Act I: SCARS, Chapter One: The Dead Returned Before Dawn
“MERA AANA ZARURI nahi hai.”
I mutter the words into the receiver before severing the connection without waiting for a reply.
[“It isn’t necessary for me to come.”]
Outside the window, twilight is rapidly bleeding into pitch black. Navigating the winding mountain trails back up to my isolated hill house becomes a hazard once the fog settles over the valley.
I turn back to my desk, the cold white lamp illuminating the row of patient blood reports laid out across the wood—routine medical analysis for the local sector branch. It has been my entire world for nearly two years.
Buzz. Buzz.
The phone on the desk vibrates again. I drag a heavy hand over my face, letting out a sharp groan before snatching the receiver back up.
“Do not disturb par hai phone,” I snap, my voice laced with pure exhaustion. “Aapko samajh nahi aata ki main kaam kar rahi hoon?” [“My phone is on 'do not disturb'. Do you not understand that I am working?”]
A breathless voice spills through the speaker: “Hridaya, trust me. Agar emergency nahi hota toh tumhe nahi bulati. Saare doctors baarish ke wajah se fase hue hain, tumhara ghar toh das minute ki duri par hai, aajao?” [“Hridaya, trust me. If it wasn't an emergency, I wouldn't have called you. All the doctors are stuck due to the heavy rain, and your house is only ten minutes away... please come?”]
I close my eyes, resting my knuckles against the cold desk. A long sigh slips past my lips.
“...Theek hai. Lekin zyada der nahi rukungi.” [“...Fine. But I won't stay for long.”]
I cut the line and sweep the confidential files back into the heavy oak drawer, turning the key. Pulling a thick trench coat from the stand, I slip it over my knit sweater and change into simple trousers. Keys, phone, umbrella—tossed into my bag.
I step out into the freezing Mussoorie air, shutting the door behind me.
Thankfully, the downpour hasn't completely hit my side of the ridge yet, but the dense, twilight mist clings to the trees, making every step down the dirt pathway a slow navigation.
Ten minutes later, the grey structure of the facility emerges through the fog. Officially, it’s a quiet civilian annex. Unofficially, it is an off-grid medical sector built specifically for R&AW operatives, emergency field trauma, and recruiter safety.
I push through the heavy doors. The familiar smell of antiseptic hits my nose as my boots click sharply against the marble floor, the overhead strip lights flickering against the damp ceiling.
“Jaldi yahan aao,” Kino calls out frantically, rushing down the corridor toward me. I see her almost every day—she runs the facility’s administrative staff.
[“Come quickly!”]
Before I can ask for details, my eyes drift toward the end of the hallway. Standing near the trauma wing doors are three tall, broad-shouldered young men. They wear standard-issue dark green tees—a sharp, unmistakable emblem stitched across the chest.
Para SF.
The unit is carrying someone inside.
“Kya hua?” [“What happened?”]
I question flatly, reaching into the stainless steel tray to snap on a pair of latex gloves before reaching for the local anesthesia vials.
“There was an incident during a field exercise. He’s a senior instructor,” Kino replies, her hands juggling bandages, sterile sponges, and broad-spectrum antibiotics. “He took the entire impact on his midsection during a heavy load-bearing drill. It looks like his old abdominal scar tissue has ruptured... looks like heavy internal bleeding.”
My fingers stall over the glass vial for a fraction of a second. Abdominal scar tissue.
I force the sudden tightness in my throat down, refusing to let my focus slip. “Scan karna padega.” [“We’ll need to run a scan.”]
“Samay nahi hai. BP drop ho raha hai,” she stresses, her voice rising an octave. “Dr. Verma is on the way, par woh pahaad se niche fase hain.” [“There’s no time. His BP is dropping fast. Dr. Verma is on his way, but he’s stuck down the mountain.”]
I let out another sharp groan, grabbing the tray and pushing through the swinging doors toward the primary trauma bay. “Aapne abhi tak anesthesia nahi diya?” [“You haven't administered anesthesia yet?”]
“Woh lene se mana kar rahe hain,” Kino whispers nervously behind me. [“He is refusing to take it.”]
My jaw clenches until the bone aches. “Mana kar rahe hain?” I mutter under my breath, frustration flaring up like dry tinder. “Itni hi dard sehne ki kshamata hai toh yahan kyun aaye?” [“He's refusing? If he has such a high pain tolerance, why even come here?”]
I take a deep breath, steeling my expression as I kick the door open and step into the dim room.
A tall man in a heavy jacket limps near the examination table, his back turned to me.
“Kapde utariye. Aur bistar pe letiye,” I order coldly, keeping my head down as I set the instruments on the side trolley. [“Take off your clothes. And lie down on the bed.”]
The figure pauses. At the sound of my voice, he slowly turns his head, looking back over his shoulder in sudden realization.
My eyes drift up—and freeze.
The room goes dead quiet. My fingers tremble so violently against the tray that I almost drop the sterile gloves in my hands.
Hamza?
I stand rooted to the floor, the world shrinking down to the space between us. My gaze remains locked on his face, breathing man standing three feet away from me.
“Hridaya, jaldi karo!” Kino’s voice cuts through the paralysis.
I snap out of the trance, dragging a heavy breath into my lungs as I force my feet to step closer.
He doesn't say a word. Slowly, he sits back on the edge of the examination bed. His eyes never leave my face as he unzips his jacket, peeling it away along with his damp shirt. The moment my eyes meet his directly, his jaw tightens, and he turns his gaze away toward the far wall, his breath coming in rigid, shallow rasps.
The surgical lights overhead hum softly.
I step beside the bed, my eyes dropping to his bare midsection.
The old, jagged scar across his abdomen is bright red, swollen from the blunt force impact. Fresh blood oozes slowly through the micro-tears of the tissue.
It’s at the exact same place where that axe—
No. Stop.
I shut my eyes for a split second, forcing the ghost of the Margalla Hills back into the dark where it belongs. My trembling hands reach for the sterile gauze, pressing it firmly against his bleeding skin.
“BP,” I call out sharply.
Kino checks the monitor. “90/60.”
“Hemoglobin?”
“Reports are coming.”
I nod, snapping open the glass ampoule and filling the syringe with local anesthesia. The moment the cold metal touches his abdomen, his upper body tenses. He tries sitting up, his voice defensive: “Maine mana kiya tha.” [“I told you no.”]
“Mujhe mat sikhayiye,” I reply coldly, pushing his shoulder firmly back down onto the bed. [“Don't tell me how to do my job.”]
He slacks back against the thin pillow, a suppressed groan catching in his throat. I know local anesthesia combined with sudden trauma causes sharp nausea and a lingering, sick feeling, but I don't care. It’s necessary.
I clean away the dark, pooling blood with practiced movements, wiping the area clean before picking up the curved suturing needle and thread. My fingers pause in mid-air. I haven't held a surgical needle in a year and a half. My pulse hammers against my ribs, but I force my breath to stabilize. Calm.
I pierce the edge of the tissue, pulling the thread taut.
He lets out a low hiss through his clenched teeth. Still scared of needles... huh?
I stare at his profile under the white light. He looks different. The rough edges have shifted. Is he even my husband? Or has my mind finally cracked under two years of silent grieving?
Stitch.
Mar gaye the. [You died.]
Stitch.
Phir achanak zinda ho gaye. [Then suddenly came back to life.]
Stitch.
Aur ab raub jama rahe ho. [And now you're showing off your authority.]
Stitch.
Six stitches. Clean, precise, razor-tight.
I trim the excess thread, quickly placing sterile gauze over the wound and securing it with medical tape. I pick up the clipboard: “Roz dressing badalna hai. Stitches do hafte baad khulenge. Ek hafte tak drill mat kijiyega.” [“Change the dressing daily. The stitches come out in two weeks. No drills for a week.”]
The moment the tape is set, he sits straight up, swinging his legs over the edge of the table. My eyes widen in shock as Kino steps in front of him, putting her hands up: “Ek ghanta toh thehro!” [“At least stay for an hour!”]
He doesn't even acknowledge her. Kino lets out a frustrated huff and rushes outside to instruct the Para SF recruits waiting in the corridor.
He pulls his dark green t-shirt back over his head anyway. I stand frozen beside the trolley, watching him closely. His beard is shorter, cleanly shaped. His hair is pulled back into a tight man-bun—shorter than the wild, waist-length locks he used to carry.
Before my brain can stop my tongue, the sentence slips into the quiet room:
“Aapka naam kya hai...?” [“What is your name...?”]
He turns his head slowly, looking at me. That same heavy stare...
My heart leaps into my throat. Panicking, I quickly gesture toward the prescription pad in my hand to cover the weight of the question.
“Shaurya Bhardwaj,” he replies, his voice flat as he zips his jacket.
I give a silent nod, writing the dosage on the slip before holding it out to him. He reaches out to take it. The tips of our fingers brush for a fraction of a second—a microsecond of electric, burning warmth—and he almost violently snaps his hand back, snatching the paper into his palm.
I stare at his face, “Kya hum pehle kabhi mile hain...?” I question again, my voice barely a whisper. [“Have we met somewhere before...?”]
“Ji nahi.” [“No.”]
He pulls a pair of dark aviators from his pocket and slides them over his eyes, hiding the green depth.
He stands up slowly, adjusting his jacket, and gives a small, formal nod toward the young recruits waiting past the doorway. He turns his back to me, taking his first step toward the rain-soaked night outside.
I take a small step forward, looking directly at his retreating spine.
“Main apne shauhar se aise hi haspatal mein mili thi.” [“I met my husband in a hospital just like this.”]
His boots freeze against the cold marble floor. He stops dead in his tracks, his back still turned to me, the shoulders under his jacket locking tight. For three agonizing seconds, the silence in the corridor is deafening. Without turning around, he replies, “Bhagwan aap dono ko khush rakhe.” [“May God keep you both happy.”]
And then, he walks away into the fog.
I see him throw the prescription paper into the bin on his way out.
The heavy glass doors swing shut behind him, leaving only the sound of the falling rain. I set the metal clipboard aside on the trolley and drop heavily onto a nearby chair, burying my face in my hands. My fingers clutch tightly at my hair.
What the hell just happened?
Was I hallucinating? Is he a doppelgänger? Is India cloning people now? I shake my head violently, trying to rattle the madness out of my skull.
“Konsi facility mein sikhate hain yeh?” I question aloud, my voice trembling in the empty room. [“Which facility do they train at?”]
Kino steps back inside, organizing the left-over gauze trays. “Jahan sabki hoti hai aur kahan. Ek hafte pehle hi aaye hain Delhi se.” [“Where everyone else trains, where else. He just arrived from Delhi a week ago.”]
I nod silently, pulling myself up from the chair. Grabbing my bag, I walk out into the dark.
Night has completely fallen over Mussoorie. The streetlights flick on one by one, casting yellow, distorted glows over the slick pavement while the freezing January rain turns into a faint, misty drizzle. In this bone-chilling cold, the walk back up the hill feels like pure torture.
The trail to my house is dead silent.
When I step inside, I don't change out of my damp clothes. I sit straight down at my study table, reaching into the bottom drawer to pull out the redacted folder New Delhi handed me two years ago. I stare at the official death certificate of “Hamza Ali Mazari.”
Cause of Death: Exsanguination secondary to abdominal wall laceration; brain death secondary to blunt force cranial trauma.
I stare at the black ink until the letters blur. I don't even trust my own brain anymore.
I set the official ledger aside and pull out my sketchpad. Page after page is filled with the charcoal scribbles of his face—the long, wild hair of Lyari, the unkempt beard, the fierce green eyes.
Tonight, my hand moves over a fresh page. I don't draw Hamza. I draw the trimmed beard, the tied-back hair, the sharp aviators, and the stone-cold detachment of Shaurya Bhardwaj.
I trace the dark charcoal over the sharp line of his jaw, my eyes narrowing in the dim lamplight.
“Jhooth ka parda HATA KAR RAHUNGI.”
[“I will tear down this veil of lies.”]
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If Saazish was a story about surviving a war, Shadyantra is a story about surviving what comes after.
This is not a continuation built on bigger explosions or higher stakes. It is a story built on silence, guilt, healing, and the lives left behind once the mission ends.
Some questions from Saazish will not be answered immediately. Some wounds will not heal immediately either.
There will also be several spin-off stories taking place between and around the main events. They aren't required to understand the sequel, but they'll explore conversations, memories, missions, and quiet moments that couldn't naturally fit into the main narrative.
I'll be posting those spin-offs between chapters of Shadyantra, and you're always welcome to suggest/request moments from Saazish that you'd like to see expanded.
Thank you for staying with Hamza, Sanaz, Rizwan, and everyone else this far.
A Quiet Place Where the Dead May Finally Rest, and the Living May Finally Stay
“DEBRIEFING KE LIYE taiyyar rehna.”
[“Be ready for the debriefing.”]
When my eyes finally open, the harsh white glare of the hospital slowly resolves into the cold profile of Ajay Sanyal standing at the foot of the bed. The steady beep of the cardiac monitor anchors me back to the waking world.
I try to shift, but a hot spike of agony instantly fires through my nervous system, freezing me in place. I look down at my own frame. I’m dressed in standard hospital whites, a thick, heavy pressure bandage wrapped tightly around my fractured temple.
My left arm is pinned securely in a tactical sling, and my midriff is completely encased in surgical plasters, holding the ruined muscle of my stomach together where the axe had split me open.
I simply nod, my throat too dry to form a syllable.
“Jaskirat... You did good,” Sanyal says softly, his hardened expression softening for a fraction of a second before he turns to clear the room.
I did good.
The words echo hollowly in the small room. I blink slowly against the light, nodding again.
Days blur into weeks behind the tinted windows of the safehouse medical wing. After the hours of the official debriefing sessions end—after every code, every asset, and every coordinate of the Lyari is systematically logged into the archive—I spend the long nights staring blankly at the ceiling.
Where is Sanaz? Where is Rizwan? Did the separate flight fail them? Did they not survive the morning of the Margalla Hills? No one gives me an answer.
A month passes before my legs can finally support my own weight. Though still limping heavily, the deep pull in my midriff a constant reminder of the price paid, I bypass the bureau relays and manually book a one-way train ticket to Pathankot.
At the station restroom, I look at my reflection in the mirror. I am wearing a simple brown suit. With slow movements, I wrap a dark pagh around my head. I have never worn the turban this way before—it is a heavy, unfamiliar weight against my scarred temple. I adjust the folds with trembling fingers, not knowing if the tie is perfect, looking for the boy who left this soil decades ago.
Tujh se milte hi wo kuch bebaak ho jana mera,
Aur tera daanton mein wo ungli dabana yaad hai...
[“I remember how I became so bold the moment I met you,
And how you bit your finger in surprise...”]
After hours of monotonous track travel and the clacking of the rails, the local auto-rickshaw grinds to a halt on the dirt path outside my family home.
I step out, leaning slightly on my good leg as I look past the perimeter. The house looks entirely different now. The crumbling brick has been replaced with polished, clean plaster. The surrounding acreage is no longer barren; it is filled with lush, golden crops swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.
I walk slowly toward the iron front gate. Through the bars, I see my aging mother, her hair completely white, quietly watering the marigold plants by the veranda. Up on the low roof layout, Jasleen—my younger sister, grown so much in my absence—is carefully adjusting the metal TV antenna, yelling something down to the kitchen.
Chori-chori hum se tum aa kar mile te jis jagah,
Muddatein guzrin, par ab tak wo thikana yaad hai...
[“The place where you and I used to meet in secret,
Ages have passed, but I still remember that sanctuary...”]
The movement at the gate catches their attention. My mother stops the hose, turning her weathered face toward the path. Jasleen pauses on the roof, looking down through the sunlight.
I stand there in my brown suit, my heart hammering against my ribs, and I let a small, trembling smile touch my lips.
They cast a long, passing glance at the limping stranger standing by their fields.
But there is no recognition.
My smile drops.
The cold reality settles deep into my chest. Right... I am already dead to them. The boy named Jaskirat died the day the phantom took his place. The family has moved into the light, and there is no room for a ghost at the dinner table.
I step back slowly, letting my hand fall away. I turn my back to the house, looking out at the long, dusty road twisting ahead of me and stretching out in front of me into the quiet twilight.
Two months flow by like cold water. The bureau doesn't let its ghosts sit idle for long. They have appointed me as the lead trainer at the remote training facility layout—hidden deep within the forest sectors. My new mandate: train the raw, young recruits, shape the new generation of deep-cover phantoms, and teach them how to bleed for the grid without leaving a trace.
I wear the uniform. I log the hours. But every training protocol, every defensive drill, and every quiet night in the barracks layout feels entirely hollow.
I have restrained myself from asking the single question that has been clawing at my chest since the morning mist of the Margalla Hills. I told myself to let it go, to honor the silence, to accept the extraction parameters. But today, the discipline cracks.
I find myself standing outside the heavy mahogany door of the executive wing, stepping directly into Meera Singhaniya’s private cabin. The blinds are half-drawn, cutting the sunlight into sharp, geometric lines across the desk.
She looks up from her data ledger, her sharp eyes tracking my posture. “Haan, bolo Shaurya?”
[“Yes, speak Shaurya?”]
I close the door behind me, the latch clicking shut. I don't use the standard operational prefix. I don't state an asset code.
“...Sanaz kahan hai?” I ask. [“...Where is Sanaz?”]
A long, heavy beat hangs in the air. The steady tick of the wall clock layout feels like a hammer hitting an anvil.
Meera slowly lowers her pen, before she leans back in her leather chair. “Arey Bansal ne tumhe bataya nahi?” she says. “Woh nahi milna chahti tumse.”
[“Oh, didn't Bansal tell you? She doesn't want to meet you.”]
My heart drops.
The floorboards beneath my boots feel like they are completely dissolving into a bottomless vortex.
What?
“K-kya?” The word tears out of my throat, a fractured, pathetic stutter I never thought I’d be capable of making.
“Haan. Bohot zyada traumatize hogayi hai woh,” Meera says, her voice as flat as a briefing document. “Rizwan Jammu mein hai. Lekin Sanaz ke baare mein nahi bata sakti, privacy reasons. Woh firse apne saath hue haadse ko yaad nahi karna chahti. Use bhool jao.”
[“Yes. She has been traumatized too much. Rizwan is in Jammu. But I cannot tell you about Sanaz, privacy reasons. She doesn't want to recall the tragedy that happened to her again. Forget her.”]
I grit my teeth, the jaw muscles spasming, and give a stiff, hollow nod. There is no counter-argument to "trauma." There is no operational protocol for a heart that wants to break its own security clearance to find someone who has explicitly chosen silence.
I leave the cabin.
When I finally reach the safehouse apartment, the air is stagnant, smelling of nothingness. I drag the heavy suitcase from the corner and pop the latches. It is a time capsule of a life that never officially existed. My Pakistani kurtas, the heavy leather jackets from the Lyari winters, the boots with the dust of the Karachi slums still caught in the soles, and the scattered, useless jewelry.
I pull out my old phone. It flickers to life for a single second before demanding a reset. Every data packet has been wiped; every photo of us, every message, every secret we whispered in the safehouse is gone. No SIM. No memory. It is a dead machine.
O, kis kiska naam loon main?
Mujhe har kisi ne maara...
[“Oh, whose name should I take?
Everyone has killed me...”]
I plop onto the mattress with a thud that vibrates through the floorboards. I fish the lighter and a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my old jacket. The habit of the ghost. I stare at them, my vision blurring.
Then, my fingers touch something soft. Something fragile.
Her hairband.
My breath hitches, a sharp sound that threatens to dismantle my entire ribcage. I clutch it to my chest, closing my eyes, trying to force the image of her face out of my mind—but it’s impossible.
And then... a single Polaroid.
I pull it out. The edges are curled. It’s from the honeymoon—that stolen, beautiful lie of a life. In the photo, Sanaz’s hands are small, framed against my face, her eyes smiling with a vulnerability that didn't belong in our line of work.
The tears finally fall, hot and silent, trailing into the collar of my shirt.
I don't know where she lives. She didn't try contacting me. She doesn't want to meet me. That's okay. I tell myself the lie again. I have to believe it, or I won't survive the night.
Gila maut se nahi hai,
Mujhe zindagi ne maara...
[“I have no complaints against death,
Life itself has killed me...”]
I flip the lighter open. The flame flares, hungry and orange. I hold the photo to the edge, watching the paper curl and blacken. My own face in the picture begins to vanish into ash. But as the fire crawls closer to her—as her smile is about to be consumed by the void—I suddenly snap the lighter shut.
No.
I can’t burn the very last evidence of her. Not when she is the only thing that kept me human.
I tuck the half-burnt, charred picture and her hairband into the lining of the suitcase. I take a deep, shuddering breath, staring at the cigarettes in my hand. I twist the packet, snapping the contents, my jaw tightening until I feel the bone shift. I tilt my head back and throw the useless weight into the dustbin.
I don't understand the tactical logic of it. If she was so willing to die for me in that clearing... Why suddenly choose to never see me again?
Maybe the silence is the final mission. Maybe the greatest sacrifice is not dying for the country, but living without the one who made the country worth defending.
BALIDAAN PARMO DHARMA.
[“Sacrifice is the highest duty.”]
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Marukh’s leather-heeled boot comes down with a sickening force directly into the center of Hamza’s chest, forcing a choked grunt of pure agony from his throat as his back slams hard against the freezing mud.
“Fir SP.” Another brutal kick connects with his ribs, the velocity tearing open the internal fractures that had barely begun to form scar tissue from the previous months of warfare.
[“Then the SP.”]
“Fir Iqbal.”
[“Then Iqbal.”]
The third strike sends him sprawling sideways onto the wet dirt, his eyes glazing over as his vision blurs under the blinding crossfire of the four armored convoy headlights.
“Aur ab... Is do kaudi ki kuttiya ke liye humari nasl tabah karne chala hai!” Marukh roars into the freezing mist, her features completely distorted by the madness that has consumed her since the downfall of the Ibrahim throne. [“And now... you're going to destroy our bloodline for this two-bit bitch!”]
A few feet back, Rizwan and Sanaz remain completely frozen on their knees. The mud seeps through Sanaz’s grey salwar, her face still painted with the dried splatter of Major Luqman’s execution, her fingers locked tight around the silver links of the birthday necklace hidden against her palm.
Fifteen heavily armed enforcers stand, their rifle barrels leveled squarely at the back of their skulls.
Hamza presses his palms into the dirt, trying to heave his chest up.
God... This isn't how it's supposed to end.
“Marne se pehle kuch bolna chahega?” Marukh snarls, pressing the cold barrel of the pistol directly against his temple, her finger already whitening against the trigger structure.
[“Want to say something before dying?”]
Beneath the barrel, his eyes don't blink. Instead, his gaze shifts subtly past her shoulder, locking onto the exact coordinate where Sanaz and Rizwan kneel in the mud. A single tightening of his jawline fires the final, unwritten command through the network.
Now.
In a flash, Rizwan drops his weight and slides sideways, throwing his entire body into the pitch-black layout of the dense treeline. The sudden movement shatters the guards' focus—“Woh bhaaga! Pakdo use!”—their rifle barrels swinging wildly toward the shadows.
Sanaz uses the split-second panic as absolute leverage.
Before the guard nearest to her can re-adjust his stance, she lunges from her knees. The silver necklace links coil around her fingers as she drives the hidden blade with directly into his patellar tendon. The man lets out a choked scream, his knee collapsing instantly. With a twist of her torso, Sanaz wrenches the heavy automatic rifle straight from his grip, spinning on her heel as she brings the weapon to bear.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
She opens fire in a wide sweep, the muzzle flash illuminating the mist as her rounds tear through the front line of enforcers and clip Marukh's extended right arm.
“Ahhh!” Marukh shrieks, the chrome pistol slipping from her bleeding fingers as the impact spins her around.
The remaining guards immediately unleash a chaotic hail of return fire. Sanaz dives backward, using the steel frame of their stalled SUV as a physical shield, the rounds denting the metalwork and shattering the remaining glass overhead.
From the dirt, Hamza explodes into motion.
With Marukh disoriented by the bullet wound, Hamza sweeps his leg outward, delivering a crushing kick to her shins that sends her crashing hard onto the gravel. His fingers snap down onto her fallen weapon. Grabbing the pistol, he rolls violently through the mud, shifting his heavy frame toward the deep shadows of the dark trees to establish a secondary firing position.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
He logs three rapid headshots through the mist. Three more enforcers drop instantly into the wet dirt, their weapons clattering uselessly against the stone.
Meanwhile, deep within the treeline, Rizwan emerges like a ghost behind the two guards attempting to flank Sanaz’s position. Before they can pull their triggers, his hands lock around their collars, executing a bone-snapping takedown. He strips their high-caliber rifles from their hands in, pivoting back toward the clearing as he opens fire on the remaining syndicate workforce.
The execution squad is being dismantled from three separate angles, the mist filling with the heavy, choking scent of cordite and fresh copper.
The clearing descends into a chaotic frenzy as the weapons click empty on all sides, the hollow echo of spent magazines dropping into the mud signaling the end of the long-range firefight.
Marukh stumbles up, her face twisted, completely ignoring the blood pouring from her arm. Realizing the ammunitions are depleted, she reaches into her belt, pulling out a cluster of throwing knives and slharp concealment blades, hurling them viciously through the mist to keep Rizwan at bay. In her right hand, she grips a short-handled axe.
Across the dirt, Hamza’s pistol locks open on an empty chamber. He throws the weapon aside, his frame instantly shifting into hand-to-hand combat as the two guards close in on him.
He ducks beneath a wild punch, his large fist cracking into the first guard's jaw, instantly shattering the bone. He draws a hidden boot-knife and stabs the man down into the mud. But as he turns to face the second attacker, his vision fractures.
CRACK.
Marukh catches him completely from his blind spot, swinging the heavy, blunt back of the axe head directly into the side of his skull.
Hamza lets out a raw scream, his knees instantly buckling beneath him as thick blood bursts from his temple, painting his face and linen shirt in an instant sheet of blood. He hits the freezing mud on all fours, his breath hitching as his eyes struggle to remain open.
Marukh steps over his trembling frame, her chest heaving as she raises the sharp edge of the axe high above his exposed throat. “Gustakhi ki ek hi saza...”
[“There is only one punishment for insolence...”]
She points the steel directly at his neck, her eyes wide and bloodshot. “Sar tan se juda.”
[“The head severed from the body.”]
She brings the axe down.
BANG!
Sanaz fires her final, desperate pistol round from behind the SUV. The bullet catches Marukh squarely in her secondary wrist, the force shattering the bone and instantly disrupting the trajectory of the execution stroke.
The axe handle slips in Marukh's ruined grip, causing the blade to strike forcefully downwards away from his neck—burying itself deep into Hamza’s midriff.
The steel slices through fabric, flesh, and the muscle. Hamza gasps, his body locking completely before he drops heavily onto his side in the pooling red water of the road.
Fuck. No.
BANG. BANG.
The two final, hidden rounds from the service pistol she stripped off Tahoor echo sharply through the ravine. Sanaz doesn't even blink as the lead tears directly through Marukh’s knees, shattering the caps and dropping the screaming monarch instantly into the soil like a felled tree.
Sanaz drops the empty weapon. She doesn't look back. She doesn't care about the remaining guards.
She runs.
Her bare feet slide over the rocks as she throws herself beside his massive frame.
“Hamza! Hamza!”
Her composure—the legendary mask of Sanaz Siddiqui—pulverizes into absolute dust. She kneels over him, her hands slick as she grips the wooden handle of the splitting axe embedded deep in his side. With a sharp gasp, she wrenches the steel blade out of his midriff.
The blood pools immediately, a violent, hot geyser of crimson that stains the grey salwar kameez instantly. Her eyes can almost track the exposed line of his lower ribs and the torn muscle layer of his stomach.
New, hot tears well up in her eyes, blurring her vision as she frantically fights against the anatomy of death. With shaking hands, she rips his heavy jacket off his shoulders, balling the thick fabric up and driving it down into the abdominal wound with all her body weight to force an occlusion.
“Aankhein kholo...!” she cries out, her voice breaking that she has never allowed herself to experience. She slides her left arm beneath his head, cradling his neck to keep his airway clear, but her palm immediately fills with the thick blood pouring continuously from the fracture at his temple.
“Hamza, jawab do!”
[“Hamza, answer me!”]
The tears fall endlessly from her chin, washing away the blood on his cheek as she presses her forehead against his. The Wrath of God, the protector who had pulled her hair and thrown her to the wolves just to keep her breathing—lies terrifyingly still in her arms, his breath coming in shallow, fluttering gasps against her skin.
BANG.
A stray round from a dying guard tears through the mist, clipping Sanaz’s shoulder. The impact sends her flying downward into the mud beside him.
“Madarchod!” Rizwan lets out an animalistic curse as he aggressively lunges to terminate the last remaining threat.
Sanaz gasps, coughing up a breath of cold air as she forces her battered frame back up. Ignoring the burning tear in her shoulder, she hitches herself forward, pulling Hamza’s heavy, bleeding head directly onto her lap. She tears a strip of clean fabric from a fallen guard’s uniform, her trembling, blood-slicked fingers wrapping it tightly around his fractured temple to stem the continuous flow.
Beneath the wet cloth, his eyelids flutter. His green eyes open just a fraction, bloodshot and glazed with the shadows of the end. “Chali jao... wada nibhao,” he rasps out. [“Go away... keep the promise.”]
The terminal clause he had demanded: if everything collapsed, if the line broke, she had to leave him behind and save the shoal.
Sanaz shakes her head violently, the tears flying from her cheeks as she presses her palms harder against the makeshift tourniquet on his stomach. “Aisa matt bolo. Thodi der aur, fir hum...”
[“Don't say that. Just a little longer, then we...”]
“Hindustan jao... Rizwan ke saath...” he commands, his fingers weakly twitching against the mud, trying to find her hem.
[“Go to India... with Rizwan...”]
“Hamza... Tumhare saath...” she whispers between violent hiccups, her voice cracking as she locks her hand around his freezing fingers.
[“Hamza... with you...”]
A faint, devastating smile touches the corner of his bloody lips. The tears run down his temples. He remembers the very first time they met.
He was injured and bleeding out in the hospital—just like this. And she had been there, the quiet doctor stitching his flesh back together.
He takes one last, deep, shaking breath, filling his lungs with her scent and the warmth of her lap.
“Ek aakhri baar tumhare lab se apna naam sunna chahta hoon...” he murmurs, the words floating out into the silence.
[“One last time, I want to hear my name from your lips...”]
Sanaz leans down, her face completely ruined by grief, her vision blurry and her nose watery as the endless tears fall directly onto his forehead. She presses her lips against his temple and mutters.
“...Jaskirat...”
His hand goes entirely slack, his fingers slipping from her grip and dropping.
“Jaskirat...!” she shrieks.
Her fingers fly instantly to his carotid artery, pressing deep into the cold skin, before her ear drops against his bare chest, searching for the heartbeat.
Nothing.
Sanaz throws her head back, her hands clutching his lifeless shoulders as she wails helplessly into the pitch-black sky.
Rizwan stands there, staring in horror. He doesn't question if he's alive, doesn't get any “zinda hoon saale” at that moment.
The helpless wailing cuts off instantly.
The silence that follows is more terrifying than the gunfire. Sanaz slowly lifts her head from the chest of the phantom. The tears on her face freeze against the morning wind. She looks over her shoulder, her gaze locking onto the trail of smeared mud a few yards away.
Marukh Ibrahim is dragging her bleeding frame through the gravel, trying desperately to crawl toward the open door of the lead convoy vehicle. The guards lie completely still around her, a perimeter of corpses.
Sanaz stands up.
Her movements are no longer sluggish from the sedative. She reaches down into the dirt, her fingers locking around the heavy wooden handle of the axe.
She walks.
The heavy steel head drags through the mud behind her, drawing a dark line on the ground.
Marukh hears the footsteps. With a gasp, the fallen monarch rolls onto her back.
“Sar... tan...”
The woman turns the handle of the weapon in her grip.
“...se juda!” Sanaz roars.
She swings the heavy axe down The steel cuts cleanly through Marukh’s throat, the vertebrae snapping instantly as a thick splash of blood erupts from the artery, painting Sanaz’s face and eyes in a dark, warm mask.
But The Hand of God does not stop.
Driven by pure vengeance, she raises the axe again and drives it downward into the center of the severed neck, splitting the flesh, bone, and muscle of the upper torso right down the middle until the frame is split entirely into two.
The severed head rolls away across the gravel, stopping with a dull thud right against the front tire of the convoy vehicle.
Sanaz drops the weapon.
The execution hits her central nervous system; she gags violently, coughing up the copper taste of bile as she stumbles back two paces, her hands shaking as she wipes the dark spray from her brow.
Behind the mountain ridges, the dark purple sky begins to fracture.
The sun is slowly rising up over the Margalla Hills.
“Sanaz, jaldi yahan se nikalte hain,” Rizwan breaks through the static, his voice strained as he steps into the clearing, his rifle slung tight, his hand pressing down on the fresh bullet wound leaking through his own shoulder.
[“Sanaz, let's get out of here quickly.”]
Together, they lift Hamza’s heavy frame from the mud, carrying him back to the shattered SUV. Rizwan grunts through his teeth, his muscles tearing against the lead in his shoulder as he slams the vehicle into gear and guns the engine down the remaining stretch of the mountain path.
Two kilometers away, the trees clear to reveal a hidden, unlisted civilian runway. Two unmarked, twin-engine extraction aircraft sit idling on the asphalt.
The R&AW extraction staff lunges forward the moment the SUV screeches to a halt. They swiftly manage the intake files, taking the passports and the luggage from Rizwan’s hands. The lead medical officer takes one look at the man bleeding through the backseat and turns to them instantly.
“Aap dono separate flight se jaiye. Inki halat critical hai, airplane mein hi operation karna padega.”
[“You two go by separate flights. His condition is critical, the operation will have to be performed inside the airplane itself.”]
They both nod, the exhaustion too thick for argument. Sanaz watches through a blurry glaze as the medical team transfers Hamza’s unconscious, barely breathing body onto a specialized stretcher, hauling him up the stairs of the primary medical transport.
Seconds later, Rizwan guides her up the steps of the secondary aircraft. They take their seats in the cabin as the doors seal shut.
The airframe vibrates as the plane tears down the short runway and lifts off, climbing steeply into the gray morning clouds, leaving the blood-soaked dirt of Karachi behind forever.
Inside the quiet cabin, Sanaz stares out the window as the ground fades into nothing. She turns her face toward the seat beside her.
“Rizwan bhaiya... Hamza zinda bachega na?” she whispers between soft, trembling hiccups, her fingers tightly coiling around the silver necklace links on her wrist.
[“Rizwan brother... Hamza will survive, right?”]
Rizwan doesn't say a single word.
His face remains fixed, his eyes heavy. As the onboard medical team arrives to tend to the bullet wound in his shoulder, he simply extends his arm, pulling her into a tight, silent embrace. Sanaz buries her face into his jacket, the endless tears finally slowing down against his chest.
Rizwan stares past her shoulder into the empty cabin lights, “Yeh jung HUM JEET CHUKE.”
[“We have won this war.”]
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And the Hand That Freed Her Was the Same Hand That Had Betrayed Her
THE TINNY RADIO frequency hums through the dashboard speakers within the steel walls of the military jeep. The vehicle cuts aggressively through the highway, climbing steadily toward the isolated Margalla terrain.
Hum pyar karne wale,
Duniya se na darne wale...
[We are the ones who love,
We are the ones who do not fear the world...]
It is exactly 12:45 A.M.
Officer Tahoor sits in the driver’s seat, while Major Luqman keeps his weapon trained on Sanaz in the back. She remains perfectly motionless, draped in the coarse grey salwar kameez, her head slumped against the glass.
“Chief pagal hogaye hain,” Luqman mutters through his teeth, bruised ego. “Ek hindustani raand ko hum khud border line ke paas chhorne jaa rahe hain. Isne humare logon ko mara hai, Tahoor.”
[“The Chief has gone mad. We are personally going to drop an Indian whore near the border line. She has killed our people, Tahoor.”]
Tahoor cuts a dark glance into the rearview mirror, locking onto the reflection of Sanaz’s closed eyes. “Border tak zinda zaroori hai, Major. Hassan Sahab ne kaha thikane par zinda chahiye. Par kisi ne yeh nahi kaha ki sahi-salamat honi chahiye.”
[“She needs to be alive until the border, Major. Mr. Hassan said she needs to be alive at the location. But no one said she has to be safe and sound.”]
Luqman lets out a sickening chuckle, his fingers tracing the textured grip of his sidearm as he turns his torso toward the backseat. “Sahi kaha. Margalla ke paas chhorne se pehle... iss chudail ko aakhri baar batana hoga ki Pakistani mard kya hota hai. Bohot thook rahi thi na cell mein?”
[“True. Before dropping her near Margalla... we must show this witch one last time what a Pakistani man is. She was spitting a lot in the cell, wasn't she?”]
Tahoor slows the vehicle down, veering off the main asphalt onto a deserted, unlit clearing flanked by steep, forested ravines. The high-beam headlights cut through the thick morning mist, revealing nothing but empty, whispering trees. “Yahan koi nahi hai. Gaadi roko.”
[“There's no one here. Stop the car.”]
The jeep grinds to a final halt.
With a sudden frequency, her right wrist snaps inward. The silver birthday necklace links uncoil, and the tiny, razor-sharp knife springs directly into her palm.
Before Luqman can even register the displacement of air, Sanaz lunges forward. The silver steel drives upward, burying itself directly into Luqman’s left eyeball.
A horrific scream shatters the quiet of the ravine as Sanaz brutally twists the blade within the socket, completely destroying the optical nerve.
“Ahhh! Meri aankh!” Luqman shrieks, his hands flying to his face as dark crimson sprays across the grey fabric of her sleeve.
Tahoor throws his door open, throwing himself into the backseat as he violently yells, whipping his service weapon out to fire a terminal round. But the Hand of God is already in motion. Sanaz ducks beneath the line of fire with fluid precision. With her left hand, she tears the pistol straight from Luqman’s fractured grip.
BANG.
She fires instantly, the round tearing directly through Tahoor’s right wrist, shattering the bone and instantly disarming him as his gun clatters.
BANG. BANG.
Without a single second of hesitation, she shifts the barrel downward, pumping two rapid rounds directly into Tahoor’s kneecaps. The officer collapses onto his side with a choked groan, his legs instantly rendered useless as blood pools heavily across the hill.
Duniya se na darne wale,
Yaar jalne walon ko jalayenge,
Pyar mein jiyenge mar jayenge…
[Unafraid of the world,
We will burn those who are jealous,
We will live and die in love…]
“Apni mardangi toh tune meri chaati par pair maar kar dikha di,” she hisses.
[“You showed me your masculinity by kicking my chest...”]
She yanks the tactical knife necklace from the chain, the silver steel flashing in the dim light. She stabs the blade directly against the thick side-window glass. CRACK. The window shatters into a web of white lines. She forcefully punches through the frame, extracting a large, razor-sharp chunk of glass.
“Ab meri baari. Tu mard kahlane ke layak nahi hai, Luqman.”
[“Now it's my turn. You aren't fit to be called a man, Luqman.”]
She doesn't hesitate. She drags the edge of the glass downward in a wide arc through his chest, piercing flesh and muscle with the wet sound of a blade fighting against anatomy. Luqman’s scream is cut short as she lunges the sharp shard deeper, aiming for the core of his chest.
She drives it into his heart.
The blood splatters violently, painting the interior of the jeep in a warm, suffocating red. It sprays over her hands, her clothes, and the grey kameez.
As she feels the life force pumping out of him, her teeth bare in a snarl, but warm tears finally roll down her eyes—not from weakness, but from the memory of the boot on her chest.
She pulls the glass back, leaving a cavernous, ruined mess in Luqman's chest. She doesn't look at him as he goes slack. She simply wraps the necklace links back around her wrist, the silver metal stained dark.
Silence fills the car, save for the ragged gasping of Officer Tahoor.
He is scrabbling frantically on the ground, his hands slick with blood as he tries to reach for his service weapon, his fingers trembling as he clutches a phone to his ear. Sanaz glances down. The screen is illuminated with a single, outgoing contact: Marukh.
She snatches the phone from his grip, throwing it out the shattered window into the dark ravine. She then picks up his service pistol.
“Asli khel ab shuru hua hai,” she whispers, as she stares down at the broken man.
[“The real game has only just begun.”]
“Maaf kardo...!” Tahoor chokes out, his composure completely pulverized. “Maaf kardo... main bas... main bas order follow kar raha tha!”
[“Forgive me...! I was just... I was just following orders!”]
Sanaz scoffs, a sound devoid of any mirth. She crouches down on the bloody ground. She trails the barrel of the gun slowly up his legs, the metal cold and deliberate, until it stops at his crotch.
She doesn't offer a final word. She doesn't offer mercy.
BANG.
The sound of the shot echoes into the silent Margalla forest.
Sanaz stands up, wiping the spray from her forehead with the back of her hand. She pushes the lifeless weight of the men aside.
In the distance, headlights of an SUV breach the treeline. The Wrath of God has arrived.
The doors fly open before the tires even stop rolling.
Hamza storms out into the freezing night air, his frame moving with a desperate velocity he has never shown in the field. The moment his eyes track her form—standing in the middle of the road, draped in blood-splattered grey fabric—his internal restraint shatters entirely.
He lunges forward, his arms wrapping completely around her, pulling her crushed frame against his chest
Sanaz flinches violently, a low snarl tearing from her throat as her right wrist snaps upward. The silver necklace links click against her skin, the tiny blade instantly rising toward his jugular. Hamza doesn't move a single inch, keeping his throat entirely exposed to the steel as he locks his green eyes onto hers.
The blade stops a millimeter from his skin. Her chest heaves, her eyes blinking as the outline of his face finally registers in her brain.
She drops her hand.
“Sanaz... Kya kiya in logo ne tumhare saath?” Hamza whispers, his voice cracking as his thumbs gently trace the brutal, swelling purple lines across both her cheeks.
[“Sanaz... what did these people do to you?”]
She says absolutely nothing. Hamza tracks the dark crimson stains down the front of the torn plain kameez, his chest tightening until he can barely breathe. He knows exactly what that silence means. The dehumanization of the cell doesn't need words.
“Ghar chalo,” he commands softly as he guides her toward the idling vehicle layout.
[“Come home.”]
Rizwan aggressively throws the rear door open, helping her slide onto the plush leather seats before jumping back into the driver’s seat and slamming the vehicle into gear. The SUV tears down the muddy mountain trail.
“Do kilometer dur unregistered planes humara intezaar kar rahi hain,” Rizwan reports rapidly, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. [“Two kilometers away, unregistered planes are waiting for us.”]
Rizwan reaches into his jacket and passes a thick, leather wallet back to the rear seats. Hamza flips it open, revealing three freshly minted passports.
Sanaz’s eyes travel lazily across the clean, official pages. Her mind is too exhausted to process the new identities, the foreign stamps, or the logistics of the flight, but as the pages turn under the dim cabin light, her gaze catches the photograph of the man sitting right beside her.
Beneath his familiar, hardened features, the bold black ink reads a completely new name:
Shaurya Bhardwaj.
The Wrath of God has a new name.
But the universe doesn't allow its phantoms to slip into the light so easily.
SCREECH.
Rizwan slams his foot onto the brake pedal with brutal force, the SUV fishtailing violently across the narrow mountain road as four massive, blinding spotlights suddenly ignite from the thick mist ahead.
Four heavily armored tactical convoys block the entire width of the ravine path, their high-beams completely pinning the SUV in a blinding crossfire grid. The metallic click of dozens of automatic rifles echoing through the trees shatters the silence.
The rear door of the lead convoy swings open slowly. Draped in her heavy ornate salwar and dripping in gold jewelry that catches the harsh white light, Marukh Ibrahim steps out into the mud.
The phone call Tahoor attempted before his execution had done its work. She tracked the coordinates. She brought the entire remaining core of the syndicate workforce.
And inside the SUV, the extraction protocol had been too rushed—they hadn't even carried extra ammunition boxes or heavy weapons. They are entirely outgunned, trapped, with nothing but their sidearms and a tactical necklace.
Marukh raises her heavy chrome pistol.
“Ghar toh jaoge tum log,” she calls out, her voice echoing coldly over the idling ENGINES. “LAASH BANKAR.”
[“You people will go home. As corpses.”]
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In Which the Gun Did Speak, and Truth Did Not Answer
“DHOLWALE SHURU HOJAYEIN!”
[“Drummers, start!”]
Hamza yells roughly, as he strides aggressively out onto the lawn. The heavy black pistol is still clutched firmly in his right hand, his face completely wiped of any human restraint.
The drummers slam their sticks onto the skins with absolute force. The thumping rhythm explodes across the courtyard grid, drawing the remaining men and guards into an instant, frenzied circle as they begin to sing loudly over the bass.
O dil leke dil diya hai,
Sauda pyar ka kiya hai,
Dil ki baazi jeeta dil haar kar!
[“Oh, I have given my heart and taken a heart in return,
I have made a deal of love,
I won the game of hearts by losing my own heart!”]
Hamza doesn't look back at the dark windows of the bungalow. He reaches down onto the central bar table, his fingers locking around the neck of a full, unpoured bottle of scotch whisky. He tears the seal off with his teeth and lifts it straight to his lips, his head tilting back as he gulps the burning amber liquid down in massive, continuous swallows. The alcohol fires down his throat, burning his chest.
He slams the half-empty bottle onto the table, his body shifting into a wild, unhinged movement as he begins to dance, throwing his arms wide and aggressively encouraging the surrounding syndicate muscle to join the circle. The local gangsters and foot soldiers cheer uproariously, completely swept up in the terrifying charisma of their leader, pulling out wads of currency notes and throwing them into the air like autumn leaves.
Baazigar o baazigar,
Baazigar main baazigar.
[“O gambler, o gambler,
I am the gambler, yes, the gambler.”]
“Bajao!” Hamza roars into the sky. “Bajao behenchod! Aaj meri mashuka ka din hai!”
[“Play! Play, you bastards! Today is my beloved's day!”]
But as his frame twists under the colored garden lights, the terrifying performance begins to fracture at the seams. His jaw is locked so tight the muscle threatens to snap, and his eyes have gone completely bloodshot, swimming with an unshed glaze of tears that refuse to fall.
Across the grass, Jameel Jamali steps in, his face a perfectly constructed mask of celebration as he casually throws a fistful of notes into the air, playing the part of the supportive politician to perfection. But right beside the pillar, Rizwan stands entirely frozen. His hand remains subtly tucked inside his waistband.
Something up there went completely off the script.
Hamza slowly lowers the weapon, his frame suddenly looking entirely drained. This time, the silence is broken by the light tap of shoes on the marble. Rizwan follows him closely, his eyes darting across the empty room before locking onto the tense, trembling line of the big man’s shoulders.
“Bhai kya hua?” Rizwan asks, his voice an urgent whisper.
[“Brother, what happened?”]
No answer. Hamza just keeps walking, his heavy boots dragging across the floor.
“Hamza!” Rizwan finally calls out, the raw shock forcing him to use the name he had never once spoken in all their years.
The latter stops dead in his tracks. He turns slowly. “Sab tabah hogaya...” he grits out through his teeth, the words tearing from his throat like broken glass. He walks unevenly toward the central display table, his gaze falling upon the uncut Starry Night cake and the pile of velvet-wrapped gifts. “Jabhi jisse mohabbat ki, chhin gaya.”
[“Everything is destroyed... Whenever I loved someone, they were snatched away.”]
His hand reaches down into the middle of the imported books, his fingers trembling as he picks up a thin, plain envelope hidden at the very bottom. “Aaj raat... Yeh dene wala tha use,” he sniffles, a rough, broken sound breaking from his chest as he hastily wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
[“Tonight... I was going to give this to her.”]
Rizwan steps forward, his brows furrowing as he gently takes the envelope from Hamza’s shaking grip. He rips the seal open with a sharp, clean movement.
Three physical documents slide out into the dim light. Three international airline tickets.
The destination printed in bold ink: Ottawa, Canada.
A clean extraction. Forever away from the Karachi cartel. Three names registered for the final flight out:
Hamza Ali Mazari. Sanaz Siddiqui. Rizwan Shah.
The smoke inside the narrow upper corridor layout didn't rise from a skull. Hamza slowly lowers the heavy black barrel as he looks past the sight to lock eyes with the monarch.
“Marukh Sahiba... Agar yeh mar gayi toh hum kabhi nahi jaan payenge iske saath aur kitne ghuspaithiye hain.”
[“Lady Marukh... If she dies, we will never know how many more infiltrators are with her.”]
The echoes of Sanaz’s voice flash through his memory like a binding covenant: “Mujhe zinda rehna hai. Humari jaan hai tumhare hawale.” He had promised her life. He was going to keep it, no matter the price, no matter how much blood he had to spill to build the camouflage.
Marukh tilts her head, a dark, amused expression flitting across her sharp features as she immediately swallows the bait. “Toh tum chahte ho hum ise ISI ke kuye mein fek dein?” She lets out a dry chuckle, tapping the leather diary against her palm. “Bilkul meri tarah sochte ho, Hamza. In hindustaniyon ki toh qabar khod dungi main.”
[“So you want us to throw her into the well of the ISI? You think exactly like me, Hamza. I will dig the graves of these Indians.”]
“Hamza...” Sanaz mutters, her eyes blinking rapidly as the terrifying gravity of the shift sets in. She doesn't know the parameters of the interrogation she’s being thrown into. She doesn't know if they will survive the dawn. “Meri baat suno.”
[“Listen to me.”]
“Mere ghar mein ghus ke...” Hamza roars suddenly, stepping forward. He reaches out, his massive fingers locking into her hair, gripping it with a simulated rage that sends a physical jolt of pain through her scalp. “Mere logon ko maregi? Mazal kaise hui teri?!”
[“Entering my house... you will kill my people? How dare you?!”]
The brutal force of the words and the agonizing physical restraint tear at her core. Sanaz thrashes against his grip, her hands automatically pushing against his chest layout as genuine, terrified tears finally well up in her eyes.
Hamza tilts her head back violently, “Hamza Ali Mazari ka ghar hai yeh!”
[“This is the house of Hamza Ali Mazari!”]
And then... an aggressive push.
Sanaz stumbles backward, her platinum anklets clicking sharply against the floorboards as the two armed enforcers catch her by the shoulders. “Le jao ise yahan se! Dhokebaz!” Hamza spits out, turning his back to mask the fracture in his expression.
[“Take her away from here! Traitor!”]
Marukh’s eyes flare with immense satisfaction as she watches the display. “Baloch... Maza aaya.”
[“Baloch... that was satisfying.”]
Hamza turns back to face the Queen. “Kadi saza dijiye ise. Pakistan aur muslim qoum se badhkar kuch nahi mere liye. Lekin ek cheez... Yeh baat bahar nahi aani chahiye jab tak main uski laash jala nahi deta.”
[“Give her strict punishment. Nothing is greater for me than Pakistan and the Muslim community. But one thing... this news should not come out until I burn her corpse.”]
“Nahi aayegi, Hamza Sahab. Aur aap humare kaam mein bilkul dakhalandazi nahi karenge,” Marukh replies. [“It won't come out, Mr. Hamza. And you will not interfere in our work at all.”]
The enforcers waste no time. They pin Sanaz’s arms behind her back, dragging her struggling, red-and-black draped form down the narrow rear staircase toward the waiting armored convoy in the shadows. Hamza stands frozen in the dark corridor, watching the back door click shut, watching his wife vanish into the black maw of the cartel’s torture wings.
The silence lasted for a single second. Then the survival protocol took over. He had to run downstairs. He had to scream for the drums. He had to dance, drink, and perform the ultimate delusion before a single guest noticed the bride was missing from her own palace.
Rizwan stares down at the three airline tickets for a long second before sliding the documents back into the envelope and tucking it securely into his inner pocket. He steps quickly out into the courtyard, dispersing the remaining peripheral guests into the Karachi night until the grounds are entirely clear.
With the perimeter secured, he signals Jameel Jamali, and the three men lock themselves inside the quiet sanctuary of Hamza’s private room. Jamali immediately draws an encrypted satellite terminal from the wall safe, bypassing standard local relays to establish a direct secure frequency across the border.
The line clicks as the encryption matrices align. Across the border in New Delhi, Ajay Sanyal picks up the receiver. “Haan, boliye?”
[“Yes, speak?”]
“Sanaz pakdi gayi hai,” Jamali reports.
[“Sanaz has been captured.”]
“What?” Sanyal’s voice sharpens instantly.
“Haan. Khabar faili nahi hai. Extraction karaiye.”
[“Yes. The news hasn't spread yet. Initiate the extraction.”]
“Mujhe PM se baat karni hogi,” Sanyal answers.
[“I will have to speak with the PM.”]
From the shadows of the desk, Hamza’s voice is small, hollowed out by the friction of the flashback. “Jaldi kuch kijiye.”
[“Do something quickly.”]
A heavy sigh echoes from the other end of the line before the encryption cuts out and the terminal goes completely dark.
Meanwhile, under the harsh security floodlights of the ISI headquarters, the armored Ibrahim convoy grinds to a final halt. The rear doors are thrown open violently. Two armed guards aggressively haul Sanaz out of the back, securing heavy iron cuffs around her wrists before guiding her past the concrete barricades and deep into the subterranean interrogation wings.
Marukh steps into the reception alone, personally handing over the leather journal and the forensic photo files of Khalid Kashmiri as ironclad material proof to the intake desk.
The guards drag Sanaz down a winding, windowless corridor, shoving her into a small, concrete-reinforced cell. The heavy iron door slams shut with a definitive click. Within seconds, the latch slides back.
A senior medical officer steps into the enclosure, flanked by two guards. Without offering a single word, he grabs her cuffed arm tracing the vein beneath her arm, and drives a syringe deep into the muscle—injecting a heavy, fast-acting sedative variant designed to compromise neurological defenses and induce compliance.
The officer leaves, and the shadows settle for a brief minute as the chemical begins to fire through her bloodstream, making her vision blur and her head drop heavily against her chest.
SNAP.
The overhead industrial halogen bulbs flicker to life, flooding the small room grid with a blinding, white glare. Sanaz closes her eyes tightly against the sudden brightness, her breath catching as the heavy sound of boots fills the cell.
A group of high-ranking interrogation officers files into the room layout, with Marukh Ibrahim standing directly behind them like a predatory silhouette.
The lead officer steps forward into her personal space, his shadow falling over her crouched form.
“Naam.”
[“Name.”]
Sanaz forces her chin up, her eyes blinking through the chemical haze. “Sanaz Siddiqui.”
SLAP.
The physical impact cracks sharply through the small cell, throwing her head to the side as blood rises to the surface of her cheek.
“Naam!” the officer roars, stepping closer.
“Sanaz... Siddiqui,” she repeats through her teeth.
SLAP.
The second physical impact cracks against her other cheek, the velocity of the blow split-lining the corner of her lower lip as a thin, dark line of crimson trickles down her chin. She breathes heavily through her nose, the taste of copper flooding her mouth grid.
“Galat jawab. Asli naam bol,” the lead interrogator snarls.
[“Wrong answer. State your real name.”]
The sedative variant is firing rapidly through her central nervous system now. Her eyelids are dropping like heavy weights, closing for seconds before her internal discipline forces them open again, her eyes glazed but fiercely defiant. “Sanj... SANAZ SIDDIQUI.”
The officer turns his head slightly, his expression flattening. “Kapde utaro iss haramzadi ke.”
[“Strip this bastard woman.”]
Before she can construct a physical defense, the two male guards step into her space. With her hands pinned ruthlessly behind her back in the iron cuffs, they grab the collar of the embroidered kurti. With a sharp wrench, they tear the fabric downward.
A piercing scream echoes through the reinforced concrete walls of the subterranean wing. In the dark corner, even Marukh Ibrahim’s unhinged heart stops for a second. The torn crimson fabric tumbles down onto the dirty stone floorboards.
The lead officer steps forward, his fingers clamping onto her jawline with bone-snapping force, tilting her face upward. His breath hits her face as his grip tightens. “Seedhe seedhe muh khol warna tera woh hashr hoga ki kahin muh dikhane ke layak nahi rahegi.”
[“Open your mouth directly, otherwise your condition will be such that you won't be fit to show your face anywhere.”]
“Aazma ke... dekhle... Kutte,” she rasps out through the copper taste of blood coating her teeth. [“Try it... and see... dog.”]
The lead interrogator’s face turns mottled purple. The insolence from a stripped, drugged asset cracks his professional composure.
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
He strikes her three times, the force of the blows rattling her teeth and sending fresh crimson spraying across the white concrete layout.
“Mazak lag raha hai tujhe?” he fumes, his chest heaving as he points a thick, trembling finger at the other armed guards standing in the cell. “Koi bachane nahi aayega jab yeh saare milkar... tere jism ko nochenge.”
[“Does this look like a joke to you? No one will come to save you when all of them together... tear your body apart.”]
Sanaz lets her head roll back. Her glazed eyes lock onto his. “Shuruaat... teri ammi jaan se kar.”
[“Start... with your own mother.”]
“Bohot bolti hai kambakht!” the officer roars.
[“She talks too much, wretched woman!”]
He unleashes a backhand so violently heavy that the momentum tears the wooden chair completely off its balance point. Sanaz goes down hard, the structure crashing sideways onto the stone floorboards, her cuffed wrists twisting painfully beneath the weight as her bare shoulder hits the freezing concrete.
For a second, there is only the sound of her ragged, shallow breathing. Then, a low, breathy sound echoes from the floor.
Sanaz is chuckling.
She hitches her chest, coughing up a thick glob of dark blood, and forcefully spits it directly onto the polished black leather of the interrogator's boot.
She looks up through the tangled strands of her hair, her split lips curving into a terrifying, bloody smile. “Isse zyada... kuch aur nahi nikal payega.”
[“More than this... nothing else will come out.”]
“Mujhpe thookti hai, madarchod?!” Major Luqman roars, his features completely distorted by ego and rage.
[“You spit on me, you motherfucker?!”]
Without a shred of humanity left, he draws his heavy boot back and kicks her squarely in the face. The force of the leather impact scratches the skin across her cheekbone, throwing her head back violently against the concrete.
Before she can even register the blinding flash of pain, Luqman steps forward, lifting his heavy boot and bringing it down directly onto her bare chest, crushing her ribcage against the stone floor boards with immense force.
The act is purely dehumanizing.
A choked scream tears out of Sanaz's throat. She thrashes against the iron cuffs pinned beneath her, gasping frantically for oxygen that won't come, hot tears finally overflowing from her eyes and rolling down her temples into her tangled hair.
The other steps closer, a predatory look on his face as his hand aggressively travels up the bare skin of her leg. “Abhi toh shuruaat hai, Sanaz. Asli khel to baaki hai.”
[“This is just the beginning, Sanaz. The real game is yet to come.”]
Sanaz’s vision is rapidly fading into a dark, blurry vortex as the heavy sedative combines with the physical trauma, threatening to drag her consciousness under completely. She forces her eyes to track the metallic identifiers pinned to their uniforms.
Major Luqman.
Officer Tahoor.
She burns the names directly into her subconscious memory, just as her body finally gives out, slipping into unconsciousness.
Luqman pulls his boot back, adjusting his uniform collar as he looks down at her limp form with cold disgust.
“Sadne do aise hi. Kal subah dekhenge kya karna hai,” he mutters to the guards at the door, wiping the dark crimson smear from his leather boot.
[“Let her rot like this. We'll see what to do tomorrow morning.”]
They file out of the concrete room one by one. The iron door swings shut.
The sub-zero temperature of the underground cell feels even more oppressive as the digital clock layout clicks past eleven at night.
Sanaz has forced her eyes open, the heavy sedative still a dull, throbbing ache in her skull. A female intelligence officer sits across from her, applying a cold antiseptic compress to her split lip, trying to coax the deep-cover information open with soft, maternal words.
Sanaz remains entirely stone-faced, her gaze fixed on the concrete floor.
Upstairs in the high-security executive wing, ISI Chief Shamshad Hassan steps into the primary briefing room. Before he can even review the ledger files Marukh provided, his secure satellite terminal vibrates on the desk.
An unknown, encrypted relay. Hassan clicks the receiver. “Asalamwalaikum.”
“Walaikum assalam, Sanyal Sahab. Itne dino baad yaad kiya?” Hassan chuckles, adjusting his uniform collar as he leans back.
[“Peace be upon you, Mr. Sanyal. Remembered me after so long?”]
“Meri ek bachchi hai aapke paas. Use chhor dijiye,” Ajay Sanyal’s voice cuts through the speaker line. [“You have one of my girls with you. Release her.”]
Hassan lets out a low, amused breath. “Kaisi baatein karte hain aap, Sanyal sahab? Hum Jihadi hain, itni asani se haar nahi manenge.”
[“What kind of talk is this, Mr. Sanyal? We are Jihadis, we won't accept defeat so easily.”]
“Itna overconfidence achcha nahi, Hassan Sahab,” Sanyal counters, “Khair, main aapko kuch bhej raha hoon. Uske baad aapke pair bhi utne hi ladkhadayenge jitna aapki zubaan.”
[“Such overconfidence is not good, Mr. Hassan. Well, I am sending you something. After that, your legs will tremble as much as your tongue.”]
Ting. Ting.
A data packet bypasses the firewall, popping up directly on Hassan’s central monitor. He clicks the video file.
The screen flickers to life, displaying crystal-clear intelligence footage from an unlisted, private luxury estate in Europe. It is Hassan himself. He is seated at a polished mahogany conference table, engaged in an high-level intelligence swap with foreign delegates—an Israeli flag standing prominently at the center of the table. The audio captures him laughing, exchanging classified dossiers, and warmly shaking hands with them.
“Aapko kya laga khel khelna sirf aapko aata hai?” Sanyal’s voice returns over the terminal, sharp as a guillotine. “Sochiye agar yeh har jagah fail gayi toh kya hoga. Ek Pakistani intelligence officer Yahudiyon ke saath haath mila raha hai.”
[“Did you think only you knew how to play the game? Think about what will happen if this spreads everywhere. A Pakistani intelligence officer shaking hands with Jews.”]
The blood completely drains from Hassan’s face. The political and systemic fallout of such a leak would mean a literal execution by his own agency.
“Lekin Sanyal Sahab... Yahan headquarters mein khabar fail gayi hai ki humne ek hindustani agent pakda hai,” he begs, his knuckles turning white as he grips the desk. “Kisi par toh ilzaam lagana hoga na.”
[“But Mr. Sanyal... the news has spread here in the headquarters that we have caught an Indian agent. Someone has to be blamed.”]
“Woh sab aap apna dekh lijiye,” Sanyal dictates coldly, shutting down the negotiation entirely. “Mujhe meri ladki chahiye, zinda, do ghante mein, Margalla Hills ke paas. Koi peecha nahi karega. Allah Hafiz.”
[“You handle all that yourself. I want my girl, alive, in two hours, near Margalla Hills. No one will follow. Goodbye.”]
The line goes dead, leaving only the soft hum of the video loop playing on the screen.
Shamshad Hassan strides down the concrete corridor, his boots heavy with the weight of complete strategic defeat. He steps directly into the glare of the interrogation cell where Sanaz sits. Her eyes, sharp despite the chemical fog, tilt upward, staring directly into the fractured composure of the ISI Chief.
Hassan doesn't look her in the eye. He snaps his head around toward the two men standing by the threshold, his voice exploding. “Luqman! Tahoor! Ise kapde pehnao aur margalla hills tak chhor kar aao. Abhi!”
[“Luqman! Tahoor! Put clothes on her and drop her off at Margalla Hills. Now!”]
Major Luqman steps forward, his brows furrowing in utter disbelief, his chest still puffed from the interrogation victory he thought he had won. “Yeh kya keh rahe hain aap, sir?!” he protests, gesturing wildly toward the fallen chair. “Woh Hindustani agent hai!”
[“What are you saying, sir?! She is an Indian agent!”]
“Zyada baatein mat karo warna hum mein se koi bhi nahi bachega!” Hassan barks back. [“Don't talk too much, otherwise none of us will survive!”]
Luqman and Officer Tahoor exchange a tense look, the institutional hierarchy forcing their compliance against every instinct. They nod grimly. Tahoor reaches for a standard issue, plain grey salwar kameez from the intake locker and throws it violently onto the concrete at Sanaz’s feet.
“Pehen ise. Dus minute mein niklenge,” Luqman spits out. [“Wear this. We leave in ten minutes.”]
The iron doors slam shut to give her privacy, leaving her alone. Sanaz moves lazily, her limbs heavy, but her internal processor is operating at absolute peak frequency. She slips into the plain grey fabric, the material coarse against her bruised skin.
As she draws the dupatta over her shoulder, her fingers slide up to the silver statement chain Hamza had placed around her neck just hours ago. She unclasps the silver birthday necklace.
Instead of leaving it hidden beneath the collar, she winds the metal links tightly around her right wrist, tucking the tiny, concealed tactical knife mechanism directly against her palm.
The Hand of God is moving out of the cage, and she is bringing the BLADE WITH HER.
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She Had Slain the Wolves, Only to Find the Viper in Her Own Bed
“HAMZA KA BACKGROUND clear hai. Quetta mein janm hua, parivar balochon ki jung mein shaheed hogayein. Fir woh Rehman ki gang mein shaamil hogaya, aur baaki sabko pata hai,” the lead officer reports. The officer, a sharp-eyed operative who subtly stepped into the Karachi vacancy after SP Aslam’s demise, lays down the underworld file.
[“Hamza's background is clear. Born in Quetta, family martyred in the Baloch war. Then he joined Rehman's gang, and everyone knows the rest.”]
Marukh stands behind him, her arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowing as the digital ledger shifts. “Aur doctor?”
“Sanaz... Lahore mein janm hua, ammi abbu Dubai mein rehte hain. Yahan pe uska ek chacha rehta hai jisse woh kabhi kabhar milti hai.”
[“Sanaz... Born in Lahore, mother and father live in Dubai. She has an uncle living here whom she meets occasionally.”]
“Uske ammi abbu ke baare mein kuch pata chala?” Marukh cuts in. [“Did you find out anything about her mother and father?”]
The officer shifts uncomfortably, tapping the keyboard. “Zyada jaankari nahi hai. Kuch contacts aur assets hain par sach hai ya jhooth pata nahi lag paa raha.”
[“There isn't much information. There are some contacts and assets but it's impossible to tell whether it's true or a lie.”]
Marukh’s eyes flare. A ghost in the database means a phantom in her house. She turns away from the screens. “Uske chacha ke ghar chalo. Dekhte hain yeh use pehchan pata hai ya nahi.”
[“Go to her uncle's house. Let's see if he recognizes her or not.”]
The dead of night offers no warmth as two armored vehicles tear through the silent streets of South Karachi. Marukh, flanked by two of her most ruthless, heavily armed enforcers, arrives at the KK Pharmacy storefront layout first. Finding it dark, locked, and entirely empty, they re-route the coordinates directly to the quiet residential address on file.
A heavy knock shatters the silence of the early morning hours.
The bolt slides back, and the wooden door swings open. Khalid Kashmiri stands on the threshold, his older frame wrapped in a simple winter shawl, his expression adjusting to a neutral mask of confusion. “Kya hua bhai? Itni subah subah?”
[“What happened, brother? So early in the morning?”]
Without answering, the lead enforcer steps forward, aggressively thrusting a photograph right in front of Khalid's face. It is a captured frame from the wedding—the exact day Sanaz and Hamza were married—and Khalid’s face is clear right next to the bride. There is no room for denial.
“Iss ladki ko janta hai?” the enforcer barks.
[“Do you know this girl?”]
Khalid glances down at the photo, maintaining a disciplined composure as he simply nods.
Before he can even draw a full breath, the two armed enforcers violently shove past him, barging straight into the modest living room as Marukh steps inside like a creeping shadow. The doors slam shut behind her.
“Iski medical ki padhai aur weapon license tune hi karwayi thi? Kon hai tu uska?” the enforcer demands, cornering the older handler against his own walls.
[“You were the one who got her medical studies and weapon license done? Who are you to her?”]
Khalid looks past the gun barrels, his eyes locking onto Marukh’s unhinged gaze. He raises his chin slightly, “Bhatiji hai woh meri.”
[“She is my niece.”]
“Bhatiji?” Marukh scoffs, her sharp laughter echoing in the small room. “Dubai mein rehne waale logo ki beti yahan Pakistan mein hai?”
[“Niece? The daughter of people living in Dubai is here in Pakistan?”]
Khalid doesn't flinch, keeping his voice steady and grounded. “Unke paas waqt nahi hai. Isilye maine hi use pala hai. Ismein kaisa zurm hai?”
[“They don't have time. That's why I raised her. What kind of crime is in this?”]
“Zurm nahi hai, chacha jaan. Agar sach bol raha hai toh abhi kar call. Aur koi chalaki nahi.”
[“It's not a crime, dear uncle. If you are telling the truth, call right now. And no tricks.”]
Under the intense gaze of the barrel, Khalid slowly pulls out his device and dials a pre-established dummy number. The phone rings through, bridging onto a secure operational relay. “Hello behna?”
[“Hello, sister?”]
A woman’s voice answers from the speaker. “Khalid bhaiya, aap? Itni subah call kyun kiya?”
[“Brother Khalid, you? Why did you call so early in the morning?”]
“Kuch nahi, woh bas batana chahta tha ki Sanaz bilkul mehfooz hai.”
[“Nothing, I just wanted to tell you that Sanaz is absolutely safe.”]
The lead officer shifts his weight, checking the incoming tracking signal on his terminal layout. The text number routing matches the exact international Dubai coordinate they already have on file.
The call cuts. Khalid lowers the phone, looking directly into Marukh’s eyes. “Ab toh bharosa hogaya na? Nikal jaayen mere ghar se.”
[“Now you believe it, right? Get out of my house.”]
BONK.
Without warning, the butt of an enforcer’s rifle crashes heavily against the side of Khalid's head. He lets out a sharp groan as his vision blurs, falling hard against the floor. Before he can recover his balance or reach for a defensive counter, the two massive enforcers drag his weight up, pinning him brutally into a heavy wooden chair in the center of the small room.
Marukh steps forward, snatching the phone from his grip. Her fingers fly across the digital ledger, aggressively scrolling through the hidden call logs. It is a masterclass in compartmentalization: customer inquiries, the specific Dubai relay contact, and routine check-ins with Sanaz. Barely any mention of Hamza.
“Yeh toh saabit hogaya ki uske parivar ne use akela chhod diya,” Marukh mutters, her thumb tracing the screen as her internal logic begins to twist the data.
[“This proves that her family left her alone.”]
Slowly, she slides her own gun from her coat waistband, the dark steel catching the dull light of the bulb. She steps right into Khalid's personal space, pressing the cold muzzle firmly under his chin.
“Lekin tu itna dar kyun raha hai?”
[“But why are you so afraid?”]
“Main bhatiji ki fikr kar raha hoon, Malka,” Khalid says. “Ek shareef doctor ladki ko aap log raat ke iss pehar bandook ki nok par dhoond rahe hain. Darun nahi toh kya karun?”
[“I am worried about my niece, Queen. You people are looking for an honorable doctor girl at this hour of the night at gunpoint. If I don't fear, what else should I do?”]
Marukh merely jerks her head toward the adjoining rooms, giving a silent command to her enforcers. They immediately begin to tear the small house layout apart, violently flipping mattresses and emptying cabinets. They find standard inventory logs and loose medical files, but nothing connecting to a foreign state. What stands out to the lead officer, however, is the complete lack of history for Khalid himself before he opened this specific storefront.
Then, a sharp whistle sounds from the back bedroom. One of the enforcers steps out into the dim light, holding a weathered, leather-bound diary. Marukh aggressively snatches it away and flips it open.
Blank. Every single page is entirely devoid of ink.
The enforcers stare at the blank white sheets in utter confusion, but Marukh’s instincts are too sharp. She steps directly into the small bathroom, turns the metal faucet handles, and passes the blank paper layout beneath the running stream of water.
Slowly, under the chemical reaction of the water-soluble invisible ink, the hidden text bleeds onto the page. Names begin to reveal themselves—a dark ledger of targeted terrorists and high-profile militants who met violent ends in the city streets. And right at the very bottom of a recent operational grid, a single, handwritten name stays:
“Hamza Ali Mazari?”
There are absolutely no mentions of Sanaz anywhere in the text, but to Marukh’s paranoid mind, the structure is instantly crystal clear.
She walks back into the main room, holding the wet ledger like a lethal trophy. “Tum chacha log apni bhatijiyon ki dhajjiyan udane mein lage rehte ho na?” She turns her chilling gaze away from the bleeding handler, addressing her lead enforcers directly. “Subah ke aath bajte hi Shamshad Hassan ko khabbar pohonchana. Hindustani agent pakda hai humne.”
[“You uncles are always busy tearing your nieces' lives to shreds, aren't you? Inform Shamshad Hassan as soon as it strikes eight in the morning. We have caught an Indian agent.”]
“Aur tu, humare saath chalega,” she adds, stepping toward Khalid.
[“And you are coming with us.”]
But the veteran handler has already reached his terminal protocol line. Before the heavy hands of the enforcers can lock around his shoulders again, Khalid catches the closest guard completely off guard. With a flash of speed from his training, he snatches the pistol straight from the enforcer’s unfastened holster, brings the cold muzzle up to his own temple, and pulls the trigger without a single second of hesitation.
BANG.
The gunshot shatters the quiet morning air inside the room. Khalid's body slumps instantly to the side, hitting the floor with a heavy, final thud.
Marukh gasps, taking a sharp step back as she stares at the fresh splatter on the wall in sheer shock. Her knuckles turn white around the leather diary. She forces her composure back, gritting her teeth with bitter contempt. “Tahshadad se darr gaya, harami.”
[“He got scared of the torture, the bastard.”]
“Ab kya karein?” the remaining enforcer asks, his hands hovering over his weapon as the morning light begins to break through the curtains.
[“What do we do now?”]
Marukh clutches the wet ledger tightly against her chest, “Ab sidha bhatiji ke thikane lagane honge. Hamza ko khud nahi pata... uske paas kaun sa saanp pal raha hai.”
[“Now we must eliminate the niece directly. Hamza himself doesn't even know what kind of snake he's keeping beside him...”]
The sunset over Lyari bleeds a warm, dusty amber across the horizon as the late March air settles into the quiet transition between spring and early summer. Inside Hamza’s heavily guarded bungalow, the main hall has been transformed into a celebration. Elegant satin ribbons, rows of balloons, and fragrant clusters of fresh jasmine and red roses drape from the banisters. At the center of room, a custom-woven carpet reads in bold, gold lettering:
Happy Birthday, Sanaz.
Jameel Jamali stands near the courtyard, clad in a sharp linen kurta, quietly conversing with his wife and his daughter, Yalina, while Rizwan monitors the secure perimeter lines near the entrance. The rest of the local underworld guests and close associates are expected by evening. Hamza moves through the hall, barking final instructions over the phone to the bakery for the cake delivery and personally organizing a mounting stack of velvet-wrapped presents near the main table.
Upstairs in the quiet sanctuary of her bedroom, Sanaz sits on the edge of the mattress, her fingers aggressively tapping the screen of her secure phone. The dialer goes to voicemail for the seventh time.
She stares at the dark screen, a cold, unfamiliar weight sinking into her stomach. “Aisa toh kabhi nahi hua ki chacha jaan mera janmdin bhul gaye ho...” she whispers to the empty room.
[“It has never happened before that Uncle forgot my birthday...”]
A soft knock shatters her focus. Yalina peeks through the doorway, her face lit up with a bright smile. “Baaji, aap abhi bhi aise hi baithi ho? Taiyyar hojao na, sab shuru hone wala hai.”
[“Sister, are you still sitting like this? Get ready, everything is about to start.”]
Sanaz forces a breath out, pocketing the phone and forcing the rising anxiety back down into her chest. She nods gently. “Ek aadhe ghante mein aati hoon.”
[“I'll be down in half an hour.”]
Downstairs, the heavy bass of the local music begins to thrum through the floorboards as the catering staff lays out trays of steaming biryani and cold drinks.
When the grand staircase door opens, the room falls into a collective hush. Sanaz descends the steps draped in absolute elegance. She wears a custom embroidered top paired with a long, sweeping skirt—the cut tailored meticulously so it functions like a mini kurti, covering her midriff with modest grace. The color is a striking, lethal blend of deep crimson red woven with midnight black. The gold jewelry catches the light beautifully, clicking softly against the platinum anklets Hamza had gifted her, while her dupatta is pinned elegantly over one shoulder instead of her head. With minimal makeup and a sharp swipe of terracotta lipstick, she looks utterly regal.
Hamza looks up from the floor, his eyes widening as his face splits into a rare smile.
Forgetting the crowded room of onlookers, the Sher-E-Baloch strides forward across the marble. He catches her by the waist, lifts her completely off her feet, and swirls her around in a wide, joyous circle.
Sanaz lets out a genuine, musical giggle, her hands locking behind his neck. “Utaaro! Sab dekh rahe hain!”
[“Put me down! Everyone is watching!”]
He laughs, a low, rumbling sound as he smoothly sets her feet back down onto the cold marble. Leaning in, he presses a lingering, affectionate kiss directly onto her forehead. “Janmdin mubarak ho, seherzadi.”
[“Happy birthday, princess.”]
She looks up at him, her eyes shining. “Shukriya. Mera taufa kahan hai?” she asks eagerly, a playful, demanding tilt to her chin.
[“Thank you. Where is my gift?”]
“Aaiye, dikhata hoon,” he murmurs, his large hand sliding into hers as he guides her further into the decorated expanse of the bungalow. She looks around at the streaming ribbons and balloons, nodding with an appreciative smile. Hamza stops by the main display table, picking up the first of the gift boxes and handing it over to her.
She unboxes it, pulling out a pair of delicate, gleaming ornaments. “A pair of tiny earrings,” she hums playfully, tilting her head to gauge his reaction.
He immediately slides the next box into her hands—a sleek, heavy glass bottle from a luxury perfume set. Hmm. Then a custom-wrapped bouquet made entirely of imported chocolates. Hmm. Finally, he pushes a heavy cardboard crate forward. When she slices the tape, her breath catches. Nestled inside are the rare volumes and literature books she had been tracking, imported directly from foreign publishers.
Her eyes widen in absolute amazement as she looks up at him. “Yeh kaise pata chala?”
[“How did you find out about this?”]
Hamza leans down slightly. “Begum jaan, shauhar hoon aapka.”
[“My dear wife, I am your husband.”]
She rolls her eyes affectionately, though a flush mounts her cheeks. And then, hidden beneath the books, sits the velvet case. Sanaz opens it to find a heavy, intricately crafted silver necklace—a stunning piece of statement jewelry that, with a subtle click of the clasp, transforms into a concealed, razor-sharp tiny knife. The tactical weapon fits her persona flawlessly.
She slides it around her neck, securing the hidden blade against her collarbone. “Puri dukaan utha laaye kya?” she teases, fingering the silver steel.
[“Did you bring the whole shop with you?”]
“Abhi toh sabse zaruri taufa dekha hi nahi. Jab raat hogi, tab dunga,” Hamza whispers near her ear. [“You haven't seen the most important gift yet. When night falls, I will give it to you.”]
She squints her eyes suspiciously but nods, her heart softening despite the underlying dread of the quiet pharmacy. “Waise itna sab kuch karne ki zarurat nahi thi.”
[“By the way, there was no need to do all this.”]
“Lekin main karna chahta tha,” he counters softly, his hands wrapping completely around hers, holding them tight. “Aise hi har saal aapka janmdin manana chahta hoon.”
[“But I wanted to. I want to celebrate your birthday just like this every single year.”]
“Doktor!”
The moment is suddenly broken by the light, pattering sound of tiny feet running across the marble. Safeena comes bursting through the crowd of guests, her small face lit up with absolute joy as she targets Sanaz.
Sanaz chuckles softly, immediately crouching down to meet the little girl at eye level. It seems the long months of safety in Lyari have done their work; Major Iqbal's daughter is slowly, mercifully forgetting the horrors of her past and the father who left her behind.
With careful pride, Safeena holds out a crinkled piece of paper. Sanaz takes the handmade card, tracking the unsteady, childish crayon strokes that read: “Happi... Birthdey.”
“Aww,” Sanaz coos, her composure melting entirely as she pulls the little girl into a brief, warm hug. “Thank you so much. Aapko bhook lagi hai? Khana hai na?”
[“Thank you so much. Are you hungry? Let's get some food, okay?”]
Nearby, Safiya and Basheer share a quiet, relieved chuckle as they step forward to gently take the little girl by the hand, leading her away toward the catering tables for food and playtime with the other children.
The tiered cake stands proudly at the center of the display layout, decorated in flawless white buttercream painted meticulously to resemble Van Gogh’s The Starry Night, its rich chocolate insides waiting to be cut.
As the evening shadows deepen across Lyari, the bungalow grounds fill completely. Outside in the courtyard, Alam is busy preparing fresh juices at his station, the rich, aromatic scent of spiced biryani hanging thick in the air. Groups of men stand around the perimeter laughing and drinking, but a strange, dragging delay hangs over the festivities. Sanaz keeps actively postponing the cake cutting, her eyes tracking the entrance, waiting for an anchor that isn't coming. A few distant guests even begin to slip away or rest in the lounge rooms.
Hamza steps up beside her, taking a slow gulp of his amber whisky as he watches her anxious posture. “Jaane do na, kitna hi intezar karogi? Shayad woh busy honge.”
[“Let it go, how long will you wait? Maybe he's busy.”]
“Busy hote toh bata diya hota. Lekin...” Sanaz cuts off, her senses suddenly picking up a discordant vibration from the front gates.
[“If he were busy, he would have told me. But...”]
Suddenly, loud, uninvited footsteps echo sharply against the marble foyer. The ambient chatter of the room dies instantly.
Marukh Ibrahim strides into the ballroom, draped in her usual heavy, ornate salwar kameez and dripping in gold jewelry, flanked tightly by her armed enforcers. A cold, venomous smile spreads across her face as she looks around the decorated hall. “Apne janmdin par Malka ko nahi bulaya?”
[“You didn't invite the Queen to your birthday?”]
Sanaz blinks. “Aap toh malka hain, hum bas naukar. Kaise aashaye rakhte ki bulane par aap aaogi?”
[“You are the queen, we are just servants. How could we expect that you would come upon our invitation?”]
Marukh chuckles, a dry sound. “Ab aagayi, dekho na.”
[“Now I've come, see.”]
From the corner of his eye, Hamza cuts a sharp, lethal look to Rizwan. Without needing a verbal command, Rizwan immediately slides into the crowd, smoothly and quietly manipulating the general guests and peripheral associates out toward the garden gates, clearing the perimeter until only the core inner circle remains inside the structure.
“Aaiye baithiye na,” Hamza calls out evenly as he points toward an empty plush chair.
[“Come, sit.”]
“Thodi der baad, pehle aaj ki khaas saksh ko nihaar toh loon.” Marukh loops a firm hand around Sanaz’s arm, her grip turning her around and pulling her directly toward the grand staircase. “Chalo.”
[“After a little while, let me admire today's special person first. Come.”]
The armed enforcers fall into a tight step behind them, their boots clicking heavily against the stairs as they ascend to the private upper floor. Hamza stays a measured distance behind, his eyes locked on Marukh's posture.
Reaching the upper corridor, the festive music from downstairs fades. “Kitna achcha ghar sajaya hai, khush toh bohot hogi na tum?” Marukh murmurs, her gaze tracking the quiet corners.
[“How beautifully you've decorated the house, you must be very happy, right?”]
“Ji...” Sanaz mutters.
“Arey udas kyun ho?” The taller woman suddenly stops in the middle of the dark hallway, turning around and lifting a hand to grip the younger woman’s chin with painful force. “Jashn ka din hai aaj. Kisi ko yaad kar rahi ho?”
[“Oh, why are you sad? Today is a day of celebration. Are you missing someone?”]
“Khair, shayad taufe ka intezar kar rahi ho, mujhe pata hai kitni shararti ladki ho tum.” Marukh releases her chin, pulling a tightly wrapped object from the folds of her shawl and thrusting it into Sanaz’s hands.
[“Well, maybe you're waiting for a gift, I know what a mischievous girl you are.”]
Sanaz takes the package in confusion, her fingers tearing away the paper. The moment the covering falls away, her breath catches violently. The leather-bound journal.
Before she can process the blank pages, a glossy, freshly printed photograph slips from the binding and flutters down onto the floor face-up. It is Khalid Kashmiri. His head is slumped back against the floor of his home, blood spreading beneath his temple.
Sanaz's eyebrows furrow in a flash of pure shock, her heartbeat instantly accelerating to a frantic pace. The world narrows down to that single image of her fallen handler.
Click.
Marukh raises her weapon, the dark barrel pointing directly at Sanaz’s chest at point-blank range. Her face is twisted into a mask of triumphant paranoia. “Bhaagne ki gustakhi mat karna. Hamza ko bulao.”
[“Don't dare to run. Call Hamza.”]
“H... Hamza!” Sanaz’s voice cracks.
“Zor se!” Marukh barks, her finger tightening on the trigger structure.
[“Louder!”]
“HAMZA!” Sanaz screams.
Hamza’s heart almost stops at the frequency of her voice. In all the months they have operated together, through the violent trenches of Lyari and the silent, clinical executions of the cartel, he has never heard her scream that loud.
Downstairs in the main hall, the festive music suddenly feels like a mockery. Jameel Jamali, Yalina, and the remaining inner-circle guards freeze instantly in place, their eyes darting toward the ceiling as the echoes fade. Without a single word, Hamza lunges forward, his frame taking the grand stairs three at a time, his hand instinctively reaching into his jacket for the cold steel of his weapon.
He bursts into the corridor and sees it.
Fuck. Fuck. No.
Marukh stands beneath the bulb, her pistol leveled squarely at Sanaz’s chest. Sanaz stands frozen, the water-stained leather journal clutched in her trembling hands.
Hamza takes a deep, controlled breath, forcing his hyper-accelerated pulse down into a flat line as he steps into the line of fire. “Yeh kya kar rahin hain aap?” his deep voice rumbles, projecting a perfect veneer of stunned underworld confusion.
[“What are you doing?”]
“Jo tum nahi kar paaye,” Marukh answers, “Sanaz Hindustani agent hai.”
[“What you couldn't do. Sanaz is an Indian agent.”]
Hamza stops dead in his tracks. His eyes flicker to Sanaz for a fraction of a second, tracking the micro-movements of her face.
“Isne tumhe istemal kiya taaki humare nasl ko khatam kar sake,” Marukh spits out. She jerks her chin toward the wet ledger in Sanaz's hands.
[“She used you so she could destroy our bloodline.”]
Hamza slowly steps forward, his jaw locking tight as he aggressively snatches the leather journal from Sanaz’s grip. He flips through the damp pages layout, his eyes scanning the invisible ink names that had bled into reality—the names of fallen militants, targeted syndicate muscle, and finally, his own alias: Hamza Ali Mazari.
“Aur tum toh jaante ho Hamza. Gaddaron ka kya hashr hota hai,” Marukh whispers, her gaze burning into his side.
[“And you know, Hamza. What fate traitors meet.”]
Marukh turns the handle of her pistol toward him, offering the execution weapon directly into his palm. The ultimate administrative test. “Apni wafadari saabit karo, Hamza. Isse achcha mauka nahi milega.”
[“Prove your loyalty, Hamza. You won't get a better opportunity than this.”]
Hamza shifts his weight. Without a single second of hesitation, his fingers wrap around the grip of the weapon. He turns slowly, his shadow completely blotting out the light, and lifts the heavy black barrel—pointing it directly AT SANAZ’S HEAD.
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To Serve The Queen, One Must First Dance With The Wolves
“GHAR CHALIYE, SANAZ Sahiba.”
[“Let’s go home, Miss Sanaz.”]
Sanaz looks up at the sound.
Hamza stands framed in the doorway. She forces her exhausted features to relax, giving him a tiny, tired smile. “Thodi der rukiye,” she mutters softly, her gloved fingers smoothly pulling a curved suture needle through the torn flesh of a low-level militant resting on the metal examination table.
[“Wait a little while.”]
Hamza pulls up a nearby wooden chair, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. He sits down, casually resting his ankle over his opposite knee as he slides off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
It has been a few months since the first of January, 2014. Under the hyper-paranoid regime of the new Malka, the trio has been forced to play a long, suffocating waiting game.
Marukh Ibrahim still keeps them at a distance, refusing to grant them full entry into the inner sanctum. Hamza plays his part perfectly, executing routine, visible weapon deliveries across Lyari here and there, while Sanaz acts as the quiet medic, patching up the bleeding foot soldiers of a shifting empire.
As her hands tie off the surgical knot, a sharp vibration echoes from the ceiling. The upper floor structure is thin, and the toxic, muffled voices of the syndicate's top brass begin to leak straight through the vents.
Upstairs in the private smoking lounge, Anees Ibrahim slams his fist onto the wooden table, the glass trays rattling violently. “Aap chahe jitna bhi kuch kar lein, Ibrahim ki barabari nahi kar payenge. Abhi bhi waqt hai, yeh gaddi mere hawale kar dijiye.”
[“No matter what you do, you will never equal Ibrahim. There is still time, hand this throne over to me.”]
Chhota Shakeel remains entirely unmoved. He takes a slow, deliberate drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling. His shoulders are rigid, projecting the terrifying calm of the cartel's de facto CEO. “Humara dhandha dimag se chalta hai, Anees. Tu bhale hi Dawood ka bhai hai lekin uske khaatir goliyan khayi hain maine. Jitna tu nahi kar paya apne khoon ke liye, utna khoon bahaya hai maine.”
[“Our business runs on brains, Anees. You may be Dawood's brother, but I’ve taken bullets for him. The amount of blood I’ve spilled for this family is more than you could ever dream of doing for your own bloodline.”]
Anees huffs as he begins pacing the length of the room. “Khoon bahane se mukaam saabit nahi ho jata. Saare international aur financial dhandha sambhala hai maine, aapse achcha chala sakta hoon. Warna yahan aur jaanein jayengi.”
[“Spilling blood doesn't prove your status. I’ve managed the entire international and financial operations; I can run it much better than you. Otherwise, more lives will be lost here.”]
Shakeel exhales a thick cloud of grey smoke, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “Tum aur Marukh bachche ho abhi. Waqt lagega sab kuch sikhne mein. Intezaar karo.”
[“You and Marukh are still children. It will take time to learn everything. Wait.”]
Anees stops dead in his tracks, glaring down at the enforcer. “Intezaar ki seema toot rahi hai, Shakeel Bhai.”
[“The limit of waiting is breaking, Brother Shakeel.”]
Without granting anyone in the room a second glance, Anees storms out of the lounge, his heavy footsteps thundering down the corridor as he slams the outer security doors shut behind him.
Downstairs, the silence returns to the clinic room. Sanaz gently snaps the surgical thread with her scissors, her eyes locking onto Hamza’s gaze in a fraction of a second. The low-level guards outside the door are already whispering about the screaming match. The entire house has just witnessed the fatal fracture between the bloodline and the muscle.
Sanaz hands the final prescription directly into the militant’s calloused hand, her face completely wiped of any expression as she steps away from the examination table. She turns to Hamza, and without another word, the two of them exit the safehouse.
They slide smoothly into the waiting SUV parked where Rizwan is already sitting behind the steering wheel, the engine idling in a low, quiet hum. The moment the doors click shut, he shifts into drive and pulls away into the city traffic, his eyes tracking the rearview mirror.
“Suna aapne?”
[“Did you hear?”]
Hamza nods slowly, staring out the passenger window as the streetlights flicker. “Ghar ke bhediye khud hi raasta bana rahe hain.”
[“The wolves of the house are clearing the path themselves.”]
Sanaz lets out a heavy sigh, leaning her head back against the leather seat cushion. “Shakeel ko high blood pressure hai aur diabetes bhi. Anees jo dawaiyan Dubai se Dawood ke liye bhejta tha mujhe, wahi dawaiyan Shakeel bhi istemal karta hai.”
[“Shakeel has high blood pressure and diabetes too. The same medicines that Anees used to send me from Dubai for Dawood, Shakeel uses those exact ones as well.”]
“Tab kaam aur bhi aasan hogaya,” Rizwan says.
[“Then the work became even easier.”]
“Zyada nahi,” Sanaz counters immediately, “Marukh ke aadmi Clifton warehouse mein pehra diye rehte hain. Mera apne ghar tak mein aana jaana mushkil hogaya hai.”
[“Not by much. Marukh's men keep guard at the Clifton warehouse. Even my own coming and going from my house has become difficult.”]
“Karna kya hai?” Rizwan asks.
[“What needs to be done?”]
“Uske vials ya labels badalne hain, high dosage calcium channel blocker se,” she continues. “Anees ke signatures bhi hote hain har shipment aur prescriptions par. Woh kagaz hum edit kar lein toh...”
[“We need to change his vials or labels with a high dosage calcium channel blocker. And then there are also Anees' signatures on every shipment and prescription. If we edit those papers...”]
“Toh saare saboot Anees ke gale padenge,” Hamza mutters, “Clifton chalo.”
[“Then all the evidence will fall around Anees' neck. Go to Clifton.”]
Sanaz doesn't lose a single second. She pulls out her secure phone and immediately dials Anees' personal number. The line rings through before a rough, distracted voice answers.
“Bhai?” Sanaz speaks into the receiver, her tone instantly switching. “Shakeel sahab ki tabyet bohot bigad gayi hai. Aap kahein toh pichhale hafte aaye dawaiyan unke ghar pohoncha dein?”
[“Brother? Shakeel sahab's health has deteriorated a lot. If you say so, should we deliver the medicines that arrived last week to his house?”]
An exhausted sigh breathes on the other end. “Theek hai.”
[“Fine.”]
“Aap warehouse mein khabar kar dijiye taaki humein koi takleef na ho,” she adds smoothly, ensuring the operational friction is cleared before they arrive.
[“You inform the warehouse so that we don't face any trouble.”]
The call cuts.
When they pull up, the visual security is airtight. The guards run a thorough protocol check through her, verifying the clear command sent down by Anees before finally stepping back and letting her in. Outside, both Hamza and Rizwan wait in the idling car, their eyes scanning the shadows, fingers tracking their concealed weapons.
After some time, the heavy iron doors open again. Sanaz walks out with composed steps, carrying a sealed medical shipment box in her arms. She slides smoothly back into the car. The moment the door clicks shut, she rips off the packing tape and pulls out the printed invoice paper.
“Khalid chacha ke dukaan chalo,” Sanaz commands softly, her fingers smoothing down the edges of the warehouse document.
[“Go to Uncle Khalid's shop.”]
They finally pull up in front of the weathered, unassuming store: The KK Pharmacy Store.
Sanaz steps out alone, the evening air biting at her cheeks as she pushes past the glass door. Khalid Kashmiri looks up from the counter, his sharp eyes instantly scanning her posture before dropping to the prescription sheet she slides across the glass layout.
BATCH 09-D: SWAPPED MEDICATION:
Amlodipine (5mg) \ rightarrow Replaced with: Nifedipine (High-Dosage IR Variant)
Mechanism: A rapid-acting calcium channel blocker designed to precipitate severe, catastrophic hypotension and acute cardiac arrest within minutes of ingestion.
Mechanism: To induce immediate, profound hypoglycemic shock, leaving the target entirely incapacitated before their neurological grid fails.
Khalid gives her a long look, the silence between handler and asset stretching tight as his hands work efficiently behind the counter. He packs the chemical substitutes into a secure medical pouch. Along with the vials, he slides over the edited paper matrix—a flawless replica of the Clifton warehouse invoice, now carrying the swapped high-dosage compound names set perfectly above Anees Ibrahim's forged signature.
He looks at Hamza, who remains seated in the passenger side.
“Zyada takleef toh nahi de raha Lyari ka gunda?” Khalid asks, his voice carrying a trace of genuine anxiety.
[“Is that Lyari gangster giving you too much trouble?”]
Sanaz freezes for a fraction of a second.
She looks down at the medicine pouch. How does she even reveal that Hamza is also a spy like them? That he isn't a mindless Lyari brute? That they were accidentally tracking each other while falling in love?
No. This is completely the wrong place, and a fatally wrong time. If the communication line leaks, the entire shoal falls apart.
“Chacha jaan, main aapse kuch kehna chahti hoon...” she begins, her voice cracking slightly.
[“Uncle, I want to tell you something...”]
Khalid tilts his head, his expression softening. “Haan bolo na?”
[“Yes, tell me?”]
Sanaz swallows the truth, forcing a soft, emotional smile to her lips. “Shukriya. Sab kuch ke liye.”
[“Thank you. For everything.”]
Khalid’s eyes crinkle with deep affection. He reaches across the counter, giving her a reassuring smile as he gently pats her head.
Sanaz slides back into the passenger seat.. Keeping her gloves firmly on, she places the original warehouse paper into a separate medical shipment box. They carefully swap the exterior stickers and labels.
They run a fresh layer of packing tape over the cardboard seam until the container looks entirely untouched.
Later that night, the shipment box is officially delivered to the Clifton White House, where the faction has been temporarily staying during the transition period.
Once the package is safely inside the house, waiting for Chhota Shakeel's routine, Sanaz takes the fake invoice paper. She crushes the document tightly in her gloved fist, wrinkling the margins just enough to make it look like a discarded piece of panic evidence, before quietly slipping it into the dustbin located inside Anees Ibrahim’s private quarters.
By the late hours of the night, the White House is plunged into an absolute, suffocating panic. The grand corridors that held the New Year’s celebrations are now crawling with armed guards as the senior medical staff flags the terrifying anomaly.
Because the targeted medical shipment box had been routed directly through Sanaz, she is summoned to the main wing under heavy escort the moment the senior doctors officially notify the high command of the lethal calcium channel blocker dosage.
Chhota Shakeel's dead body has already been rushed to the private mortuary for a high-priority investigation.
“Sanaz, yeh kya hai?” Marukh questions, rising up from her throne with a volatile fury radiating from her posture.
[“Sanaz, what is this?”]
“Aap kya keh rahi hain, Malka?” Sanaz asks.
[“What are you saying, Queen?”]
“Shakeel chacha nahi rahe. Tumne dawaiyan di thi... Fir kaise hogaya yeh sab?” Marukh’s voice cuts through the room like a razor blade.
[“Uncle Shakeel is no more. You gave the medicines... then how did all this happen?”]
Sanaz blinks. “Aap hi ne toh mujhe sirf mujahidinon ki seva karne ko bola tha,” she says softly, her eyes cutting sideways to the senior doctor who shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. “Khair... Siyasat mein kisi ka bharosa nahi.” She steps forward, taking the medical charts and reviewing the chemical logs with a clinical frown. “High dosage? Lekin vials mein toh unka normal dosage likha hua hai. Yeh kaam kon kar sakta hai?”
[“You were the one who told me to only serve the militants. Well... there is no trust in politics. High dosage? But the normal dosage is written on the vials. Who could do this?”]
“Jo yeh saari cheezein sambhalta ho...?” Marukh mutters. [“The one who handles all these things...?”]
“Anees bhai aisa nahi kar sakte,” Hamza mutters from the corner of the room, playing his part flawlessly as his voice carries a perfect tone of stunned disbelief.
[“Brother Anees cannot do this.”]
Marukh sits back heavily, her mind running at a frantic, chaotic speed as all the pieces click together—the screaming match from the afternoon, the threats over the karobar, and the control of the Dubai supply lines. “Uske kamre ki talashi lo,” she orders hoarsely.
[“Search his room.”]
The guards move out instantly, tearing through the private wing. Within minutes, they return to the master suite, holding the crumpled, wrinkled fake invoice paper they unearthed from the bottom of the dustbin. The captain of the guard hands it over to the new monarch. Marukh holds the forged paper in pure fury, her eyes widening as her gaze locks onto the swapped chemical listings.
“Mujhe pata tha woh iss gaddi ka bhuka hai... Lekin iss hadd tak pohonch jayega, yeh nahi socha tha,” she breathes out, her knuckles turning white as she crushes the paper in her fist.
[“I knew he was hungry for this throne... but I didn't think he would go to this extent.”]
She takes a deep, ragged breath. “Y-yahan bulao use, abhi,” she barks at the guards.
[“C-call him here, right now.”]
Sanaz steps closer smoothly. “Marukh sahiba, aap aaram karein,” she whispers gently, guiding the trembling Malka down onto the edge of the bed. She places two fingers gently against Marukh’s racing pulse point. “Aapki dil ki dhadkan tez hai. Kya yeh hamesha hota hai jab bhi hum Anees bhai ka naam lete hain?”
[“Lady Marukh, you rest. Your heartbeat is fast. Does this always happen whenever we take Brother Anees's name?”]
Marukh gives no answer, her eyes staring blankly ahead into the dark maw of her own paranoia.
Sanaz smiles a tiny, imperceptible smile, “Aap fikar matt kijiye. Kuch dabe hue dard ka ilaaj hamesha ke liye karna padta hai.”
[“Don't you worry. The treatment for some buried pains has to be done permanently.”]
After half an hour of tension, the heavy double doors of the master suite swing open with a violent thud. Anees Ibrahim storms into the room, his face flushed with fury.
“Kya battameezi hai, Marukh?” he bellows, adjusting his crumpled linen collar. “Tumhare aadmi mujhe aadhe raat gaye yahan utha laaye. Tumhe pata bhi hai main kitni zaruri meeting mein tha? International hawala ka sawal hai!”
[“What insolence is this, Marukh? Your men dragged me here in the middle of the night. Do you even know how important a meeting I was in? It's a matter of international hawala!”]
Marukh remains perfectly still on her throne. Her polished nails drum against the armrest. “Khabar mili aapko?” she asks, her tone dangerously even.
[“Did you get the news?”]
Anees frowns, “Kis cheez ki?”
[“Of what?”]
“Shakeel chacha ke maut ki.”
[“Of Uncle Shakeel's death.”]
Anees stops dead in his tracks. The breath catches violently in his throat, and the grand, arrogant demeanor drops from his features.
Marukh slowly rises from her throne. Behind Anees, the heavy iron bolt of the main gate slides shut. He takes an involuntary step backward, his eyes darting toward the shadows. “Kis wajah se maut hui?” he asks, his voice losing its thunder.
[“What caused the death?”]
“Dawai mein milawat. Aap hi sambhalte the na?” Marukh takes a measured, predatory step down from the dais, tilting her head. “Abbu ki bhi?”
[“Adulteration in medicine. You were the one handling them, right? Father's too?”]
“Kya bakwas kar rahi ho? Tum mujhpar ilzaam laga rahi ho?” Anees yells, his panic manifesting as defensive rage as he gestures wildly.
[“What nonsense are you talking? Are you accusing me?”]
“Maine toh bas sach bola, aage ki kahani aapne khud hi jadd di.” Another deliberate step closer. The distance between the monarch and the uncle shrinks to nothing. “Taiyyar hokar aaye the kya?”
[“I just spoke the truth, you fabricated the rest of the story yourself. Did you come prepared?”]
Anees falters, his back hitting the solid wood of the closed door. Cornered, he spits out the only venom he has left, targeting her position. “Marukh. Apni had mein raho, samjhi? Tumhe karobar chalana nahi aata, na hi ghar chalana. Apne shauhar ko chhor kar yahan baithi ho.”
[“Marukh. Stay within your limits, understood? You don't know how to run a business, nor a home. You're sitting here having left your husband.”]
Marukh doesn't offer a single word in reply. She doesn't have to.
Hamza moves like a shadow. Before Anees can even register the displacement of air, Hamza’s grip locks his right arm behind his back with bone-snapping force. Simultaneously, the captain of the guard traps his left side.
“Kya hai yeh! Chhor mujhe, lafange!” Anees screams, thrashing violently against the human walls pinning him down.
[“What is this! Let me go, you hooligan!”]
Not a single soul in the room falters. The double doors are drawn open once more, revealing Sanaz standing directly in the threshold. Wrapped tightly in her dark green kurti with her dupatta drawn over her head. Behind her, the hallway is lined with the higher associates, syndicate fronts, and internal security staff, all standing stone-faced, watching the absolute destruction of the old guard.
Marukh looks down at her struggling uncle. “Karobar aur ghar toh chal jayega, chacha jaan. Aapka kya hoga?”
[“The business and home will run fine, Uncle. What will happen to you?”]
Anees desperately tries to tear himself out of the execution, but his expensive shoes lose traction on the polished marble. He slips, his knees slamming hard against the floor as Hamza and the guard pin him flat against the stone, rendering him completely immobile.
Marukh casually walks over to the central desk. She picks up the heavy, black semi-automatic pistol resting beside the invoice files.
“Ibrahim ki gaddi chahiye thi na?” she whispers, aiming the barrel directly between his eyes.
[“You wanted the Ibrahim throne, right?”]
“Arey pagal hogaye ho tum sab?!” Anees screeches, his eyes bulging as cold sweat glazes his forehead. “Maine ladayi ki thi lekin maine use nahi mara!”
[“Are you all insane?! I had a fight with him but I didn't kill him!”]
“Fir toh Abbu ko bhi aapne nahi mara?”
[“Then you didn't kill Father either?”]
A collective, sharp gasp ripples through the assembly standing in the corridor. The higher associates shift on their feet, the terrifying implication of the patricide hanging heavy in the air.
[“How many more lies will you tell? This cycle ends right here.”]
BANG.
The first round tears directly through the skull, cutting the scream short.
BANG. BANG.
The brutal, close-range impact echoing deafeningly within the enclosed walls until the upper skull completely shatters, painting the polished marble floor in dark crimson. In the doorway, several low-level staff members flinch away, turning their heads from the visceral splatter. Hamza and the guard let go of the lifeless weight, stepping back.
Marukh slowly lowers the smoking barrel, pointing it slightly upward as she turns her fierce gaze toward the crowded corridor of onlookers.
“Aaj ke baad... Jo bhi gaddari karega, uska yehi hashr hoga.”
[“After today... whoever commits treason, this will be their fate.”]
The wet sound of heavy boots dragging Anees Ibrahim’s lifeless weight across the polished stone echoes down the long corridor layout, leaving a dark smear of blood in its wake.
Marukh stands perfectly still beside the grand desk, the black pistol still clutched in her hand as she stares down at the bloodied floor with wide, unblinking eyes.
“Sab tabah hogaya, Malka... Aage ka karobar kaise sambhalenge?” Sanaz mutters under her breath.
[“Everything is destroyed, Queen... How will we handle the business going forward?”]
“Hamza... Tum Shakeel ka kaam sambhalo, waise bhi Karachi mein tumhara bohot dabdaba hai. Agar mujhe tumhara kaam pasand aaya aur tumne wafadari saabit kar di, toh tum humesha ke liye D-company ke CEO ban jaoge.”
[“Hamza... You take over Shakeel's work, anyway your clout is very strong in Karachi. If I like your work and you prove your loyalty, then you will become the CEO of D-company forever.”]
Hamza lowers his chin in a disciplined nod. “Jaisa aap kahein, Sahiba.”
[“As you say, Lady.”]
“Aur Sanaz...” Marukh turns her back. “Intezar karo.”
[“And Sanaz... wait.”]
She looks past them toward the remaining inner-circle executioners. “Aaj se Anees ka kaam mere shauhar sambhalenge. Baaki sab jaisa tha waisa hi rahega.”
[“From today, my husband will handle Anees's work. Everything else will remain exactly as it was.”]
The metal of her gun clinks sharply against the wooden surface of the desk.
“Lekin usse pehle... Mujhe yahan maujud hue har ek insaan ki PURI JAANKARI CHAHIYE.”
[“But before that... I want complete background information on every single person present here.”]
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You may be a rightist. You may support the current political party. You may not support CJP. But as a citizen, we cannot let Him die. Apart from being deeply invested in current affairs, political activism, education, and science, he's a great researcher. An inventor. A man whom India needs so urgently. A man who's been a recipient of so many awards. A man, whose life inspired the movie that made our childhood. A man of values, who values us more than he does his life. Democracy has failed us when even simple pleas and non violent hunger strikes refuse to grab attention of people who need to intervene the most. When no one heard us, He did. And now, we can't lose him.
As he's fighting for us, let us fight for him, with him.
If this post attacked you, then I consider my job well done.
Anees Ibrahim steps forward, his movements rigid as he draws the white cloth over the cold torso. The room is cavernously hollow. For a man who had commanded an entire empire of terror, who had rewritten the blood ledger of a subcontinent, there are barely any people here to watch him go.
Only Dawood's wives, his two daughters, a handful of senior doctors, and a scattering of surviving business associates stand along the perimeter. His son, Moin, had flatly refused to even cross the hospital threshold.
The remaining core consists only of Chhota Shakeel, Jameel Jamali, and the trio: Hamza, Sanaz, and Rizwan.
That man was truly lonely.
The last kafan is handed over by Jameel Jamali, who had supposedly been the closest structural ally left to the family. The others—the titans who once held up the corners of this syndicate—are entirely gone. Iqbal, Khanani, Cheema, Bhuttovi... every single one of them has been systematically erased.
There is no one left to mourn.
The soft murmur of holy verses rises into the cold air as they stand assembled in white mourning attire.
Hamza wears a heavy white kurta with a structured white coat layered on top to shield his healing, stitched-up shoulder from the winter chill, a prayer cap resting over his dark hair.
Sanaz is draped in a simple white salwar, a thick shawl pulled over her shoulders and drawn forward to completely cover her head. The other women are dressed in identical, muted fabrics.
“Lagta hai kaafi khushi khushi gaye the...” Rizwan mutters under his breath from the back row. He aggressively covers his mouth with his palm, shifting his posture as if he is lost in deep philosophical reflection.
[“Seems like he left very happily...”]
Due to the brutal paralysis of the dimethylmercury dissolving his nervous system, Dawood’s lifeless lips are permanently stretched back, his jaw locked tight and his teeth completely exposed in a horrific grimace.
It looks exactly like he is... happy. Apparently.
Sanaz forces her eyes away, trying her best to fix her gaze on the marble floorboards. But when her eyes accidentally track back to the grotesque expression on the corpse, her shoulders give a sudden, violent shake.
She isn't weeping. She is desperately trying to suppress a wild spike of laughter.
Around the room, the performative mourning of the cartel's inner circle reaches a theatrical pitch: “Haaye! Itne achche insaan the, humein chhor kar chale gaye. Ya Allah yeh kaisi niyati hai teri!”
[“Alas! He was such a good man, he left us and went away. Oh Allah, what kind of destiny is this of yours!”]
“Sanaz.. chhup,” Hamza mutters out of the side of his mouth, his large frame staying perfectly rigid to act as a visual shield.
[“Sanaz.. quiet.”]
She instantly pulls the edge of her white shawl up, covering her mouth like a protective fabric mask to suffocate the sound. Hamza lets out a low sigh, but as his own eyes catch the absurdity of the dead king's frozen grin, the sides of his mouth twitch uncontrollably. He aggressively bites his lower lip, forcing his face back into a stern expression.
“Bilkul matt dekhna,” Rizwan mutters from behind them.
[“Don't look at all.”]
They look anyway.
The visual loop is fatal. Both Sanaz and Rizwan’s shoulders begin to shake in unison, caught in a state of embarrassment as the unhinged absurdity of the moment completely unravels their espionage armor.
“Chhup ho jao dono warna agli kabr humari khudegi,” Hamza warns through gritted teeth. [“Be quiet both of you, otherwise our own graves will be dug next.”]
But the dam has broken.
They are laughing in the face of the dead king. Actual tears well up in Sanaz’s eyes, a muffled, desperate cough escaping her throat to mask the laughter as Rizwan’s entire torso practically hitches like he’s undergoing an active medical seizure.
“Bhai achcha hua Moin nahi aaya warna iss baar direct Hajj pe chala jata,” Rizwan whispers into the dark space behind Hamza's coat.
[“Brother, it's good Moin didn't come, otherwise this time he would have gone directly to Hajj.”]
They finally calm down, letting out heavy breaths beneath the fabric of their garments.
ऐ “फ़ना” शुक्र है आज वादे फ़ना,
उसने रख ली मेरे प्यार की आबरू !
[“Oh Fana, thank goodness that today, after destruction,
She preserved the honor of my love!”]
They proceed with burying him after the third shroud is tightly secured. The distorted grimace on his face is now fully covered, sealed away from the world so no one else can look down and laugh at the grotesque comedy of his end.
One by one, the remaining members of the syndicate step forward to pour the heavy, dark mud over the dead man's body, watching the pit fill until the undisputed king of Karachi is nothing more than a mound of dirt.
Then, they lift their hands up in unison, executing the final prayer for the departed soul.
अपने हाथों से उसने मेरी कब्र पर,
चादर-ए-गुल चढ़ाई मज़ा आ गया !
[“With his own hands, upon my grave,
She offered a shroud of roses—it was magnificent!”]
Once the final rites conclude, the casual associates and business fronts begin to melt away into the shadows of the cemetery layout. Marukh Sahiba, Anees Ibrahim, and Chhota Shakeel remain, lowering themselves to sit directly on the ground near the fresh grave, the cold dirt settling into the fabric of their mourning clothes.
“Kya socha hai aage ka?” Shakeel asks.
[“What have you thought about the future?”]
“Ab sab mere hawale hai, chacha-jaan,” Marukh replies smoothly, “Abbu bhi yehi chahte the. Aur yahan koi nahi hai iss sab ke kaabil.”
[“Everything is under my control now, uncle. Father wanted this too. And there is no one else here capable of this.”]
Anees looks at her, his jaw tightening. “Tum sambhal logi yeh sab? Itna bada karobar hai. Ek akeli aurat kaise karegi?”
[“Will you handle all of this? It's such a massive business. How will a lone woman manage it?”]
“Woh toh aap sab ko pata chal hi jayega,” Marukh states. “Aap fikr na karein, aakhir mein Karachi toh aap dono ke haathon mein hai. Main toh bas... gaddi pe baithungi.”
[“You all will find that out soon enough. Do not worry, ultimately Karachi is in the hands of you two. I will simply... sit on the throne.”]
“Badshah banna aasan nahi hota, Marukh,” Anees retorts coldly, raising a finger to tap heavily against his own temple. “Yeh chahiye hota hai.”
[“Becoming a king isn't easy, Marukh. You need this.”]
Marukh doesn't argue, nor does she show a single flicker of offense. She simply gives the old guard a calm smile that promises a bloodbath they won't see coming.
She rises to her feet, brushing the cemetery soil from her heavy salwar.
“Kaam ke waqt milenge. Allah Hafiz.”
[“We will meet at the time of business. Goodbye.”]
Marukh turns away from the old guard, her heavy gaze sweeping over the remaining figures until it lands directly on Hamza.
“Bohot suna hai aapke baare mein,” she states. “Pehle Rehman, fir Iqbal, aur abbu ke bhi bohot kareeb the.”
[“I have heard a lot about you. First Rehman, then Iqbal, and you were also very close to my father.”]
Hamza stands perfectly still, his broad shoulders squared beneath his white coat as he simply nods.
“Kya chahte hain aap?” Marukh questions, her eyes narrowing as she tests the integrity of his loyalty. “Abhi bhi humare sath kaam karna hai ya muh fer liya?”
[“What do you want? Do you still want to work with us, or have you turned your face away?”]
“Jis maksad ke liye mere sabhi bhai shaheed hue, uss maqsad ke liye mujhe maut bhi khushi khushi manzoor hai,” he replies smoothly, dipping his head in a show of profound respect. “Aap mujh par bharosa kar sakti hain, Marukh sahiba. Chhota bhai samajh kar.”
“Aapko Bhai banane se dar lagta hai, Hamza Sahab. Ek waqfiyat hi sahi.”
[“For the purpose that all my brothers were martyred, for that same purpose, I happily accept even death. You can trust me, Marukh sahiba. Consider me a younger brother.”]
Marukh gives him a slow smile, the heavy gold jewelry around her neck clinking softly in the cold air. She isn't buying the blind loyalty routine; she knows exactly how dangerous the men who outlive their masters are.
[“I am afraid to make you a Brother, Hamza Sahab. A mere acquaintance is fine.”]
He simply nods again, accepting the boundary with grace. “Jaisa aap sahi samjhe.”
[“As you deem right.”]
“Hmm,” she hums, stepping back a fraction of an inch to re-establish the hierarchy. “Jab bhi hathiyaron ki zarurat hogi, main aur Shakeel khabar pohonchate rahenge.”
[“Whenever weapons are needed, Shakeel and I will keep sending word.”]
Then, her sharp gaze shifts, cutting over to Sanaz. The new Queen of Karachi doesn't look at her as a respected physician, but as a leftover piece of her father's fading era.
“Tumhara zyada kaam nahi hoga. Agar mujhe kabhi doctor ki zarurat pade toh tum haazir hogi, warna tumhara kaam bas mere aadmiyon ke zakhm bharna hoga.”
[“You won't have much work. If I ever need a doctor, you will be present, otherwise your job will simply be to heal the wounds of my men.”]
Sanaz doesn't flinch. She simply nods. “Yaad rahega.”
[“I will remember.”]
Satisfied, Marukh elegantly adjusts the heavy fabric of her dupatta over her shoulder.
“Naye saal aur Pakistan ki nayi Malka ki khushi mein aaj shyam jashn manayenge. Ho sake toh aajana.”
[“In celebration of the New Year and Pakistan's new Queen, we will have a party tonight. Come if you can.”]
She turns and climbs into the back of her waiting armored jeep. The engines roar to life, and Marukh Ibrahim drives away into the Karachi dusk, leaving the trio standing alone in the cemetery.
Jameel steps into space the moment the armored jeep clears the graveyard. The heavy twilight drops over the grounds as they move toward a weathered stone bench near the cemetery to regroup.
“Jaa rahe ho naye saal ki party mein?” he questions.
[“Are you going to the New Year's party?”]
“Mann toh nahi hai lekin jaana zaruri hai,” Sanaz replies. [“I don't feel like it, but going is necessary.”]
“Idhar aao ek mazedaar cheez dikhata hoon.” Jameel pulls out a secure, encrypted mobile device, turning the screen toward the trio. “The recording is in black and white, shot in night-vision light.”
[“Come here, let me show you something interesting.”]
The video matrix buffers. The screen shows Dawood’s heavily monitored frame lying flat on the private ICU bed at South City Hospital, seemingly sleeping. The digital timestamp in the corner shows exactly three A.M.
Suddenly, the door clicks. A shadowed figure silently enters the room. A few muffled, low noises cut through the audio before a cold, familiar voice drops near the pillows: “Doctor ne kaha kamse kam ek hafte tak saansein chalengi...”
The heart monitor continues its rhythmic beep, beep.
“...ek hafte mein aapka bhadwa bhai Anees sara karobar apne haathon mein le lega.”
[“The doctor said your breaths will last at least a week... in one week, your pimp brother Anees will take the entire business into his own hands.”]
On the screen, a gloved hand reaches out, locking onto the dying don't neck. “Lekin aap fikr matt kijiye, Abbu jaan. Beta kaha tha..” The silhouette leans down closer to his ear, “...toh fir bete ki tarah hi khel khelte hain.”
[“But don't you worry, dear father. You called me your son... so let's play the game like a son then.”]
A violent grab.
The helpless old man instantly twitches against the mattress, his nervous system failing him entirely as he remains unable to lift a single limb. His features twist into that locked grimace—his teeth baring under the plastic oxygen mask as his lungs desperately strain for air.
The killer doesn't let go for a single second, maintaining the suffocation until the frantic beep... beep... completely flatlines into a long, continuous zero drone.
“Sab kuch haasil kiya, lekin bhul gaye sachchi mohabbat ko haasil karna. Koi bhi yaad nahi karega aapko jaane ke baad.”
[“You achieved everything, but you forgot to achieve true love. No one will remember you after you're gone.”]
The clip cuts to black.
Everyone stares at the dark screen in shock.
“Yeh... kahan se mila?” Hamza rasps, his hand clenching into a tight fist over his kurta.
[“Where... did you get this?”]
“Jab kal shyam Dawood se milne gaya toh uske guldaste mein chhota sa camera fit kar diya tha,” Jameel replies smoothly, a cold smirk playing on his lips. “Aur humari kismat toh dekho.”
[“When I went to meet Dawood yesterday evening, I fitted a tiny camera inside his flower bouquet. And look at our luck.”]
He instantly routes the raw video file to everyone in their operational group chat, ensuring the data log is permanently saved before the mainframe can be scrubbed.
“Yeh aunty pagal hai,” Rizwan mutters under his breath. [“This aunty is crazy.”]
Sanaz lets out a sharp groan of professional disbelief. “Doctor ko kaise pata nahi chala postmortem reports mein? No struggles? No marks on throat?”
[“How did the doctors not notice in the postmortem reports? No struggles? No marks on the throat?”]
Hamza zooms in on the playback, his gaze fixed on the screen as he shakes his head. “Shayad gloves narm honge.”
[“Maybe the gloves were soft.”]
“Ho sakta hai,” Sanaz replies, “Oxygen waise bhi kam tha aur woh hil tak nahi paa raha tha. Zyada zor nahi lagani padi hogi. Aur hum sab ne toh pehle hi maut ka kaaran pata laga liya tha.”
[“That’s possible. Oxygen was low anyway, and he couldn't even move. She wouldn't have needed to apply much force. And we had already figured out the cause of death anyway.”]
They all nod in silent agreement, the reality of the forensic clean-up settling over them.
“Kitna besharam hai yaar. Marte marte bhi hass raha hai,” Rizwan says. [“How shameless he is. Even while dying, he’s laughing.”]
Hamza huffs, a dry, humorless sound. “Dard mein hai woh.”
[“He is in pain.”]
“Lagta hai bahattar huron ke baare mein soch kar khush ho raha hai,” Sanaz quips. [“Seems like he's happy thinking about the seventy-two virgins.”]
“Tum dono muh band karo,” Hamza sighs, “Iss video ka kya karein? R&AW headquarters bhejte hain. Shayad baad mein kaam aajaye.”
[“Both of you shut up. What do we do with this video? Let's send it to R&AW headquarters. Maybe it will come in handy later.”]
“Safeena kaisi hai?” Sanaz questions, her voice lowering. [“How is Safeena?”]
“Theek hai. Zyada tar khelti hai Safiya ke saath,” Jameel replies, offering a rare nod of reassurance.
[“She's fine. Mostly plays with Safiya.”]
“Dhyaan rakhiyega. Shyam ko milte hain sab White House pe.”
[“Take care. See you all in the evening at the White House.”]
The engines hum to life against the quiet perimeter of the cemetery, and the cars pull away into the traffic, setting the board for the final New Year's jashn.
The massive iron gates of the Clifton White House swing wide, welcoming the elite tier of the syndicate under the cover of a freezing Karachi dusk.
Sanaz, Hamza, and Rizwan arrive at the heavily guarded mansion, their frames wrapped in heavy winter kurtas and dense shawls to shield themselves from the dropping temperatures. Hamza cuts an imposing, lethal silhouette in his signature black kurta, the dark fabric successfully camouflaging the layers of surgical gauze underneath. Sanaz stands tightly beside him, dressed in a muted, dark green kurti with her dupatta drawn securely over her head, her eyes sharp and calculating as she scans the security parameters.
Inside, the grand estate is pulsing with life. The crystal chandelier cascades brilliant white light across the marble foyer, casting an expensive glow over a room that was a house of mourning just hours ago.
But it is the visual restructuring of the master suite layout that signals the definitive dawn of the new regime:
Dawood Ibrahim’s legendary portrait—the frame capturing his mustache and a burning cigarette between his fingers—has been brutally unseated from its place.
A massive portrait of Marukh Ibrahim now commands the central line of the wall. The dead king’s picture has been relegated to the floor below hers, tossed aside with the minor frames of past associates.
Throughout the expansive main hall, the high-ranking syndicate members and international fronts are actively drinking, eating, and establishing new loyalties. At the central main table, Jameel Jamali and the top-tier executioners sit arranged in a defensive semicircle around Marukh, who commands the absolute center of the layout like a sitting queen.
The trio navigates past the core guard line, quietly securing an isolated circular table where the premium catering and drink flights have already been laid out.
“Dekh rahe ho, baap ke jaane ka bilkul gham nahi hai aunty mein,” Rizwan whispers under his breath. He doesn't miss a single beat, casually reaching forward to spear a piece of the roasted meat. [“Are you watching, this aunty has absolutely no grief over her father's departure.”]
Hamza lifts his glass, taking a few measured, cold sips of his drink. “Aise insaan ke jaane ka gham kisko hoga?”
[“Who would grieve the departure of such a person?”]
Bruh.
Sanaz shifts in her seat, her fingers tapping against her dark green kurti. “Hum kya bass yahan khana khane aaye hain?” she groans softly, “Chalo na jaa kar baat karte hain usse.”
[“Are we just here to eat food? Come on, let's go and talk to her.”]
“Tum jao,” both Hamza and Rizwan shoot back. [“You go.”]
She lets out a groan, rolling her eyes as she prepares to navigate the sharks alone. Sanaz huffs, smoothing down the edges of her kurti as she detaches herself from the table and moves directly to the central court.
“Siddiqui Sahiba,” Marukh greets. “Umeed nahi thi ki tum aaogi. Maine socha tum kisi kone mein abbu ke jaane ka matam mana rahi hogi.”
[“Miss Siddiqui. I didn't expect you to come. I thought you would be mourning father's departure in some corner.”]
Sanaz lowers her head instantly. “Nayi Malka ki takht-nasheeni ho aur hum mubarakbaad dene na aayein, aisi khata kaise ho sakti hai, Marukh sahiba? Bade Sahab ke inteqal ka gham toh zindagi bhar rahega, lekin karobar toh chalna chahiye.”
[“The new Queen is ascending the throne and we wouldn't come to congratulate her, how could such a mistake happen, Lady Marukh? The grief of the Big Boss's passing will remain for a lifetime, but the business must go on.”]
Marukh lets out a hum, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Bilkul sahi kaha. Abbu isi purane khayalat mein dube rahe, isiliye aakhir mein unhe akele jaana pada. Par chalo, tumne samajhdari dikhayi.” She gestures vaguely to the roaring, opulent layout of the main hall. “Jashn manao. Aaj se naya daur shuru ho raha hai.”
[“Perfectly said. Father remained drowned in those old thoughts, which is why in the end he had to go alone. But come, you've shown intelligence. Celebrate. A new era begins today.”]
Hamza glides step for step up from behind Sanaz as he bows his head. “Naye daur ko toh aapne saadgi se bhar diya. Hum toh bas hukm ke ghulam hai.”
[“You have filled this new era with elegance. We are merely the slaves of your command.”]
She chuckles slightly. “Achchi baat hai. Umeed hai aap sabko mere saath kaam karke maza aayega.”
[“That is good. I hope you all will enjoy working with me.”]
Across the table, Chhota Shakeel and Anees Ibrahim remain entirely motionless, their silent eyes locking onto the transaction, calculating their own fading positions within the syndicate's restructuring.
Suddenly, a resonant chime echoes through the White House speakers as the digital clock numbers snap definitively to 12:00.
The calendar layout officially turns over to the first of January, 2014.
The entire hall erupts into loud cheers, raising their crystal glasses high into the air to celebrate the coronation of the new monarch. Sanaz watches the fireworks reflecting through the massive glass windows, a smile lighting up.
“Aapke saath kaam karne ka intezar NAHI KAR SAKTI,” she says softly. [“I can't wait to work with you.”]
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The Vultures Circled, and She Smiled as Though She Were One of Them
ना दे दिल परदेसी नू तैनूँ नित दा रोणा पै जाऊँ गा।
[“Do not give your heart to a stranger, or you will have to cry every single day.”]
The heavy tyres of the vehicle crunch to a halt outside the South City Hospital. Sanaz and Rizwan step out, trailing inside the facility. She wears a crisp white coat over the fresh kurti she had swiftly changed into after Hamza’s arrival, ensuring not a single microscopic trace of his dried Muridke bloodstains remained on her skin.
The elevator ascends in silence, opening its doors directly onto the secured top floor of the hospital.
The armed D-Company guards stand outside the private wing, their hands hovering near their holsters. The moment their eyes lock onto her, they immediately recognize the primary caretaker and step aside, clearing her path. Two senior medical figures emerge hastily from the glass doors of the intensive unit—the older cardiologist whose tag reads “Mohammed Sumbul,” and the chief neurologist, “Abdal Jaleel Sisha.”
“Thank God you're here,” Dr. Sumbul rasps, his face pale with professional panic. “We’ve run the initial scans, but the collapse is unprecedented. The layout doesn't match a standard stroke template. The cerebral cortex is completely locked down, yet the heart rate is spiking!” He aggressively keys the interface of his tablet, showing her the illuminated slides of the brain scans.
“We knew he'd been getting weaker each day,” Dr. Sisha cuts in, his voice trembling under the weight of the syndicate's unwritten threat. “Lekin achanak kaise...”
[“But how did this happen so suddenly...”]
Sanaz lets out a slow sigh. Without a hint of hesitation, she reaches into her leather bag and hands them a thick folder of medical reports—records she had been quietly compiling and manipulating for the past three years for this exact day.
“The stress from the recent regional disruptions must have triggered a latent cellular collapse,” she explains smoothly as the doctors scan the forged data. “Pehle se hi kamzor dil tha unka.”
[“His heart was already weak to begin with.”]
Behind her, Rizwan stands like a silent shadow against the white hospital wall, his dark eyes scanning the corridor, completely aware that the vultures are already circling the dying king's room.
नाल रांझे जोगी दे तैनूँ जोगन होना पै जाऊँ गा।
[“Along with Ranjha the ascetic, you too will have to become an ascetic.”]
The two senior medical specialists meticulously review the documents, scanning every timeline and detail. The data mostly suggests accelerated aging, weaker movements, and a progressive speech impediment that persisted despite his heavy medication. To them, it looks like a chronic degradation that has been quietly going on for decades; it had simply never gotten this catastrophic.
They conclude that Bade Sahab is finally saying his goodbye to the empire.
Sanaz quietly slips past the armed guards, her shoes making no sound against the private suite's floor. On the clinical mattress, Dawood’s eyes immediately lock onto her, his heart rate monitor executing a sudden sequence of rising spikes.
He strains with every ounce of his remaining willpower to lift a single finger, but his nervous system is completely offline. His frantic breath heavily fogs the inside of the transparent plastic oxygen mask, his bloodshot eyes wide with pure terror.
“Hum puri koshish kar rahe hain, Bade Sahab. Aap fikr matt kijiye, aapki takleefon ko jald hi khatam kar diya jayega,” she mutters smoothly. [“We are trying our best, Big Boss. Do not worry, your suffering will be ended very soon.”]
मै इश्क़ दे अलैन ज़ख़्मा दे ख़ुद हस हस के मुँह सींन लांगी,
जे जार मेरा मै नूँ ज़हर ज़हर ज़हर—
[“I will willingly, smilingly sew the wounds of love with my own hands, Even if my beloved gives me poison, poison, poison—”]
The heavy wooden door clicks open. The senior doctor emerges from the tech station and quickly pulls Sanaz into a quiet, shadowed corner of the intensive room. “Humne sab kuch check kar liya. Agar yeh zinda nahi bache toh hum sab...” they whisper frantically.
[“We have checked everything. If he doesn't survive, all of us...”]
“Kya hoga, doctor Sahab?”
[“What will happen, doctor?”]
A voice.
“Aap ne yahan aane ki takleef ki...” the two medical men stutter, immediately bowing their heads in deep, subservient respect.
[“You took the trouble to come here...”]
“Kaise nahi aati? Abbu hain mere.”
[“How could I not come? He is my father.”]
Sanaz gulps, a rare drop of cold adrenaline hitting her internal system as her posture instantly straightens.
I’m a king, but I’m far from a saint.
They call me a bad man, that’s a fcking good thing.
Mama said, swing back when another man swings.
So I make my mama proud and make the hits rain.
“Yeh kon hai? Pehle kabhi nahi dekha,” the heiress demands, her sharp gaze cutting through the air as she steps closer. Standing next to the generational authority radiating from the woman, Sanaz physically feels smaller, the space in the room tightening.
[“Who is this? I've never seen her before.”]
“Sanaz Siddiqui. General physician hai Bade Sahab ki,” Dr. Sumbul quickly introduces, trying to smooth over the security hierarchy.
[“Sanaz Siddiqui. She is the Big Boss's general physician.”]
“Naya doctor rakh liya aur mujhe khabar tak nahi di?”
[“A new doctor was hired and I wasn't even informed?”]
“Di hogi. Shayad aapne dhyaan nahi diya,” Sanaz answers evenly.
[“It must have been given. Perhaps you didn't pay attention.”]
“Shayad,” the older woman replies, her eyes narrowing to needles as she studies Sanaz's face. “Jaanti ho mujhe?”
[“Perhaps. Do you know me?”]
Heavy is the head,
Heavy is the head,
It’s a blessing and a curse.
Sanaz remains entirely silent.
“MARUKH. MARUKH IBRAHIM.”
“Salamwalaikum, baaji,” Sanaz responds, extending the respectful greeting to an elderly figure.
[“Peace be upon you, elder sister.”]
A sharp shake of a manicured finger cuts her off instantly. “Marukh sahiba.”
Heavy is the head,
Heavy is the head,
Hit ‘em where it hurts.
Sanaz gives a slow nod, “Yaad rahega.”
[“I will remember that.”]
“Aapse milkar achcha laga, Siddiqui Sahiba,” Marukh states, her voice dripping with an implicit warning. “Agar izzat ho toh main akele mein mil sakti hoon?”
[“It was good to meet you, Miss Siddiqui. If I may have the honor, could I meet him alone?”]
The doctors and guards immediately evacuate the perimeter, bowing out in silence. Sanaz steps back through the threshold, the heavy door clicking shut behind her, sealing the daughter of the cartel inside with the silent, dying king.
The board has completely flipped. The bloodline has arrived.
DHU! RAN! DHAR!
After a few minutes of suffocating silence, the heavy wooden door swings inward. Marukh steps out into the corridor layout, her sharp eyes immediately tracking Sanaz.
“Itne kareeb thi unke, aisi halat dekh kar bata sakti hain ki unhe humse kuch kehna hai.”
[“You were so close to him, looking at this condition you can tell that he wants to say something to us.”]
Sanaz slowly turns her gaze back, looking through the tiny, clear glass frame of the ICU door. Inside, the shadow of the man who once held the entire city sits locked in a living tomb.
“Maut ka darr hai shayad,” Sanaz responds. “Itne dino se jiske naam se sabki rooh kaamp jaati thi aaj woh hil tak nahi paa raha hai. Iss baat ka afsos mujhe zindagi bhar rahega. Main apni taraf se unke sabhi logo se maafi maangna chahungi.”
[“Perhaps it's the fear of death. The one whose name made everyone's soul tremble for so long can't even move today. I will regret this for the rest of my life. On my part, I would like to apologize to all of his people.”]
Marukh steps a fraction closer, her heavy gold jewelry clinking softly in the quiet hallway. “Koi naaraz nahi hoga tumse. Ek na ek din sabko jaana hi hai.”
[“No one will be angry with you. Everyone has to go one day.”]
“Woh kaha karte the unhen mujh mein aap dikhti hain,” Sanaz whispers smoothly, laying down her psychological camouflage. “Beta maante the aapko.”
[“He used to say he saw you in me. He considered you his son.”]
Marukh tilts her head slightly, her gaze narrowing. “Ek doctor mein unhen apni beti dikhti thi...?” she mutters under her breath.
[“He saw his daughter in a doctor...?”]
Sensing the shift in the room's pressure Sanaz immediately clears her throat, her eyes darting across the corridor. “Baaki sab kahan hai...?”
“Theek hai fir. Main chalti hoon,” Sanaz nods, adjusting her leather bag over her white coat. “Hamza Sahab ki tabyet bohot kharab hai.”
[“Alright then. I'm leaving. Hamza Sahab's health is very bad.”]
Without waiting for a dismissal, she turns on her heel and walks away quickly down the corridor, Rizwan instantly falling into step as her silent, armed shield. They press the elevator button, their systems completely on high alert.
They practically sprint to the vehicle, diving into the seats before Rizwan slams his foot onto the accelerator, tearing away from the South City Hospital curb.
“Yeh Marukh mujhe theek nahi lag rahi,” Sanaz mutters, her heart hammering against her ribs as she reaches for a bottle and gulps down some water to clear the dryness in her throat.
[“This Marukh doesn't feel right to me.”]
“Yeh aunty itni khatarnak kyun dikhti hai?” Rizwan replies, trying to cut through the suffocating tension in the car.
[“Why does this aunty look so dangerous?”]
She groans, her eyes wide with lingering adrenaline. “Mazak mat karo. Sach mein, dekha na kaise dekh rahi thi mujhe? Upar se Hamza bol raha tha wapas chalte hain.”
[“Don't joke. Seriously, did you see how she was looking at some phantom variable? On top of that, Hamza was saying let's go back.”]
Rizwan sighs, a massive yawn breaking through his jaw. He hasn't slept in a full forty-eight hours, caught in a brutal cycle of constantly driving, fighting at the industrial yard, and then driving the long night all over again. “Jo bhi ho zevar bade bade pehenti hai.”
[“Whatever it is, she wears massive jewelry.”]
Sanaz aggressively tears off her white medical coat, throwing it onto the back seat layout. “Use mere baare mein zarur pata hoga. Lekin dhyaan nahi diya. Mujhe toh lagta hai Dawood ke pehle doctor ko inhone hi marwaya tha.”
[“She definitely must know about me. But she didn't pay attention before. I actually think she was the one who had Dawood's previous doctor killed.”]
Screeech—!
Rizwan hits the break hard, the tyres groaning against the asphalt as he cuts a sharp look at her from the driver’s seat. “Aur Iqbal ne aapko isiliye chuna taaki aapki bali chadhe? Tauba tauba, 'hamsheera' bolkar yeh sab kiya.”
[“And Iqbal chose you just so you could be sacrificed? My god, he did all this while calling you 'sister'.”]
She huffs. “Koi saga nahi hai yahan.”
[“No one is your own here.”]
“Main saga hoon na.”
[“I'm yours.”]
She rolls her eyes at his classic brotherly defense routine.
“Theek hai, lekin yeh uss doctor ko kyun marwayegi? Baap ke paison ke liye?” Rizwan asks, getting the SUV back into motion.
[“Fine, but why would she have that doctor killed? For her father's money?”]
“Mujhe nahi lagta woh yahan Dawood ke liye aayi hai,” Sanaz mutters darkly, her mind rapidly pieceing together. “Maine suna hai woh D-company ki maalkin banna chahti thi, lekin Dawood ne uski shaadi karakar Dubai bhej diya. Aur baad mein pachhtaya kyunki Moin, uska ladka maulvi ban gaya, baaki dusre aulaadon ki himmat nahi hui yeh sab karne ki.”
[“I don't think she came here for Dawood. I've heard she wanted to become the boss of D-Company, but Dawood got her married off and sent her to Dubai. And later he regretted it because Moin, his son, became a cleric, and the rest of his children didn't have the guts to run this empire.”]
“Matlab jo bhi hoga, aaj hoga. Kal jitne bhi log aayenge, sabko ek alag hi kahani sunayi jayegi,” Rizwan mutters.
[“Meaning whatever happens, happens today. Tomorrow, whatever people arrive, they will be told a completely different story.”]
“Jameel Sahab ko shyam tak Clifton pohonchne bolo. Hum wapas nahi jaa sakte. Woh karenge aage ki reporting. Aur yeh sab Hamza ko bhi batana hai,” Sanaz commands rapidly. She pulls out her clean burner device, her fingers flying across the screen as she dials the safehouse line.
[“Tell Jameel Sahab to reach Clifton by evening. We can't go back. He will handle the further reporting. And all of this needs to be told to Hamza too.”]
The call connects, and he picks it up almost immediately. But before he can speak, she cuts in with high-alert urgency. “Hamza, bohot zaruri baat karni hai, hello? Tum ghar pe nahi ho?”
[“Hamza, I need to tell you something very important, hello? You aren't at the house?”]
A heavy, broken sigh rattles through the speaker, followed by the distant sound of quiet rustling. “Iqbal ke ghar pe hoon... Yahan... sab khatam hogaya hai.”
[“I'm at Iqbal's house... Here... everything is finished.”]
Sanaz’s brows pull together. “Kya bol rahe ho? Samajh nahi aa raha.”
[“What are you saying? I don't understand.”]
“Jahangir mar gaya,” Hamza mutters, his raw voice devoid of any agent armor. “Aaj subah Safiya ne khabar di. Basheer aur uske alawa koi nahi hai Safeena ka dhyaan rakhne wala.”
[“Jahangir is dead. Safiya gave the news this morning. There is no one besides Basheer and her to take care of Safeena.”]
The air inside the moving SUV completely freezes. Sanaz goes dead silent as she looks over at Rizwan. He catches her expression.
Bloodlines, cartels, and border runs fade against the weight of human wreckage.
“Hum... thodi der mein aa rahe hain,” she says softly into the line. [“We... are coming in a little while.”]
The vehicle cuts its engine, halting heavily outside Iqbal's house. Sanaz and Rizwan step out, pushing past the lower gates and rapidly climbing the narrow flight of stairs to the upper quarters.
Hamza is slumped low on the worn fabric of the sofa, his frame carrying the heavy physical toll as he cradles little five-year-old Safeena tightly against his chest.
In the background kitchen, Safiya is preparing tea, her movements jerky and forced, while old Basheer crouches low, sweeping a wet cloth across the floorboards.
“Sanaz Sahiba, aap aa gayi... Dekhiye na kya hogaya hai,*” Safiya mutters the moment she tracks their entrance, her voice breaking as her breath hitches sharply. “Mera jitna bhi ghar-baar chalta tha sirf Iqbal bhai ki badaulat chalta tha. Yahan par sirf ek hafte ka ration hai, aur koi bhi nahi hai yahan. Kaise kya karun? Ek chhoti bachchi bhi hai saath mein.”
[“Miss Sanaz, you've arrived... Look what has happened. My entire household ran solely because of brother Iqbal. There is only a week's worth of rations here, and there is no one else left. How do I manage? There is a small child with us too.”]
They step deeper into the living room. Basheer pauses his sweeping, looking up with heavy eyes. “Main toh kahin aur kaam dhundh lunga, lekin Iqbal bhai ki tarah kaise paalunga inhe?”
[“I will find work somewhere else, but how will I sustain them like brother Iqbal did?”]
In the corner of the room, the empty wheelchair of the murdered Jahangir sits. On the mantlepiece stands a framed portrait of Major Iqbal alongside his deceased wife and mother—a chilling visual reminder that his entire bloodline has been utterly erased from the earth, leaving behind only his innocent five-year-old daughter who lives with Down syndrome.
“Aap... aap fikr matt kijiye. Hum karenge kuch,” Sanaz says softly.
She steps forward, keeping a reassuring, firm hand on Safiya’s trembling shoulder before crossing the floor to sit directly next to Hamza. He had managed to change back into his usual dark kurta before they arrived, masking the medical gauze so he doesn't look visibly injured to the household staff.
[“Don't... don't worry. We will do something.”]
Sanaz leans slightly toward the child, her voice dropping into a gentle cadence. “Safeena...?”
“Doktor...” the little girl mutters instantly, her face lighting up as she makes eager, grabby arms toward her favorite visitor. Sanaz reaches out and smoothly takes her from Hamza’s grip, making the child sit comfortably on her lap. “Aap theek ho? Khana khaya?”
[“Are you okay? Did you eat?”]
The girl nods quickly, her small fingers twisting the fabric of Sanaz’s kurti. “Sab kuch... hogaya,” she says, splaying her small arms wide to describe the sudden emptiness of her world. “Lekin abbu.. kahan?”
[“Everything... is gone. But where is father?”]
“Woh aajayenge,” Sanaz replies immediately. Yet internally, a suffocating wave of pure anger and profound sadness twists her chest—furious at Iqbal for the monstrous double-life that brought this ruin upon his own blood, and devastated for the child left in the wake of the fire.
[“He will come.”]
Hamza remains entirely motionless, his eyes staring blankly at the empty space on the floorboards as Safiya places the hot teacups on the table. The silence stretching from his frame is deafening. He had physically butchered the girl’s father in an industrial train yard just twenty-four hours ago. What words are left for a phantom asset to say in a room full of the dead man's family?
Safeena looks up at Sanaz, her innocent routine kicking back in. “Aaj.. checkup?” she asks, extending her small arm forward just as she always did whenever Sanaz used to visit to take blood samples.
[“Today... checkup?”]
Sanaz gently shakes her head, carefully lowering the child's arm. “Baad mein,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes dropping.
[“Later.”]
The little girl suddenly jumps off Sanaz's lap, her small feet pattering across the floor as she runs to her bedroom. A moment later, she returns, proudly holding a drawing book to show them her latest sketch. Sanaz looks down at the page.
It features a smiling man drawn with a long beard colored in green, a small girl figure sketched in pink, a woman in yellow, and another tall man... drawn entirely in red. There is no black, crippled figure representing the grandfather this time.
Safeena points her small index finger at each figure in sequence. “Abbu, main, doktor...”
[“Father, me, doctor...”]
“Aur yeh kon?” Sanaz questions gently, pointing at the red figure.
[“And who is this?”]
“Hanza.”
That single, mispronounced word cuts like a blade straight through the man’s throat. The heavy ache grid locks his jaw. Hamza slowly forces his eyes away from the floor, swallowing down the immense lump of grief as a tiny, incredibly fragile smile touches his lips.
“Aakhir kaar mujhe pehchan hi liya,” he whispers roughly.
[“You finally recognized me after all.”]
Safeena looks past them, her wide, innocent eyes pointing directly at the iron cage near the window layout. Inside the bars, there is only one parrot sitting quietly on the wooden perch.
“Dusra meethu kahan gaya..?” she questions, her small face scrunching in confusion.
[“Where did the other Meethu go..?”]
“Udd gaya shayad,” Sanaz mutters softly, her chest tightening as she remembers the bickering pair.
[“Maybe it flew away.”]
“Lekin meethu love safeena... Kyun..? Gaya?”
[“But Meethu loves Safeena... Why..? Did it leave?”]
“Azad hogaya,” Sanaz says, her fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind the little girl's ear. “Jab kisise pyaar karte hain toh unki azadi chahte hain. Haina?”
[“It became free. When we love someone, we want their freedom. Right?”]
The child doesn't even begin to comprehend the deep structural implications of those words, but she gives a small, compliant nod anyway. Near the glass pane, the solitary green parrot ducks its head low against the perch, chattering a repetitive, lonely line into the quiet room: “Meethu bolo safeena...”
“Chai thandi ho jayegi,” Safiya interrupts, her voice hollow as she sets the hot teacups on the table.
[“The tea will get cold.”]
They lift the cups, the warmth doing nothing to clear the freezing reality hanging over their heads. Sanaz takes a slow sip before looking up at the househelp. “Hum... Jameel Sahab se baat karte hain. Unke ghar nahi toh mere ghar aap dono kaam kar sakte hain.”
[“We... will speak to Mr. Jameel. If not at his house, you both can work at my house.”]
“Badi meherbani hogi, doctor sahiba,” Safiya mutters, wiping her face with the corner of her dupatta.
[“It will be a great favor, doctor.”]
Hamza clears his throat as he leans forward from the sofa. He looks directly at the little girl. “Safeena... Aapko khilone pasand hain na? Jameel Sahab ke ghar mein itne bade khilaune hain,” he stretches his long arms wide, forcing a soft, patient cadence into his tone. “Jab tak abbu nahi aate waha jana chahogi? Safiya bhi hogi.”
[“Safeena... You like toys, right? There are such big toys at Mr. Jameel's house. Until father returns, would you like to go there? Safiya will be there too.”]
The girl nods eagerly at the promise of new toys. Watching the interaction, old Basheer pauses, letting out a heavy, emotional sigh. “Ab toh aap hi inke maayi-baap ho.”
[“Now you two are her only parents.”]
“Nahi!” Safeena interjects instantly, shaking her head with fierce, childlike stubbornness. “Ammi, abbu,” she points her small finger firmly at the portrait of Major Iqbal and his late wife. Then, shifting her hand, she points directly at Sanaz and Hamza. “Dost.”
[“No! Mother, father. Friends.”]
That distinction genuinely cracks through their armor, forcing a tiny, authentic smile onto both Hamza and Sanaz's faces. Even after everything, she kept their slots clean.
Minutes later, they finalise the immediate safehouse clearance. They move downstairs to the vehicles parked in the driveway layout. Hamza and Sanaz slide into his personal car—the same one he had driven over in a panic while bleeding out—with little Safeena already fast asleep across the back seat, her drawing book tucked safely beside her, and the parrot cage secured carefully underneath.
Before stepping into the lead SUV where Rizwan is waiting at the steering wheel to drive them, Safiya turns back to look at the couple through the car window. Her eyes are misty with a heavy, tragic reverence.
“Iqbal bhai sahi kehte the, aap dono Pakistan mein mohabbat ki misal banoge,” Safiya mutters under her breath, before she finally climbs into the passenger slot next to Basheer.
[“Brother Iqbal used to say it right, you two will become an emblem of love in Pakistan.”]
The engines roar to life. The two cars pull out of the residential sector, driving directly towards the massive JAMEEL JAMALI MANSION.
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