dhol. "Agle mahine Uzair Dubai se wapas aa raha hai. Meri Lyari task force ki convoy lene jayegi."

["Next month Uzair is returning from Dubai. My Lyari task force convoy will go to receive him."]

"SP tu jayega?" Jameel suddenly chimes in, dropping onto the edge of the sofa beside us, "Tera sar katane ka zabaan diya hai usne!"

["SP, will you go yourself? He has given his word to sever your head!"]

Aslam's face hardens, "Karachi jail tak pahunchane se pehle woh zinda nahi bachega. Mujhe Lyari mein aur keede nahi chahiye."

["He won't survive long enough to reach Karachi jail. I don't want any more pests in Lyari."]

"Aur tu," Aslam continues, turning his heavy gaze entirely onto my profile, his finger tapping the armrest for emphasis. "Teri gang mein abhi bhi Uzair ke deewane hain. Unhe sambhal."

["And you, there are still fanatics of Uzair in your gang. Control them."]

I offer a single nod.

A soft tap lands against my right shoulder.

I pivot around.

Sanaz.

तुझे लग जाये मेरी उमर.

(May you be blessed with my lifespan.)

The music blurs into static. I find myself standing up from the sofa before my brain can even process the administrative error. What the hell is she doing here?

"Tumhari toh aaj meeting thi na?" The questions leave my mouth as I step into her space, effectively blocking her from the scanning eyes of the room. "Aane waali thi bataya kyun nahi? Main Rizwan ko bhej deta, takleef ki gunjaish nahi hoti."

["Didn't you have a meeting today? If you were planning to come, why didn't you tell me? I would have sent Rizwan, there would be no room for discomfort."]

"Meeting thi par jaldi khatam hogayi." She looks up at me, looking breathtakingly gorgeous in a rich maroon sharara. The expensive fabric hugs the slender lines of her waist and ribs, "Isilye socha aapse mil loon."

["There was a meeting, but it ended early. That's why I thought I'd come meet you."]

My eyes track upward, noticing the heavy veil draped over her head, meticulously concealing the soft, dark waves of her hair from the gaze of my guests.

"Insab ki zarurat nahi," I murmur.

Without waiting for her permission, my hand reaches up, my fingers gently grasping the fabric and smoothly sliding the veil off her head. I lean in slightly, my thumb catching a stray, silk strand of her hair and tenderly tucking it behind her ear, exposing her flushed cheeks.

बाज़ीगर मैं बाज़ीगर दिलवालों का मैं दिलबर.

(I am the gambler, the player, the lover of the pure-hearted.)

"Baloch," To SP Chaudhary Aslam's disapproval, as he looks up from the sofa at the two of us. "Aise waqt mein ayyashi kam kar aur kaam par dhyaan de."

["Baloch, cut down on the debauchery at a time like this and focus on the work."]

This isn't ayyashi. This is ishq.

I need to take my Seherzadi away from them before the dark reality of tonight's border delivery bleeds into her space.

I walk her into the secondary living room, serving her a warm plate of biryani myself. I offer her a small, quiet promise to return the second I clear the floor, before turning on my heel.

Striding back toward the open garden patch, my eyes instantly resume focus on Alam bhai, Khanani, and the security detail.

"Paaji... bathroom kitthe hai?" Gurbaaz slurs heavily, stumbling out of the smoke, his bloodshot eyes unfocused as his glass of whiskey sloshes over the rim.

["Brother... where is the bathroom?"]

I lift a hand, pointing directly toward the arched entrance of the house. "Yahan se enter karein aur right jaayein."

["Enter from here and go right."]

"Aap bhi chalo... ghum jaana hai maine itne nashe mein," he mutters with a loose, sloppy smile, swaying on his feet.

["You come too... I'm going to get lost in this state of intoxication."]

I let out a low breath, pushing away from the railing to anchor him. We walk back into the main corridor. My eyes instantly lock onto the seating area, where Sanaz and Rizwan are standing together, deep in conversation.

The second her eyes lift and find mine across the room, I raise my eyebrows slightly, offering her a microscopic, reassuring smile. Good. She is eating, she is secure, and Rizwan is guarding.

We finally step inside the cold, marble-tiled bathroom, and I swing the heavy wooden door shut, clicking the lock into place.

The second the bolt slides home, the drunken, stumbling facade of the international dealer completely drops. Gurbaaz shrugs his heavy black leather jacket off his shoulders, tossing it onto the counter.

He pulls a thick rubber cord from his pocket, wrapping it tightly around his forearm and biting down on the end to engorge the vein. He picks up a loaded syringe, driving the needle into his flesh to inject the dose without blinking, before reaching into a concealed pouch to slide a sheet of smiley-face acid tabs directly under his tongue.

He looks up, his eyes meeting mine in the glass. "Ghar bada achcha banaya hai, paaji."

["You've built a very nice home, brother."]

"Shukriya yaar," I murmur smoothly. I reach up, unbuttoning and sliding off my long jacket, draping it over the rack to reveal the deep navy blue silk of my kurta underneath.

"Kabse ho idhar?" Gurbaaz questions. ["Since when have you been here?"]

I step up to the white sink, turning on the cold tap. I scoop the water into my palms and violently splash it against my face, trying to wash away the exhausting friction of the evening. "Yehi kuch do dhai saal."

["Just some two, two-and-a-half years."]

"Ghar ki yaad nahi aayi tujhe... Jassi?"

["Didn't you miss home... Jassi?"]

The cold water freezes on my skin.

Every single survival cell in my brain flatlines. Slowly, I straighten my spine, lifting my head to stare directly into the mirror.

Because of the architectural angle of the parallel glass panels on the wall, the reflection fractures; creating a terrifying, endless infinity of our faces stretching deep into the void. Hamza Ali Mazari. The King of Lyari. Jassi. The ghost from Punjab. And Gurbaaz Singh.

A lump forms in my throat. I look at the man who knows the exact layout of my grave, and I slowly gulp down the terror.

I turn my entire frame to face him. The water drops from my face drip slowly onto the collar of my navy blue kurta, cold against my throat.

"Oo bhonk la bhen da yaara!" Gurbaaz snaps, spinning around on his heel to confront me directly. "Maa di yaad nahi aayi? Jasleen?"

["Oh speak up, you absolute fool! Didn't you miss your mother? Or Jasleen?"]

"K-kaisi hai?" I question, instantly hating the vulnerable stutter that slips past my lips.

["H-how is she?"]

"Theek hai," Gurbaaz mutters darkly, breaking the look to snatch his leather jacket off the counter. He shrugging his broad shoulders back into the leather.

["She is fine."]

I swallow down the sudden, burning lump in my throat, "Tune... Shaadi ki usse?"

["Did you... marry her?"]

"Behen hai teri, teri baat pe chal rahi hai. Nahi ki shaadi," he lets out a rough, hollow huff of a chuckle, running a hand over his groomed beard. "Kehndi main ab uske layak nahi han."

["She is your sister, she is following your word. We didn't get married. She says I am no longer worthy of her."]

Thank God.

I had told her years ago, before everything went dark: Complete your studies no matter what. Only marry him if he leaves the chemical poison trade. Looking at the twitching, hollowed-out addict standing before me with acid sheets melting under his tongue, I am intensely glad she stayed away.

"Kya kar rahi hai?"

["What is she doing?"]

"Wahi patrakari. Dhundhi hai tujhe." Gurbaaz lets out a heavy beat of silence. "Kabse hai idhar?"

["The same journalism. She's searching for you. Since when have you been here?"]

I force my voice into a rough mask. "Das. Sukhwinder ke ladkon se bach kar bhaag nikla. Hindustan mein koi jagah nahi bachi thi toh border par kar liya."

["Ten. I managed to escape from Sukhwinder's boys. There was no place left for me in India, so I crossed the border."]

Gurbaaz lets out a venomous huff, his face twisting in bitter derision. "Mera fauji Jaskirat... Saala jhootha fauji Jaskirat!"

["My soldier Jaskirat... That damn lying soldier Jaskirat!"]

I gulp down the violent insult. I take a heavy step forward, as I look at the ruined state of his body. "Pinda... Tu attawadi ban gaya hai. Yeh kya haal bana rakha hai apna...?"

["Pinda... You've become a terrorist. What a state you've turned yourself into...?"]

"Oye, yeh drama mujhe matt dikha," he sneers, his posture coiling tight.

["Hey, don't show me this drama."]

I close the distance between us, as I lift my hands, my voice dropping into a raw whisper. "Bhai... Yeh deal chhor de, main tere haath jodta hoon. Lakhon maasoon jaane jayengi."

["Brother... leave this deal, I beg of you with folded hands. Lakhs of innocent lives will be lost."]

"Haan toh jaane de! Mujhe ki fark painda?" he bellows back. ["Then let them be lost! What difference does it make to me?"]

I take a deep breath, reaching out to firmly clamp my hand around his leather-clad arm, trying to anchor him back to the boys we used to be. "Apne desh ke liye soch."

["Think about your country."]

"Keda desh?" Gurbaaz violently jerks his arm out of my grip, his chest heaving, "Jinhone humare logo ko chaurasi mein maara? Jis desh ne humein kabhi apna manya hi nahi?"

["Which country? The one that slaughtered our people in 1984? The country that never accepted us as its own?"]

I slowly close my eyes. There is no political counter-argument for the blood spilled in our history.

"Bhai, meri baat sun..." I start softly, opening my eyes to reach for him again.

["Brother, listen to me..."]

"Main sirf apni kaam ka wafadar hoon," Gurbaaz snarls, pointing a shaking, aggressive finger directly at my chest as he backs toward the door. "Aur tu konsa Hindustan ke liye saga hai saale? Jo apni maa behen ko chhor kar bhaag aaya? Gaddaar sala!"

["I am loyal only to my work. And what kind of faithful son are you to India, brother-in-law? The one who abandoned his own mother and sister and ran away? You absolute traitor!"]

I lunge forward, my fingers desperately clamping around his wrist again. "Ruk, aaram se baat karte hain..."

["Stop, let's talk calmly..."]

But the touch triggers something volatile inside him. I watch his pupils blow wide, expanding until the deep black swallows the irises for one terrifying second before he blinks, his breath hitching into a ragged, uneven wheeze.

He stares at my face as if looking at a ghost. "Oye... Tera game ki hai, Jassi? ...hindustani agent hai tu?"

["Hey... What is your game, Jassi? ...Are you an Indian agent?"]

Fuck no. Not now. Not here.

I drop my voice into a sharp whisper, my eyes darting toward the heavy wooden door. "Dheere bol..."

["Speak softly..."]

He blinks again, his eyes stretching wider and wider as the paranoia takes complete control of his nervous system. He frantically twists his body, throwing his weight toward the brass handle to tear the door open, but I dive across the tile, slamming my forearm against the wood to block the exit.

He violently recoils from me, his spine hitting the marble counter. He is trembling. He is looking at me with an absolute, primitive fear. What the hell is going on? Are the drugs finally rotting his brain? Why is he suddenly so terrified of me? Is the acid short-circuiting his vision, hallucinating my face into some kind of a distorted, blood-thirsty monster?

[Destiny, you know what I want to be. Destiny, so please don't you lie to me.

Who am I supposed to be? Should I change what's close to me?

Or is it all destiny? Destiny, don't lie to me.]

"Bhai-" I start, extending a calm, open palm to de-escalate the panic.

Before the syllable can leave my mouth, Gurbaaz snaps. He blindly reaches sideways, ripping the heavy ceramic vanity lamp off the counter and swinging it straight at my face.

I barely have a fraction of a second to react. I violently throw my arms up, bracing my forearms to absorb the heavy impact. The ceramic shatters across my skin in a brutal explosion of shards and dust.

The force of the blow staggers me, and before I can regain my footing, his broad, leather-clad frame slams into my chest, caging me violently against the wall. Moving with an unhinged strength, he grabs the collar of my navy blue kurta and lifts my weight completely off the floor, launching me forward.

CRACK.

My head collides directly with the hard, thick edge of the glass slab.

A blinding, white-hot flash of static detonates behind my eyelids. The copper tang of fresh blood instantly fills the back of my throat.

"Pinda... Pinda, ruk-" I choke out, my vision fracturing.

[I never quit going hard enough. Never quit showing everyone.

Never quit killing what I touched. Never quit when it got too much.

It got too much often. It got too much quickly. It got me, but it never got in me.]

He isn't even looking at the real me anymore. He's completely out of his mind, screaming a guttural curse as he violently drives his fist straight into my reflection in the mirror, the silvered glass spider-webbing into a thousand jagged lines.

Using the distraction, I surge forward from the floor. I tackle him around the waist, pinning his massive weight down against the tiles. I slide beneath his frame, my legs wrapping tightly around his thighs from underneath to lock his hips, while my arms clamp around his shoulders to completely destabilize his center of gravity.

"Hosh mein aa-" I roar directly into his ear. ["Come to your senses-"]

[I thought that it'd get me back when they would never quit making fun of me. Never quit saying wannabe. Never quit those comparisons.

Never quit.

How embarrassing.]

Gurbaaz convulses beneath me, his chest heaving as he fights the chokehold. Then, his right elbow drives violently into the soft flesh of my lower ribs.

The paralyzing shock of the strike forces my muscles to involuntarily give out. My breath hitches into a choked gasp, my grip instantly loosening from his shoulders as my vision darkens at the edges.

Gurbaaz violently throws my weakened arms off his frame, scrambling back to his feet through the shattered glass, his chest heaving like a cornered animal.

[Don't you remember which school suspension made my feet work early?

Don't you remember me hiding myself just so you don't hurt me?

Never quit when I should have quit.

Never quit once a bully when I could duck under fists and laugh at the joke he's pushing with.

I never quit staying versatile, but I quit taking personal.

Then I quit caring who meant it, 'cause I quit taking opinions.]

Through the hazy, blinding pain in my ribs, I force my eyes open. Gurbaaz is aggressively lunging back toward the counter, his trembling fingers snatching another loaded chemical syringe. The paranoia has completely hollowed him out.

I surge up from the tiles, throwing my weight forward to pin his arms from behind. "Ruk-"

Before I can lock the submission, his heavy combat boot stomps violently down onto my foot. He cages me against his chest, his thick forearm wrapping like an iron vise around my neck, pinning my head back as he drives the glinting, metallic needle of the syringe directly in front of my wide, horrified eyes.

[Never quit tryna be better.

Never quit, never surrender.

Never quit stacking these letters.

Never quit putting in pressure.

However, whoever, whenever, never quit being me.

Who better? You better? None better.

I never seen defeat.]

The survival instinct trained into my bones takes over. I violently drop my weight, slipping beneath the chokehold.

The abrupt release of resistance sends Gurbaaz lunging forward into empty air. His own panicked strike drives his right hand upward.

Squelch. The long, metallic needle sinks completely into his right eyeball.

Inhuman scream rips through the small bathroom space. Blood detonates everywhere-splattering across the shattered mirror, pooling onto the white marble sink, and soaking the front of his black leather jacket.

[I never quit running.

Running when the gun go off.

I never quit gunning.

Gun to my head, still none of y'all would ever see me slow my roll.

Highest on the totem pole, destiny my only goal.]

His knees buckle instantly, his equilibrium entirely destroyed as his frame begins to violently tilt backward toward the hard, porcelain edge of the bathtub.

Ignoring the agonizing scream of my ribs, I dive across the blood-slicked tiles, throwing my upper body beneath him.

Thud.

I catch him in my lap just inches before his skull could shatter against the tub, his heavy, twitching chest colliding against mine. My eyes stretch wide with primitive horror. "Pinda... Pinda...!"

A desperate, broken cry rises in my throat, and I violently slam my own blood-stained hand over my mouth to stifle it. Did my childhood friend just die in my lap? On the soil of the enemy?

Man atkeya beparwah de nal.

Us deen duni de shah de nal,

Haan, deen duni de shah de nal.]

(The heart is entangled with the Carefree One,

The heart is entangled with the Carefree One,

With the Sovereign of both faith and the world,

Yes, with the Sovereign of both faith and the world.)

My fingers tremble violently as I press two digits directly over his nose, holding my breath. A faint, hot, ragged puff of air brushes against my skin.

He's breathing. He's alive.

I scramble to my feet, dragging his dead-weight frame with me. I rapidly turn the deadbolt on the alternative inner bathroom door, locking the primary chamber from the inside to conceal the worst of the carnage.

Grab a towel, I wipe the fresh smudge of blood off my own temple, clearing the immediate traces of our physical struggle before hauling his heavy arm over my shoulder.

I violently throw the secondary bathroom door open, staggering out into the main corridor as I bear his bleeding weight.

"Rizwan!" I bellow at the top of my lungs, "Gaadi start kar! Yeh insaan marna nahi chahiye!"

["Rizwan! Start the car! This man must not die!"]

Out of the corner of my tracking vision, I see Alam bhai's sharp eyes instantly lock onto the blood soaking my kurta. I let my fingers slip-purposefully dropping my master key ring onto the grass.

An absolute chorus of gasps, panicked shouts, and Punjabi curses erupts from Gurbaaz's men and Khanani as they surge out of their seats. I don't give them a single second to process.

Jameel, Khanani, and the turbaned associates sprint alongside me as we carry Pinda's thrashing body out the front doors, piling into the back of the idling SUV. Rizwan slams his foot onto the accelerator.

As the car tears out of the driveway gates, I cast one final look back through the rear window.

Through the glass, I watch Alam bhai calmly lean down, retrieving the fallen keys, walking directly toward the bathroom door. And right beside him, standing completely frozen under the golden glow of the chandelier, is Sanaz.

Within fifteen minutes the SUV slams to a halt right under the fluorescent lights of the private hospital. Within seconds, the heavy rear doors are ripped open. Jameel's phone calls on the drive over have already mobilized a team of urgent-care medical staff is already waiting with a steel stretcher.

"Eye trauma, possibly remove ya replace karna padega!" a young doctor barks aggressively to the nurses, his fingers rapidly checking Pinda's erratic pulse as they violently wheel the bed through the automated double doors of the Emergency Room.

[Eye trauma, possibly requiring removal or replacement!]

The doors swing shut, the frosted glass completely blocking our view.

I drop heavily onto a cold, metallic waiting chair in the corridor, the silence of the hospital settling over my chest like a sheet of lead. I lock my hands over the back of my head, my eyes staring directly at the polished linoleum floor.

"Hamza ji, kaise hogaya ye sab?"

["Master Hamza, how did all this happen?"]

Amarjit's voice.

I slowly look up from my hands.

"Bathroom mein gaya tha," I start, "Pinda sahab pehle se hi nashe ki halat mein the, theek se khade bhi nahi ho paa rahe the. Achanak se woh zameen pe gir gaye, aur..."

["He had gone to the bathroom. Master Pinda was already in a severe state of intoxication, he wasn't even able to stand properly. Suddenly he collapsed to the floor, and..."]

"...aur counter par rakhi hui ek glass syrenge unki aankh mein seedhe dhas gayi." I finish, wiping a stray drop of cold sweat from my jawline. "Main unhe bachaane ke liye aage badha, lekin tab tak bohot der ho chuki thi."

["...and a glass syringe kept on the counter pierced straight into his eye. I lunged forward to save him, but by then it was too late."]

Amarjit doesn't break eye contact. His hand leaves his pocket, fingers slowly tracing the edge of his turban.

"Nashe mein toh woh hamesha rehte hain, Hamza bhai," Amarjit says quietly, "Par aisi thokar unhe pehle kabhi nahi lagi."

["He is always intoxicated, Brother Hamza. But he has never stumbled like this before."]

The young doctor steps out, pulling off his latex gloves with a sharp snap. His coat is stained with a sickening streak of crimson.

"Patient is stable for now," the doctor announces, looking between me and Amarjit. "But the damage to the right eyeball is absolute. The metallic needle ruptured the sclera and completely destroyed the internal structure. We have to perform an immediate surgery to remove the ruptured eye and prevent infection from spreading to the brain."

Khanani steps up, cursing under his breath. "Operation mein kitna waqt lagega?"

["How long will the operation take?"]

"Kam se kam do ghante," the doctor replies, shifting his clipboard. "Aap log form bhar dijiye."

["At least two hours. Please fill out the form."

Khanani snatches the clipboard, moving to a nearby desk to rapidly scribble out the syndicate's local clearance details. Across the hallway, the four turbaned men from Gurbaaz's inner circle pull into a tight, frantic huddle, whispering in rapid, hushed tones.

I push myself up from the metal chair, I check the heavy silver watch on my wrist. "Barah bajne waale hain, cartel ki delivery karayen ya nahi?"

["It's almost twelve o'clock, shall we carry out the cartel's delivery or not?"]

The men break their huddle, trading a series of uncertain glances. "Pinda ji ke bagair kuch nahi keh sakte."

["We can't say anything without Master Pinda."]

I offer a tight nod. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone and slide the screen open.

"SP sahab," I start, letting out a controlled, heavy sigh against the receiver. "Aaj delivery nahi hogi."

["SP sir, the delivery won't happen today."]

Then, SP Chaudhary Aslam's voice cuts through the speaker, "Tu kisi ka saga nahi hai." ["You are not loyal to anyone."]

"Hospital se aakar call karta hoon," I murmur flatly. ["I'll call you after returning from the hospital."]

"Zaroorat nahi," Aslam fires back instantly. "Deal pakki hogi tab hi call karna."

["No need. Call me only when the deal is finalized."]

The line goes completely dead.

"Yeh deal nahi hui toh Bade Sahab naraz ho jayenge," Amarjit says. ["If this deal doesn't happen, the Big Boss will be furious."]

I lean my spine back against the cold wall. "...koi aur bhi toh kar sakta hai," I mutter quietly, my eyes flicking between him and Khanani. "Jo shayad isse zyada paise de."

["...someone else could do it too. Someone who might pay more than this."]

Amarjit and Khanani trade a quick look across the hallway. A heavy beat of silence passes before Khanani clears his throat, adjusting his jacket. "Shayad agli baar se. Filhal inpe dhyaan dete hain."

["Perhaps from next time. For now, let's focus on them."]

The next two hours dissolve into an agonizing test of physical and mental endurance. Finally, the heavy double doors of the recovery wing swing open, and a tired-looking doctor emerges, pulling off his mask.

"Unhen hosh aagaya hai. Aap ab mil sakte hain."

["He has regained consciousness. You can meet him now."]

Amarjit and the four Punjabi associates immediately push past us, donning sterile masks and latex gloves before entering the intensive recovery cubicle. They stay inside for a few hushed minutes before filing back out into the hall, their faces unreadable.

Then, it's our turn. Jameel, Khanani, and I step through the threshold, the rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor instantly filling my ears.

Gurbaaz is propped up against the stiff hospital pillows. The sight is a brutal reality check. A massive thick white surgical bandage is wrapped completely around the right side of his skull, entirely blanking out the eye that held our shared childhood memories. His left eye is open, dull and bloodshot, staring fixedly at the blank beige wall.

Khanani steps up to the edge of the guardrail, leaning in with a tense frown. "Pinda, theek ho?"

["Pinda, are you okay?"]

Gurbaaz doesn't blink. Slowly, mechanically, his left eye rolls sideways, locking onto Khanani's face. Of course he isn't fine.

"Deal ke baare mein kya socha?" Khanani presses immediately. ["What have you thought about the deal?"]

"Mydydicpivob."

Khanani freezes, his eyebrows knitting together confusion as he leans closer to the bed. "Eh?"

"Anaesthesia aur pain killers diya gaya hai," Jameel mutters quickly from behind his mask. He grips Khanani's elbow, guiding him back toward the threshold. "Isilye se theek se bol nahi pa raha. Hum thodi der baad aate hain."

["Anesthesia and painkillers have been administered. That's why he isn't able to speak properly. We'll come back after a little while."]

Khanani offers a frustrated grunt but complies, allowing Jameel to drag him out into the corridor. The heavy wooden door swings shut.

On the bed, Gurbaaz's chest heaves beneath the thin hospital blanket. "Jas..."

My entire nervous system violently locks up, I surge forward. I lean my upper body heavily over the steel safety guardrail.

"Pinda, yeh Punjab nahi hai," I whisper, my voice slicing right through the hum of the oxygen machine. "Muh band rakh. Zara bhi kuch idhar udhar hua toh yeh log hum dono ki bund phad denge."

["Pinda, this is not Punjab. Keep your mouth shut. If even a single thing goes out of line here, these people will tear both of us apart."]

"Deal... Nahi chhodunga."

The words leave his mouth.

I grit my teeth. "Haalat dekh apni. Aankhein chali gayi par akal nahi aayi."

["Look at your condition. You've lost your eye, but you still haven't gained any sense."]

I cast a protective glance over my shoulder, ensuring the frosted glass pane of the heavy recovery room door remains completely undisturbed before turning back to his frame.

I drop my voice into a cold whisper. "Matt chhor. Lekin abhi nahi. SP ne already mana kar diya hai. Uske security ke bagair main border tak pohonch nahi sakta cartel ke saath."

["Don't drop it. But not right now. The SP has already refused. Without his security, I cannot reach the border with the cartel."]

I lean even closer over the steel guardrail, "Tu ek kaam kar, hindustan waapis ja," I command, my eyes drilling into his dilated pupil. "Wahan achche se apna ilaaj karwa. Ek mahine baad wapas aa."

["You do one thing, go back to India. Get yourself treated properly there. Come back after a month."]

A hollow chuckle slips past his cracked lips, "Gaddar sala..." he rasps out. "Hindustan bhej kar mujhe pakadwa dega."

["You absolute traitor... You'll send me back to India just to get me arrested."]

Man.

"Theek hai fir kahin bhi jaa, lekin apna dhyaan rakh," I murmur softly..["Fine then, go anywhere you want, but take care of yourself."]

I reach down, my large hand firmly enclosing his trembling wrist. I squeeze it once, hard enough to anchor him through the haze of the anesthesia, anchoring the boy who used to run through the fields of Punjab beside me.

"Bhai hai tu mera."

["You are my brother."]

I lean back immediately, my posture smoothing out the exact millisecond the heavy wooden door jiggles and the others file back into the recovery room.

"Deal, paaji?" Amarjit questions.

"Jaari aa. Par kuch din baad," Gurbaaz rasps from the pillows.

["It's on. But after a few days."]

We all quietly walk back outside into the sterile corridor, leaving the broken international dealer to slide back into his rest.

The second the door clicks shut, I let out a long, heavy sigh, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my kurta. Jameel steps into the center of our tight circle, his eyes scanning the weary faces of the syndicate. "Aap log wapas jaa rahe hain?"

["Are you guys heading back?"]

The Punjabi associates and Khanani all offer exhausted nods. Rizwan immediately steps up, guiding them toward the exit to drop them back to their respective safehouses across the city.

The second the hallway clears, Jameel and I pivot, locking ourselves inside the nearest public hospital bathroom. The lock clicks home.

"Alam miyan ne message kiya," Jameel speaks up immediately, "Unhone tere ghar ka bathroom lock kar diya hai."

["Master Alam messaged. He has locked the bathroom at your house."]

I offer a nod of validation. I pull a cigarette from my pack, flicking the lighter open, and inhale a dense, calming stream of grey smoke to numb the screaming ache. "Aap inke saath rahiye deal tak. Pinda mujhpar bharosa nahi karega. Pata lagaiye kahan chhup raha hai aur R&AW ko intel bhejiye."

["You stay with them until the deal. Pinda won't trust me. Find out where he is hiding and send the intel to R&AW."]

Jameel steps closer, extending a hand to pat my shoulder-and a sharp, involuntary wince rips through my jaw.

"Bohot himmat dikha di aaj, bachche," Jameel murmurs softly, his eyes softening."Chal, ab aaraam kar. Paas hi mein koi hospital ya fir Sanaz ko dikha."

["You showed a lot of courage today, child. Come on, now rest. Get checked at a nearby hospital or show it to Sanaz."]

He reaches up, his rough fingers carefully parting the hair near my temple to assess the damage from the glass slab. I let out a low, irritated groan. There is a thick, sticky blood clot hardening right against the scalp.

"Sanaz ko kya bolunga?" I huff out sarcastically, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the exhaust fan. "Raaste mein mera bhi accident ho gaya?"

["What will I tell Sanaz? That I also met with an accident on the way?"]

Jameel lets out a dry, his shoulders shifting under his suit. "Bol dena. Shayad maan bhi le."

["Tell her that. Maybe she'll even believe it."]

I drop the spent cigarette into the toilet bowl, watching the glowing ember die with a small hiss before hitting the flush. I look Jameel dead in the eyes.

"Jameel mamu. Yeh cartel India nahi pohonchna chahiye."

["Uncle Jameel. This cartel must not reach India."]

Jameel gives a heavy nod.

Rizwan slides back into the driver's seat after a grueling thirty minutes. I don't waste a second. My hand darts forward, snapping open the dashboard compartment to pull out a few loose tissues and medical bandages-the defective sample products from Sanaz's import grid that I usually keep stored in the cabin for emergencies.

An involuntary, guttural groan rips past my teeth as I press a dry tissue directly against my temple, aggressively wiping away the remaining smear of dark, half-dried blood.

I can't walk back into my house wearing a visible surgical bandage; it would trigger an immediate forensic interrogation from everyone in the parlor. But I also can't leave an open, raw scalp wound hidden under my hair to fester with a hospital-grade infection.

I reach down, grabbing a cold, sweating can of beer from the floorboard slab and pressing the frigid aluminum directly against the swelling to numb the tissue.

Goddamn. The icy shock makes my jaw lock. Fortunately, the laceration from the glass slab is small, and the thick, copper-scented blood has already clotted enough to seal the breach. I drop the bloody tissues onto the floor, using my trembling fingers to violently comb through the thick, dark waves of my hair, forcing the strands into a side part to drape over the bruised temple, completely burying the wound out of sight.

"Bhai... Theek ho?" Rizwan mutters under his breath, his hand reaching across the console to firmly grip my arm, his eyes heavy with a rare, naked anxiety.

I offer nothing but defensive grunt, pushing his hand off my arm with a rough shrug. "Zinda hoon saale."

["I'm alive, you idiot."]

I swear under my breath, my fingers catching the hem of my navy blue silk kurta and hooking it upward to inspect my midriff in the shadows. Thankfully, the skin isn't broken, there's no puncture wound from whatever blunt metal tool Gurbaaz drove into my side, but the deep, localized ache warns me that the muscle tissue is severely bruised.

"Tujhse hamdardi dikhani bekar hai," Rizwan mutters. ["Showing sympathy to you is completely useless."]

But even through the dry sarcasm, his hand reaches back into the compartment, retrieving a fresh pack of antiseptic swabs and tossing them directly onto my lap.

I don't thank him. I just tear a swab open with my teeth, the sharp, medicinal tang of the alcohol instantly filling the closed air of the cabin.

The heavy tires of the SUV crunch quietly over the my driveway.

The festive thrum of the dhol has finally died down, replaced by the low, murmuring static of the remaining party guests.

I slide my phone into my pocket and look sideways at the driver's seat. "Rizwan, jitne bhi log bache hain sabko nikaal."

["Rizwan, clear out whoever is left."]

He doesn't need further instruction. He knows exactly how to softly, deceptively usher the cartel muscle and local syndicates toward the gates without making it look like a forced evacuation. Glancing through the tinted window, I can see SP Chaudhary Aslam and Omar still lounging on the veranda, aggressively nursed by whatever liquor is left in the bottles.

Most of the crowd has dissolved into the night. Near the outdoor bar, Alam bhai is calmly rinsing out the blender, methodically wiping down the counter. I reach down, smoothly adjusting the weight of the iron firearm hidden beneath the deep blue folds of my silk kurta, ensuring the barrel rests flat against my skin before stepping out of the vehicle.

I stride over to the bar counter, my boots making no sounds. "Sab theek hai?"

["Is everything fine?"]

Alam bhai offers a single nod. Without a single word, his hand glides across the surface under the cover of a dish towel, smoothly transferring the master bathroom keys directly into my palm.

"Oye Baloch! Deal final hui?" SP Aslam's voice suddenly booms across the dark grass. ["Hey Baloch! Is the deal finalized?"]

I offer him a nod, my expression entirely deadpan as I deliver the script. "Aapko chinta karne ki zarurat nahi. Jameel sahab saari details bhej denge."

["You don't need to worry. Master Jameel will send all the details."]

Satisfied with the administrative buffer, the SP turns back to his drink. I turn on my heel and step through the grand arched entrance of my house.

The transition is staggering. The sprawling living rooms are almost entirely deserted now, the chaotic energy of Baazigar completely replaced by the rhythmic, hollow scraping of brooms as the domestic staff sweep away the broken glass and spilled rum. In the distant kitchen corridor, the faint clinking of dishes echoes through the quiet.

A sudden, sharp hollow sensation hits the center of my stomach. Damn. I'm hungry. I should have just sat down in the secondary room, pulled up a chair beside her, and eaten that plate of warm biryani when she had asked me to.

"Sanaz Sahiba wapas chali gayin?" I question the domestic worker. ["Did Miss Sanaz go back?"]

"Nahi Hamza sahab, woh kuch der pehle hi upar waale floor mein gayi thi," the boy replies quietly, gesturing toward the grand staircase with his broom.

["No, Master Hamza, she went to the upper floor just a little while ago."]

I offer a silent nod, turning on my heel to climb the steps. The dark, cavernous corridors of the upper floor welcome me. As I approach the master wing, my eyes instantly narrow. The heavy wooden door to my bedroom is slightly ajar, a sharp blade of warm light cutting across the dark hallway floor.

I enter without a sound, my boots gliding like oil over the rug. My gaze filters straight through the bedroom, locking onto the walk-in closet. There, illuminated under the harsh vanity bulb, is a rich maroon figure frantically scrambling on her knees across the floorboard grid.

I reach backward, grabbing the edge of the bedroom door and swinging it shut, deliberately forcing the heavy brass bolt to click into place with a loud, ringing echo that shatters the silence of the suite.

Sanaz snaps upright, spinning around on the floor. Her expression instantly locks into an unreadable mask, a hitch in her breathing.

She is cornered.

My eyes drop past her frame, scanning the floorboards behind her. The sight makes the blood clot at my temple throb violently. There is an unmistakable smear of fresh crimson on the wood, the sharp glint of tiny shattered glass shards, and a messily tucked bundle of files shoved back into a displaced cardboard carton.

The locked storage.

She didn't just wander in here.

She must have breached the hidden compartment, the leather-bound diary where I record the networks, the shipments, and the names of every single target marked for execution.

She takes a cautious step backward, but the rigid wall of the closet traps her frame. I stride into her immediate space.

"Hamza..." she whispers, a defensive warning.

"Kya kar rahi thi yahan?" I question ["What were you doing here?"]

Shaken by the coldness in my tone, she shifts her weight to retreat further, but the heel of her shoe catches aggressively on the heavy, embroidered hem of her maroon sharara.

Her balance breaks.

Before she can collide with the shelf, my large hand darts forward, my fingers wrapping around the curve of her waist, yanking her body forward until her chest crashes directly against mine.

I lean down into her space, my breath hot against her skin, "Kisliye aayi thi?"

["What did you come here for?"]

"Tumhe pata hai kya kar rahi thi," she fires back, refusing to break under the pressure as she lifts her chin to look me dead in the eye, "Main sab jaanti hoon. Lekin, meri baat suno-"

I don't let her finish. My right hand reaches beneath my navy blue kurta. I pull the heavy iron firearm from my waistband as I press the cold, unyielding mouth of the barrel directly against her temple.

"Mujhe maarne se tumhara koi fayeda nahi hoga," she squeezes out. ["Killing me will not bring you any benefit."]

"Mohabbat karne waale aise ghar mein nahi ghuste, kon ho tum?" I murmur.

["Those who love do not break into houses like this. Who are you?"]

"Pehle bandhook niche karo," she commands softly. ["First, put the gun down."]

"Tum sab jaanti ho na? Toh itna bhi jaanti hogi ki mere aur mere maqsad ke beech koi nahi aata."

["You know everything, right? Then you must also know that no one comes between me and my purpose."]

The barrel is heavy against her temple. Jaskirat is holding a gun to the only woman who made him remember what a home felt like.

Shoot.

Click.

The barrel is empty. It was never meant to take her life; it was a cold intimidation designed to shatter a trespasser's resolve and force a confession.

For a single microsecond, I feel the frantic hammer of her heartbeat racing violently against my chest through the silk of my kurta. But her panic doesn't turn into surrender.

Before my brain can register the shift in her stance, her right hand dives smoothly beneath the heavy, pleated layers of her maroon sharara. Moving impossibly fast, she slips a heavy steel gun into the clearing.

Clack. The cold mouth of her barrel drives violently upward, pinning itself directly against the soft flesh under my jawline.

"Picche hato," she commands, her voice dangerously low. She snaps the cylinder open for a fraction of a second, exposing the gleaming brass heads of full, live ammunition catching the light. "Yeh waali khaali nahi hai."

["Step back. This one isn't empty."]

But I don't retreat. Instead, a dark possessiveness flares in my blood, and my left hand tightens its ironclad grip around her waist. The muzzle of her gun digs deeper into my neck.

How? How does a sophisticated, sheltered doctor from the elite sectors of Clifton possess a concealed, licensed firearm? More importantly, how does she know how to clear her draw and establish a lethal point-of-contact in under a second?

Who the hell are you, Sanaz?

Or worse... is my Seherzadi an enemy spy deployed by the state to systematically hunt me down?

Thud. I open my fingers, letting my empty firearm clatter uselessly against the floor. I don't break eye contact.

"Hindustani Agent ho tum?" she questions. ["Are you an Indian Agent?"]

I stay completely still, the copper tang of old blood heavy in the back of my throat.

I offer a deliberate nod. "Haan."

["Yes."]

Sanaz's breath hitches violently, her single left hand wavering as her eyes widen.

I don't give her a single second to recover. Leveraging the exact moment her focus fractures, my right hand streaks forward like a striking viper.

I clamp my fingers around her wrist, twisting the bone with a brutal, clinical force to break her grip. She lets out a sharp screech as the loaded firearm is violently ripped from her palm.

In the chaotic struggle, the heavy movement catches the delicate, crimson glass bangles lining her wrists, they snap instantly, splintering into a dozen sharp, glinting fragments that rain down onto the floorboards.

I hurl her weapon out of the closet, watching it land heavily on the center of my unmade bed, before pivoting my weight. I seize both of her arms, wrenching them firmly behind her back.

Crunch.

My heavy leather combat boots step forward, ruthlessly crushing the fallen glass shards of her broken bangles into fine, glittering dust against the wood.

I violently slam her front frame flat against the rigid closet wall, caging her hips with my own, my chest heaving violently against her shoulder.

"Hamza-!" she gasps out, her cheek pressed hard against the wood, her muscles straining against my ironclad hold.

"Sanaz... Mere ghar mein ghus ke-" I breathe heavily into the hollow of her neck. "Kiski bheji hui ho tum? ISI? Dawood?"

["Sanaz... Breaking into my house-who sent you? ISI? Dawood?"]

She violently shifts her weight, trying to drive the heel of her shoe directly down onto the leather of my boots to break my stance, but my reflexes are entirely clinical.

I hook my ankle behind hers and kick her shoes completely off her feet.

"Jaahil matt bano, Hamza," she warns, her voice sharp, her fingernails digging frantically into her palms as I maintain the joint lock. "Mera haath chhoro, dukh raha hai."

["Don't be a savage, Hamza. Let go of my hands, it hurts."]

I don't loosen my grip by a single millimeter.

"Hamza... Main bhi R&AW ki asset hoon, tumhari tarah."

["Hamza... I am also a R&AW asset, just like you."]

The universe violently flatlines.

What?

It's an ambush. It has to be. The ISI has finally mapped my coordinates, or Dawood's inner circle has engineered a sick, psychological loyalty test to see if Hamza Ali Mazari will flinch at the mention of the Indian flag.

I drive my forearm harder into her shoulder blades. "Jhooth. Sach bolo, Seherzadi."

["Lie. Tell the truth, Seherzadi."]

"Sach bol rahi hoon," she replies; her frame finally stills. "Agar aaj tumne mujhe maar diya toh bohot bada gunaah ho jayega."

["I am telling the truth. If you kill me today, it will be a monstrous sin."]

"Details. Now," I bark.

"Cover Sanaz Siddiqui. Primary physician. Karachi, 2007. Field Handler Khalid Kashmiri. Desk handler Meera Singhaniya."

The words leave her lips.

My fingers instantly freeze against her raw wrists. I step back.

She slowly turns around to face me in the dim vanity light. She lifts her hands, gently squeezing the bruised skin of her arms to soften the throbbing ache. "Itna kaafi hai?" she whispers, her voice cracking slightly at the edges.

["Is this much enough?"]

I look at her face, and for the first time since I entered this room, my armor completely fails me.

There is a faint, glittering glassiness in her dark eyes, actual, unshed tears of pain and shock reflecting the overhead bulb.

I did this to her. I forced my Seherzadi against a wall, shattered her glass bangles under my boots, and treated her like a target.

I gulp down the bitter knot in my throat.

So... she is R&AW.

She is a verified asset operating under Meera Singhaniya, the direct, high-level administrative co-operative of Sushant Bansal, my own desk handler back in New Delhi. The internal wiring is undeniable.

Khalid Kashmiri... I haven't heard the name on my local channel, but he must be a deep-cover phantom operating within the Karachi civilian grid, exactly the way Jameel Jamali acts as mine.

2007. That was her entry marker. That's a bit late for being deployed into the same provincial unit operation as mine... or is it?

"Operation?" I question.

Sanaz lifts her chin, her voice ringing out with an absolute finality.

"DHURANDHAR."

Masterlist.

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@rishwatkhor @afortoru @torumii @bittermiseryy @legendmoonstone @bway43 @dhoodhsoda @precioussophia @astrellapyxis @anxiousbeeing @youngloreninja @gulaabjamun08 @noor-archive @heartsforyouworld @harrystyleskiwi9 @angelicyuna @willowsgoldenhour @evemystjade @st4rmiist @pn28 @laal-pari @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @precioussophia @pleasetagmejaaneman @sugarvibez @roses-and-iron @avasif @carmenred28 @velvetdakait @khoonaurkhanjar @dumdumdaisy @cloudyparadoxqueen @batata04 @debsreads21 @vaari-javaan ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ