Act I: SLITHER, Chapter Four:
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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