And Thou Wilt Know Me by the Silence That Follows the Gun
“AAJ JHOOTH ka parda hatega.”
["Today, the veil of lies will be lifted."]
I slam my flat sandal against the brake. The Mercedes glides to a seamless halt on the pristine driveway; a quiet world away from the bruised asphalt of Lyari.
I remember commuting through these gridlines for work once, but the elite side of town always remained a distant silhouette. Or perhaps, I simply never had a reason to cross over until tonight.
Work is work.
I swing the door open, step into the humid air, and click the lock, dropping the keys into my evening clutch. Even from the parking lot, the thrum of the dhols and the low bass of the music vibrate through the soles of my shoes.
I have always loathed these sprawling, performative gatherings.
Clutching the fabric of my heavy maroon sharara to keep it from sweeping the gravel, I march toward the grand entrance. The security guards push the towering doors open, and a wave of warm, golden light instantly washes over me.
Opulence.
That is the only word for it. The estate is a monolith of ceiling-to-floor glass, dripping chandeliers, and pristine white marble.
I let out a sharp, quiet huff.
He is far too rich for his own good.
The marble floors are polished to such a high sheen that I can see my own reflection staring back at me like a stranger: the heavy sway of my earrings, the intricate stonework catching the light across my chest, the dramatic flare of my pants.
I look good. Good enough to blend in.
I scan the crowds.
Uniformed catering staff glide through the sea of guests, carrying silver platters laden with crimson kebabs, fragrant mounds of fluffy biryani, and decadent traditional sweets, while the open bar flows with amber whiskey and imported alcohol.
But where the hell is he?
I pull out my phone to dial his number, but my gaze freezes. A silhouette cuts through the noise near the perimeter of the courtyard—dark clothes, a broad stance, and that unmistakable, long hair.
Undeniably him.
An involuntary smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I can’t help it.
He is seated with a tight circle of men in the lush garden area, clustered around the dancing flames of an open fireplace.
As I descend the stone steps toward the grass, I catch the eye of Alam bhai behind the bar. He smiles warmly as he mixes a drink; adorable, as always.
I offer him a fleeting nod and pull my dupatta securely over my hair, masking the sharp calculation in my eyes as I approach the inner sanctum.
I step onto the grass, close the distance, and lightly tap his shoulder.
“Aakhir kaar mil hi gaye.” I murmur, a streak of teasing satisfaction cutting through my tone. “Saath nahi chaloge?”
["At long last, I’ve found you. Won't you come with me?"]
Hamza looks over his shoulder. For a fraction of a second, his face is an unreadable wall of cold seriousness.
Then, the tension breaks, and he finally smiles at me.
He stands up, effortlessly rounding the sofa until he is standing directly in front of me. The sheer breadth of him makes the space feel smaller, making me feel smaller.
He towers over my frame. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively light, pitched perfectly to cut through the ambient drone of the party straight to me.
“Tumhari toh aaj... meeting thi na? Aane waali ho bataya kyun nahi? Tumhe akele aane ki takleef nahi hoti.”
["Didn't you have a... meeting today? Why didn't you tell me you were coming? You wouldn't have had to take the trouble of coming alone."]
I let out a soft chuckle, my fingers remaining defensively clutched around the fabric of my dupatta. “Meeting thi par aaj sab turant khatam ho gaya.”
["There was a meeting, but everything wrapped up unexpectedly early today."]
He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to my hands. His fingers move, deliberate, stopping my defensive grip. With a gentle pressure, he lets the veil fall from my head, exposing my hair to the chill of the night air.
“Insab ki zarurat nahi,” he murmurs, his touch lingering as he carefully brushes a few stray strands away from my face.
["There is no need for all of this."]
He steps back just a fraction, “Andar chalo.” He reaches down, his palm sliding against mine, locking his fingers through my hand.
["Come inside."]
Before we can take a step, a sharp, abrasive clear of a throat breaks the orbit between us.
“Baloch.”
SP Chaudhary Aslam steps into the light, taking a long drag of his cigarette. The embers glow fiercely against the dark garden. He stands there in a crisp white kurta, a heavy traditional shawl draped carelessly over his shoulder.
“Aise waqt mein ayyashi pe kam dhyaan de.” He exhales a thick plume of smoke, his eyes cutting hard into Hamza. “Uzair ka jaldi kuch intezam kar.”
["Baloch. Focus less on your indulgences at a time like this. Sort out Uzair quickly."]
The air between them turns instantly rigid. They share a brief, loaded look.
Beside Aslam, a third man shifts. Jameel Jamali, dressed in a sharply tailored suit. He is the right-hand politician of the Muslim Movement Party: the very face of the government apparatus that has crawled into bed with Hamza.
“Arey karega na,” Jameel chimes in, his voice dripping with smooth placation as he raises a hand to soothe the SP. “Tujhe pata hai...”
["Oh, he will do it. You know how he is..."]
The rest of Jameel's sentence, the politics, and the looming shadow of Uzair's name all fade into white noise as Hamza’s grip tightens on my hand, pulling me away from the fire and guiding me back into the house.
“Kya khaogi pehle?” he questions, steering us smoothly through the crowd toward an empty table near the corner. “Tumhe biryani pasand hai na? Raita ke saath?”
["What will you eat first? You like biryani, right? With raita?"]
I lean in slightly, letting a sharp spark enter my eyes. “Waiter waali aadat gayi nahi hai tumhari.”
["You still haven't lost your waiter habits."]
I can’t help but dig.
Hamza stops, turning his gaze fully onto me.
I force my expression into a neutral mask, fighting the urge to smirk. It’s a subtle jab at his roots; of the days when he washed glasses and took orders at Alam bhai’s juice shop.
It feels utterly absurd. The ruthless King of Karachi... once waiting on tables? Even knowing the truth, looking at him now, I find it difficult to lace the two identities together.
He doesn’t react. I catch my breath for a split second, hoping I haven't genuinely crossed a line. But he is used to my snark by now; it’s the currency we trade in.
Without a word, he steps behind a chair, pulling it out for me. I slide into the seat, the heavy silk of my dress settling around my legs, and he takes the chair directly beside mine. The table before us—fine silver silverware gleaming under the flickering glow of scented candles, surrounded by steaming platters of food.
He doesn't even wait for the catering staff. Reaching over, he expertly serves a portion of the fragrant biryani onto my plate. “Dinner karo. Main thodi der mein aata hoon.”
["Have your dinner. I'll be back in a little while."]
He places the serving spoon down and begins to shift his weight to stand, but my hand shoots out, my fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“Hamza. Kya?” I furrow my brows, my tone dropping into a hard, demanding whisper. “Tumhare ghar mein main akele khaun? Yeh kaisa mazak hai?”
["Hamza. What is this? I'm supposed to eat alone in your house? What kind of a joke is this?"]
Why the hell is he in such a tearing hurry?
“Jaan, meri baat samjho.” He turns back to me. He reaches up, his large palm cupping the side of my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. “Mujhe zara bhi andaza hota ki tum yahan aa rahi ho toh main tumhare liye alag se sab kuch taiyaar rakhta. Business meeting hai, bohot saare log hain, sabko attend karna hoga.”
["Love, understand my situation. If I had even the slightest inkling you were coming tonight, I would have arranged everything for you separately. It's a business meeting, there are too many people here, and I have to attend to them all."]
His gaze locks onto mine, holding me captive. “Paanch minute. Rizwan rahega tumhare saath.”
["Five minutes. Rizwan will stay with you."]
I offer a tight, silent nod.
Satisfied, Hamza pulls his hand away, the sudden lack of warmth on my skin feeling like a cold bruise. He signals over his shoulder, and Rizwan steps out from the periphery, dropping heavily into the seat opposite me.
His eyes are restless, scanning the room, his jacket hanging just loosely enough to hide the silhouette of a firearm.
Without looking back, Hamza turns on his heel, his long hair catching the light one last time before he disappears back into the shadows of the garden area to meet his wolves.
I wait a few beats before finally picking up my spoon. I take small bites, completely suppressing the urge to inhale the plate despite how agonizingly perfect the spices are. The food is incredible, but my attention remains anchored outside. My eyes constantly drift toward the glass, tracking the movements in the garden.
Crunch. An elaichi. A sharp, bitter burst of cardamom ruins the flavor, and I let out a sudden, muffled cough. God, I absolutely loathe when this happens.
Instantly, a glass of water is pushed into my line of sight. I look up to see Rizwan watching me with a deadpan expression. “Bhabhi jaan, aaram se.”
["Sister-in-law, take it easy."]
Bhabhi? I freeze, my hand tightening around the cold glass as I stare at him through narrowed eyes. “Abhi kawari hoon.”
["I am still unmarried."]
Rizwan doesn’t argue; he merely shrugs, his eyes already drifting back to the perimeter. He knows better than to debate the semantics of a title the entire network has already assigned to me.
Before I can press him, a shift in the garden catches my attention. Heavy footsteps crush the manicured grass. A new figure steps into the firelight, draped in a dark leather jacket, walking a step behind Hamza like a shadow.
I trace the man's posture. Who the hell is he? He doesn't carry the usual weight of a Karachi regular. He’s different. Foreign.
Hamza turns his head.
Across the sprawling lawn and the sea of corrupt politicians, his dark eyes find mine. He locks his gaze onto me, slowly raising his eyebrows with the absolute tiniest hint of a smirk.
What even—? Is he genuinely trying to flirt with me right now? In front of my biryani?
An involuntary, treacherous flush rises up my neck, warming my cheeks. I snap my gaze down to my plate, aggressively ignoring the heat in my face. Get a grip. You are not supposed to be unraveled by a mere second of eye contact.
I look up to find Rizwan staring blankly at me. His expression says it all; his silence is a loud, mocking verdict that completely invalidates my earlier defense about being unmarried.
The minutes bleed away into a restless silence. I pass the time tracking the ice melting in my water glass and picking at the traditional sweets served after the main course.
Despite the heavy meal, a stubborn, irrational part of my chest still wants to have a proper dinner with him. I’m certainly not going to starve myself for a man—I can easily eat a second round later with him—but the empty chair beside me feels entirely too loud.
“Rizwan bhai, yeh... leather jacket wala kon hai?” I question, keeping my voice low, pitched just beneath the ambient chatter of the dining hall.
["Rizwan bhai, who... who is this man in the leather jacket?"]
Rizwan answers, not even looking up. “Zyada kuch nahin, drug dealer hai. Bade Sahab se milne ke baad Hamza hi cartel sambhalta hai.”
["It’s nothing major, just a drug dealer. Ever since he met the Big Boss, Hamza has been the one managing the cartel."]
“Woh mujhe pata hai,” I press, leaning in slightly, “Mera matlab hai.. kahan se hai yeh aadmi?”
["I already know that. What I mean is... where is this man from?"]
Rizwan pauses for a fraction of a second. He looks at me, his face a completely unreadable slate. “Uss paar ke Punjab se.”
["From the Punjab on the other side of the border."]
Matlab... Hindustan. [Meaning... India.]
Oh. Oh, right. Tonight. The realization hits me like a cold wave. The puzzle pieces align instantly. This isn't just a local turf meeting.
My gaze snaps back to the corridor where they disappeared.
A sudden, violent crash shatters the high-society ambiance. The heavy wooden doors near the back hallway fly open, and Hamza rushes out, his long hair wild, his shoulders tense with a rare, terrifying panic. The stranger in the leather jacket is stumbling beside him, half-dragged, his head lolling backward.
I freeze. The silver spoon slips from my fingers, clattering loudly against the porcelain plate.
Horror, raw and clinical, tightens my throat. An injection syringe is driven deep, brutally buried into the stranger's eye socket. Torn flesh and dark, arterial blood leak down the side of his face, staining the collar of his leather jacket.
Hamza is roaring, his voice booming over the music, vibrating with an uncharacteristic, frantic desperation. “Jaldi karo! Yeh insaan marna nahi chahiye!”
["Hurry up! This man cannot die!"]
The dining hall erupts into immediate, chaotic pandemonium.
Guests shriek, abandoning their plates to flee from the sudden display of raw gore. A few men stay anchored to their spots. From the side entrance, a new faction of men; turbans wrapped tightly around their heads, faces grim—come rushing into the fray.
Beside me, Rizwan is already on his feet, his chair scraping violently against the marble floor. He whips out his satellite phone, his voice clipping fast and hard into the receiver as he demands an emergency doctor.
I can’t make out the specific words being shouted, but my eyes remain locked on Hamza. I have never seen him look like this. Not once. The King of Karachi looks utterly... helpless.
Jamali, Hamza, Rizwan, Khanani, and the turbaned men form a frantic, tight barrier around the bleeding body. They lift the unconscious asset, carrying his dead weight out through the grand entrance, shoving him into the back of Hamza's idling SUV.
The taillights flash a blinding, angry red before the vehicle screeches out of the driveway, tearing into the night.
It happens with such dizzying, whiplash speed that the silence left behind feels unnatural. I am left standing entirely alone by the table, surrounded by a handful of remaining guests who whisper frantically to one another in the shadows.
The crowd thins out with terrifying speed, leaving only a handful of guests whispering in the shadows of the garden. I move with a quiet purpose, slipping away from the dining hall toward the back corridor.
I reach the bathroom door and wrap my fingers around the handle. I twist it. It doesn’t budge. Locked from the inside. My brow furrows. How is that possible?
Hamza clearly dragged the bleeding man out of this very room. I round the corner of the hallway, searching the architecture until I find the secondary service door leading into the same bathroom. I rattle the handle.
Locked too. A low groan of frustration catches in my throat.
Questions hammer against my skull. How did an execution escalate that quickly under Hamza's own roof? Why was the asset targeted with such blinding brutality? And why was the King of Karachi panicking over a cross-border person if he was truly just running a local cartel?
A sickening, heavy knot forms in the pit of my stomach. Instinct drives me upward.
I ascend the grand staircase, my flat sandals making no sound against the marble steps. The upper hallway stretches out before me, lined with a dozen closed doors. I choose the first master suite, pushing the heavy wood open. The lights flicker on automatically, bathing the room in a stark, clinical glow.
The space is massive; a sprawling king-sized bed, an attached master bath, and a walk-in closet that looks more like a high-end boutique. I step into the closet, walking past neat rows of his tailored suits, heavy leather jackets, polished shoes, and expensive colognes.
My sharara catches on the edge of a misplaced cardboard carton. It topples over, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
I drop to my knees to hastily gather the scattered contents.
My fingers brush against a heavy canvas pouch. It feels damp. Something is leaking inside. I pull the zipper open and plunge my hand in only to wince sharply as a burning sting cuts through the pad of my index finger.
I pull my hand back. A thick, crimson drop of my own blood wells up instantly.
Inside the pouch is a tiny, shattered glass bottle and nestled beneath the shards is a compact, leather-bound diary. The leaking chemical has seeped deep into the fibers of the paper, making the ink bleed through the sheets, revealing heavily coded columns of logistics, handlers, and operations.
My eyes widen.
He... Hamza is an Indian agent.
I grimace in frustration as a drop of my blood smears across the wet page, leaving a perfect, damning stamp of my DNA directly over a redacted file.
Click. The distinct, heavy echo of footsteps resounds from the hallway outside.
No. No, not right now. Adrenaline surges.
I brutally tear the blood-soaked pages out of the binding, crushing the evidence and shoving it deep into my evening purse. I throw the diary back into the pouch alongside the broken glass, shoving the carton back into the dark corner of the closet.
But as I scramble to my feet, another heavy drop of blood slips from my finger, splattering with terrifying clarity onto the snow-white marble floor.
I don't even have time to wipe it.
The heavy bedroom door clicks. It swings open.
Hamza steps into the room.
He’s sensed it.
Without breaking eye contact, his hand reaches behind him, tracking the heavy wood until the lock clicks into place. He walks toward me, his strides slow, measured, and predatory. His eyes drop, scanning the unmistakable smear of crimson on the floor, the glint of tiny glass shards, and the messily tucked items in the displaced carton.
I take a frantic step backward, but the closet wall traps me. He closes the distance until he is towering directly in front of me, blotting out the light.
“Hamza...” I whisper, the syllable catching in my throat. How does one even begin to explain a situation this damning?
“Kya kar rahi thi yahan?” he questions, his voice a low, vibrating growl that rattles my ribs.
["What were you doing here?"]
Shaken, my heel catches on the hem of my sharara. I lose my balance, slipping backward, but before I can hit the floor, his arm shoots out like a steel vice. He catches me by the waist, violently yanking my body forward until I am pinned flush against the hard plane of his chest.
His grip is suffocating.
He leans down, his breath ghosting over my ear, demanding an answer. “Kisliye aayi thi?”
["What did you come here for?"]
He knows.
He already knows.
Why the hell is he acting like this?
I force a deep, ragged breath into my lungs, refusing to let him see me tremble. “Tumhe pata hai kya kar rahi thi,” I say, lifting my chin to look him dead in the eye. “Main sab jaanti hoon. Lekin, meri baat suno—”
["You know exactly what I was doing. I know everything. But, listen to me—"]
The cold, heavy metal of a barrel presses hard against my temple.
My jaw tightens instinctively, calculating the distance between his finger and the trigger.
“Mujhe maarne se tumhara koi fayeda nahi hoga,” I squeeze out through a dry throat.
["Killing me will be of no use to you."]
“Mohabbat karne waale aise ghar mein nahi ghuste, kon ho tum?” he questions. His gaze flickering down to my bloody hand before snapping back to lock onto my face.
["Those who love don't break into houses like this. Who are you?"]
“Pehle bandhook niche karo,” I command, trying to anchor my voice in authority.
["Put the gun down first."]
A ghost of a humorless smile touches his lips. “Tum sab jaanti ho na? Toh itna bhi jaanti hogi ki mere aur mere maqsad ke beech koi nahi aata.”
["You know everything, don't you? Then you must also know that no one gets between me and my mission."]
SHOOT. WHAT?—
Masterlist. Tags: (comment to be tagged or removed). Vote, comment and follow for more updates.
Wherein He Remembers a Ghost He Had Buried Long Ago
“SALAM WALAIKUM.”
["Peace be upon you."]
My voice buzzes flatly through the quiet room as I push open the heavy office door.
The polished wooden corridors and the minimalist furnishings of the administrative wing feel smooth, yet entirely hollow beneath the heavy click of my brogues.
This place smells of paper, cold tea, and state secrets.
“Arey aao, Hamza,” Iqbal’s voice is soothing, almost paternal, as he rises from his leather chair.
["Ah, come in, Hamza."]
His clear-framed glasses remain perched perfectly on the bridge of his nose, catching the fluorescent light. Khanani steps forward, offering me a silent handshake, while Rizwan falls into place right behind me like a shadow.
I pull back from the greeting, keeping my posture relaxed but alert. “Kuch zaruri kaam tha?” I question as we briefly hug.
["Was there some urgent work?"]
“Bade Sahab ne milne bulaya hai.”
["The Big Boss has called for a meeting."]
The words hang in the air. I let my eyes narrow just a fraction, sharing a loaded look with the Major.
“Ab aapse bade konse sahab ho gaye? Ab toh ISI ke maayi-baap hain.” I keep my tone casually laced with mock offense.
["Now, who could possibly be a bigger boss than you? You are practically the mother and father of the ISI now."]
Iqbal lets out a low, hearty laugh, the sound entirely too warm for a man who controls the state’s crosshairs. He rounds his desk, clapping a hand against my shoulder as he walks me back toward the door.
“Arey, baapon ke bhi baap hote hain,” he murmurs, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Chalo, tumhe milwata hoon.”
["Oh, even fathers have fathers. Come, let me introduce you."]
We walk out into the blinding daylight and file into the convoy of black sedans. Major Iqbal, Khanani, Rizwan, and I.
Within half an hour, the chaotic architecture of Karachi begins to vanish away. The air grows noticeably cleaner, cooler, the heavy city smog replaced by the fresh, damp scent of manicured greenery and winding, artificial rivers.
I stare out the tinted window, my mind working over the puzzle pieces.
Every operative on the ground knows the myth of Bade Sahab.
The invisible hand running the entire underworld and the proxy terror networks cutting through Pakistan. But the file is entirely blank. Is it a singular militant leader? A syndicate of corrupt politicians? A rotating committee of deep-state actors?
My internal profiling cuts short as the landscape shifts into view.
The roads beneath our tires are flawless black velvet. Outside, swans and ducks glide through pristine, clear lakes, casting rippling reflections against the backdrop of a colossal white mansion. The architecture is an intimidating monolith.
Towering iron gates block the perimeter, guarded by heavily armed security personnel who immediately snap to attention, checking our clearance before swinging the barriers open. As the car rolls through, I glance up.
Two massive, golden lions sit perched atop the high stone pillars flanking the entrance.
There is no plaque on the wall. No family crest. No history detailing when these stones were laid. The small brass plate beside the intercom reads only a single, redacted address:
White House 13 — Clifton.
Everyone files out into the crisp air, and I scan the area, noting the long line of identical armored vehicles parked along the perimeter. I slide off my dark sunglasses, slipping them into the breast pocket of my kurta.
Rizwan drops the car into park, staying behind to monitor the radio as Major Iqbal and Khanani head straight for the entrance.
I step forward to follow, but two heavily armed security guards immediately cross their arms, blocking my path. They run a metal detector wand up and down my frame with agonizing slowness, checking my waistline and ankles before finally offering a stiff nod and stepping aside.
“Intezar karo,” Iqbal instructs over his shoulder, his voice echoing slightly in the grand foyer as him and Khanani begin climbing the sweeping staircase.
["Wait here."]
I let my eyes drift across the interior. Goddamn, this place is blindingly expensive.
I drift away from the main hall, my boots silent on the plush rugs until I reach a massive, floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the rear grounds.
Outside, a pristine turquoise pool glimmers under the sun.
Near the cabanas, a small group of women are giggling, clinking glasses, and drinking among themselves. I study their posture, their features. They’re definitely not natives. Americans? Russians? Either way... highly interesting.
They don't have the guarded look of operational partners. Escorts, maybe. Or perhaps a different kind of currency altogether in this house.
“Sir, he’s called you.”
The sudden voice breaks my focus. I turn to find a non-native staff member standing a polite distance away, a carefully practiced smile plastered across her face.
I give her a single nod and head toward the grand staircase. As I ascend, I glance up at the central chandelier.
The thing is larger than my Benz, glowing with thousands of crystal droplets. It is worth an amount of money most ordinary people won't even lay eyes on in an entire lifetime.
And a sharp, familiar ache cuts through my chest.
It hurts to look at it, knowing that the wealth required to print this luxury was bought with India’s blood.
I walk down the wide corridor, my gaze locking onto a massive oil painting hanging between two carved doors. It depicts a magnificent, bleeding lion, snarling and tearing back viciously against a pack of hunters who have cornered him with spears.
I stop, staring into the painted beast's eyes. The realization is instant.
Bade Sahab sees himself as a wounded lion fighting back against the world trying to kill him.
Finally, I take a breath and step through the threshold into the inner sanctum.
My eyes instantly track straight to another portrait hanging directly behind the central desk. It features a man with a prominent mustache seated aggressively in a leather chair. Stacks of bundled currency and tactical weaponry are laid out across the mahogany table before him. A lit cigarette rests carelessly between his knuckles, and a pair of dark sunglasses masks his eyes.
For the first time in years, the steady beat of my pulse shatters. Fear.
I take a slow step closer, my eyes shifting from the canvas down to the flesh-and-blood man sitting directly beneath it.
He looks different from the legacy files. The years have anchored heavily in his frame; strands of his hair have turned a brittle grey, and the infamous mustache is entirely frosted over.
When he speaks, his voice carries a weathered weakness, yet it is still heavy enough to shake the very core of my foundation. “Ek arse se amritsar mein bambai jaisa kuch bada karne ki talab thi...”
["For a long time, there has been a craving to execute something as massive in Amritsar as what was done in Bombay..."]
“Bade Sahab, yeh hai Hamza,” Iqbal chimes in. Even the Major’s glasses are lowered in a gesture of profound deference before this man.
I sweep my gaze across the room, mapping the players seated around the perimeter of the king-like chair. Jameel Jamali is there, alongside Khanani and another faceless suit I don't immediately recognize.
“Bhai, meri hi party mein hai. Bohot honhar ladka hai,” Jameel beams, his smile cutting through as he gestures toward me. He looks back up at the old man. “Arey aao. Inhe jaante hoge na? Dawood Ibrahim. Bambai waale.”
["Bhai, he is with my (political) party. A very promising young man. Oh, come forward. You must know him, right? Dawood Ibrahim. The one from Bombay."]
The name drops like an anvil through glass.
I force my legs to move, stepping forward. I bow my head just a fraction, bending slightly to match the expected protocol of the underworld hierarchy. “Asalamwalaikum, Bhai.”
["Peace be upon you, Brother."]
Bade Sahab is... DAWOOD IBRAHIM KASKAR.
He beckons with a single, trembling finger.
I close the distance and slide into the leather chair directly opposite him.
From this proximity, the illusion of his untouchable portrait fractures. I can see the hollow, sunken depth of his cheekbones and the erratic, blotchy redness mapping his hands. They quiver noticeably as he lifts his glass, the amber alcohol sloshing against the crystal.
“Pakistan ke underworld mein ghusne ke liye sabko Muslim qoum ki wafadari saabit karni hoti hai. Chahe woh yahan ho ya Hindustan mein,” he states heavily, his voice dragging through the room like an anchor. “Amarjit...”
["To enter Pakistan's underworld, everyone must prove their loyalty to the Muslim community. Whether it's here or in India."]
The man with the long, dense beard shifts forward, picking up the thread. “Haal hi mein uss paar ke punjab se humare log bhaari drugs ka deal karne aa rahe hain. Bade Sahab chahte hain ki iss baar tum yeh kaam sambhalo.”
["Recently, our people from the Punjab on the other side of the border have been coming to execute heavy drug deals. The Big Boss wants you to handle this operation this time."]
I freeze for a fraction of a second, and look Dawood dead in the eye. “Maaf kijiyega lekin... Punjab mein deshadad failane se Muslim qoum ki wafadari kaise saabit hogi?”
["Forgive me, but... how does spreading terror in Punjab prove loyalty to the Muslim community?"]
The room turns dead silent.
Dawood cuts a slow, heavy look toward Iqbal.
The Major steps into the vacuum, explaining in a quiet, chillingly clinical tone, “Yeh karobar humare qoum aur maqsad ko hindustan mein zinda rakhta hai. Punjab sarkashon se Kashmir ke mujahidinon tak, kerala ke pfi se naxalion tak... ko taiyaar karne ki zimmedari ISI ne humein di hai.”
["This business keeps our community and cause alive in India. From the rebels in Punjab to the Mujahideen in Kashmir, from the PFI in Kerala to the Naxalites... the ISI has given us the responsibility to fund and prepare them all."]
My chest burns.
Underneath the table, I curl my fingers tight against the fabric of my trousers, digging my nails into my palms to anchor my composure. “Drugs toh Punjab mein bhi milte hain.”
["Drugs are available in Punjab too."]
“Milte hain,” Amarjit counters coldly. “Lekin mehenge. Yahan se kam daam mein drugs kharid kar waha munafa hota hai.”
["They are. But they are expensive. Buying drugs from here at a low price yields immense profit over there."]
Jameel lets out a slick, oily chuckle, trying to lighten the suffocating pressure in the room. “Matlab India ke paison se unke hi logo ko nashedi banana.”
["Meaning, using India's own money to turn their own people into addicts."]
Nobody laughs. The silence that follows is deafening.
I take a hard breath, pushing the boundary as far as my cover will allow. “Main... drugs ka dhandha nahi karta.”
["I... I don't deal in drugs."]
Dawood stops.
He stares at me through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, a long, agonizing pause before he lets out a dry, rattling huff. “Badshah banne se zyada mushkil hota hai badshah bane rehna.”
["It is far more difficult to remain a king than it is to become one."]
I clench my jaw, the muscle ticking in my cheek.
He leans closer, the scent of expensive tobacco and decay rolling off him. “Humare peshe mein mann ki icha mutabik kaam naseeb nahi hoti. Ho jayega?”
["In our profession, we aren't blessed with work that aligns with our personal desires. Will it be done?"]
Before I can answer, Jameel chimes in again, desperately trying to protect us. “Hojayega na. Puri Lyari sambhalta hai mera ladka—”
["Of course it will be done. My boy handles the entirety of Lyari—"]
Dawood raises a commanding hand, cutting the politician off mid-sentence without even looking at him. “Sawal maine Hamza se puchha.”
["I asked the question to Hamza."]
The gaze of the entire room drops onto me like a physical weight.
I look at the old monster sitting in the center of the white mansion, and offer a single, disciplined nod.
“Saabash.” Dawood offers the absolute ghost of a tiny, chilling smile.
["Excellent."]
Jameel immediately pats my back. I subtly shrug his hand off my shoulder, moving smoothly enough that the gesture slips past the attention of the rest of the table.
Glasses are poured, a large, condensation-slick bottle of imported beer making the rounds. Every remaining ounce of the appetite I had claimed earlier is completely dead, but I still take the glass.
I still drink it.
In the background, the mansion's sound system feeds a slow, atmospheric music into the room; faint enough so the business can continue uninterrupted, yet loud enough to clearly carry the distinct, soaring notes of a legacy qawwali.
Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan sahab. It is, without a doubt, the only pure and beautiful thing inside this entire temple of chaos.
Dil pe zakhm khaate hain, jaan se guzarte hain...
[We nurse wounds upon our hearts, we forfeit our very lives...]
“Destabilize karne ke liye 11 crore nakli note bheje the Hindustan mein,” Javed Khanani speaks up, swirling his drink as he references the massive shipments of counterfeit currency designed to fracture the Indian economy.
["To destabilize them, we sent 110 million in counterfeit notes into India."]
“60 crore aur bhejo. Itne kaafi nahi hai. Fir tera aur mera hisab barabar,” Dawood commands flatly.
["Send 600 million more. This isn't enough. Then your account and mine will be settled."]
Khanani offers a single, sharp nod, though a flash of bewildered tension passes through his eyes at the sheer, staggering volume of the demand.
“Hamza, yeh hai Amarjit Singh,” Major Iqbal says, gesturing toward the dense-bearded man seated to his left. “Bade Sahab ke bohot khaas. Cross-border narcotics business mein sabse bada haath.”
["Hamza, this is Amarjit Singh. A very close associate of the Big Boss. The biggest hand in the cross-border narcotics business."]
I force my features to cooperate, offering Amarjit a tight, empty smile.
“Jab tak sarhad ke uss paar saaman naa pahunch jaaye tab tak SP Chaudhary Aslam tere saath rahega,” Iqbal concludes, firmly locking the trap around my upcoming schedule.
["Until the consignment reaches the other side of the border, SP Chaudhary Aslam will remain by your side."]
Dawood sets his glass down, his dark sunglasses locking directly onto my position. “Koi galti nahi honi chahiye.”
["There must be no mistakes."]
As he speaks, I catch the light reflecting off his severely chapped, peeling lips. No matter how much expensive alcohol he consumes to mask the decay, they remain completely dry.
Death is already knocking on his door; it isn't just old age taking its toll, it's something far more systemic, a slow physical collapse from the inside out.
Jurm sirf itna hai unko pyaar karte hain...
[Our only crime is that we love them...]
“Nahi hogi, Bhai,” Jameel chimes in smoothly, entirely oblivious to the gravity of the moment as he wraps his arm right back around my shoulder.
["There won't be any, Brother."]
I freeze, shifting my gaze sideways to glare down at the politician. But Jameel merely smiles, clinking his heavy glass against mine with an oblivious cheer.
But my death stare doesn't slip past everyone.
Across the mahogany table, Dawood catches it. He lets out a light, raspy chuckle.
“Bilkul meri tarah ghoorta hai,” he notes, leaning back into his throne. Then, a heavy, prophetic murmur: “Lamba jayega.”
["He glares exactly like I used to. He will go far."]
A cold shiver runs straight down my spine, freezing the fluid in my eyes. No. I am nothing like you. I am not Kaskar.
I force the rebellion down, tilting my head as I offer him a smooth smile back. “Dhyaan se, Dawood bhai. Waqt badalne mein der nahi lagti.”
["Careful, Brother Dawood. It doesn't take long for the times to change."]
Dawood nods back, a slow, dark grin pulling at his weathered face.
He takes the words as the customary, cutthroat confidence of a rising gangster. Beside me, Jameel’s eyes widen just a fraction in sheer terror at my audacity.
“Sher-E-Baloch,” Dawood confirms, his tone hovering dangerously between genuine respect and a mockery of my pride.
["The Lion of Balochistan."]
Aetbaar badhta hai aur bhi mohabbat ka...
[The faith in this love grows even deeper...]
“No ma’am, you can’t enter the office right now!”
A sharp protest from the security staff echoes from the corridor outside.
“Arey, kon hai?” Dawood demands loudly, his brow furrowing as his hand stays suspended over his glass.
["Hey, who is it?"]
The heavy oak doors click open. Before I can even turn my head to look, a distinct sensory vocabulary cuts through the stagnant air of the room; the sharp, crisp click of structured heels against the floorboards, followed by the faint, rhythmic chime of glass bangles.
I keep my back straight, my gaze locked ahead, maintaining my composure.
“Arey Sanaz, aao baitho. Hum nikalne hi waale the,” Major Iqbal’s voice completely shifts, losing its edge and replacing it with genuine, warm relief.
He immediately stands up, gathering his jacket and gesturing toward the empty chair beside me.
["Ah Sanaz, come, sit. We were just about to leave."]
A fond, low chuckle answers him; a sound that is smooth, and utterly devastating. “Shukriya, Iqbal bhai. Safeena kaisi hai?”
["Thank you, Brother Iqbal. How is Safeena?"]
My breath hitches, the air turning to liquid nitrogen in my lungs.
That voice.
I have heard that exact cadence before.
“Sab tumhari meherbani hai, humsheera,” Iqbal smiles warmly, bowing his head in real gratitude. “Achchi hai.”
["It is all due to your kindness, sister. She is well."]
The fabric of her dress rustles as she finally glides into the space beside me, sinking into the leather chair. A wave of her perfume hits my senses; warm, sophisticated.
I slowly turn my head, my eyes tracking up from the edge of her sleeve to her face.
My pupils dilate. My jaw locks. The entire Clifton mansion, the counterfeit bills, the drug cartels, and the monster sitting across from me all dissolve into absolute white noise.
Jab wo ajnabi bankar paas se guzarte hain...
[When they pass by you, wearing the mask of a stranger…]
My eyes trace the visual grid of her posture.
She is wearing a soft, rosy embroidered kurti, and a pristine white veil rests on her head, draped just low enough to shield the back of her dark hair. The glass bangles on her wrist hum a delicate chime against the leather armrest, mirroring the flash of her tiny earrings.
Then, she finally tilts her head, turning her gaze fully onto me. The polite smile on her lips drops by a fraction of a millimeter.
“Hamza... Hamza...”
The repetition of my name pulls me violently from the abyss. I snap out of my daze, my focus jerking back toward Major Iqbal, who is watching me with a curious, upturned brow.
“Ji?” I blink, forcing my voice to stabilize.
["Yes?"]
“Yeh hai Sanaz. Bohot hi achchi tabeeb hain. In par tum aankh band karke bharosa kar sakte ho,” Iqbal introduces warmly, his hand gesturing to her like she is a prized asset of the state.
["This is Sanaz. She is an exceptionally skilled physician. You can trust her completely blindfolded."]
I look back at her.
“Aur Sanaz, yeh hai Hamza,” Iqbal concludes the circuit.
["And Sanaz, this is Hamza."]
She lets out another fond, melodic chuckle, that deceptive smile returning to her face. “Inhe kon nahi janta? Karachi ke badshah hai yeh.”
["Who doesn't know him? He is the King of Karachi, after all."]
The words hit like a silent warning. I give her a disciplined smile in return, lowering my gaze just enough to play the part of the respectful man.
“Main checkup ke liye sab ready karti hoon,” she says, smoothly rising from the leather chair. [“I will get everything ready for the checkup.”]
She lifts her compact medical suitcase, gliding toward a marble-topped side table near the corner of the room, casting one last, unreadable glance over her shoulder at me.
Wo jo pher kar nazren paas se guzarte hain...
[Those who turn their eyes away as they pass close by...]
Through my peripheral vision, I track her movements. The click of the suitcase latches. The rustle of paper. The unmistakable, sterile snap of latex gloves being pulled over her fingers, followed by the gleaming silhouette of syringes and clinical vials being laid out in neat, precise rows.
Beside me, Jameel, Khanani, and Amarjit all rise from their seats, signaling the end of the audience.
I smooth down my kurta and stand up. “Jald hi milte hain, Bade Sahab.”
["We will meet again soon, Big Boss."]
Dawood lifts his glass, “Naar-e-takbir.”
["Raise the battle cry."]
The entire room choruses back in a chilling, unified harmony of, “Allahu Akbar.”
["God is the greatest."]
We step out of the grand office, and the heavy oak doors click shut behind us.
Major Iqbal turns his head slightly, his eyes tracking me as we walk down the corridor. “Jaante ho Sanaz ko?”
["Do you know Sanaz?"]
I keep my eyes steady, my voice a flat. “Nahi.”
["No."]
Iqbal nods slowly, offering a brief, reassuring pat on my back. “Achchi ladki hai.”
["She's a good girl."]
Okay?
I keep my mouth shut.
We descend the grand staircase in a tense, collective silence. As we hit the lower foyer, Jameel Jamali casually detaches himself from the group, veering off toward the privacy of the bathroom lounge. I don't hesitate. I follow him in, stepping into the cold, marble room.
It’s entirely empty. Silence hangs heavy in the air.
The moment the door clears, I throw my weight against it, twisting the deadbolt until it clicks. I turn on him, my voice a harsh, frantic whisper.
“Aapko pata tha.” I close the distance between us, the anger finally cracking through my gangster veneer. “Aap jaante the ki main Punjab se hoon aur yeh deal nahi kar sakta.”
["You knew. You knew I am from Punjab and that I couldn't do this deal."]
“Toh kya kar leta?” Jameel whispers back fiercely. He steps into my space, his eyes blazing. “Mana kar deta buddhe ko? Tere saath meri bhi badnami hoti.”
["Then what else could I have done? Refused the old man? Along with you, my reputation would have been ruined too."]
I let out a heavy sigh, pacing the pristine marble floor like a caged animal. “Kuch toh karna padega. Main aise hi apne desh ko barbad hone nahi de sakta.”
["Something will have to be done. I cannot just stand by and let my country be destroyed like this."]
Jameel stops my pacing, leaning in. His expression softens into something deeply paternal. “Desh mera bhi hai, beta. Zyada se zyada yeh intel hum R&AW ko bhej sakte hain.”
["It is my country too, son. At the very most, we can transmit this intelligence straight to R&AW."]
I offer a single, hard nod, the blueprint of the counter-play forming in my mind. “Deal ke din ka intezar rahega. Sabki khabar bhejunga.”
["I'll wait for the day of the deal. I will send intel on everyone."]
Jameel slips out of the bathroom lounge first. I pace the cold marble for a few more beats, letting the adrenaline steady in my veins, before finally locking my composure down and walking out.
As I step onto the driveway, I realize the convoy has vanished. The courtyard is mostly deserted. The only vehicles left under the low sun are my own black Audi and a pristine, midnight-blue Bentley idling near the iron gates.
A Bentley. I run the logistics through my head. Whose? Definitely someone with old, untouchable money.
I spot Rizwan still waiting faithfully by my car, his posture straight, his eyes scanning the perimeter.
A faint twinge of guilt hits my chest; I probably should have invited him inside the mansion for a drink or food, but the man was carrying a concealed tactical firearm, security at White House 13 would have put a bullet in him before he cleared the foyer.
Click. Click. Click.
I turn my head slightly. She’s stepped out of the grand entrance, her medical suitcase gripped firmly in her hand. She’s done with her work.
I take a slow step into her path, clearing my throat to break her stride. Extending a hand toward her with practiced charm, I look her dead in the eye.
“Aaiye, aapko ghar chhor deta hoon.”
["Come, let me drop you home."]
She shakes her head, a tiny smile playing on her lips as she lightly jangles a silver keychain between her fingers. “Ji nahi, main akeli chali jaungi.”
["No, thank you. I'll go by myself."]
She presses a button on the fob. Across the gravel courtyard, the headlights of the Bentley flash awake.
Oh. That car is hers.
How? A normal state physician, even one trusted by the military elite, doesn’t casually own a foreign luxury vehicle of that caliber. Something isn't adding up. The math is completely broken.
I force my smile to remain smooth, stepping in line with her pace as she walks toward the vehicle. “Achchi baat hai. Waise, mujhe agar... kabhi kisi himayati doctor ki zarurat padi toh kahan aana hoga?” I press, keeping my tone laced with casual interest. “Major sahab bohot taarif karte hain aapki.”
["Fair enough. By the way, if I... ever happen to need a supportive doctor, where should I come? The Major sings your praises."]
She stops by the driver’s side door, turning her sharp, dark eyes fully onto me. “Kahin nahi. Aap bass mujhe call kar lijiye ga.”
["Nowhere. You can just give me a call."]
“Hmm. Clinic ya hospital, kahin kaam nahi karti?” I question, mapping her defenses.
["Hmm. You don't work at a clinic or a hospital anywhere?"]
“Karti thi,” she murmurs, opening the door and sliding gracefully into the plush leather interior. She looks up at me through the open window. “Lekin ab private doctor hoon.”
["I used to. But now, I am a private physician."]
I offer a tight nod. God, I feel like a literal beggar. The King of Lyari, humbled by a medical suitcase. “Interesting. Aapka number?”
["Interesting. Your number?"]
Without a word, she reaches into her designer bag, pulls out a crisp, heavy-stock business card, and hands it through the window. I slide it between my fingers, a dark smirk testing my lips.
I’m entirely certain a woman like her juggles a dozen different burn SIM cards, but I play along. I glance at the address printed at the bottom. “Old Clifton. Kaafi mehenga hoga na manage karna?”
["Old Clifton. Must be quite expensive to manage a place there, no?"]
“Mm-hm. Bas aath lakh mahine ke,” she answers casually, as if she’s discussing the price of street tea.
["Mm-hm. Just eight hundred thousand a month."]
WHAT.
I physically blink, the sheer absurdity of the number slamming into my chest. Eight lakhs. A month.
Okay, even my overhead criminal expenses running an entire sector of the city aren't that ridiculously high for a single roof. This woman isn't just an anomaly; she is a high-level logistical asset funded by a massive operation.
Internally, my brain is fighting a war, but I let out a low, amused chuckle to mask the shock. “Bass itna hi? Kabhi humare yahan aaiyega, aapko takleef ki gunjaish nahi hogi.”
["Just that much? You should visit our side of town sometime, you won't find any room for discomfort there."]
She stares at me through the window. Her face remains completely unimpressed. She sees right through the bravado. “Jab aap bulayen, Hamza sahab.”
["Whenever you call, Master Hamza."]
The formal title feels like a targeted insult wrapped in silk. I slide the heavy card deep into my kurta pocket, leaning down slightly. “Sanaz?”
“Siddiqui.”
Matches the card.
She rolls up the glass, the engine of the Bentley purring to life with a low, expensive growl before the car smoothly tears down the driveway and vanishes through the golden lion gates.
I stand on the gravel, the dust settling around my boots as I stare at the empty exit. The pieces are moving too fast. The chessboard is completely chaotic.
“Rizwan.”
“Ji, Bhai?” My shadow appears instantly at my shoulder.
["Yes, Brother?"]
I turn on my heel, marching back toward my Audi, the heavy weight of the city settling right back onto my shoulders. “Lyari chalo wapas.”
["Let's go back to Lyari."]
Who ARE YOU, SANAZ?
[Master list]
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A Wound That Would Not Bleed, a Hand That Would Not Let Go
“HAMZA BHAI NE Rehman bhai ko bachane ki puri koshish ki.”
["Brother Hamza tried his absolute best to save Brother Rehman."]
The auto driver’s words are instantly swallowed by a chaotic sea of flashing microphones and heavy news cameras packed into the corridors of the Lyari General Hospital.
A few feet away, Rehman’s lifeless body lies flat on a stainless-steel stretcher, covered in a blood-soaked sheet as the orderly shifts him slowly toward the double doors of the morgue.
I am sitting on a cold metal bench, my spine bent double, my head buried deeply in my hands. The heavy scent of copper, cheap disinfectant, and sweat clogs my throat.
A heavy hand is placed firmly on my trembling shoulder. I slowly look up through the gaps of my fingers.
Uzair Baloch stands towering over me.
I push myself to my feet, stinging tears already welling up in both our eyes. I step forward, and we collide into a desperate embrace. Uzair breaks down instantly, his chest heaving as he screams and cries against my shoulder, mourning the loss of his brother-in-arms.
“Main nahi bacha paya...” I whisper into the fabric of his shirt, closing my eyes tightly as the darkness takes over.
["I couldn't save him..."]
The words tear at my throat, a perfect lie. I know the truth. I know that I am the exact reason Rehman is lying dead on that stretcher.
It hurts.
But it was necessary.
We stay locked in that suffocating hug for a few more seconds before Uzair pulls back, his face hardened with grief as he and the remaining men begin their slow march toward the morgue doors.
As he passes my shoulder, his voice drops into a low, gruff murmur. “Dhyaan rakh apna.”
["Take care of yourself."]
I offer a hollow nod.
I turn on my heel, intending to slip away into the shadows of the courtyard, but Uzair's booming voice echoes down the hall, arresting my movement. “Mere bhai ko theek karo.”
["Fix my brother."]
Before I can process the command, a passing nurse hooks her hand around my arm, forcefully steering my staggering frame inside a crowded emergency ward.
The room is a battlefield of groans, rusted iron cots, and the sharp stench of iodine. I slump heavily onto the edge of a vacant bed, the adrenaline completely draining from my limbs. Another staff member sticks her head into the ward, frantically shouting for the nurse to bring the incoming reports for the newly deceased.
The nurse lets out an aggravated sigh. Before bolting out the door, she yells across the crowded room, “Sanaz! Hamza bhai ko attend karo.”
["Sanaz! Attend to Brother Hamza."]
She vanishes into the corridor frenzy. From somewhere behind a privacy screen, a low, exhausted groan cuts through the ambient noise.
A few seconds pass. The loose fluorescent light directly above my cot flickers violently. I lift my heavy gaze.
A young woman steps into the cubicle, carrying a stainless-steel instrument tray that rattles softly against her grip. She is dressed in a simple, formal white kurta and matching pyjama, her hair swept up into a hasty, loose bun that looks like it’s barely holding together after a thirty-hour shift.
She doesn’t look like she belongs in a place as raw as Lyari.
There is a clinical, polished distance to her posture. I trace the sharp gleam of a steel identification tag pinned tightly to her dupatta.
Intern / South Karachi.
She isn’t from around here.
She steps into my space, her fingers deftly plucking a thick wad of cotton from the tray. As she leans closer to wipe the dark, sticky blood pooling near my forehead, my eyelids grow heavy.
I close my eyes.
In its place, a faint, warm scent rolls off her skin.
It is soft, comforting, and utterly grounding.
My shoulders drop a fraction. I let out a slow sigh, letting the warmth pull me away from the ghost of Rehman's corpse.
But the moment of peace fractures instantly.
From above my head, she lets out another deeply aggravated groan.
Before I can process the sound, her fingers abruptly dive into my scalp. She sweeps my long, tangled hair away from my face, gathering the thick strands together, twisting them, and pinning everything into a tight, messy bun secured by the elastic scrunchie from her wrist.
What the…
My eyes snap open. I blink upward in sheer bewilderment.
She doesn’t even blink back, her expression entirely deadpan as she prepares a fresh swab. “Aapke baal distract kar rahe the.”
["Your hair was distracting."]
She offers the flat explanation like she didn’t just completely emasculate the rising terror of Lyari. She begins wiping the remaining blood trails from my cheek before uncapping a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.
The moment the soaked cotton presses into the raw tear on my skin, a violent wave of fire erupts across my face.
I hiss sharply through my teeth, my jaw locking as I lean back from the sting.
I already know the diagnostic outcome of tonight. The tear is deep, jagged from the shattered glass of the impact. There will be a temporary scar marking my forehead and cheek after this settles.
She pulls the cotton back, examining the split flesh with a critical, unimpressed squint. “Stitching ki zarurat hai.”
["This needs stitches."]
No. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. No, absolutely not. I will actually cry right here.
She snaps a fresh pair of latex gloves onto her hands. Without a word of comfort, she uncaps a vial of local anesthesia, drawing the clear fluid into a slender syringe.
Her fingers wrap around my bicep, anchoring my arm. Before I can even formulate a protest, the cold needle bites into my skin, plunging the medicine directly into my bloodstream. Within a few agonizing moments, the throbbing pain on my face begins to numb into a dull, heavy weight.
Next come the suture needles.
I can face an entire firing squad without flinching. I am trained to handle tactical knives, explosive shrapnel, and structural bombs. But this? A tiny curved needle threading through my facial tissue?
Absolutely not.
To execute the stitches, she is forced to step completely into my personal space. Her left hand rises, her gloved fingers wrapping firmly around the line of my jaw, tilting my head upward.
I am not supposed to stare—but my eyes refuse to look anywhere else.
At this proximity, I can map the entire topography of her face. The steady calculation in her dark eyes as she works. The calm cadence of her breath against my skin despite the chaotic shrieks echoing outside the curtains. The soft, natural curve of her lips.
It is... deeply, dangerously interesting.
After a few quiet minutes, she snips the thread and steps back. She applies a cool layer of antiseptic ointment, sealing the main laceration with a thick, heavy bandage before slapping a secondary, smaller one across my scraped cheek.
She drops the bloodied tools onto the stainless-steel tray. “Aur kahin chhot lagi hai?”
["Are you injured anywhere else?"]
I hesitate, I don't know if I should answer…
But she doesn’t wait for my clearance.
Her hands are already moving, reaching down to unceremoniously pull my heavy shirt straight off my shoulders.
Woah. Woah. Woah. Meri izzat— [My dignity—]
The black undertop underneath is damp, sticking to the planes of my skin like a second layer of defense.
God. I’ve been running through muddy forests, carrying corpses, and sweating through an assassination plot all day.
I probably stink like a stray dog right now.
Her hands suddenly pause, her fingers hovering near the hem of the wet fabric, likely debating whether she should forcefully peel it off me or wait for consent.
Before she can make a choice, I grab the hem and yank the dark material over my head myself, casting it aside.
The air-conditioned draft of the emergency ward slams violently against my bare torso. A shallow cut slicing across the meat of my left shoulder, accompanied by a scattering of purple bruises and superficial scratches tracing down my chest.
Thankfully, nothing serious. Nothing that will kill me.
She peels off her soiled gloves, tossing them into the hazardous waste bin. She prepares a fresh swab, applying a soothing layer of antiseptic cream across the shallow cuts on my chest before sealing them beneath clean adhesive bandages.
The moment her cool, bare fingers brush against the warm skin of my torso to anchor the tape, my lungs betray me. I inhale sharply, a sudden, heavy breath rattling in my throat.
She probably assumes I've never felt the touch of a woman before.
In a way, she’s right. I haven't. Not like this.
I have spent my entire adult life navigating violence.
But I have never been touched with an intention as pure as hers.
There is no hidden agenda in her hands, no survivalist threat. Just the simple desire to mend broken flesh.
But she doesn’t trace my expression or return my intense gaze.
She doesn't see a rising legend of the underworld or a complicated enigma. To her, I am just a checklist item on an endless, grueling shift.
“Hogaya, aap kapde pehen lijiye,” she instructs, smoothly stepping back to break the proximity.
["It's done, you can put your clothes on."]
I offer a tight nod, as I gather my damp undertop and button-down shirt, pulling them over my freshly bandaged frame.
She pulls a small medical notepad from her apron pocket, her pen scratching against the paper as she speaks. “Main kuch antibacterials aur dard ki goli likh rahi hoon, din mein do baar khaane ke baad lijiyega. Zakhm ki regular cleaning aur dressing kijiyega. Agar aap nahi kar paate hain toh yahan aa sakte hain, nurses kar dengi.”
["I am writing down some antibacterials and pain medication, and take them twice a day after meals. Ensure regular cleaning and dressing of the wound. If you can't do it yourself, you can come here; the nurses will handle it."]
She tears the slip from the pad, handing it directly to me before picking up the heavy tray. Without another word, she turns on her heel and glides out from behind the privacy curtain.
I lean my head back against the chipped, cold concrete wall, the paper crinkling slightly under the pressure of my thumb. I pull the slip into the flickering light of the bulb, studying the ink.
Her handwriting is small, and surprisingly cute.
Name: Hamza Ali Mazari
Sex: M
Age: 30
Blood Group: N/A
Date: 09/08/2009
Paracetamol 1000 mg — II
Amoxicillin 500 mg — II >
Recommendation: Regular cleaning. > Regular dressing. > Visit after a week.
My eyes linger on the signature at the very bottom of the page. The local anesthesia is fully working now, leaving the entire left side of my face entirely numb, but as I fold the tiny slip and slide it deep into my pocket, my chest feels entirely too heavy.
The following week, when I return to the corridors of the hospital, her cubicle is occupied by someone else.
She is gone.
Her black hair tie is still nestled securely in my palm, its fabric slightly frayed. I stare down at it. I don't know if I'll ever be able to return it to her. When I press the desk staff for answers, the older nurses inform me that she isn't a licensed practitioner yet.
She’s just a wandering ghost, forced to rotate through the forgotten government hospitals of Karachi until her medical credentials are complete.
Outside the hospital walls, the streets are already turning into a pressure cooker.
Arshad Pappu’s faction is rising rapidly. Back at the safehouse, Uzair Baloch sits in the shadows, his face hollowed by grief, his blood entirely consumed by a blinding rage over Rehman's assassination.
“Kisi bhi haal mein SP Chaudhary Aslam ka sar chahiye mujhe,” Uzair growls, slamming a heavy fist onto the wooden table.
["No matter what the cost, I want SP Chaudhary Aslam's head."]
I step into the low light, leaning over his desk. “Use toh tu haath bhi nahi laga sakta, rangers ghumte hain uske saath. Tujhe kya lagta hai SP ne yeh khud kiya hai? Use khabar di gayi thi.”
["You can't even touch him, the Rangers protect him constantly. Do you think the SP did this on his own? He was given a tip-off."]
Uzair’s eyes snap up to mine.“Kisne di?”
["Who gave it?"]
I draw myself up to my full height. I throw my voice toward the corridor. “Rizwan!”
The door clicks open instantly. Rizwan steps into the room. Another shadow operative. Another deep-cover asset planted by the agency, officially joining the grid.
“Arshad Pappu Lyari pe kabza karna chahta tha,” he lies, directing Uzair's fury away from the state and toward our immediate criminal rival. “SP ke saath milkar usi ne yeh sab kiya.”
["Arshad Pappu wanted to capture Lyari. He partnered with the SP to orchestrate this entire hit."]
Uzair’s jaw tightens. He reaches into his drawer, pulls out a heavy, loaded firearm, and forcefully slams it into Rizwan’s hand. The alliance is sealed in lead.
Uzair sinks back into his heavy leather chair, running a hand over his face. “Kya karna hai ab? Arshad Pappu ko harana aasan nahi hoga.”
["What do we do now? Defeating Arshad Pappu won't be easy."]
I step behind his chair, my shadow stretching long and dark. My voice drops.
“Jala do Lyari. Jab aag ki lapten uske aangan se hoke guzregi toh woh khud dauda chala aayega.”
["Burn Lyari down. When the flames of the fire pass through his own courtyard, he will come running back on his own."]
And just like that... the match is struck.
The great Lyari gang war erupts into the night.
The sky over Karachi fractures into a hellscape of exploding grenades, deafening crossfire, and the smoky trails of rocket launchers. The streets bleed iron.
Inside the armory, I reach into my pocket and pull out the faded black scrunchie.
I gather the thick, dark front section of my hair, pulling it away from my eyes and twisting it into a tight bun—locking it in place with her band while letting the rest of the dark strands fall wildly down my back.
I reach down, my fingers wrapping around the cold, heavy steel of my M14 rifle.
I look out through the heavy glass window, staring directly into the dark expansion of the Karachi night sky. I take a long drag of my Treasure London cigarette, the orange ember casting a faint, warm glow across my jawline.
I look down at my left wrist.
The black hair tie rests against my skin.
It is loose now, stretched thin from years of constant use. I still wear it sometimes.
A normal, exhausted intern who hadn't even completed her medical licensing back in 2009... to Dawood Ibrahim’s trusted private physician in 2013?
That isn't a normal career upgrade.
That is a vertical leap into the deep state.
But regardless of how she climbed that ladder, one tactical reality remains clear: I can use her. I can exploit her proximity to Dawood to draw closer to the center of the fortress and extract the intelligence R&AW needs.
Four years ago... that night in the emergency ward wasn't love.
I know that. It was just a fleeting pocket of comfort in the exact middle of a burning chaos. Just a moment of absolute normality.
And normality is a luxury I have rarely experienced in this life. But now that the proxy war has spun the board and thrown her back into my orbit... I am not letting her go this time.
I slide the scrunchie off my wrist, slipping it deep into my pocket.
A sharp knock rattles the office door. I offer a low, muffled hum in response.
Rizwan steps into the room, his eyes locked onto the glowing screen of his tablet as his fingers swipe through encrypted files. “Sanaz extremely private doctor hai. Yahan tak ki Clifton ke kaafi residents ko nahi pata woh kiske liye kaam karti hai. Shayad isiliye woh uss din itni jaldi mein lag rahi thi.”
[“Sanaz is a very private doctor. Even many Clifton residents don't know who she works for. Maybe that's why she was in such a hurry that day.”]
I nod slowly, blowing a thin stream of gray smoke into the air. “Mujhe laga hi tha. Zyada connections Dawood, Iqbal aur terrorist organisations se hi hai na?”
["I figured as much. Most of her connections are with Dawood, Iqbal, and terrorist organizations, right?"]
“Ji,” Rizwan confirms, looking up from the screen as I walk over to him. “Lekin militants, mujahideen ya fir aise log jo inke under kaam karte ho... unse nahi milti.”
["Yes. But she doesn't meet with the militants, mujahideen, or anyone working under them."]
“Dawood croro rupaye deta hoga use secrets aur sensitive information apne tak rakhne ke liye,” I mutter, my grip tightening against the filter of my cigarette just a fraction.
A sharp, ugly bitter taste coats my tongue. “Mujhe laga tha woh sirf logo ka bhala karna chahti hai. Lekin shayad kabhi kabhi ek khalis lams mein bhi raaz chhupa hota hai. Sabko pata hai Dawood jihadiyon ko fund karta hai.”
My jaw tightens, “Ek doctor aakhir kyun apna imaan bechegi—”
["Dawood must be paying her tens of millions to keep his secrets and sensitive information to herself. I thought she just wanted to do good for people. But perhaps, sometimes, even in a pure touch, a secret lies hidden. Everyone knows Dawood funds the jihadis. Why on earth would a doctor sell her integrity—"]
Rizwan lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh, stepping closer to ground me. “Bhai, jab baat paison ki ho tab imaan kuch kaam nahi aata. Tu toh samajhdar hai na, ek baar soch ke dekh... Dawood ke under koi kyun aayega? Woh bhi ek akeli ladki.”
["Brother, when it comes to money, integrity doesn't count for much. You are a practical man, just think about it for a second... Why else would anyone willingly come under Dawood's thumb? Especially a lone girl."]
I shake my head. The math doesn't add up.
“Kuch samajh nahi aa raha,” I whisper into the dark.
["Nothing makes sense anymore."]
Rizwan swipes his thumb across the glass, pulling up the deep-background parameters. “Sanaz Siddiqui. Janm unees sau sattasi. Abhi chabees ki hai.”
["Sanaz Siddiqui. Born in 1987. She is twenty-six right now."]
“Chab— chabees?” I blink, the number throwing off my internal pacing.
["Twon— twenty-six?"]
I abruptly snatch the tactical tablet out of his grip, staring at the blue-light portrait illuminating the screen. The encrypted data mapping her existence is... disturbing. There is no logistical world where I should be struggling to read an opponent who hasn't even hit thirty yet. I feel ancient.
I scroll through the verified metrics, my eyes tracking the lineage. “Janm hua Lahore mein. Saint Edward school...” I pause, my eyes snapping up to lock with Rizwan's. “Paidaishi ameer hai.”
["Born in Lahore. Saint Edward school... She's old money."]
“Iske maa baap kaha hai?” I press, scanning the empty fields in the family registry.
["Where are her parents?"]
Rizwan shrugs, his hands tucked into his vest. “Logo se suna hai Dubai mein.”
["Rumor has it they're in Dubai."]
I let out a dry, irritated huff, smoke escaping my nostrils. “Aur beti ko Pakistan mein marne ke liye chhor diya?”
["And they left their daughter in Pakistan to die?"]
“Iska khandan bhi toh Dawood se mila hua ho sakta hai?” Rizwan counters quietly, tossing the missing link into the air.
["Her family could be tied up with Dawood too, couldn't they?"]
I glare at him through the haze. I want to shut the theory down, but his analytical deduction is solid. It makes tactical sense. I nod reluctantly, shifting my focus back to the scrolling lines of her curriculum vitae.
High-tier English medium institutions. Extensive volunteer rotations through cross-border NGOs and crowded government wards, before a sudden, prestigious placement at one of the elite private hospitals in Clifton.
And then... a total informational blackout post-2011. No public practice issues. No external patients. She only checks into the high-security grid if Dawood’s clinical status deteriorates to a level that requires emergency hospitalization.
I’m practically chewing the filter of my cigarette at this point. I yank it from my lips, flicking the spent ember into the bin, and immediately strike a match to light another.
“Kaise milun isse firse? Bimaar hone ka bahana kiya toh gussa ho jayegi,” I mutter, pacing over to the leather sofa and slumping into the cushions.
["How do I meet her again? If I fake an illness, she'll just get pissed off."]
Rizwan taps the power button, the tablet screen going dark as he watches my downward spiral.
I lean my head back against the leather, staring at her heavy-stock business card resting on the coffee table. “Paison se bhi impress nahi kar sakta, woh mujhe impress kar degi.”
["I can't even impress her with money, she'll end up impressing me instead."]
“Sach ke saath saazish karo,” Rizwan states flatly.
["Weave the conspiracy with the truth."]
I look up at him through the haze. I know exactly what he’s saying.
Build a situation that is entirely true... but construct the ultimate lie right alongside it. Use the raw, bleeding reality of my world to pull her close, leaving her zero room to suspect a trap.
SAAZISH.
[Master list]
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To Catch a Serpent, One Must Wear the Skin of the Prey
“AANKHEIN NEECHI KAR, Major.”
[“Lower your eyes, Major!”]
The muffled snarl filters through the brickwork, reaching my ears the exact moment I kill the engine of my Audi.
I cut a glance out the windshield, surveying the block.
Major Iqbal’s apartment sits entrenched in the suffocating heart of Karachi, safely away from the immediate warzones of Lyari, yet buried deep within a sprawling, hyper-crowded residential labyrinth where secrets are easily swallowed by ambient noise.
A few feet away from my bumper, a familiar midnight-blue Bentley sits idling against the curb.
Of course. She’s already here.
I step out into the heavy afternoon heat, leaving Rizwan behind in the vehicle to keep eyes on the street. I march into the concrete building, my boots clicking against the narrow, unlit stairwell as I ascend the flights.
The shouting from above grows sharper, vibrating through the handrails.
“Teri uss beti ko kabhi pata nahi chalega ki uska kamzor baap ek beta tak paida nahi kar paya!”
["That daughter of yours will never know that her weak father couldn't even sire a single son!"]
I pause on the landing, my jaw locking. Who the hell is shouting like that in a high-ranking intelligence officer's home?
“Hazaron bangladeshi aurton ki aabroo khaayi hai Brigadier Jahangir ne. Aajtak meri nasl waha apni gand hilayi ghumti hogi. Unme se ek bhi yahan laakar paalta toh tujhse achcha beta saabit hota, khassi sala!”
["Brigadier Jahangir has ruined the honor of thousands of Bangladeshi women. To this day, my bloodline must be wandering around over there. If I had brought even one of them here and raised him, he would have proven to be a better son than you, you eunuch!"]
I freeze completely on the threshold.
What the hell.
I take a slow breath, forcing my features into a blank slate.
I slide my dark sunglasses off the bridge of my nose, folding them neatly and tucking them into the front pocket of my kurta. The front door to the apartment is resting slightly ajar.
I push it open without a sound, stepping into a living room choked with the thick, stale gray smoke of cigarettes.
Major Iqbal is standing near the window, his back rigid. Seated in a rusted, mechanical wheelchair opposite him is an elderly man with tyrannical eyes.
“Aankhein neechi kar, Major. Baap hoon main tera!” the old monster roars.
["Lower your eyes, Major. I am your father!"]
I stand silently in the foyer, my peripheral vision immediately logging the environment. The walls and wooden cupboards are lined with a tragic timeline of tiny, dust-covered portraits.
A young, smiling Iqbal standing beside this very man in a pristine military uniform. A faint glimpse of a mother. A wife. But in the current reality of this suffocating apartment, those women are entirely absent.
“Arey Hamza, tumhara hi intezar tha,” Iqbal suddenly cuts his eyes toward the door, his posture instantly shifting as he spots me. He forces a hollow smile onto his face, stepping forward to greet me with a brief hug before gesturing toward the worn fabric of the sofa.
["Ah Hamza, I was just waiting for you."]
I kick off my boots at the entrance and step onto the carpet, sinking into the sofa cushions.
“Major Iqbal, tujhse kuch baat karni hai,” Jahangir barks again, completely ignoring my presence as his gnarled fingers grip the armrests of his wheelchair.
["Major Iqbal, I need to speak with you."]
“Basheer,” Iqbal calls out, his voice terrifyingly calm.
The elderly house help emerges from the dark kitchen corridor like a shadow. Without a single word, he hooks his hands onto the wheelchair, spinning the old man around and wheeling him into a back bedroom before throwing the bolt on the door.
I have a dozen lethal questions burning a hole in my tongue, and I don't know which thread to pull first.
“Yeh... kon hai, Iqbal bhai?” I ask very carefully, pitching my voice to sound entirely respectful, testing the boundaries of his temper.
["Who... was that, Brother Iqbal?"]
Iqbal doesn't flare up.
He simply lets out a long breath that smells of ash, the lines on his face deepening.
“Baap tha,” he breathes, staring blankly at the locked bedroom door. “Ab bass bojh hai.”
["He was my father. Now, he's just a burden."]
I don't press the wound any further.
Iqbal crosses the room and sits directly opposite me, his entire demeanor snapping back into the clinical, cold focus of a military handler.
“August ke tayees tarikh ko woh log yahan pahunch jayenge. Lagbhag chaar mahine hain tere paas sab taiyaar karne ke liye.”
["They will arrive here on the twenty-third of August. You have roughly four months to get everything ready."]
I offer a slow nod. “Kiske through jayenge? Sources?”
["Whose network are we using? What are the sources?"]
“Source honge Zahid ke dukaan se. Yahin paas mein hi hai, bahar se kirane ki dukaan, andar manshiyat ka bhandar.” He stands up, stepping over to the window and sliding the heavy curtain aside to point down into the crowded maze of the street below. “Yahan se.”
["The source will be Zahid's shop. It's right nearby—a grocery store from the outside, a narcotics warehouse on the inside. From right here."]
I lean forward, glancing through the gap in the fabric to lock the target storefront into my geographical memory. “Mujhe pata nahi tha woh aapka aadmi hai.”
["I didn't know he was your man."]
Iqbal shakes his head, a dark, amused chuckle rattling in his throat. “Kuch do saal pehle hi aaya hai. Isse pehle jiski dukaan thi woh nahi bechna chahta tha, kehta tha khandani pesha hai. Lekin Zahid ko mere under hi rehna tha.”
He turns his back to the window, his eyes locking onto mine with terrifying clarity. “Aur humari kismat bhi achchi nikli. Sala sardar tha. Bas fir kya tha, nagar mein yeh fail gayi ki kaafir ne Qur'an jala kar Allah ko dhikkara. Blasphemy ka dhabba laga diya.”
["He only arrived about two years ago. The person who owned the shop before him refused to sell; kept claiming it was his ancestral business. But Zahid needed to be stationed here under my command. And luck favored us. The owner was a Sikh. So, we simply spread a rumor through the neighborhood that the infidel had burned the Qur'an and insulted God. We slapped the blasphemy stain on him."]
He lets go of the fabric, letting the curtain snap shut, plunging the living room back into dim shadow. “Mir aur Azam ne milkar aage ka sambhal liya. Uske poore khandan ko aag laga diya. Gustakh-e-rasool ki ek hi saza, sar tan se juda.”
["Mir and Azam handled the rest together. They set his entire family on fire. There is only one punishment for a blasphemer—beheading."]
A sickening wave of cold anger tests the walls of my chest. A whole family turned to ash just to clear a logistics route for a cartel. I keep my expression entirely dead, blinking once.
“Sahi kiya, Iqbal bhai.” I transition instantly back to business, letting zero emotion leak into my tone. “Konse drugs source kiye jayenge?”
["You did the right thing, Brother Iqbal. Which drugs will be sourced?"]
Iqbal crushes his cigarette butt into the glass ashtray, “Wahi—mandakini, kali nagini, dubai dashing, cham cham.”
What?
I stare at him, my brow furrowing in genuine, unscripted confusion. He’s talking about an international narcotics distribution pipeline using the titles of cheap street performers or B-grade films.
He catches my expression and lets out a patronizing laugh, waving his hand off dismissively. “Bachcha hai, Hamza. Deal ke din sab samajh aajayega. Bass in sab ki taiyaari kar.”
["You're still a kid, Hamza. On the day of the deal, it will all make sense. Just get the preparations ready for this."]
I let out a slow sigh. Iqbal pushes himself up from the armchair. “Safia, inke liye paani le aao.”
["Safia, bring some water for him."]
The quiet house help appears a moment later, handing me a sweating glass of water. I take it. Iqbal turns and walks down the short corridor toward a secondary bedroom. I stand up, keeping my movements casual as I follow his silhouette.
I step past the threshold and the entire frequency of the apartment completely changes.
Spreads across a soft colorful mat on the floor, surrounded by a scattered box of vibrant crayons, sit Sanaz and a little girl.
Sanaz is crouching low, her movements incredibly gentle as her gloved hand securely stabilizes the child's tiny forearm, smoothly drawing a small vial of blood.
A routine checkup.
There is no fear in the room, no tension. Iqbal drops to his knees beside them, his voice melting into a soft murmur. “Arey meri gudiya, yeh kya banaya hai aapne?”
["Ah, my doll, what have you drawn here?"]
The little girl beams, lifting her face as she proudly points her small finger at the sketchpad. “Yeh Safeena, yeh abbu, aur yeh dada.”
["This is Safeena, this is Daddy, and this is Grandpa."]
I trace the crude shapes on the paper—a little girl surrounded by hand-drawn flowers, a man wearing thick glasses and a dense beard, and an older figure sketched entirely in heavy, dark black crayon, trapped inside a wheelchair.
I look closer at Safeena.
Her physical features are distinct: the subtle, characteristic upward tilt of her eyes, the shorter alignment of her neck, the soft under-development of her frame. It is exactly what I think it is.
My analytical gaze immediately drifts away from the child, tracking across the environment. The edge of the bed. Sanaz’s neatly arranged medical equipment. Her leather suitcase. Her personal bag. A stack of freshly printed diagnostic papers, likely laboratory reports.
I step fully into the room, crossing the mat, and deliberately sink into the empty space directly beside Sanaz.
She doesn’t even grant me the courtesy of a glance.
Her focus remains entirely locked on her patient.
She secures the blood sample into a tiny glass bottle, caps it, and hands the master file up to Iqbal. “Bhai, pichchle mahine ke reports theek hain. Lekin abhi bhi speech mein dikkat hoti hai. Aap safeena ko ek baar hospital zarur le jaiyega.”
["Brother, last month's reports are fine. But she is still having difficulties with her speech. You must take Safeena to the hospital at least once."]
Iqbal nods heavily, accepting the papers with a quiet, reverent gratitude before turning on his heel to file them away in the main office.
Left behind on the floor, I look around.
The ceiling fan is whirring on its highest speed, cutting through the afternoon heat. A collection of plush soft toys is lined up neatly against the pillows of the bed. Containers of colorful stationery and specialized art tools are stacked within the child's reach. She clearly thrives in this little pocket of the house.
Then, my eyes drop to the small wooden stool resting just behind Sanaz's shoulder.
A half-eaten bowl of fresh, vibrant fruit salad sits beside a condensation-slick glass of cold lemonade.
I let out an internal huff. Are you kidding me? She gets the premium hospitality, the imported fruits, and the freshly squeezed citrus... and the King of Lyari is left out in the living room drinking plain, lukewarm water?
I slide just a fraction closer to her, waiting for those guarded eyes to finally look up and acknowledge my presence.
A sharp, deeply annoyed groan cuts through.
“Thoda khisakiye na. Itni garmi hai yahan,” Sanaz snaps, her dark eyes drilling into mine.
["Move a bit, will you? It's entirely too hot in here."]
I don't say a word.
I simply shift backward, sliding completely off the colorful mat to sit on the bare concrete floor.
Ow. The stone is holding the day's heat, radiating straight through my pyjama.
I immediately push myself up to my feet, clearing her space. It is becoming increasingly obvious that my mere physical existence annoys this woman to the brink of death.
She ignores me entirely, leaning over Safeena to smoothly apply a small, clean bandage over the fresh puncture mark on the little girl's arm.
Next, she reaches deep into the side pocket of her personal bag, pulling out a mini chocolate bar and holding it out to the child like a prize. “For being a good girl and not crying.”
Safeena beams, her small fingers reaching for the wrapper, but Sanaz gently pulls it back just an inch, a playful tilt to her head.
“Uh-huh, lekin usse pehle yeh khatam karo.” She pulls the wooden stool closer, placing the half-eaten bowl of fruit salad directly in front of the child. [“Uh-huh, but first, finish this.]
Safeena doesn’t argue; she immediately scoots forward, greedily digging into the fruit with her left hand while her right hand continues to scribble furiously across the sketchpad with a blue crayon.
Sanaz pushes herself up from the floor, smoothing down the creases of her salwar, adjusting her hair, and pulling the white dupatta securely over her shoulder.
Her Bentley keys are resting right beside the empty lemonade glass.
I take a casual step forward, as my fingers close around the heavy fob. I test the weight, checking the tiny digital display on the casing. The battery is almost entirely exhausted.
I glide over to the open window, peering down the street below. Rizwan is still dutifully idling inside the Audi. I pull my phone from my pocket, dialing his number and letting it ring once before cutting the line.
Down below, the car door clicks open. Rizwan steps out onto the pavement, his eyes tracking up the building facade until they lock onto my position.
He offers a brief, questioning wave of his hand.
I align my trajectory, leaning over the ledge, and casually drop the heavy Bentley fob straight down toward him. But my timing is off by a fraction of a second. Rizwan steps forward entirely too late, and the solid luxury key fob strikes him square on the top of his skull with a sharp thud.
I almost face-palm right there at the glass.
Down on the street, Rizwan rubs the crown of his head with a pained grimace, his eyes shooting up at the window before he quickly kneels to scoop the keys off the asphalt.
“Kuch gira kya?”
The suspicious cadence of her voice echoes right behind my shoulder. [“Did something fall?”]
“Huh?” I turn on my heel, throwing my shoulder against the window frame as I force a perfectly blank, innocent look onto my features. “Nahi toh?”
["No? Not at all."]
Sanaz squints at me for a long second before she finishes gathering her medical charts and zips her suitcase shut, preparing to exit the room. The moment her back turns, I whip around to the window again, using sharp, aggressive movements of my eyes to signal down to the street.
Rizwan handles the pressure like a professional. He pulls a fresh lithium battery from his tactical kit, snaps the casing open, replaces it, and approaches the midnight-blue Bentley.
He clicks the unlock button, smoothly slides the driver's side window down just an inch, tosses the freshly powered key fob onto the leather seat, and slides the window right back up into its locked seal.
Nice. The trap is officially armed.
I walk out of the bedroom, crossing through the stale smoke of the living room toward the main apartment exit, completely done with the heavy energy of the house. “Allah Hafiz, Iqbal bhai.”
["Goodbye, Brother Iqbal."]
I don't even wait for his formal military greeting. I throw the front door open and march straight out into the corridor.
Arey—
I freeze on the concrete landing, looking down at my feet.
I walk right back into the foyer, ignoring the curious look from the house help as I unceremoniously slip my heavy leather boots back onto my feet, lace them up with aggressive tugs, and finally down the narrow stairs toward the street.
I slide my dark sunglasses back over the bridge of my nose, stepping out of the building's shade as the afternoon heat hits me. I walk past her… slowly.
I spy her shifting frantically, dumping her medical folders from side to side as she tears through the compartments of her bag. Suddenly, her movements freeze. Her gaze locks onto the driver’s seat, realizing with a horrific clarity that her high-security key fob is resting peacefully inside the locked cabin.
I smirk behind my lenses, stepping smoothly into my Audi. Rizwan settles into the back seat, nursing the faint bump on his crown.
I don't even have time to turn the ignition before a soft shadow falls across my door.
Here she comes.
A polite, slightly hesitant knock rattles the glass. I take my time, slowly sliding the automatic window down.
Sanaz stands on the sizzling road, looking entirely out of herself, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the strap of her bag.
“Umm... Meri car lock hogayi hai,” she mumbles, a rare, beautiful flush of embarrassment dusting her cheeks. “Mujhe ghar chhor dijiyega?”
["Umm... My car got locked. Could you drop me home?"]
I reach across the console, smoothly popping the passenger door open for her. “Aajao.”
["Get in."]
Damn, it actually worked.
The internal smugness threatening to break my poker face is ungodly.
“Shukriya,” she breathes, quickly sliding in, settling her heavy bags at her feet.
I glance into the rearview mirror, my eyes locking onto my partner.
“Rizwan.”
“Ji bhai?” ["Yes, brother?"]
“Utar.”
["Get out."]
Rizwan blinks, his entire posture going rigid. “Kya?” ["What?"]
“Utar.”
“Arey main piche baitha hoon—” Rizwan protests, gesturing to the vast, empty expanse of the rear cabin.
["Hey, I'm sitting in the back—"]
“Nahi, tu Lyari ja. Wahan pe teri bohot zarurat hai,” I state.
["No, you go to Lyari. You're needed desperately over there."]
Defeated, Rizwan lets out a long, silent sigh of pure exhaustion, pushes the door open, and steps out onto the scorching street, standing awkwardly on the curb like a discarded piece of luggage.
I peek out of my open window. “Ghar jaake call karna.”
["Call me when you reach home."]
He offers a stiff nod. I smoothly slide the windows up. The engine roars to life.
Sanaz watches him retreating, a dejected silhouette through her window, her brow furrowing slightly. “Aapke dost... udaas dikh rahe the.”
["Your friend... he looked sad."]
I shift the Audi into drive, my fingers wrapping loosely around the steering wheel.
“Woh uski shakal hi waisi hai,” I say flatly.
[“Actually, his appearance is like that.”]
“Achcha?” She raises a single eyebrow.
["Oh, really?"]
I offer a smooth nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the traffic ahead as I guide the Audi past the swelling rows of cars and break out onto the expansive main road. “Old Clifton, right?
She just hums in response, her gaze drifting out the passenger window.
A stretch of heavy silence settles between us before she abruptly breaks it, her hand diving into the depths of her bag. “Waise aap kahan se ho, Hamza Sahab?”
["By the way, where are you from, Mr. Hamza?"]
“Quetta. Lyari mein aaya ek arse pehle,” I say. “Akela tha. Ek juice ki dukaan mein kaam karta tha. Fir ek din Rehman bhai ki nazron mein aa gaya.”
["Quetta. I came to Lyari a long time ago. I was completely alone. I worked at a juice stall. Then, one day, I caught Brother Rehman's eye."]
She nods slowly, but her attention has already shifted. She reaches out, casually tilting the passenger rearview mirror toward her face, and pulls a small tube from her bag.
I watch through the corner of my eye as she smoothly applies a layer of clear, shimmering lip balm. Okay. I am laying out the grim folklore of my street ascension, and she is treating it like background radio noise at a beauty salon.
“Kaafi tashweeqi hai aapki kahani,” she notes casually, her lips moving against each other to settle the balm.
["Your story is quite fascinating."]
“Aapki bhi, Sanaz sahiba,” I counter smoothly, as I turn the wheel, steering the car into the wider lanes leading toward the elite sectors.
“Lyari hospital se Dawood ke qareebi hone tak ka safar laazmi hoga.”
["Yours too, Miss Sanaz. The journey from Lyari hospital to being close to Dawood must be quite a story."]
Her fingers freeze instantly.
She snaps the cap back onto the tube with a muted click, dropping it back into her bag before zipping the leather shut. She doesn’t flinch, and she doesn’t look away.
Instead, a tiny smile pulls at the corner of her lips.
“Aapko yaad hai?”
["You remember?"]
The question is entirely unexpected.
I don't hesitate. “Yaad hai. Kaise nahi hoga?” I glance at her again, my profile catching the afternoon light filtering through the windshield. “Aapki silayi maathe pe abhi tak mehsus hoti hai mujhe.”
["I remember. How could I not? I can still feel your stitches on my forehead."]
A genuine, soft chuckle breaks from her lips at the memory.
Reaching down, my fingers slip into my pocket, brushing past my lighter until they close around the faded fabric. I pull it out, extending my hand across the console to present it to her. “Aapki amanat reh gayi thi mere paas.”
["Your keepsake was left behind with me."]
Her eyes actually... widen.
She reaches out, her slender fingers brushing against my palm as she takes the faded black band. Our skin touches for just a brief, electric moment, sending a sharp jolt straight up my arm.
“Aapne abhi tak sambhal ke rakhi thi?” she whispers, her gaze tracing the worn elastic before snapping up to lock onto mine. “Kyun?”
["You kept it safe all this time? Why?"]
I offer a casual shrug. “Aise hi. Socha tha kismat ki chahat se agar fir mil jaun, toh lauta dunga.”
["Just because. Thought if destiny willed us to meet again, I'd return it."]
She doesn't slide it into her bag.
Instead, she slides the scrunchie over her fingers, anchoring it onto her left wrist and twisting the loop twice until it sits perfectly against her skin.
She tilts her head, a knowing glint flashing in her eyes as she looks at me.
“Kismat ka kuch nahi, sab aapki chahat ka natija hai.”
["It has nothing to do with destiny, it's entirely a result of your desire."]
Oh. Oh, hell.
My chest locks up as the weight of her words slams into my ribs.
“Meri chahat ke mutabik zindagi chalti, toh aaj main yahan nahi hota,” I say, my voice is a detached drawl. I cut a brief, calculating glance sideways. “Lekin theek hai, jaan, aap jo chahe woh samajh sakti ho.”
["If life moved according to my desires, I wouldn't be here today. But that's fine, darling, you can understand whatever you like."]
Sanaz catches the bait instantly, “Jaan, huh? Jo samajhna tha woh toh main bohot pehle hi samajh gayi.”
["Darling, huh? What I needed to understand, I understood a long time ago."]
“Toh yeh bhi samajh gayi hogi ki main itne saalon se aapki amanat ko kyun sambhal kar rakha?” I press.
["Then you must have also understood why I kept your keepsake safe for all these years?"]
She lets out a mocking scoff, her fingers lightly tapping against the leather strap. “Usse pehle aap yeh jaan lein ki mujhe sambhal paana aasaan nahi.”
["Before that, you should know that handling me is no easy task."]
I don't look away from the road this time.
“Sambhal lunga,” I state flatly.
["I'll handle it."]
“Koshish kijiyega.”
["Do try."]
She drops the parting shot softly.
Suddenly, a sharp electronic ring fractures the quiet. A Samsung lover, I note out of habit, tracking the device as she pulls it from her bag.
She presses it to her ear, her voice instantly hardening into a command. “Mujhe shipment kal tak chahiye.”
[“I need the shipment by tomorrow.”]
A muffled, frantic voice bleeds through the receiver, making excuses from the other end. Sanaz lets out a long, deeply aggravated groan, cutting the line before the speaker can even finish their sentence.
I cut my eyes toward her. “Kya hua? Pareshan lag rahi ho?”
["What happened? You look stressed."]
She runs a hand over her face, letting out an exhausted sigh. “Foreign se dawaiyan, blood bags aur medical equipments aate hain mere ghar. Lekin unki shipment aksar fas jaati hai border par.”
["Medicines, blood bags, and medical equipment come to my house from abroad. But their shipments often get stuck at the border."]
That is a genuine, logistical nightmare for her and a massive, wide-open door for me. Nobody in the standard security apparatus probably realizes this elite woman is running a high-class, black-market medical vault for top-tier international fugitives.
“Aap chaho toh main source aur deliver kar sakta hoon,” I offer smoothly, “Sab mehfooz rahega.”
["If you want, I can source and deliver them. Everything will remain safe."]
Sanaz turns her head, her dark eyes narrowing. “Mujhe fasa toh nahi doge?” [“Won't you trap me?”]
I let out a short, dry huff. “Aapko fasakar main zinda nahi bachunga.”
["If I get you caught, I won't survive long enough to tell the tale."]
She rolls her eyes at my theatrics, but the tension slips from her shoulders. “Theek hai. Details mein phone par bhej dungi.”
["Fine. I'll send the details to your phone."]
I immediately punch her number into my dialer, letting it ring once until her screen lights up. Within seconds, a secure PDF file flashes onto my interface. I don't even read it; I instantly forward the document straight to Rizwan's encrypted terminal. Let him handle the tracking.
The sky has bruised into a deep, heavy violet by the time the Audi finally crosses the threshold into Old Clifton. Following her quiet directions, I navigate the affluent, tree-lined lanes until I pull up to her residence.
The moment the car engine dies, she pushes her door open and steps out onto the pavement. I do the same, sliding my dark sunglasses off my face and tucking them away.
I look up, and my breath catches a fraction.
Her house isn't the massive, gaudy modern mansion I expected. It is smaller, an old, vintage Victorian-style stone structure nestled directly near the rugged edge of the Karachi coast. The weathered, salt-kissed stone looks ancient.
Standing here, looking at the panoramic expanse of the Arabian Sea, I finally understand why she willingly drops eight lakhs a month for this ground.
The view is absolutely stunning.
The sun is dipping low into the horizon, bleeding violent strokes of crimson, gold, and burnt orange across the endless water, casting a long, warm silhouette of Sanaz against the stone of her home.
“Nazara kaafi achcha hai. Aath lakh iske saamne kuch nahi,” I murmur, letting a rare tone of genuine flattery slip.
["The view is beautiful. Eight lakhs is nothing compared to this."]
She lets out an amused chuckle, her keys rattling against the lock as she beckons me forward. “Sharminda kar rahe hain aap.”
["You're embarrassing me."]
She pushes the heavy wooden door open and steps inside. The interior of the house hits me instantly: it is cool, smelling of a fresh yet deeply warm scent that is so uniquely, unmistakably her.
I step past the threshold, my eyes tracking the environment. The space is washed in pale, soothing colors and accented with delicate, thoughtful decorations. It is a staggering, complete contrast to the stark, blood-stained concrete of my compound in Lyari. Softly lit candles flicker in the corners, and the gentle, melodic chime of glass wind chimes vibrates softly in the coastal draft.
She slips her sandals off her feet, leaving them neatly by the entrance. I follow her lead, unlacing my heavy leather boots and placing them directly beside her footwear.
Sanaz walks deeper into the room, setting her medical suitcase and heavy leather bags onto the edge of a plush couch. I cross the room and sink into the cushions, my eyes still wandering through her sanctuary.
“Kaafi pyara ghar hai,” I mutter quietly, the words rough in my throat.
["It's a very lovely home."]
“Shukriya,” she says softly, as she turns on her heel and disappears into the kitchen corridor.
I let the silence settle for a beat before raising my voice. “Waise aap kahan se hain?”
["By the way, where are you from?"]
“Ji, Lahore,” her answer filters back smoothly from the next room. “Mummy Papa zayada tar business ke silsele se bahar rehte hain.”
["Lahore. My parents are mostly abroad for business."]
The metrics match up perfectly. Every syllable out of her mouth aligns precisely with the encrypted data points Rizwan pulled up on the tablet.
“Kaafi akela mehsus hota hoga?” I ask, pushing myself up from the sofa. I quietly trail her scent into the kitchen, casually leaning my shoulder against the painted wooden doorframe to watch her work.
["You must feel quite lonely?"]
“Hota hai kabhi kabhi,” she notes casually, her back turned to me.
["It happens sometimes."]
Through the low amber lighting of the kitchen, I watch her fingers. She is aggressively slicing thick chunks of raw ginger, tossing them into the boiling pot of tea, almost as if she expects that if she stops moving for even a second, I will vanish from her house entirely.
Or worse, step closer.
“Lekin mujhe shor sharaba bilkul pasand nahi. Isilye zyada fark bhi nahi padta,” she adds, her shoulders tense under her white dupatta.
["But I don't like noise and chaos at all. So it doesn't really make a difference to me."]
I tilt my head, as I push off the doorframe. “Sach mein? Ya fir bas sannate ki aadat hogayi hai?”
["Really? Or have you just grown used to the silence?"]
Sanaz freezes.
Her hand hovers over the counter. She doesn't offer a verbal defense. Instead, she quickly pours the dark, fragrant tea into a set of porcelain cups, lifts the tray, and turns around to clear the kitchen space.
But her calculation is off. I am standing entirely too close.
Bump.
The liquid heat erupts across my chest instantly, soaking right through the fine cotton of my kurta.
“Haye r—allah, maaf kijiyega!” she gasps, her voice breaking as her face washes into a wave of unbridled embarrassment.
["Oh my god, I am so sorry!"]
She frantically shoves the tray onto the nearest counter space, stepping directly into my chest. Without a single thought for boundaries, she grabs the edge of her own silk dupatta, blindly pressing the fabric against my torso to aggressively wipe away the thick, spreading stain.
I am trying my absolute best not to scream out loud from the biting, agonizing sting of the hot tea blistering my skin, but the sheer sight of her—completely panicked, her eyes wide and desperately focused on my chest—completely paralyzes my lungs.
Before she can rub the fabric any deeper, my hand darts out.
I catch her by the wrist.
My fingers wrap securely around the delicate bone, my palm slightly squeezing the bangles resting against her skin until they let out a sharp, metallic chime. The movement arrests her entirely.
Sanaz snaps her head up, her breathing shallow and uneven as her eyes lock onto mine.
Well... damn.
The warm scent of ginger, tea, and her skin fills the narrow gap between us. I take a deep, stabilizing breath, consciously forcing my muscles to relax as she takes a small, flustered step backward, though my grip on her wrist doesn't loosen by an inch.
“Main theek hoon,” I whisper.
["I'm fine."]
Slowly, deliberately, I lean down, dropping my face directly to her height until my eyes are level with hers. She glares back at me, a dangerous, fiery defiance sparking behind her long lashes as she tries to reclaim her breathing.
A slow, teasing smirk pulls at my lips. “Aap theek ho, jaan?”
["Are you alright, darling?"]
“Pagal.”
["Crazy."]
She rolls her eyes, wrenching her wrist back from my grip. I let my fingers slip away, giving her space, but before I can even stand up straight, her hands are slamming right back onto my chest.
“Utariye ise,” she commands.
["Take it off."]
I usually keep the top three buttons of my kurta undone anyway, letting the heavy strands of my stacked silver chains catch the light against my chest.
I track her flustered expression, a smug grin forming on my face. “Utariye! Chhaale pad gaye toh mushkil hojayegi.”
["Take it off! If blisters form, it will be a nightmare to treat."]
Hehe.
The internal victory lap I'm running is ungodly. I smoothly shrug out of my heavy jacket, letting it drop to the kitchen counter, before peeling the wet, stained cotton of the kurta down past my shoulders.
I lean back against the marble, looking down at her with pure arrogance. “Aapko har waqt bahana chahiye hota hai mere jism ko—”
[“You always need an excuse to see my body—”]
SPLASH.
A violent, freezing shockwave of ice-cold water slams directly into my bare chest and right into my open, speaking mouth.
I choke, sputtering as the frigid liquid drips down my jaw and pools around my collarbones. I blink through the water droplets clinging to my eyelashes.
Sanaz is standing exactly two feet away, holding a completely emptied glass she must have snatched from the refrigerator door in a split second. Her expression is entirely deadpan, her chin tilted up.
The disrespect.
I wipe a hand across my soaking wet face, my jaw ticking as the freezing water battles the stinging heat of the tea on my skin.
“Upar waale kamre mein jao. Wahan AC hai,” she directs, as she sweeps the spilled liquid from the counter.
["Go to the room upstairs. There's an AC there."]
I don't argue. I turn and climb the wooden stairs, my fingers working to unhook the heavy, stacked silver chains from around my neck and chest. I push open the door to her bedroom and slip inside.
The space is... incredibly cute.
The direct, panoramic view of the dark Arabian Sea crashes right against the wide glass window. The bed is draped in delicate lace curtains, casting soft, filtered shadows across the floor.
But what arrests my attention completely is a massive... Tiger?
A giant plush tiger sits propped against the pillows, unceremoniously dressed in a casual cotton t-shirt and wearing heavy, glittering traditional jhumkas pinned through its ears.
Ridiculous.
I drop onto a low wooden stool, consciously avoiding her perfect bed so my damp clothes don't ruin the fabric. I slide the silver chains into my pocket, the cold metal clinking against my keys.
A few moments later, the door clicks open.
Sanaz returns, carrying a fresh ice pack, a tube of Neosporin, and a fresh tray holding two half-filled cups of tea—likely the unspilled leftovers she salvaged from the kitchen pot.
“Yeh lo, ise lagao,” she says, handing me the medical tube.
["Here, apply this."]
I twist the cap off, my lips unconsciously pursing into a slightly disappointed line. I thought she’d... never mind.
The transparent ointment keeps oozing out of the nozzle on its own, even without me squeezing the tube. Huh? I quickly twist the cap back on to stop the overflow, holding it out to return it to her.
“Rakh lo. Use karte rehna,” she notes casually, her eyes tracking the faint red mark on my skin.
["Keep it. Keep using it."]
I don't argue, sliding the medicine deep into my pocket right alongside my chains.
“Abhi bhi chai peene ka mann hai?” she asks, lifting a porcelain cup.
["Do you still feel like having tea?"]
I offer a nod.
She extends the cup toward me, but right as my fingers are about to close around the handle, she abruptly withdraws it for a fraction of a second, a fleeting hesitation flaring in her eyes, before finally letting me take it.
I lift the rim to my lips. The tea is thick, creamy, and holds that perfect, aromatic balance of sharp ginger and deep sweetness.
I love it. “Bohot achchi bani hai,” I mutter through the steam, my jaw tightening as I press the freezing ice pack firmly against my bare torso while the scalding, spicy tea slides smoothly down my throat.
[“It is very well made.”]
Sanaz offers a quiet nod, walking over to the wide window and leaning her shoulder against the frame, staring out at the darkening coast. “Kal tak mujhe shipment chahiye, Hamza. Time par nahi milne se Dawood ke aadmi shaq karte hain.”
["I need the shipment by tomorrow, Hamza. If it doesn't arrive on time, Dawood's men get suspicious."]
“Hojayega. Fikr matt karo,” I reply.
["It will be done. Don't worry."]
Once the cup is completely drained, I pull my ruined kurta back over my shoulders, layering the heavy jacket over my frame. Sanaz sets her empty cup on the windowsill, turning to face me.
I step directly into her space, standing tall in front of her.
We stare at each other.
Her dark eyes are tracing the lines of my face, reading me as if she is trying to decode every single lie hidden beneath my skin.
“Dhyaan se jaiyega,” she whispers softly.
["Go safely."]
I nod, reaching out to wrap my fingers around her hand. “Sanaz... akeli rehti ho. Lekin ab main bhi hoon. Bejhijhak call kijiyega.”
["Sanaz... you live alone. But now, I'm here too. Call me without hesitation."]
I squeeze her hand gently, feeling the delicate warmth of her palm.
Sanaz doesn't pull away. She simply looks up at me, a tiny yet breathtakingly beautiful smile pulling at her lips.
The drive back to Lyari doesn't feel long at all.
I... already miss her presence.
The realization is a dangerous weakness for a man in my position, yet it brings a subtle, unscripted smile to my face as I navigate the dark streets.
I park my car outside my compound and clear the security checkpoint, stepping into the dim, shadow-drenched space of my living room. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, the burning, chaotic skyline of Karachi stretches out below. Entirely different from the peaceful coast of Old Clifton.
Rizwan is hunched over the coffee table, his eyes locked onto the glowing terminal as he analyzes the encrypted border shipment parameters I forwarded earlier.
I reach into my pocket, pull out the tube of Neosporin, and casually toss it into his lap. “Yeh le.”
He looks up, blinking in confusion as his fingers close around the tube. “Tune mere liye laya?”
["You brought this for me?"]
I sink into the leather cushions beside him, striking a match to light a fresh Treasure London cigarette. “Sanaz ne diya.”
["Sanaz gave it."]
Rizwan twists the cap off, completely misinterpreting the gesture, and begins gently dabbing the transparent ointment over the tender bump on the crown of his skull.
He pauses, his gaze tracking over my form. “Bhai, tune mujhe gaadi se utaar ke yeh sab kiya?” He points the tube directly at my chest.
My kurta is still visibly damp from the water splash, the fabric clinging to my skin where the transparent cream makes my chest glisten in the low light.
["Brother, you kicked me out of the car just to do all this?"]
I blow a thick stream of smoke toward the glass, keeping my expression entirely deadpan. “Zyada matt soch, lambi kahani hai. Tune woh sab padha jo maine bheja tha?”
["Don't overthink it, it's a long story. Did you read through everything I sent?"]
Rizwan nods, shifting back into operational mode as he taps the screen. “Sabki intel bhej di hai.”
["I've sent everyone's intelligence manifests."]
“Use adrak waali chai pasand hai,” I murmur into the quiet room, my eyes tracking the curling smoke.
["She likes ginger tea."]
Rizwan’s fingers freeze. He turns his head slowly, staring at me like I've lost my mind. “Bhai... yeh intel nahi hai.”
["Brother... that isn't intelligence."]
“Just observation,” I mutter back, entirely unbothered.
Rizwan lets out a heavy sigh, closing the master file. “Elections ka result hai agle mahine, uspar dhyaan de. Kal firse milne jayega?”
["The election results are next month, focus on that. Are you going to see her again tomorrow?"]
I offer a slow, definitive nod. “Celebration rally mein bhi bulaunga.”
["I'll invite her to the celebration rally too."]
“Pakka MMP jitegi?” Rizwan presses, assessing the political risks.
["Is it guaranteed that the MMP will win?"]
“Zarur jitegi. Nawaz Shafiq do baar jeet chuka hai,” I state coldly.
["They will definitely win. Nawaz Shafiq has already won twice."]
Let the elections come. Let the syndicate move. I will bring her straight into the center of the roar, surrounded by thousands of my men and the flags of the winning regime.
She has to feel THAT SHE'S SPECIAL.
[Master list]
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Meera’s voice cuts through the quiet of the dark pre-deportation holding room.
I offer a small nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the cold metal surface of the desk between us as my trembling fingers restlessly fiddle with the stiff fabric of my dress.
She sits directly in front of me, her posture rigid, a faint, encouraging smile touching her lips that doesn't quite reach the sharp eyes. “Yaad rakhna tumhara mission sirf tumhara nahi hai, Bharat mein rehne waale sabhi insanon ka hai.”
["Remember, your mission is not just yours, it belongs to every single human living in India."]
Meera pushes a thick stack of finalized intelligence documents across the table, topped by a crisp, pristine green booklet. A Pakistani passport.
I slowly slide the cover open. My own eyes stare right back at me from a tiny, starkly lit square photograph on the identification page. Next to the picture, stamped in bold ink, is a completely foreign name.
Sanaz Siddiqui.
“Iss naam ka matlab jaanti ho?” Meera questions softly. ["Do you know the meaning of this name?"]
“Full of grace... Full of pride,” I mutter under my breath, my voice small. It’s a Persian name. A beautiful, delicate name.
Meera offers a slow, dignified nod. “Correct. Shaan se jeena hai tumhe. Sabke saath itni dhal jao ki koi tumhare mukaam tak nahi pohonch paaye.”
["Correct. You have to live with pride. Blend in so deeply with everyone that no one can ever trace your level."]
I stare down at the counterfeit green booklet. “Mujhe nahi pata aisa hoga ya nahi. Mere jaise aur bhi assets hain.”
["I don't know if I'll be able to do that or not. There are others like me as well."]
“Hain,” Meera concedes softly, reaching across the desk to place her hand over mine, “Lekin meri baat ko samjho. Tum successfully infiltrate kar lo, aur humein khabar pohonchati raho, yehi humari jeet hai.”
["There are. But understand my point. You successfully infiltrate, and keep sending us intelligence, that alone is our victory."]
Hmm. I quiet the panic in my throat. “Samajh gayi.”
The script is already etched into my brain like software. Get into the high-society medical institutions of Karachi, use the stethoscope as an all-access pass to slip close to the syndicated operatives and militant leadership, and funnel every single whisper back to the Intelligence Bureau channel.
Meera suddenly shifts her weight, her fingers squeezing my hand with a sudden alertness. “Sanyal sir aa rahe hain. He makes sure to meet everyone before they leave.”
["Sanyal sir is coming. He makes sure to meet everyone before they leave."]
I look up, the heavy humidity of the Delhi basement settling over my neck. “Kyun?”
["Why?"]
The dry, sharp clear of a throat breaks the silence from the threshold before Meera can answer.
Ajay Sanyal is here.
He steps out of the corridor shadows and into the warm cone of our desk lamp, a man dressed in a sharp, unglamorous grey bureau suit, his eyes obscured behind thick wire-rimmed glasses, a half-bald head, and a stiff, traditional mustache. The Chief.
Meera and I instantly begin to rise from our chairs, but he casually waves a hand, beckoning us to remain seated as he leans against the edge of the adjacent filing cabinet.
“I make sure to meet everyone before they leave so I could remember the faces of the weapons I've made.”
He doesn't look at me like a daughter of the soil; he looks at me like a high-precision firearm being shipped across the border to fire a single, lifetime shot.
I tilt my chin up, staring straight through the glare of his glasses. “How many faces do you remember, sir?”
Sanyal doesn't flinch. “Plenty.”
I don't offer a reply.
“Haar nahi manna,” the Chief commands softly, extending his arm forward, his fingers curling into a tight, solid fist. “Jai Hind.”
["Never accept defeat. Victory to India."]
A faint smile touches the corners of my lips as I look at the hand that just signed away my identity.
I lift my hand, my small fist bumping lightly against his knuckle. “Jai Hind.”
The flight from New Delhi to Afghanistan is short.
The second we ground on the tarmac, the transformation begins. In the cramped, dimly lit airport restroom, I strip away the last remnants of my civilian life.
I change into a simple black kurti and palazzo, methodically wrapping a dark dupatta tightly around my shoulders and head, pulling the fabric high over the bridge of my nose to leave nothing but my eyes exposed to the harsh, dry desert air.
आधी बातें आँखें बोले
बाकी आधी ख़ामोशी कह दे
हमज़ुबाँ की तलाश है
(Let the eyes speak half the truths,
Let the silence say the rest,
I am in search of one who speaks my language.)
I pack my existence into a single canvas travel bag.
The change of clothes, the medical degrees, the counterfeit transcripts, the forged green passport... and tucked deep into the interior velvet pocket, a thin, golden necklace.
It’s a fragile, unstylish piece of old jewelry—the one from my mother's wedding day, gifted by my father. I trace the cold metal with my thumb, a single stray tear burning down my cheek before I viciously wipe it away.
The girl who cried is dead. I check out of the local transit hotel, stepping into the crowded, chaotic streets to blend seamlessly with the sea of moving burqas.
ना तो कारवां की तलाश है
ना तो हमसफ़र की तलाश है
(I seek no caravan,
I seek no companion on this road.)
An unregistered, matte-black helicopter waits for us in a deserted, sun-bleached clearing on the outskirts. The rotors scream against the wind, and within a few grueling hours of turbulent flying over the rugged mountain ridges, we are dropped near the volatile Pakistan-Afghanistan border crossing.
The heat is suffocating, thick with dust and the smell of diesel. A line of moving bodies presses toward the chain-link checkpoint. The border guard's eyes are sharp, and entirely desensitized as he snaps his fingers toward me.
“Parda hataiye,” he commands flatly, his hand extended for my documentation.
["Remove the veil."]
I hand over the pristine green booklet stamped. I pull the dupatta down from my face for a few measured seconds, letting him scan the features of the weapon Sanyal sir built.
मेरा शौक़ तेरा दीदार है
यही उम्र भर की तलाश है
(My only passion is a glimpse of you,
This is my lifelong search.)
Thud.
The heavy ink stamp hits the page.
The identity is locked.
A rusted, mud-splattered transit bus idles in the gravel lot just past the gate, its exhaust coughing dark plumes of smoke into the evening sky. I approach the open door, lowering my voice into a soft, localized dialect. “Bhaiya, yeh bus kahan jayegi?”
["Brother, where will this bus go?"]
“Karachi,” the driver grunts back without looking up.
I climb the metal steps, finding a seat by the scratched glass window as the vehicle violently shakes to life, launching itself down the long, starlit desert highway toward the coast.
By the time the bus grinds to a screeching halt, the deep indigo of evening has completely settled over the sprawling, chaotic labyrinth of the city.
I step down into the humid air, immediately pulling the black dupatta back over my nose and mouth to shield myself from the prying eyes of the metropolitan grid.
Pulling out my encrypted mobile phone, I pull up a single, low-resolution photograph saved on the secure drive, the visual coordinates of my local contact point.
The KK Pharmacy.
I step through the threshold of the shop, leaving my locked bag safely near the entrance. Near the front glass counter, a few regular customers are quietly clearing their bills, while a middle-aged man sits behind a flickering laptop screen near the back shelves, his eyes sharp and calculating.
He notices my frame, his voice dropping into a hospitable local cadence. “Haan ji, madam, kya chahiye aapko?”
["Yes, madam, what do you need?"]
I approach the desk, keeping the black dupatta held firmly over my nose and mouth. Without a word, I pull out my phone and slide the screen forward, showing him a specific, high-resolution picture of a medical prescription saved on my secure drive.
The man’s posture immediately straightens. He offers a tight nod, gesturing toward the back door. “Andar aao.”
["Come inside."]
I follow him through the narrow storage corridor and down a flight of concrete stairs into a quiet, heavily fortified basement. The room is lined with wooden crates and filing cabinets. He turns to face me, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Naam?”
["Name?"]
“Sanaz.”
“Naam.” he repeats, his tone turning rigid.
“Sanaz Siddiqui. Lahore, Pakistan.”
A flicker of validation clears his eyes. Khalid nods, stepping over to a rusted iron safe in the corner and pulling out a thick, official stack of papers along with a heavy bundle of local Pakistani currency from the drawer.
“Aapka admission Jinnah Sindh University mein kara diya gaya hai. Paas hi ke ek PG mein aapka ghar hoga,” he announces flatly, transferring the documents and the cash directly into my hands. “Main aapse har hafte ek din ke liye milne aata rahunga. Aapka chacha bankar. Kya bulaogi mujhe?”
["Your admission has been secured at Jinnah Sindh University. Your accommodation will be at a nearby PG. I will keep coming to meet you once every week. As your uncle. What will you call me?"]
I look at the official university enrollment forms bearing my forged square photograph, my jaw setting beneath the veil. “Chacha jaan.”
["Uncle dear."]
A faint, proud smile finally breaks through Khalid’s stern expression, and he offers a reassuring pat on my arm. “Chalo. Safar bohot lamba hai.”
["Come on. The journey is very long."]
“Five star ratings zarur dijiyega, madam,” Khalid says flatly as we step back out into the main pharmacy storefront, his voice instantly sliding back into the loud, welcoming cadence of a regular merchant for the sake of the lingering customers.
["Please make sure to give a five-star rating, madam."]
I offer a small, polite nod beneath my dupatta. The slither has officially begun.
Lyari General Hospital, Karachi — 2009.
The clatter of the auto-rickshaw vibrates through my spine as it makes a sharp, swaying turn into the entryway of Lyari General Hospital. It’s the final week of my clinical internship here.
Just as my auto pulls up to the concrete curb, a heavy, dust-splattered military-grade jeep aggressively cuts through the traffic, its massive tires screeching as it turns toward the private rear lot.
My eyes instantly narrow through the window. That vehicle. I pay the driver, quickly stepping onto the crowded veranda to escape the blistering midday heat.
As I push through the heavy double doors of the general ward, an older, senior nurse carrying a stack of patient charts immediately spots my frame and flags me down.
“Arey Sanaz, tum?” she addresses me, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “Hamza dhundh raha tha tumhe.”
["Oh Sanaz, you're here? Hamza was looking for you."]
A cold flicker runs through my chest, pulling my white lab coat over my shoulders as I slide into my small examination cubicle. “Achcha, mujhe kyun?”
["Oh, why me?"]
“Ab toh yeh baat Hamza khud hi jaane,” she says with a knowing, slightly amused shake of her head. “Waise maine use bata diya tum shayad kisi aur hospital mein ho. Mujhe laga woh tumhara akhri din tha yahan.”
["Well, only Hamza would know that. Anyway, I told him you might be at a different hospital. I thought it was your last day here."]
I offer her a tight, grateful smile as I reach for my stethoscope. “Sahi kiya.”
["You did the right thing."]
The second she leaves the cubicle, I let out a long, silent breath, organizing the medical files on my desk.
I genuinely hope that man doesn't try to track me down through the local registers. The sheer weight of the way he was staring at me through his blood-matted eyelashes last week—leaning his heavy forehead completely into my hands while I pulled the sutures through his skin—had me intensely irritated.
He is a volatile, dangerous underworld variable, and the last thing my deep-cover mission needs is an eccentric Lyari rebel disrupting me.
National Stadium, Karachi — 2011.
A low-frequency hum vibrates through the encrypted phone in my palm. I slide the screen open, the text glowing against the dim shadows of the lower stands.
[ENCRYPTED CHANNEL — ROUTE 07]
MS: Proud of you, Sanaz.
SS: Thank you.
AS: Good luck with the next phase.
SS: Thank you.
I immediately lock the device, slipping it deep into the interior pocket of my black graduation gown.
I look out across the massive stadium.
The sweeping concrete tiers are almost completely deserted now, the thousands of vibrant, cheering families having already dissolved into the Karachi streets. Only a few scattered maintenance workers remain on the grass, slowly clearing the leftover confetti and barricades.
I stand alone near the railing, the stiff black mortarboard hat resting heavy against my hair. This is my triumph, and there isn't a single soul in this country who can know my real name to celebrate it.
“Maaf karna, beti, kaam ke wajah se late hogaya.”
["Forgive me, daughter, I got late because of work."]
I turn to see Khalid Kashmiri entering the section, his posture casual, perfectly mimicking the hurried, apologetic gait of a doting local relative.
I offer a small, reassuring shake of my head, adjusting the tassel on my black hat. “Koi baat nahi.”
["It doesn't matter."]
He steps into my space, pulling me into a firm, warm embrace, and I hold onto his shoulder for a beat longer than necessary. In this entire hostile province, he is the only fragile anchor I have to the basement where my sacrifice began.
Releasing the hug, he guides me quietly back down the concrete steps toward his sedan idling in the VIP lot. As we reach the vehicle, he reaches into the back seat and lifts a massive, beautifully wrapped cardboard box, placing the heavy weight directly into my arms.
I raise my eyebrows, balancing the parcel against my chest. “Isme kya hai?”
["What is in this?"]
Khalid offers a slow, affectionate smile, “Taufa.”
["A gift."]
I slice through the heavy adhesive tape, flipping the large cardboard flaps open. Nestled perfectly inside custom-molded velvet slots is a chillingly beautiful, state-of-the-art arsenal disguised as a professional milestone.
A high-end Littmann electronic stethoscope gleaming in polished matte-black and surgical silver. A heavy titanium surgical tool set containing high-yield scalpels and retractors.
And resting right beside the steel, is a compact, beautifully weighted silver handgun. Tucked into the interior lid are the official Pakistani administrative permits, completely forged and stamped under the local grid.
For "Defense," the fine print reads.
I can’t help but let out a genuine chuckle, my fingers lightly tracing the cool metal frame of the weapon. “Shukriya, chacha jaan. Mujhe bohot pasand aaya.”
["Thank you, Uncle dear. I liked it very much."]
Khalid steps smoothly into the driver's seat, closing his door as the engine rumbles to life.
“Highly placed medical professionals go anywhere they want without suspicion,” he states, his voice a low that cuts right through the low hum of the air conditioner. “Militant safehouses, high-ranking bureaucratic lounges, underworld grids... everyone gets sick. Everyone needs a doctor they can buy. You are about to become that doctor.”
I offer a slow nod.
As the dark Karachi streets roll past the tinted windows, I pack the titanium toolset and the medical licenses back into the custom casing. But I leave the silver firearm in my lap.
I pull out my smartphone, angling the front-facing camera upward into the dim starlight of the cabin.
Holding the sleek silver frame up to my face, I press my lips into a playful, mocking pout directly against the cold mouth of the barrel, winking one dark eye at the lens before snapping the shutter.
South City Hospital, Clifton, Karachi — 2011.
The South City Hospital is an absolute world away from the chaotic, blood-slicked triage rooms of other hospitals. The air conditioning hums at a freezing frequency, the floors are polished to a mirror-like sheen, and the elite clientele ensures my civilian cover remains completely flawless.
For the past few months, the routine has been smooth. I’ve shifted my base of operations into Khalid uncle’s old residential house, the proximity drastically cuts down my commute and secures my communications grid.
I’ve treated a handful of high-profile bureaucrats and corporate elites already, but establishing deep, operational proximity to them is proving much harder than the handlers back in Delhi anticipated. They enter my ward as patients, wrap themselves in strict confidentiality, and leave the second their prescriptions are signed.
I am quietly charting files in the cool sanctuary of the examination room when the heavy door swings open. Two men stride into the private ward. I immediately straighten my posture, sliding my new black-and-silver stethoscope around my neck as I rise to meet them.
“Khushamdid, kya takleef hai aapko?” I address them. ["Welcome, what seems to be the trouble?"]
“Ji mujhe nahi, inhe,” the man in front replies anxiously, his arms carefully shifting to reveal a tiny, fragile girl child cradled against his shoulder. “Hum safar kar rahe the aur inhe bohot zyada ultiyan hone lagi.”
["Well, not to me, to her. We were traveling and she started vomiting severely."]
I offer a reassuring nod, my pen immediately scratching against the medical intake chart to document the onset of symptoms. Stepping forward, I gently guide the weak, lethargic child onto the examination bed.
I press the cold silver diaphragm of the stethoscope against her tiny chest, carefully monitoring the rapid, shallow cadence of her heartbeat and the subtle rattle in her breathing.
As I adjust her posture, I note the distinct, upward slant of her eyes, the low-set ears, and the characteristically small, shortened neck.
“Down syndrome hai inhe?” I question softly, keeping my eyes on the guardian.
["Does she have Down syndrome?"]
The man nods quickly, his face tight with exhaustion and worry.
The second man, shifting uncomfortably behind his thick wire-rimmed glasses, speaks up. “Doctor, aap jald hi dawai likh dijiye. Humein kahin zaruri taur par jaana hai.”
["Doctor, please write the medicine quickly. We have to go somewhere urgently."]
I slowly lower my pen, my eyes narrowing. “Severe dehydration in Down syndrome patients can trigger rapid electrolyte collapse. If you put her back in a moving vehicle right now, her throat will constrict from the stress. She needs an immediate intravenous line and at least four hours of strict clinical observation.”
The man in glasses instantly closes his mouth, his defensive posture fracturing.
Beside the bed, the man holding the child offers a slow, somber nod of compliance. He reaches up, removing his dark black aviator shades to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes.
He leans slightly toward his companion, his voice a whisper.
“Mir, tu Bade Sahab se mil. Main shaam tak aunga.”
["Mir, you go meet the Big Boss. I will come by evening."]
Mir offers a tight nod and immediately slips out of the private ward, his boots clicking rapidly down the polished corridor.
I turn back, my pen poised over the crisp white paper as I continue digging into their profile. “Naam?”
["Name?"]
“Safeena Iqbal.”
“Umar?”
["Age?"]
“Teen.”
["Three."]
“Aap itni chhoti bachchi ko apne saath kyun le jaa rahe the?” I question smoothly, as I check the child's pulse once more. “Ghar par koi khayal rakhne wala nahi hai?”
["Why were you taking such a small child with you? Is there no one at home to take care of her?"]
He shakes his head, a heavy, exhausted shadow falling over his harsh features. “Aaya hai, lekin aaj woh nahi aa paayi.”
["There is a nanny, but she couldn't come today."]
“Aur ammi?” I ask casually. ["And her mother?"]
“Nahi hai.”
["She isn't there."]
His words makes my pen stop completely against the paper. The tip leaves a small, dark ink bleeding spot on the white page. I lift my head, staring directly into his unblinking gaze for one long, silent second.
I don't say a single word. I simply drop my eyes back to the sheet. “Guardians name.”
The man adjusts the sleeping girl against his chest.
“Major Humaid Iqbal.”
What.
Is he the…
My fingers tighten around the barrel of the pen. I force a slow, composed nod. “Woh aapke saath kon the?” I ask. “Kaafi jaldi mein lag rahe the. Unhe samajhna chahiye aapki haalat.”
["Who was that with you? He seemed to be in a big hurry. He should understand your situation."]
Major Iqbal lets out an exhale, his broad shoulders shifting under his jacket, “Woh aise hi hain. Sajid Mir, jaanti hogi?”
["He's just like that. Sajid Mir, you must know him?"]
Yes. Every single operative across the border knows that name. It is the same Major Iqbal of ISI. The high-ranking military counter-intelligence architect whose signatures and shadow logistics sit on the absolute highest priority files in the New Delhi basement.
The man behind the orchestration of the 26/11 attacks. And his closest associate, the man who just walked out of my clinic with a pair of glasses, is the primary operational link to the entire regional militant network.
“Kaafi suna hai aapke baare mein,” I murmur softly, “Aapki marzi ke bagair Pakistan ka ek patta bhi nahi hil sakta.”
["I have heard a lot about you. Without your permission, not even a single leaf can move in Pakistan."]
Iqbal simply nods, his expression remaining entirely flat, and exhausted. He doesn't preen under the flattery. He doesn't care about the heavy honorifics or the terrifying weight of his own shadow legacy anymore; right now, he is just a man watching the, slow rise and fall of his daughter's chest.
“Khair...” I whisper.
I tear the official prescription sheet from the pad and hand the paper directly across the space into his calloused palm. “Ise third floor waale counter par dikhayega. Wahan par aapko saare medicines mil jayengi. Aur dhyaan rahe, bachchi ka rest karna zaruri hai.”
["Anyway... Show this at the third-floor counter. You will get all the medicines there. And remember, it's critical for the child to rest."]
Our fingers briefly brush against the paper—the R&AW phantom and the ISI mastermind, completely bound together by a medical script.
For an entire week, Major Iqbal subtly disrupts his high-ranking military schedule, personally visiting my private Clifton ward every single afternoon to analyze the child's fluctuating lab sheets and electrolyte reports.
But my real victory is engineered through the child. Safeena grows intensely attached to my presence. She learns to associate the sharp, stinging bite of the intravenous injections with the immediate, sweet reward that follows, the premium chocolates I always keep hidden in my lab coat pocket specifically for her.
Within a month, the weekly hospital checkups naturally transition into a highly exclusive, private domestic arrangement. I begin visiting Major Iqbal's house twice a month for routine checkups.
During my second home visit, I am sitting on the carpeted floor of the inner sunroom, playfully snatching a chocolate bar out of Safeena's tiny hands while she giggles frantically, trying to climb over my knees to reclaim it.
“Bade Sahab ke private doctor ko kisine khatam kar diya,” Khanani rasps out, “Ab ek kamyab doctor dhundhna mushkil hai.”
["Someone has assassinated the Big Boss's private doctor. Finding a competent, trustworthy doctor now is going to be incredibly difficult."]
“Ek suggestion hai mere paas.”
["I have a suggestion."]
“Kaun?”
“Humsheera.”
["Sister."]
I smoothly rise from the carpet, gently sliding the chocolate back into Safeena’s hands to quiet her. I smooth down the front of my kurti, and lean against the framework of the study door with a warm innocent smile.
“Kya hua, Iqbal bhai?”
["What happened, Brother Iqbal?"]
“Inse milo, yeh hain Javed Khanani.”
[Meet him, he's Javed Khanani.]
I lift my hands with elegant docility, offering a soft gesture of reverence. “Salam.”
“Sanaz, tumhare liye ek kaafi badhiya mauka hai apna hunar dikhane ka,” Iqbal continues smoothly, his large hand lightly patting the adjacent sofa cushion to invite me into the inner circle.
["Sanaz, there is a very great opportunity for you to showcase your skill."]
I step forward, as I choose to sit directly opposite the financial mastermind. “Oh?”
“Agar tum chaho toh tumhe haspatal ke lambe kaam se nikala jaa sakta hai. Aur dugna paise bhi milenge,” Khanani speaks up.
["If you wish, you can be removed from the long hours of hospital work. And you will receive double the pay."]
I let out a soft, breathy laugh, “Mazak kar rahe hain aap.”
["You must be joking."]
Iqbal slowly shakes his head, “Mazak karna bhool gaya hoon. I'm serious. Aur tumhari fikr bhi karta hoon.”
["I have forgotten how to joke. I'm serious. And I care about your well-being too."]
My playful demeanor drops instantly.
“Humein ek achche doctor ki talash hai. Puri tarah se private aur secure. Lekin fikr matt karo, aapki security ka pura dhyaan rakha jayega.”
["We are in search of a good doctor. Completely private and secure. But do not worry, your security will be fully taken care of."]
I steady the rhythm of my pulse, keeping my hands perfectly still in my lap as I look him dead in the eyes, “Achcha... Toh kaun hai mere client?”
["I see... So who is my client?"]
“Chalo, tumhe milwata hoon,” Major Iqbal commands flatly, turning on his heel to guide me toward the exit.
["Come, let me introduce you."]
“Oye bhosdike Major, kahan marne jaa raha hai?”
[“Hey idiot Major, where are you going to die?”]
The coarse roar of his father’s voice suddenly erupts. Iqbal doesn't even flinch. His posture remains completely rigid, paying absolutely zero attention to the old man's vulgar outburst as he keeps his focus pinned to the mission grid. “Safia.”
With a quick, silent nod, the nanny immediately steps out of the shadow corridor, gently taking a now-sleeping Safeena from his arms to carry her off to the nursery.
The ride back to Clifton is a tense blur.
White House 13.
We step through the heavy double oak doors. Suspended directly above the grand marble foyer is a massive, crystal-cut chandelier, easily as large and heavy as a structural car, casting a brilliant, cold glare over the polished floors.
Before I am allowed to take a single step toward the interior parlor, a deadpan security unit forces me through an invasive physical checkup, testing every seam of my clothes and checking my bag before finally stepping back to let me pass.
We settle onto the plush, expensive leather sofas in the main receiving lounge.
Thud... Thud... Thud.
My eyes dart upward, tracking a thick figure slowly descending the marble steps. His movements carry a heavy age, yet his presence radiates a terrifying gravity.
A thick, burning cigar rests between his knuckles, a dense stream of grey smoke obscuring his features, a stark, iconic mustache cutting across his severe jawline.
Major Iqbal and Khanani instantly stand up, their postures shifting into a deferential code of respect. I am the last one to rise from the leather, the air completely dying inside my throat as I offer a low, barely audible whisper.
“Assalam walaikum...”
“Dawood.” The man himself speaks.
“Ibrahim.” Iqbal adds seamlessly.
“Kaskar...” I finish the line beneath my breath.
The trinity is complete. I am standing inside the inner sanctum of the D-Company, looking directly at the face of the most wanted ghost on the planet.
Major Iqbal glances sideways at my pale expression, offering a low, entirely serious reassurance. “Ghabrao matt, kaafi achche insaan hain.”
["Don't be scared, he's a very good human being."]
I force a stiff, compliant swallow down my dry throat, my fingers tightening against the hidden strap of my bag as I stare into the golden-rimmed glare of the devil’s eyes.
Oh, really?
“Bhai, yeh hai Sanaz. Kaafi achchi doctor hai. Aap aankh band karke bharosa kar sakte hain,” Major Iqbal’s voice carries an uncharacteristic warmth
["Brother, this is Sanaz. She's a very good doctor. You can trust her with your eyes closed."]
A silent, uniform-clad staff member glides into the room, quietly placing a silver tray loaded with steaming tea and porcelain saucers onto the mahogany table before stepping back into the shadows.
Dawood slowly tilts his heavy head, his dark sunglasses catching the sharp, cold refraction of the car-sized chandelier hanging above us. His gaze drills directly into my profile, heavy with decades of unadulterated suspicion. “Kya qualifications hai aapki?”
["What are your qualifications?"]
I don't shift my weight. “Jinnah Sindh Medical University se MBBS kiya hai, Bhai. Gold medalist hoon clinical pathology mein,” I reply smoothly, looking straight through his tinted lenses. “Pre-graduation training Lyari General Hospital, Karachi government hospitals aur bhi bohot jagahon se kiya hai. Post-graduation training South City Hospital se chal rahi hai, and I specialize in advanced critical care and internal medicine.”
["I did my MBBS from Jinnah Sindh Medical University, Brother. I'm a gold medalist in clinical pathology. My pre-graduation training was at Lyari General Hospital, Karachi government hospitals, and several other places. My post-graduation training is ongoing at South City Hospital, and I specialize in advanced critical care and internal medicine."]
The old monster offers a slow nod. From this close proximity, I note the coarse, brittle streaks of silver and white bleeding through his dark hair, and the distinct tremors pulsing through his fingers as they rest near his cigar.
He isn't that old to be this physically compromised. There is a deep rot eating at him from the inside out.
“Safeena ko sirf ek hafte mein theek kar diya. Kaafi achche se dekhbhal karti hai,” Major Iqbal chimes in. ["She cured Safeena in just one week. She takes care of things very well."]
Dawood’s jaw sets under his mustache. “Kahan rehti ho?”
["Where do you live?"]
“Ji South Karachi. Chacha ke saath.”
["South Karachi. With my uncle."]
“Khandan mein aur koi nahi?”
["No one else in the family?"]
“Hai. Ammi Abbu Dubai mein rehte hain,” I weave the fabrication flawlessly, “Mujhe marizon ki seva karna achcha lagta hai, isilye yahan reh gayi.”
["There are. My mother and father live in Dubai. I just love serving patients, that's why I stayed behind here."]
He tilts his head a fraction lower, “Yeh kaam toh aap Dubai mein bhi kar sakti thi?”
["You could have done this work in Dubai as well?"]
I offer a measured nod. “Haan. Lekin main iss mitti ki shirkat hoon. Pakistan ki bhalai ke liye mujhe jo bhi karna pade, mujhe manzur hai.”
["Yes. But I am a partner to this soil. Whatever I have to do for the sake of Pakistan, I accept it."]
Dawood's mouth loosen, a satisfied smile touches his peeling lips.
Got him.
“Kaafi wafadar ho,” Dawood replies, his voice dragging heavily through the dense cloud of cigar smoke. “Kya aisi hi wafadari humare saath nibha sakti ho?”
["You are quite loyal. Can you maintain this same loyalty with us?"]
“Beshak,” I reply instantly, without a single millisecond of hesitation. ["Of course."]
“Theek hai fir. Apni khwahishen zahir karo,” the old monster commands, leaning back into his leather throne as his trembling, spotted fingers tap against the armrest.
“Meeting ke liye aapko har waqt taiyyar rehna padega. Aap mere cardiologists aur neurologists ke under kaam karengi. Lekin saari baatein personal rahengi. Badle mein aapko clifton mein rehne ke liye ghar aur ek manpasand car di jayegi. Aur jo bhi aap chahen.”
["Fine then. State your desires. You will have to be ready for meetings at any time. You will work under my cardiologists and neurologists. But everything discussed will remain strictly confidential. In return, you will be given a house to live in Clifton, a car of your choice, and whatever else you want."]
I offer a slow nod. “Manzoor hai. Mujhe Bentley bohot pasand hai. I can't wait to take care of you, Bade Sahab.”
["I accept. I like Bentleys very much. I can't wait to take care of you, Big Boss."]
A dry, genuinely amused chuckle escapes past his frosted mustache. Dawood dips his burning cigarette into the crystal ashtray, “Honest girl. I like it. Aajiz hone ka natak nahi karti.”
["Honest girl. I like it. She doesn't put on a drama of being humble."]
The official non-disclosure medical contracts are finalized, assigning me to a strict twice-a-week rotation of White House 13, supplemented by sporadic consultations at South City Hospital.
The rewards of the deception are immense.
On the coast of Clifton, a luxury stone house overlooking the sea is quietly being cleared and furnished with premium interior stock to host my new base of operations.
More importantly, Dawood personally hands me the unilateral administrative license to manage the exclusive import of his foreign medicines.
I am in the middle of sorting through my room at the old safehouse, packing the final remnants of my civilian uniform to officially relocate to the Clifton estate, when a familiar shadow breaks the light.
“Kuch bhul toh nahi rahi?” Khalid uncle’s voice interrupts the silence of the bedroom. [“Are you forgetting something?”]
I turn around to find him holding a large, soft tiger plushie—the exact one he had tracked down and bought for me months ago when I had broken character for a single fraction of a second and admitted how desperately I missed the small comforts of my real home in India.
A soft, genuine smile finally breaks across my face, and I step forward, taking the massive plushie into my arms and crushing it against my chest. “Ise kaise bhul sakti hoon, yeh toh meri dost hai.”
["How can I forget this? She is my friend."]
Khalid lets out an affectionate chuckle, leaning down to help me press the remaining medical files into the heavy travel bags. “Apna aur apne dost ka dhyaan rakhna. Call ya fir message karte rehna. Agli baar Dawood se kab mil rahi ho?”
["Take care of yourself and your friend. Keep calling or messaging. When are you meeting Dawood next?"]
“Agle hafte,” I reply flatly, “Chacha... Mujhe dimethylmercury chahiye.”
["Next week. Uncle... I need dimethylmercury."]
Khalid’s posture instantly stiffens. He stops short, straightening his spine as he slowly sits down on the edge of the mattress, “Woh toh pehle se hi bohot bimaar hai na?”
["He's already very sick, isn't he?"]
I step over, settling onto the mattress directly beside him, “Hai. Maine uske bohot purane medical records check kiye. Kuch 80s-90s ke time ke. Reports mein thallium ke traces the.”
["He is. I checked his very old medical records. Somewhere from the 80s-90s era. There were traces of thallium in the reports."]
Khalid raises a sharp, stunned eyebrow, “Kisi first-generation spy ka kaam hai.”
["It's the work of a first-generation spy."]
I offer a solemn nod of validation. “Haan. Uske baad Dawood ne security aur bhi tight kardi hai. Lekin symptoms abhi bhi dikhte hain, jaise uske haath kaapte hain, jaise uski aankein andar dhas chuki hai.”
["Yes. Dawood tightened security significantly after that. But the symptoms are still visible, like how his hands shake, how his eyes have sunken inside."]
“Magar Sanaz,” Khalid warns, reaching out to firmly grab my arm, his eyes heavy with a rare terror for my safety. “Dimethylmercury is extremely poisonous. Tumhare jaan ka bhi khatra hai.”
["But Sanaz. Dimethylmercury is extremely poisonous. Your own life is in danger."]
I look past his shoulder, tracking the dark, shifting shadows of the Karachi skyline through the windowpane, “Chinta matt kijiye.”
["Don't worry."]
Inside the cold shadows of the old stone Victorian house, I stand over the workbench, wearing two thick layers of specialized protective gloves, my fingers vibrating with an involuntary tremor.
The danger in the room is invisible and absolute. Sitting in the center of the clean surface is a tiny, unmarked glass vial containing the altered dimethylmercury.
Directly beside it rests a single, unsealed softgel medical capsule, the exact daily maintenance pill I had meticulously slipped out of Dawood's mansion during my last rotation.
I uncushion the micro-syringe. I draw up one single, microscopic droplet of the translucent toxin. The needle tip punctures the soft outer layer of the gel capsule with a faint click, and I depress the plunger, injecting the compound directly into the core before sealing the membrane.
I slide the lethal capsule back into the primary prescription bottle, mixing it seamlessly among the identical ordinary pills. I let out a long, shuddering sigh, clearing the chemical apparatus from the table, stripping off the protective layers, and tearing the respirator mask from my face.
The execution is loaded.
Dawood Ibrahim lies propped up against the expensive linen pillows of his bed, the morning starlight filtering through the heavy drapes.
I arrange the imported medicine bottles across the silver bedside tray, positioning the modified container right at the front. I step toward the edge of the mattress, gently sliding the fabric sleeve of his gown upward to wrap the blood-pressure cuff around his thick arm.
“Yeh lijiye, sab ek saath lena hai,” I instruct softly
["Here, take this, you have to take them all together."]
The old monster lifts the glass with his trembling, spotted fingers, tilting his head back to swallow the lethal pill without a single fraction of suspicion.
He sets the crystal back down, his dark, heavy eyelids fluttering shut as a rare shadow of absolute relief settles over his weathered features.
“Kaafi achcha mehsus hota hai jab tum aati ho. Iqbal sahi kehta tha,” he murmurs into the quiet room, his voice carrying the raspy exhaustion of a dying empire.
He settles his head back into the pillows, “Aankh band karke bharosa kar sakta HOON AAP PAR.”
["I feel quite good when you come. Iqbal was right... I can trust you with my eyes closed."]
Masterlist.
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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."]
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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And She Looked Upon His Hands, Red with a Different Sin
"KHURSHEED DUBNE KE baad.”
["After the sun sets."]
We all nod in silent agreement.
Around the camp clearing, the twilight chill begins to settle as the tribal families head back inside their mud huts. The remaining guards clear the heavy brass platters, eventually retreating inside to rest before the long night patrol. Soon, the clearing is empty. Only the three of us are left out in the open, slowly roasting under the last, stubborn rays of the sinking desert sun.
With nothing left to do but wait out the clock, I give up on my rigid posture and lie down on the wide charpai beside him.
But the universe and the basic laws of physics immediately penalizes me. The loose woven ropes of the traditional bed instantly gravitate toward his massive, heavy weight. The entire center of the mattress dips violently, effectively sliding my body down the slope and smashing me directly against his hard, black-kurta-clad side.
Ugh. This is so incredibly awkward.
I stiffen my spine, desperately trying to anchor myself and lie completely straight on my back, staring hard at the purple sky to pretend I am miles away.
Until the third element enters the equation.
Rizwan, apparently feeling left out, decides to lie down on the absolute edge of the frame. Because the center is already heavily compromised by Hamza, the balance shatters. Rizwan starts slipping down the incline, his arms flailing as he frantically tries to hold onto Hamza’s shoulder for stability.
Hamza rolls his head sideways, glaring at his bodyguard, “Tu ek kaam kar—”
["You do one thing—"]
Wobble.
COLLAPSE.
“Hamza—” I scream, my hands blindly tearing through the air.
“Ammi—” Rizwan shrieks.
“Aye khuda—” Hamza groans as the entire sky flips upside down.
The entire woven structure gives out beneath us. The snapping of fibers cracks as we all land violently down in the dirt, a tangled mass of black silk, heavy silver jewelry, and limbs. In the panic of the freefall, both Rizwan and I have instinctively clamped onto Hamza’s broad shoulders and jacket fabric like he is a human life raft who can somehow defy physics and save us from the floor.
Goodness... I swear, I will never have a boring day with these people as long as I live.
“Arey theek ho tum sab?” Shirani’s voice echoes from across the clearing, filled with sudden alarm. “Yeh bakri...”
["Hey, are you all okay? This goat..."]
I shake the dust from my hair, frantically trying to stand up and reclaim my dignity.
Beside me, the fearsome Sher-E-Baloch is scrambling to his feet in a state of absolute, unhinged panic, his hands desperately clutching the waistband of his shalwar to keep it from falling down after the rope snap.
A foot away, Rizwan is heavily coughing, hoisting himself out of the dirt by using the broken wooden locks of the bedframe like a ladder.
There, standing completely unbothered in the wreckage, is the tiny white baby goat. The little creature had not only eaten cleanly through Rizwan's "secure" rope hoop, but it had spent the entirety of our whispers chewing through the main structural ropes of the bed.
It looks up at us, lets out a small, innocent bleat, and calmly munches on a stray piece of woven fiber.
“Shirani sahab, yeh agli eid tak bada hojayega na? Isko ba—”
Rizwan’s voice cuts off mid-sentence with an abrupt, dry swallow as Hamza pivots his head.
[“Master Shirani, this one will grow big by next Eid, right? For Sa—”]
Shirani simply lets out a deep chuckle, aggressively patting the little goat on its head before scooping it up into his arms and walking it away from the crime scene. A few of the camp hands immediately rush over to gather the splintered wooden locks and frayed ropes, attempting to salvage the wreckage of the bed.
Hamza lifts his wrist, dusting off the glass of his silver Rolex to track the sinking light. “Aadha ghanta aur.”
["Half an hour more."]
“Aadhe ghante mein toofan bhi aajayega. Aaj jitne kand hue...” I mutter, I drop down, sitting directly onto the cool slope of the sand dune.
["In half an hour, a storm will arrive too. With the number of disasters that happened today..."]
Seeing a gap, Rizwan eagerly steps forward, bending his knees to join me on the slope. But before his trousers can even touch the sand, Hamza waves a large, dismissive hand at him, his expression deeply annoyed. “Andar ja.”
["Go inside."]
Rizwan lets out a visible sulk, turning on his heel to stomp off toward the mud huts, leaving us completely alone as the last amber glow of the sun dips behind the mountain peaks.
Hamza takes a step closer, his long hair catching the light as he drops down onto the sand slope right beside me, tucking one long leg beneath him. “Hamesha mere saath hi rehta hai na, toh aadat hogayi hai. Waise, aapki koi dost ho toh...”
["He always stays with me, so it's become a habit. By the way, if you have a friend..."]
I freeze, slowly turning my head toward his profile. My eyes narrow into two sharp, disbelieving slits, “Main aapko matrimonial site dikh rahi hoon? Itni hi jaldi hai toh khud kyun nahi dhundhte apne dost ka rishta?”
["Do I look like a matrimonial site to you? If you're in such a hurry, why don't you look for your friend's proposal yourself?"]
“Main uske baare mein nahi puchch raha tha.”
["I wasn't asking about him."]
A sharp, disbelieving gasp hitches in my throat. My hands instantly ball into fists against the fabric of my gown. Really. I am genuinely, absolutely about to throw hands with this man right here on the sand—
“Arey, ruko,” Hamza chuckles softly, lifting his hands in a mock surrender. He leans in closer, “Mera matlab tha... kya Clifton jaana zaruri hai? Koi intezaar kar raha hai aapka?”
["Hey, stop. I meant... is it necessary to go to Clifton? Is someone waiting for you?"]
I slowly shake my head, my gaze dropping slightly. “Ji nahi. Koi nahi hai.”
["No. There is no one."]
“Hmm...”
Hamza lets out a low hum from the depths of his chest. He shifts his weight on the slope, sliding even closer until his broad shoulder completely blocks out the rest of the camp. The heavy silver jewelry against his black kurta gleams in the dying indigo light.
“Agar main nikah ki baat kar bhi raha hota,” he murmurs, “toh mujhe sochne ki kya zarurat jab tum ho mere saamne?”
["If I were even talking about marriage, why would I need to think when you are right in front of me?"]
The sheer boldness of the declaration makes my heart skip. I force my eyes to lock with his, “Humein mile do mahine hue hain.”
["We met two months ago."]
Hamza doesn't blink. “Chaar saal, do mahine, bara din, aur teen ghante.”
["Four years, two months, twelve days, and three hours."]
“Har ek pal aur lamha bhi gin lete,” I mutter, rolling my eyes in a desperate bid to shield myself from the terrifying accuracy of his memory. “Aur waise bhi chaar saal ka hisab nahi. Hum sirf ek baar mile the hospital mein, aur uske baad kabhi nahi.”
["You might as well count every single moment and breath too. And anyway, that four-year calculation doesn't count. We only met once at the hospital, and never after that."]
“Achcha, aisa hai?” Hamza tilts his head, a slow smug smile bleeding into his dense beard as he pretends to think deeply. “Toh fir itna gussa kyun hogayi thi jab maine puchcha tha aapki koi dost hai mere liye?”
["Oh, is that so? Then why did you get so angry when I asked if you had a friend for me?"]
“Kyunki—” I catch myself, letting out a sharp. “Kyunki hum ek rishte mein hain na?”
["Because—Because we are in a relationship, aren't we?"]
Hamza nods slowly, the satisfaction in his gaze absolute.
“Magar uska matlab yeh toh nahi ki humein itni jaldi nikah karna chahiye?” I counter gently. ["But that doesn't mean we should get married so quickly, does it?"]
“Sahi kaha,” he agrees instantly, his large, warm hand shifting on the sand to gently curve near mine, though he doesn't force the contact. “Main aapko zabardasti nikah ke liye haan nahi kehne ko bol raha.”
["True. I am not telling you to say yes to marriage by force."]
“Lekin...”
There it is. “...kisi ke saath ek ghar basane ka socha hai toh woh sirf tum ho.”
["...if I have ever thought of building a home with anyone, it is only you."]
I blink, a sudden, dizzying wave of weightlessness washing over me.
“Mujhe nahi pata main aapko manpasand ghar de paungi ya nahi,” I whisper back, the confession slipping past my tightly guarded defenses. It is the closest thing to a warning I can give him. ["I don't know if I will be able to give you the home of your choice or not."]
Hamza doesn't hesitate. He doesn't ask for guarantees. He simply reaches out, his thumb lightly tracing the back of my hand. “Tum jo bhi dogi, usi se hum ghar banayenge.”
["Whatever you give, we will make a home out of that."]
Hum.
Hamza reaches down to his own hand. With a slow, deliberate movement, he slides a heavy, dull-gleaming ring off his own ring finger—a thick band of solid silver intricately carved into the roaring visage of a lion. The mark of the Sher-E-Baloch himself.
He takes my hand, his grip warm.
“Tasdeeq,” he whispers fiercely. ["Confirmation."]
The gravity of the gesture shatters into a million pieces the exact second he lets go.
The ring doesn't fit. It doesn't even come close. The massive silver band instantly slips down the slender line of my finger, hanging comically loose and wobbling against my skin.
“Gussa mat dilao,” I snap. I forcefully yank my hand back from his space, aggressively turning my face away from his profile with a sharp, loud huff.
["Don't make me angry."]
Really? The fearsome, multi-layered kingpin who prides himself on tracking every single hour of my existence for four entire years couldn't manage basic logistical arithmetic?
If he was truly, absolutely serious about building a future, he couldn't have exercised a fraction of that tracking efficiency to buy a single, elegant ring that actually matched my size and my liking?
Instead, he just casually hands me a weapon-grade piece of men's jewelry that could literally slide off my hand if the wind blows too hard.
Hamza watches the heavy silver band slip completely off my fingers, tracking it as it tumbles a few inches down the cool slope of the sand dune before his large hand darts out, smoothly catching it before it gets swallowed by the dark.
He holds the lion crest in his palm, “Tumhe pasand nahi aaya?”
["You didn't like it?"]
“Pasand—” I turn my entire body toward him, gesturing wildly at my own hands. “Hamza, yeh mere haath mein hathkadi jaisa lagta hai.”
["Like—Hamza, this feels like a handcuff on my hand."]
A low, knowing rumble vibrates in his chest as he casually slides the massive silver ring back onto his own finger, where it fits perfectly. “Sahi size ka lata toh mujhpar ilzam lagati ki main tumpar nazar rakh raha hoon.”
["If I brought the right size, you would accuse me of keeping an eye on you."]
My breath hitches. “Rakh rahe ho?”
["Are you?"]
“Nahi.”
The denial is flat, absolute, and entirely unreadable.
I let out a heavy, defeated sigh, running a hand through my hair as the wind picks up across the peaks. I cut my eyes sideways at his massive frame. “Aapko laga mujhe aise zevar pasand hain?”
["Did you think I like this kind of jewelry?"]
Before I can blink, Hamza reaches deep into the inner pocket of his black kurta and pulls out a small, velvet box. The deep crimson fabric catches the faint amber glare.
I raise my eyebrows, my heart doing a treacherous, violent flip against my ribs. He doesn't say a word. He simply extends his broad hand, offering the elegant box to me like a peace offering.
I slowly reach out, my fingers brushing against his warm skin as I take it from his palm.
My fingers tremble slightly against the plush crimson fabric as I flip the small latch. I lift the lid, revealing a soft velvet pouch nestled inside the custom casing. Reaching in, my fingertips brush against something cool, fluid, and incredibly delicate.
I pull it out into the starlight. Anklets.
I hold the shimmering strand up between my thumbs, watching it glisten. The clean, brilliant white sheen instantly catches my eye. That’s not traditional silver. My eyes widen.
Platinum.
The band is thin yet structurally strong, entirely devoid of the loud, jingling bells typical of local jewelry. Instead, dangling at perfect intervals along the platinum chain are microscopic, intricately carved lotuses—their petals blushing with the unmistakable, brilliant fire of rare pink diamonds.
This is... breathtakingly beautiful.
I slowly turn my head to look at his profile, completely speechless.
Hamza doesn't move away. He gently reaches out, his fingers sliding beneath the delicate chain in my palm, lifting one of the shimmering lotuses to let the diamonds catch the moonlight. “Suna hai aapko kanwal bohot pasand hai?”
["I've heard you like lotuses a lot?"]
I genuinely do not know how or what to feel anymore. The crisis isn't the fact that this piece is staggeringly expensive. The real, operational terror is that... he knows my choices so thoroughly.
Swallowing down the sudden lump in my throat, I try to weaponize my tongue, “Pasand hai,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Aur aap meri pasand ki cheezon ko mere pairon mein rakhna chahte hain?”
["I like it. And you want to place the things I love at my feet?"]
A slow beautiful smile breaks, he doesn't drop his gaze. “Galat matt samajhiyega, lekin aapke har pasandida cheez ko main aapke kadmon par rakhunga.”
["Don't misunderstand me, but I will lay every single thing you love at your feet."]
“Khud ko bhi?”
["Yourself too?"]
“Main toh pehli mulaqat se hi wahan hoon, Seherzadi.”
["I've been right there since our very first meeting, Princess."]
My mind violently tracks back four years; remembering his bloody, battered face in that dimly lit hospital room, the metallic tang of iron in the air as I meticulously stitched up his torn forehead. Even then, covered in grime and targeted by the state, he had simply closed his eyes under my hands, completely leaning into my touch as if I were his only sanctuary.
Keeping a faded, cheap hairband for four long years of absolute silence and zero contact... it wasn't a criminal's eccentricity. It was a vow.
Before I can process the roar in my ears, Hamza shifts smoothly in the sand, dropping down to his knees at my feet. His large hands reach out, tenderly sliding my feet out of my sandals, wrapping the platinum strand around my right ankle and clicking the custom clasp into place.
It fits perfectly.
He pauses, leaning his heavy head down to press a quiet, lingering kiss right against the top of my foot.
A sudden, violent jolt of electricity shoots straight up my spine, settling into a deep, heavy warmth in my stomach that I haven't felt in decades. Or perhaps... never.
Hamza reaches up, smoothly taking the second platinum anklet from my frozen fingers. He repeats the motion with an agonizing slowness, the coarse, thick brush of his mustache scraping softly against my sensitive skin as he secures the left clasp.
My breath catches in my throat, my toes instinctively curling inward, burying themselves tight against the rich, dark fabric of his black kurta.
Why is he genuinely the perfect man I’ve ever wanted but... has such questionable hobbies?
I mean, the baseline criteria for a dream partner is entirely there—he’s deeply attentive, hyper-observant, completely devoted, and coordinates custom jewelry based on my favorite flower. He just happens to run a massive, illicit black-market syndicate on the weekends. Maybe a perfect partner really isn't found in the pristine, structured spaces you expect.
Hamza finally lets go of my ankles, straightening his broad shoulders as he looks up at me. “Jhanjhar bhi nahi hai isme, toh tum har roz pehen sakti ho.”
["There are no bells in this either, so you can wear it every single day."]
He settles back into the sand beside me.
“Kanwal toh mitti mein khilta hai na? Khalis ki alamat hai yeh,” I whisper, “Ki kaise kichad mein rehkar bhi apne upar daag nahi aane deti. Aap mujhe us layak samajte ho? Yeh janne ke baad bhi ki main kaise logon ka ilaaj karti hoon?”
["The lotus blooms in the mud, right? It's a symbol of purity. How despite living in the muck, it doesn't let a single stain touch it. Do you consider me worthy of that? Even after knowing what kind of people I treat?"]
Hamza doesn't hesitate. He reaches out, his calloused palm smoothly cupping the side of my face, his thumb wiping away a stray strand of hair. “Maine pehle hi kaha tha na, mujhe khalis se fark nahi padta. Mujhe tum chahiye—achcha, bura, aur har ek hissa jo chhipa hua hai.”
["I told you before, didn't I? I don't care about absolute purity. I want you—the good, the bad, and every single hidden piece that you keep concealed."]
His eyes burn into mine. “Aur tumne bhi toh mujhe quboola hai—ek hathiyar nahi, balki ek insaan ki tarah.”
["And you have accepted me too—not as a weapon, but as a human being."]
“Kaafi... pyaara taufa hai,” I mutter under my breath, looking down at the platinum to hide the sudden heat in my eyes.
["It's a very... lovely gift."]
“Wapsi taufa isse bada lunga,” he murmurs back. ["The return gift I take will be even bigger than this."]
A genuine, breathy chuckle escapes my lips. Hamza reaches out, his thick arms wrapping completely around my shoulders to pull me into his chest. Giving in to the exhaustion of the day, I wrap my arms around his waist, burying myself in his space.
The sensory overload is immediate. The faint, rich scent of his expensive perfume mixes with the sharp tang of sweat radiating off his warm skin after hours in the sun.
My nose brushes right against the edge of his black kurta where the top buttons are left open, the soft skin of my cheek grazing the cold, heavy links of his silver chains. He leans his head down, resting his chin firmly over my dark hair.
“Firse daadhi fasa matt dena,” I whisper directly into the fabric of his chest, my tone sharp but entirely fond.
["Don't get your beard tangled in my hair again."]
A low, vibrating chuckle rumbles against my cheek as his grip tightens around me.
I gently pull back from the heavy embrace, my fingers sliding up the thick column of his neck to lightly trace the sharp, rigid line of his cheekbone, “Mujhe maaf kardo maine aapko maara. Main aisa firse nahi karungi.”
["Forgive me for hitting you. I won't do it again."]
As my fingertips linger against his warm, dark brown skin, the close proximity reveals something. Scattered across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose are tiny, faint freckles, dusted over his face like hidden constellations. I want to stay right here and count every single one of them.
Hamza doesn't pull away. He allows my hand to remain pinned to his face, “Hmm. Aur mujhe bhi. Maine kuch zyada hi zaalimana baatein bol di thi.”
["Hmm. And me too. I said some things that were far too cruel."]
My fingers still against his cheek. “Aap mere baare mein sach mein aisa toh nahi sochte na?”
["You don't really think of me like that, do you?"]
“Kya tum sochti ho mere baare mein waisa?” he counters instantly.
["Do you think of me like that?"]
“Nahi...” I finally whisper, “Main samajhti hoon aapki majboori.”
["No... I understand your compulsion."]
Hamza offers a slow, solemn nod, accepting the truce. At this distance, his striking sap-green eyes are completely exposed, the sharp iris shot through with metallic flecks of gold and smoky grey under the starlight.
My gaze slips lower, dropping to his mouth, his lips are partially shaded by the coarse drop of his mustache, a thinner, dusky pink contrast.
Before my brain can register, I find myself leaning closer, tilting my chin up until the absolute crests of our lips are almost brushing, the heat of his breath fanning directly against my mouth.
“Hosh kho rahi hain aap, Sanaz sahiba.”
["You are losing your senses, Lady Sanaz."]
He doesn't lean back, and he doesn't close the final millimeter of distance. Instead, he uses my formal title like an anchor, his dark green eyes blazing down into mine in the starlight, waiting to see if his Seherzadi will snap out of the trance or completely throw her uniform into the fire.
I abruptly pull my face back, heat instantly rushing up to my cheeks. If there is one thing I deeply respect about this man, it is how he constantly, unyieldingly tries to protect my dignity, even from my own fleeting lapses in judgment and never once takes advantage of my vulnerability.
I steady my breath, “Kabhi aap bhi kho kar dekhiye. Achcha lagega.”
["You should try losing your senses sometime too. You'll like it."]
Hamza leans forward, a faint, teasing glint returning in his eyes. “Yeh sab aapko kaise pata?”
["How do you know all this?"]
“Aapke jaise bohot ziddi mareezon ko dekha hai maine,” I reply smoothly.
["I've seen many stubborn patients like you."]
“Mareezon ko. Main woh nahi.” The teasing warmth instantly vanishes from his face. “Aapne mera zid dekha nahi hai, Seherzadi. Jab main hosh khota hoon toh daag reh jaate hain.”
["Patients. I am not that. You haven't seen my stubbornness, Princess. When I lose my senses, stains are left behind."]
That sentence somehow makes me intensely aroused and deeply terrified at the exact same time.
I swallow hard, a visible gulp moving down the line of my throat. “Mujhe manzoor hai woh daag.”
["I accept those stains."]
We stare at each other for one infinite second. The gravity of what I’ve just admitted presses down on my chest until, unable to handle the burning sincerity in his eyes for a single second longer, I abruptly look away.
Hamza’s large hand reaches up, his fingertips gently gathering a loose strand of my hair and tucking it securely behind my ear. His touch lingers for a fraction of a second before he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly against the heated curve of my cheek.
My lips part slightly in a quiet gasp, my eyelashes fluttering shut as I instinctively turn my face toward his warmth.
Except... there is nothing there.
My balance gives out, and I violently lurch forward, almost face-planting straight into the coarse dirt of the sand slope. My eyes snap open, my internal processor short-circuiting.
He’s gone.
Hamza... Haramzada.
Instead of the fearsome Lion of Balochistan, Rizwan is standing a foot away, holding a thick wool woolen cloth, blinking down at me with an expression of pure, innocent neutrality.
I scramble to my feet, my cheeks burning with a mixture of residual heat and pure embarrassment. I vigorously dust the desert sand off the dark silk of my gown, aggressively pulling my tangled hair up into a tight, messy bun. “Aap kab aaye?”
["When did you come?"]
Rizwan blinks, entirely unbothered by my hostile tone. “Bas yeh shawl dena tha. Thand lage toh odh lijiyega.”
["Just had to give you this shawl. If you feel cold, please wrap it around yourself."]
I let out an irritated huff, snatching the fabric from his hands and loosely draping it over my shoulders. Near the perimeter, Shirani and a few other camp members emerge from the shadows, systematically packing the large plastic leftover containers into the trunks of the waiting vehicles.
“Raaste mein bhuk lage toh khaa lena,” the same elderly woman calls out, offering a warm wave.
I instinctively look down; my prominent pulao food baby is still undeniably present under the fabric of my dress, though thankfully less tight than before.
“Car mein baitho sab, main thodi der mein aata hoon,” Hamza’s deep, commanding voice echoes across the dirt clearing.
["Everyone sit in the cars, I'll be out in a moment."]
Within seconds, the security detachment and Rizwan filing into three of the heavily armored vehicles. I step toward the remaining SUV, the one equipped with the custom open-roof facility, sliding into the seat.
Through the clear pane of the window, I keep my eyes locked on his distant figure. Hamza stands near the center of the camp, his frame expanding as he slips back into his tailored waistcoat and the long, heavy commander's jacket.
Shirani steps forward, his movements solemn as he hands him the massive, white chieftain turban. As Hamza wraps the heavy cloth around his head, the desert wind begins to blow like crazy, whipping the dust into violent spirals around them.
My focus entirely on the movement of his lips, catching the fragments of his voice slicing through the gale.
“Pehle Rehman, fir Uzair, aur ab aapke pote ke saath Baloch bachche,” Hamza says, his face hardening, “Aisa aadmi qayamat tak nahi rukega, Shirani sahab. Agar zyada der ki toh SP Chaudhary Aslam mujh tak, aap tak bhi pohonch sakta hai.”
["First Rehman, then Uzair, and now Baloch children along with your grandson. Such a man won't stop until doomsday, Master Shirani. If we delay any longer, SP Chaudhary Aslam can reach me, and you as well."]
Shirani offers a single, heavy nod, “Jo tum sahi samjhoge, Hamza. Wahi hoga.”
["Whatever you deem right, Hamza. That is what will happen."]
“Uzair do mahine baad Dubai jail se wapas aa raha hai,” Hamza responds, “SP use maarne zarur aayega. Kya karna hai, kaise karna hai... Woh aap tay kijiye.”
["Uzair is returning from Dubai jail in two months. The SP will definitely come to kill him. What to do, how to do it... you decide that."]
Before Hamza turns away from Shirani, their eyes simultaneously shift, locking onto a single figure standing near the edge of the fading crowd. It’s a young boy, barely old enough to shoulder a rifle, his dark eyes wide.
Are they...?
There is no conversation after that heavy, lingering glance. The brutal reality of the province needs no explanation. Hamza simply breaks the look, his heavy combat boots crunching against the dirt as he strides purposefully toward the SUV.
I instantly snap my head forward, staring rigidly out the windshield to pretend I haven’t spent the last five minutes reading his lips.
The driver's side door swings open, and his frame slides into the seat beside me. Without a word, he reaches up, unpinning the gold chains and unwrapping the heavy white turban, tossing the fabric onto the backseat.
He hits the console button, and the mechanical roof groans, retracting completely to expose us to the vast, ink-black sky.
Ahead of us, the headlights of the first armored SUV flash once before the vehicle rolls forward into the dark terrain. The second follows, then the third, creating a protective trail across the wasteland.
Finally, our car moves, bringing up the rear.
Only us.
“Thand lag rahi hai?” Hamza’s voice cuts through the low rumble of the engine. ["Are you feeling cold?"]
I silently shake my head, the crazy desert wind instantly catching the loose strands of my hair, whipping them across my face. I lean back completely into the leather headrest.
But as I shift my weight, a sudden, alarming restriction pulls tight across my ribs.
My right hand covertly slips down the side of my hip, my fingers frantically tracing the hidden zipper of my silk gown. I give it a subtle, desperate tug. Please don't tear…
“Zor se khichogi toh toot jayegi.”
["If you pull it hard, it will break."]
Hamza’s hand reaches across the console, hovering in the small space between us for a hesitant second, before his fingers gently find the metal pull at my hip. With agonizing slowness, he slides the zipper down, releasing the structural tension of the silk.
The fabric parts. The side of my midriff, waist, and upper hip is suddenly exposed to the night air, but the paralyzing restriction vanishes. I let out a deep, heavy chest expansion.
“Behtar?” he questions softly. ["Better?"]
“Shukriya,” I hum under my breath, my hands instantly scrambling to drag Rizwan’s thick wool shawl down. I pull the heavy folds tight over my hip, desperately trying to hide the pale, silvery stretch marks lining the skin.
“Kichad mein jo kanwal khilta hai,” Hamza starts quietly, “Uski pankhudiyon par mitti ki lakeerein hoti hain. Unhe mitao mat, Seherzadi. Woh batati hain ki tumne kahan se guzar kar apni hifazat ki hai.”
["The lotus that blooms in the mud has lines of earth on its petals. Don't erase them, Princess. They tell the story of where you have passed through to protect yourself."]
My fingers freeze against the wool. I slowly let my hands drop, allowing the shawl to slide just enough to let the wind graze the exposed skin. “Aapke liye aasan hai bolna.”
["It's easy for you to say."]
“Haan, shayad,” he replies, a rare, somber honesty settling into the lines around his eyes. “Main nahi soch sakta tum har mahine kin halaton mein khud ko sambhalti ho ya fir aayine mein khud ko dekhne se darti ho. Lekin samajh sakta hoon. Main yeh nahi bolunga tum be-aib ho. Main bhi nahi hoon. Woh kehte hain na khoobsurti dekhne waale ki aankhon mein hoti hai.”
["Yeah, perhaps. I can't imagine what circumstances you manage yourself in every month, or how you fear looking at yourself in the mirror. But I can understand. I won't say you are flawless. Neither am I. They say beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, don't they?"]
I stay absolutely silent. Down below, the platinum lotuses feel incredibly light yet piercingly cold against my bare ankle.
Twisting my fingers into the wool, I ask the one question. “Kab tak?”
["Until when?"]
Hamza shifts slightly in the driver's seat, his heavy eyebrows raising.
“Kab tak?” I repeat, my voice cracking slightly. “Bezaar nahi hojaoge? Mohabbat karna aasan hai, mohabbat karte rehna mushkil.”
["Until when? Won't you get fed up? Falling in love is easy, staying in love is difficult."]
“Chaar saal pehle tumhe jaane diya tha, kyunki tum mohabbat thi, zid nahi. Roz aayine mein khud ko dekhta hoon, toh apne is chehre par tumhari di hui nishaani dikhti hai, tab bezaar nahi hua.”
[“Four years ago I let you go, because you were love, not a stubborn obsession. Every day I look in the mirror and see the mark you left on this face, and I didn't get fed up.”]
My eyes instinctively lift, tracking the faint, silvered line of the scar cutting across his forehead.
“Tumhare liye mohabbat karna aur rehna do alag baatein hongi, Seherzadi,” Hamza continues. “Mere liye yeh dono ek hi hain. Main jis mitti se hoon, wahan log dushmaniyan pashthon tak nibhate hain. Toh phir tumne yeh kaise soch liya ki main apni mohabbat adhoori chhor dunga?”
["For you, falling in love and staying in love might be two different things, Princess. For me, they are the same. The soil I am from, people carry out enmities for generations. So how did you think I would leave my love incomplete?"]
I stay completely quiet, letting out a long, shaky sigh. “Shayad mujhe hi zyada tashkeen ki zarurat hai.”
["Perhaps it is I who needs more reassurance."]
“Toh woh main aapko dilata rahunga. Bezaar nahi hounga.”
["Then I will keep giving it to you. I won't get fed up."]
A tiny, defenseless smile breaks through.
Reaching across the console, I let my hand slip into his, my fingers curling around his warm palm. I close my eyes, letting the rhythmic thrum of the engine wash over me, allowing my thoughts to wander into the dangerous, prohibited territory of a real future with him.
But the peace shatters into pure, electric friction the exact second his hand leaves mine.
His calloused fingers shift, tracing a slow, deliberate path up the exposed skin of my side where the silk zipper hangs open. As his rough fingertip lightly brushes against the silver stretch marks on my hip, a violent, helpless quiver hits my core, my eyes flying open.
“Achcha nahi hai?” he murmurs, his green eyes flicking sideways to catch the sudden hitch in my breath.
["Is it not good?"]
I frantically shake my head, my knuckles gripping the edge of the seat, “Bas... thodi nazuk hoon.”
["Just... I'm a little delicate."]
A smug smile edges into the dark shadow of his beard. Huff. He doesn’t pull back. Instead, his hand traces further inward, sliding past the divided silk of my gown with an agonizingly slow, grounding pressure.
I would be lying to myself if I said I didn't absolutely melt under the coarse texture of his rough hand against my skin. A sharp, ragged gasp escapes my parted lips as his broad palm completely slips inside, his fingers spreading wide to firmly, tenderly palm the soft pudge of my tummy.
He can probably feel the erratic thrum of my heartbeat vibrating straight through my skin. God, this is so incredibly embarrassing.
Before I can even attempt to smooth over the awkwardness, his fingers twitch, and he gives the soft skin of my tummy a slight, playful pinch.
“Ah!” I wince, my hand instantly flying down to sharply slap the back of his rough knuckles. Rude. Defensively, I yank the heavy shawl back down, tucking the fabric firmly over my exposed midriff so I don't catch a sudden chill from the howling highway wind.
Hamza lets out a low, vibrating chuckle against the rush of the air, entirely unbothered by the assault. His large hand remains on top of the fabric now, his palm slowly slipping down from the curve of my waist to rest steadily against my thigh.
It stays there—a grounding weight that warms my skin through the wool, comforting and constant, never once escalating further into the dark territory.
Outside the open roof, the jagged silhouettes of the Balochi mountains roll past like ancient, silent guards, the brilliant white crest of the moon faithfully following the line of our four-car convoy.
“Kya soch rahi ho, Sanaz?” he questions softly. ["What are you thinking, Sanaz?"]
“Kuch nahi. Bas... soch rahi hoon ki Karachi pohoch kar is mitti ka rang kaise badal jayega.”
["Nothing. Just... thinking about how once we reach Karachi, the color of this soil will completely change."]
I lean my head back against the leather, tracking the stars.
I’m not going to lie to myself anymore—I genuinely had fun here. For the first time in a long decade I have experienced hospitality that didn't feel wrapped in razor wire.
Yes, Bade Sahab Dawood and Major Iqbal are always perfectly polite, but their version of hospitality feels like a rigid administrative duty rather than genuine, human warmth.
Iqbal only treats me with high regard because I manage the medical care for his daughter; and as for Dawood... I am never truly certain what reality hides behind his calculating eyes.
But here, in the middle of the dirt and the smoke, the warmth was terrifyingly real.
“Mitti ka rang kuch bhi ho,” Hamza responds, his voice dropping into that possessive cadence.
“Tum par sirf mera rang chadhega. Aur woh koi UTAAR NAHI SAKTA.”
["Whatever the color of the soil may be. Only my color will bleed into you. And no one in this world can ever wash it off."]
Masterlist.
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