𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐚- 𝐒𝐢𝐲𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐡𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐚𝐭
(Politician Ulfat x Gangster Rehman)
Chapter Two : Serpent
Disclaimer: All the content presented below is purely fictional and has no connection to real life. It is a portrayal inspired by the on-screen chemistry between Akshaye Khanna and Saumya Tandon in Dhurandhar, and does not reflect or relate to their real-life personalities or events. Enjoy reading!
The air in the room seemed to still completely, as if even it had forgotten how to move. For a moment, nothing shifted. No footsteps, no whispers, not even the faint rustle of fabric. Every man stood exactly where he was, their bodies held rigid, their eyes fixed on the scene unfolding in front of them.
It wasn't just silence anymore.
It was disbelief.
Because what they were witnessing was something that simply did not happen.
Haji Laloo had been stopped.
And not by force.
Not by defiance.
But by a single hand that had dared to reach him when no one else would.
Their gazes remained locked there, drawn to that one point where Laloo's raised arm had been caught mid-motion, where his rage had been interrupted without warning. No one looked away. No one even attempted to move, as if any sudden shift might break whatever fragile hold had been placed on that moment.
Because they all understood what it meant.
No one in that room had the courage to stop Laloo when he reached that state. They had seen what happened to those who tried. They had learned, over time, that the safest place was distance, that silence was survival.
And yet—
it was his own son.
Yasser.
The only one who could stand that close.
The only one who could place his hand on Laloo without fear of immediate consequence.
The weight of it settled heavily in the room, pressing down on everyone present. It wasn't just about the act itself. It was what it represented. Authority meeting something that did not bow to it completely.
Rehmaan had never seen him before.
Not once.
Yasser had always been a name, nothing more. A presence spoken about in fragments, in passing mentions that never fully explained him. Stories that came without detail, just enough to make it clear that he was not someone ordinary.
Rehmaan had heard it all over the years, quietly, without ever asking too much. In a place like this, names like that were not questioned. They were remembered.
And now—
he was standing right there.
For a brief moment, Rehmaan's attention sharpened completely, his gaze settling on the figure in front of him with a focus that did not show on his face. He watched the way Yasser stood, the way his hand held Laloo's wrist without struggle, without force, yet without the slightest sign of hesitation.
It was not the grip that stood out.
It was the ease.
As if stopping Laloo was not an act of courage.
But something natural.
Something expected.
Rehmaan's eyes shifted, just slightly, catching the change in Laloo himself. The same man who had been seconds away from tearing the room apart now stood paused, his rage no longer spilling out uncontrollably. It had not vanished, but it had been held back, contained in a way that no one else in that room could have managed.
And then Laloo spoke.
"Yasser..."
It was quieter.
Not weak.
But different.
Rehmaan caught it immediately.
The shift in tone.
The recognition.
The acknowledgment.
"Abbu..."
Yasser's voice cut through the tension, not loud, not forceful, but steady in a way that carried its own authority. It did not challenge Laloo's anger, nor did it submit to it. It simply reached him, grounding him in a way no one else in that room could have managed.
"Shaant ho jaiye."
There was no urgency in his tone, no visible strain. Just calm certainty, as if he already knew Laloo would listen.
And he did.
The same man who had been moments away from lashing out again allowed himself to be guided. Yasser's hand did not leave him as he moved, not pushing, not pulling harshly, but directing with quiet control. He led him toward the chair and made him sit, the motion deliberate, unhurried, as if bringing him back from the edge rather than forcing him down.
The shift in the room was immediate.
Laloo sat.
His breathing was still heavy, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of his anger, but the storm had begun to settle. Not gone, not completely, but contained enough to no longer spill over everything around him.
Yasser turned slightly then, his gaze moving across the room just once before he gestured toward one of the men standing nearby.
No words.
Just a look.
It was enough.
The man moved instantly, almost too quickly, as if grateful for something to do, returning within seconds with a glass of water held carefully in his hands.
Yasser took it without looking at him, his attention already back on Laloo. He held the glass out, waiting just a fraction before bringing it closer, ensuring Laloo to take it.
Laloo didn't resist.
He took the glass, his grip still tight, and drank, the act slower than usual, as if the simple motion itself was helping steady him.
Yasser did not rush him.
He stood there, close enough to hold him if needed, but far enough to let him gather himself. His gaze remained on Laloo, steady, patient, watching the way his breathing slowly evened out, the way the sharp edge of his anger dulled just enough to let words come through instead of rage.
The room stayed quiet.
After a moment, Laloo exhaled deeply, his grip tightening slightly against the armrest before he spoke, his voice rough, still carrying the heat of what had not fully settled inside him.
"Baksh ne aur Babu ne haath jod liye hai... aur tabse ek deal theek se nahi hui."
The words came heavy, like each one carried its own weight. The anger was still there, sitting beneath his tone, not explosive anymore but far from gone.
Yasser did not interrupt.
He let him continue.
"Jahan hamare aadmi ya gaadiyan dekhi... wahan andhadhun goliyan chalane lag jaate hai."
There was frustration in it now. Controlled, but sharp. Not just at the loss, but at the audacity of it. The way it had been done openly, without fear, without hesitation.
The anger was still there, sitting beneath his tone, not explosive anymore but far from gone.
Yasser did not interrupt.
He let him continue.
Yasser listened without interrupting, his gaze steady on Laloo, taking in every word, every trace of anger that still lingered in his voice. He did not react immediately. He let the silence settle after Laloo finished speaking, let the weight of those words sit in the room for a brief moment.
Only then did he respond.
"Aur aapko lagta hai ki apne hi aadmiyon par chillane se uss nuksaan ka muawza ho jayega?"
His voice was calm.
Not raised.
Not disrespectful.
"Nahi! nahi hoga muawza, par ye saale khassi sab ke sab bhaag ke wapas aa gaye!"
Laloo snapped back, the words coming out rough, dragged from a place where his anger had not fully settled. His voice was no longer exploding the way it had moments ago, but it still carried that sharp edge, that frustration that refused to ease.
His jaw tightened as he spoke, the humiliation now clearer beneath the anger. It wasn't just about the deals anymore. It was about how it had happened. His men, his routes, his system... disrupted so openly, and worse, his own people retreating instead of holding their ground.
Yasser didn't react immediately.
He watched Laloo carefully, taking in the way his anger was changing shape, settling into something more controlled but no less dangerous. His expression remained composed, but there was a slight narrowing in his eyes now, a quiet calculation forming behind them.
He understood what Laloo was saying.
But more than that- he understood what he wasn't saying.
This wasn't just about men running back.
It was about fear.
And fear, once it entered a system like theirs, did not leave easily.
Yasser drew in a slow breath, not out of hesitation but control, as if he was choosing his words carefully before letting them leave. His gaze did not waver from Laloo, his posture still, grounded, carrying a calm that did not match the tension in the room.
"Phir bhi... kisi aur ki wajah se apne hi aadmiyon pe chillana mujhe laazmi nahi lagta."
His words carried weight.
Clear.
Direct.
And they landed exactly where they were meant to.
Laloo's reaction was immediate.
His head snapped toward Yasser, sharp, almost instinctive, as if the words had struck something deeper than disagreement. His eyes hardened, the earlier restraint cracking just enough for that familiar anger to resurface.
"Apne baap ko sikhayega ab?! Bhul mat, aaj bhi ye karobar main chala raha hoon."
He snapped, his voice rising again, not as explosive as before but still carrying authority that demanded submission.
"Sikha nahi raha, Abbu... samjha raha hoon." His voice remained calm, steady.
Rehmaan's gaze moved between the two of them, not hurried, not restless, but observant. He wasn't reacting to the argument the way others might have. He wasn't concerned with the volume, or the authority being asserted.
He was watching Yasser.
Carefully.
Trying to understand him.
Not just what he was saying—but how he was saying it.
That was when—
"Aur yaad rakh... elections nazdik aa rahe hai......woh Naagin kisi ko chhodegi nahi. Yaad hai na pichli baar kya kiya tha."
Laloo said, his voice lowering this time, but not losing its edge. If anything, it carried more weight now, more intention. The anger from before had not disappeared, it had shifted, sharpened into something more focused.
The word did not leave the room.
It stayed there, pressing itself into the walls, settling into the spaces between breaths. No one moved immediately after Laloo spoke. Even the faint hum of the old ceiling fan seemed to hesitate, as if it too had registered the shift.
The air grew thicker, carrying something unspoken, something understood without needing to be explained.
For a moment, the room seemed to absorb it in complete silence. The tension changed again, no longer just about disrupted deals or wounded pride. This was something else. Something larger. Something that extended beyond the walls of the godown.
Naagin.
The name itself carried a different kind of weight. A memory. A consequence.
Not spoken with ease here among men like Laloo, it was used with a strange mix of caution and acknowledgment. It wasn't just a nickname. It was a recognition.
Of who she was.
Of what she was capable of.
.
.
.
.
.
Ulfat Hasin Jahan.
The name did not pass through the room so much as settle into it, slow and deliberate, as if it had been placed there rather than spoken.
It had been always like that.
No one repeated it, no one needed to, because it had already moved inward, slipping into thought, into memory, into that quiet space where reaction begins before it ever reaches the surface.
The shift it brought was not sudden. It unfolded gradually, almost carefully. A slight tightening along the jaw of one man, another holding his breath a fraction longer than necessary, a pair of fingers that had been tapping idly now gone still. These were small things, barely noticeable, but together they changed the weight of the room.
The last time.
What she had done.
No one said it aloud, yet it rose anyway, not as a clear sequence of events but as something heavier, something harder to define. It came as a feeling before anything else. Dense. Unsettling. The kind that settled in the chest and refused to move, forcing the body to adjust around it. The room did not react to it. It endured it.
Rehman felt that shift, but it did not belong to him in the same way. What lived in the others was experience, something direct and undeniable. What he carried was thinner, pieced together from fragments that had never fully aligned, yet persistent enough that they could not be ignored. The name came to him slowly, drawing something old with it, something half-forgotten but never truly gone.
"Ulfat Hasin Jahan...." He whispered in his mind, almost as if tasting the name itself, slowly, softly.
His mind moved back to a tea shop, to an afternoon that had seemed ordinary at the time. The heat had been dull and constant, pressing down without urgency. The air had carried the faint bitterness of overboiled tea, and the low murmur of voices had blended into a background that meant nothing. He had been sitting across Donga, listening without really listening, a newspaper spread open in his hands. His fingers had rested too long on its edges, softening the paper slightly, while his eyes moved without intent, passing over headlines that blurred into each other.
Until they stopped.
A name had held them there.
Still. Centered. Unmoving on the page.
The elder daughter of an elite landlord. Aabid Jahan.
Ulfat Hasin Jahan.
He had paused, not sharply, not in a way that would draw attention, but just enough for something inside him to register that this was not ordinary. The words around her name had tried to define her, tried to fit her into something familiar, but they had not succeeded. There had been a sense of direction in them, something structured, something already in motion.
Not raised. Prepared.
As if the path had existed long before she had stepped onto it.
Three years. That was all it had taken for that name to move from ink into something that now carried weight in rooms like this. Age, twenty one. The number returned to him now with a heaviness it had not carried before. Close to his own. Too close. Perhaps a year older than him. The thought did not settle easily. It lingered, pressing against something he did not fully understand.
The young politician.
That dangerous woman.
There was no space between those ideas. They existed together, reinforcing something that felt controlled, deliberate.
Among Pathaans, her name never moved freely. It slowed conversations the moment it entered them. No one showed it openly, but it was there in the slight pause, in the careful choice of tone. The word they used for her was never spoken carelessly.
Serpent.
That's what they called her.
It was not an insult. It was an understanding shaped by experience. They did not speak of her in long explanations, only in moments that had stayed with them. Things that had ended too cleanly, too quietly. Deals that collapsed without resistance. Men who were present one day and gone the next, without noise or warning. What unsettled them was not what had happened, but how it had happened.
Nothing ever felt wrong when she was there.
Everything felt normal.
And that was where the danger lay.
Because later, when they looked back, they realized that everything had already shifted while they were still standing inside it. By the time they understood, it was done. There had been no moment to react, no clear point where it could have been stopped. That was why the word stayed measured on their tongues. Not fear in its loud form, but something quieter.
Recognition.
Among Balochs, her name did not carry that pause. It came out steady, grounded.
Shamsheer-e-Baloch.
That's what balochs called her.
Have honoured her with the name.
There was no hesitation in it, no need to lower the voice or look around before speaking like pathaans.
The name stood firm, like something that had already proven itself. They did not speak of how she moved through spaces the way Pathaans did. They spoke of what she had left behind. Where there had been silence, there was now an answer. Where there had been suffering, there was now some form of balance. Not perfect, not clean, but enough to be felt.
To them, she was not a warning. She was a result.
That was the difference. Pathaans spoke of her like something that could still happen to them, something unseen and unavoidable. Balochs spoke of her like something that had already stood for them, something that had answered when nothing else had.
Both were true.
And neither made her any less dangerous.
The silence that had settled around her name had not fully lifted when it broke. So did Rehman's thoughts.
Not gradually.
Not gently.
It snapped.
Laloo's voice cut through it, controlled and measured, but carrying enough authority to shift the room instantly.
"Rehman, Donga, Atif, Nawaaz, Ahmed, Farhaan aur Amir... tum log yahi raho. Baaki sab bahar jao. Mujhe aur Yasser ko tum logon se baat karni hai."
For a brief second, nothing moved. The words hung there, firm, leaving no space for confusion. Then the room responded. Chairs scraped lightly against the floor. Footsteps followed, restrained, disciplined. No one questioned it. No one lingered longer than necessary.
They left.
One by one.
The door opened, a dull creak cutting through the stillness, then closed again with a softer finality.
And just like that, the room changed.
It did not feel emptier.
It felt narrower.
More focused.
What remained was not just a group. It was a selection.
Rehman stayed where he was, but something in him adjusted. Not outwardly. His posture remained steady, his expression unchanged, but his awareness sharpened. His eyes moved, slow and deliberate, taking in the men who had been asked to stay.
His gaze shifted briefly toward Laloo, then to Yasser. Neither spoke, but the silence around them was not empty. It carried intent. This had been decided before the words were said.
Rehman adjusted his stance just slightly, grounding himself without drawing attention. His thoughts had already moved, leaving behind what had been and settling into what was coming.
And whatever was about to follow...
Okay guys, Chapter Two is here!
I've shown Ulfat as one year older than Rehman because I feel like it suits their dynamic better.
Also, what do you guys think about Ulfat so far?
How did the chapter feel? Was it too slow? (Someone mentioned that, and now I can't stop thinking about it.) Let me know, yeah?
If anyone wants to be tagged, just tell me :) Kisi ko tag nahi hona toh bhi bata dena.
Inviting: @shippingtheshippers @pavbhajisupremacist @vcantwrite @sparksfromhell @desigurlie @tanipartner @subhu-99 @chocolate-and-trouble @erenfox @gulaabjamun08 @teenagenerdrascalsportsblog @mischiefmanaged666 @yourhonorimshipping @daydreaming-in-moonlight @sanamkhanani @lessbutliving @bobcuts-blog @cholebhaturesupremacy @wan2bey-n @dc-reign @obsessedwidskincare @gulaabjamun08 @rini4everdreaming @akj-04 @myvarya @bitchy-bi-trash @fakestraykidz @rini4everdreaming @scentedwolfdragon @yash4svi @whutdidhesay
