“USS DIN KE baad, shayad mujhe aapse sach mein mohabbat hogayi...”
["After that day, perhaps I truly fell in love with you..."]
My voice breaks.
Losing the strength in my legs, I slowly slide down the dark wooden framework of the closet wall, pulling my knees tight against my chest as I collapse onto the floor.
The heavy, gold-embroidered fabric of my maroon sharara pools out around me, looking like a dark, crimson stain bleeding across the cold white marble. “Bina aapki asli pehchan jaane.”
["Without ever knowing your true identity."]
I let out a trembling sniffle, “Magar na main ranjha bani aur na hi uski jogan. Khabar bhejti thi. Par aaj sach jaankar... apni hunar par shak ho raha hai.”
["But neither did I become a Ranjha, nor did I become his ascetic follower. I used to send intelligence reports. But today, knowing the truth... I am doubting my own skill."]
The calculation is gone.
I lift my tear-stained face as I look up into the towering, terrifying silhouette of the man standing over me. “Aap toh sirf pyaar ka dikhawa kar rahe the na?”
["You were only pretending to love me, right?"]
Hamza stands completely frozen. For one agonizing beat, he simply stares down at me.
Slowly the fierce agent drops his guard.
He sinks to his knees, dropping down onto the cold marble to sit directly in front of my collapsed form. He leans his massive torso closer into my space. “Tumhe lagta hai jo bhi pal humne bitaye woh sab jhooth the?”
["Do you truly think that every single moment we spent together was a lie?"]
The proximity is blinding.
I instantly cut my gaze away as I shake my head. “Mujhe nahi pata...” I whisper. “Mujhe nahi pata.”
["I don't know... I don't know."]
“Sanaz, agar mera pyaar jhooth hota toh fir main bandook chalane se pehle ek baar bhi nahi sochta,” Hamza replies. ["Sanaz, if my love were a lie, I wouldn't have thought twice before firing a gun."]
His hand reaches down into the chaos of the scattered boxes on the floor. His fingers wrap around the heavy leather-bound diary—the chemical ink has completely vanished now that the specialized formula has been exposed to the air and dried, leaving the pages entirely blank.
Except for my blood. The dark, crimson smear from my lacerated skin remains fixed against the parchment.
He gently but firmly takes hold of my right hand, his green eyes instantly mapping the fresh cut that has formed across my finger. “Utho. Soch samjhkar har faisla lete hain.”
["Stand up. Every decision must be made with clear thought and understanding."]
I rise from the white marble floor, the heavy folds of my maroon sharara rustling around my ankles as he walks me out of the suffocating closet and into the main master bedroom. My gaze drifts instantly to the edge of the mattress where my black-and-silver handgun is lying completely exposed.
I don't reach for it. I don't do anything.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, Hamza dials a priority number. “Mere kamre mein aa. Zaruri baat karni hai. Aur guest room se Sanaz ke medical tools bhi le aana.”
["Come to my room. We need to talk urgently. And bring Sanaz's medical tools from the guest room as well."]
He terminates the call and steps over, sitting down on the edge of the mattress right beside me. A wry, and exhausted chuckle escapes his chest as he looks at my profile. “Sharmindagi toh mujhe bhi ho rahi hai, Seherzadi. Ek R&AW agent ko nahi pehchaan paya.”
["I am feeling embarrassed too, my Princess. I couldn't even recognize a R&AW agent."]
Before my brain can fully catalog the concussive implications of his statement, a sharp knock echoes against the heavy mahogany door.
Hamza calmly gets up, sliding the latch open to let Rizwan enter the room. Rizwan steps through the threshold, his gaze instantly tracking the absolute wreckage of the master suite, until Hamza delivers the administrative clearance flatly.
“Sanaz hindustani agent hai.”
["Sanaz is an Indian agent."]
“Kya?” Rizwan halts dead in his tracks, his fingers slipping as he almost drops the heavy medical kit and equipment folders onto the floor, his face draining of all color. [“What?”]
Hamza offers a single nod of confirmation.
Rizwan stares between the two of us for a long beat before a sudden smiling, “Bhabhi jaan, aap toh humare team ki nikli—”
["Sister-in-law, you turned out to be on our team—"]
Hamza cuts a warning glare sideways.
Rizwan instantly stops talking, clearing his throat aggressively to swallow the sentence back down. He steps fully into the interior, quietly locking the heavy bolts of the door behind him.
Hamza reaches into the medical kit, unspooling a fresh strip of white bandage. He slowly wraps the cloth around my bleeding finger to secure the cut.
“Tum dono ko jo bhi intel mile, apne handlers ke saath mujhe bhi bhejoge. Samajh aayi baat?” Hamza instructs heavily, looking between Rizwan and me.
["Whatever intel you two receive, you will send it to me along with your handlers. Is that understood?"]
Rizwan and I exchange a loaded look.
“Rizwan, humare encrypted chats mein Sanaz ko bhi add karna,” Hamza concludes smoothly, tying the knot on my bandage before rising to his full height. “IB ko report bhej we misunderstood an asset for a target. She was too good at her job.”
["Rizwan, add Sanaz to our encrypted chats too. Send a report to the Intelligence Bureau stating we misunderstood an asset for a target. She was too good at her job."]
“Iska matlab aap dono ek dusre ki reports bhej rahe then bina yeh jaane ki dono ek hi mission ke liye kaam karte hain?” Rizwan chuckles, the absurd irony of the situation.
["This means you two were sending reports on each other without knowing that you both work for the exact same mission?"]
I blink slowly. Wait. He’s a spy too?
The slow, concussive realization hits my internal processor as my eyes drill into Rizwan’s profile. The constant chaperone. The quiet driver. The shadow who has been monitoring our entire lives wasn't an ISI minder or a Lyari lieutenant—he was an agency asset.
“Idea kiska tha, saale?” Hamza growls out, aggressively pushing his massive hand against Rizwan’s chest to shut him up. “Sach ke saath Saazish karo.” He mimics the other’s voice with sarcasm.
["Whose idea was it, idiot? 'Conspire alongside the truth.'"]
“Mujhe pata nahi tha ki Sanaz agent hai—” Rizwan defends himself instantly. “Sorry.”
["I had no idea Sanaz was an agent—"]
I simply stare at the two of them as I let out a long, heavy sigh.
Hamza reaches up, rubbing his forehead.. “Jaan, I'm sorry,” he murmurs. “Maine jhooth bola, apna sach chhupaya, lekin sirf mission ke liye. Tumhara aur mera hisab barabar hai, Seherzadi. Tumne bhi jhooth bola.”
["Darling, I'm sorry. I lied, I hid my truth, but only for the sake of the mission. Your account and mine are even, my Princess. You lied too."]
My eyes narrow as I lock my gaze onto his face. “Maafi mangne se sab theek ho jata hai?”
["Does asking for forgiveness magically fix everything?"]
“Bhabhi gussa hogayi hai, main jaanta hoon,” Rizwan whispers under his breath, his eyes darting toward the exit as he subtly tries to slide away from the radius of the blast zone.
["Sister-in-law is furious, I know it."]
“Rizwan.”
I call his name out flatly. Not “bhaiya,” not the respectful “aap.”
“Tum bhi mere baare mein aisa hi sochte hoge na? Hamza ki tarah? Ki main paison ke liye beek gayi.”
["You probably thought the exact same thing about me, right? Just like Hamza? That I sold myself out for money."]
“Sanaz, aisa nahi hai...” Rizwan replies quickly, turning around with a look of desperate sincerity. “Humein agar thoda bhi andaza hota ki tum bhi Indian agent ho toh hum aisa bilkul nahi sochte.”
["Sanaz, it's not like that... If we had even the slightest inkioing that you were an Indian agent too, we would have never thought that way."]
“Yehi toh dikkat hai tum dono ki!”
I snap, violently standing up from the mattress, “Tum dono ko insaano ki qadar nahi hai. Sirf naam ki!”
["That is exactly the damn problem with both of you! You two don't value human beings. Only names!"]
“Sanaz... Khuda ki kasam, maine har din khud ko kosa hai ki hum tumhe iss daldal mein utar rahe hain apne saath,” Rizwan says, his voice cracking. He looks at me, “Lekin tumhe pata hoga, Balidan Parmo Dharma. Jis raah pe tum khud bhi chal rahi ho.”
["Sanaz... I swear to God, I have cursed myself every single day that we are dragging you into this quicksand with us. But you know the oath—Sacrifice is the Supreme Duty. It is the exact same path you are walking on yourself."]
I swallow hard. Balidan Parmo Dharma. Motto of Para SF unit under R&AW.
Hamza moves closer, “Shayad maine jo kiya uske liye main khud ko kabhi bhi maaf na kar paun,” he murmurs, his green eyes burning with exposed guilt. “Lekin main tumhe yaad dilana chahunga, maine humesha kaha hai tumse - mujhe fark nahi padta tumhare paak se.”
["Perhaps I will never be able to forgive myself for what I did. But I want to remind you, I have always told you—your innocence doesn't matter to me."]
I let out a long sigh as I slowly sink back down onto the edge of the bed. “Main abhi bhi gussa hoon tum dono se,” I warn flatly. ["I am still furious with both of you."]
Without a single word of warning, the two highly trained phantoms lean inward at the exact same time, completely enveloping my frame in an overwhelming group hug.
I instantly freeze, my arms locking at my sides.
What?
As the ridiculous warmth of the hold settles over me, trapped between them, I can’t help but notice the subtle position of Hamza’s arm; he has structured his forearm like a rigid barrier, completely blocking Rizwan from fully pressing against my torso.
I am genuinely, completely done with both of them.
“Gale lagne se maaf nahi kardungi,” I grumble aggressively into the fabric of his kurta. ["I won't magically forgive you just because you're hugging me."]
“Theek hai, khotti. Take your time,” Hamza murmurs back smoothly. ["Fine, you donkey. Take your time."]
The utter nerve of this man.
I yank my chin back. “Tu khotta.”
["You're the donkey."]
A sudden, helpless wave of giggles breaks through us. I quickly reach up with my bandaged finger to wipe away a stray, betraying tear from my cheek before finally letting go; wrapping my arms tightly around the both of them, locking our unified R&AW creed together.
My fingers instinctively slip through the thick, coarse strands of Hamza’s dark waves, mapping the surface of his scalp until my skin collides with a thick, wet, and dark red blob of coagulated blood.
I gasp, my eyes widening, “Hamza, itni badi chot lagi hai bataya kyun nahi?”
["Hamza, you have such a massive injury, why didn't you tell me?"]
Without waiting for his defense, I immediately pivot on the mattress, reaching into the open medical kit to pull out the bottles of liquid antiseptics, sterile cotton swabs, and fresh gauze. “Kab hua yeh?”
["When did this happen?"]
“Woh jo black leather jacket wala aadmi tha, uss paar ke Punjab se...” Hamza finally relents, as I begin to dab the antiseptic against the tear in his skin. “Uske saath ladayi hogayi thi. Drugs ka dhandha karne aaya tha, mujhe kisi bhi haal mein rokna tha.”
["That man in the black leather jacket, from the Punjab across the border... I got into a fight with him. He had come to run a narcotics operation, and I had to stop him at any cost."]
My eyelids blink, a sudden, graphic memory flashing behind my retinas. The image of Hamza dragging that thrashing body out into the corridor, followed by the injection driven straight into that man’s eye socket. “Kaisa hai woh?”
["How is he?"]
“Theek hai. Jameel sahab sambhal lenge,”
["He's fine. Mr. Jameel will handle it."]
“Jameel bhi spy hai?” I counter instantly. ["Is Jameel a spy too?"]
Both of them blink simultaneously. “Aapko kaise pata?”
["How do you know?"]
“Mujhe shak tha. Dawood ke purane records mein thallium ka zikr tha. Woh kaam kisi first generation spy ka hi ho sakta hai. Jameel sahab waise bhi bohot kareeb hain unke,” I reply with confidence, smoothly pressing the adhesive bandage down over the wound on Hamza’s scalp, ensuring the dressing is small, and completely hidden beneath his dense curls.
["I had a suspicion. Dawood's old records made mention of thallium. That kind of work could only belong to a first-generation spy. Mr. Jameel is exceptionally close to him anyway."]
I step back, capping the antiseptic bottle with a sharp click. I look between the two men sitting on my bed. “Chalo naam batao sab apna.”
["Are we playing some game of name, place, animal, thing here?"]
“Bakwas matt karo,” I snap. ["Cut the nonsense."]
“Jaskirat. Jaskirat Singh Rangi.”
Damn.
“Mustafa Alvi,” Rizwan supplies next.
I finally state my own true name, they both offer a quiet, respectful nod of acknowledgment.
“Kaafi pyaare asli naam hain sabke,” I murmur softly. ["Everyone's real names are quite lovely."]
Hamza lets out another low scoff, rolling his broad shoulders. “Pyaare? They're like some sort of warrior's names.”
“We are, though.” I counter smoothly.
“Good point.”
“Kabse ho aap dono idhar?” I question quietly, my hands resting against the edge of the mattress as I look between the two veterans sitting in my space.
["How long have you two been here?"]
“2004,” Hamza supplies flatly.
I offer a slow nod, my mind instantly tracking the timeline. “Main 2007 mein aayi. Maine apna beech ka hissa bata diya, ab tum dono ki baari.”
["I came in 2007. I've shared my middle chapter, now it's you two's turn."]
A simultaneous, heavy sigh escapes both of their chests.
“Rehman ko maine hi mara tha,” Hamza reveals calmly, detailing the systemic elimination of the old Lyari leadership without a single fraction of hesitation. “Uzair ko manipulate kiya, use Dubai bheja aur ATA ke tehat giraftaar karwa diya.”
["I was the one who killed Rehman. I manipulated Uzair, sent him off to Dubai, and had him arrested under the Anti-Terrorism Act."]
“Arshad Pappu ki gang mein tha,” Rizwan chimes in next, “Lekin use raaste se hatana tha. Hamza ke saath milkar use Uzair se marwaya, aur inki gang mein join hogaya.”
["I was embedded in Arshad Pappu's gang. But he had to be removed from the path. Working together with Hamza, we had Uzair eliminate him, and then I joined Hamza's gang."]
I shake my head slowly, “Body count toh double digits mein dono ka.”
["The body count for both of you is well into the double digits."]
Hamza lets out a low, rough chuckle, lazily rubbing the back of his neck, “Heh... Karna padta hai.”
["Heh... It has to be done."]
My eyebrows draw together as I stare, “Upar se sharma rahe ho? Kuch haya hai aap dono mein?”
["On top of that, you're blushing? Do you two have even a single shred of shame?"]
“Dehshadgardon ko maarne mein kaisi sharm?” Rizwan replies flatly.
["What shame is there in killing terrorists?"]
Good point. In our line of work, hesitation is a terminal diagnosis.
“Hamza thoda sehem gaya tha Rehman ki maut ke baad. Lekin kuch hafte baad theek hogaya,” Rizwan adds, casting a knowing look toward his partner.
["Hamza was a bit shaken after Rehman's death. But he got better after a few weeks."]
“Wabastagi bohot buri cheez hai,” Hamza murmurs, his deep voice carrying the aching cadence of a man who had to slaughter his own proximity to maintain his cover. “Lekin jo hona tha, woh ho gaya.”
["Attachment is a very terrible thing. But what was meant to happen, happened."]
He shifts his posture, his expression instantly locking back into the authoritative mask. “Khair,” he states, “Aaj ka report pura ho jana chahiye. Aaj ke baad koi purani baatein nahi karega. Jab tak zarurat na ho.”
["Anyway. Today's report must be finalized. From this day forth, no one will speak of the past. Not until it becomes absolutely necessary."]
The administrative boundary is drawn.
“Sanaz, chalo tumhe ghar chhor deta hoon. Bohot der hogayi hai. Rizwan, tu yahan sab kuch sambhal.”
["Sanaz, come, let me drop you home. It's gotten very late. Rizwan, you handle everything here."]
Hamza stands up. He steps toward the glass panes, his large hand reaching up to draw the heavy velvet curtains completely shut against the outside world.
But just as the fabric slides across the track, a microscopic gap remains open; and our eyes simultaneously lock onto a terrifying silhouette.
SP Chaudhry Aslam.
Oh, hell no.
I can only pray to God the glass tint was thick enough to block him from seeing me patching up the Sher-E-Baloch’s head, or the raw compromise of our trio hug.
Breaking away from the glass before a shadow can betray us, we move down to the garage. I slide behind the wheel of my sleek, premium Mercedes, the engine purring to life in the quiet night.
Directly behind me, the heavy, imposing frame of Hamza's black SUV roars to life.
The security gates swing open.
I press my foot down on the accelerator, steering the Mercedes out, watching the rearview mirror as the heavy headlamps of his SUV lock into position right behind my bumper—SHADOWING HIS SEHERZADI.
Masterlist.
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I mutter softly, keeping my hands steady on the steering wheel as the car glides past the long, shadowed rows of roadside pine trees.
“Mujhe sharm si mehsoos ho rahi hai,” he murmurs back, his deep voice dropping into an uncharacteristically vulnerable tone.
["I'm feeling a bit shy."]
He keeps his gaze fixed down on his lap, but through the corner of my eye, I can see the sharp twitch of his jaw line as he tries—and fails—to hold back a genuine smile.
This man.
The terrifying Sher-E-Baloch who commands the entire illicit black-market syndicate of Lyari, currently dressed in a premium black silk shirt, crisp straight-leg jeans, and a heavy brown leather jacket, is... suddenly, completely shy in my passenger seat.
“Theek hai sharmaate raho fir, mujhe koi dekh kar chala jayega,” I reply with a teasing huff, catching his reflection through the rearview mirror to track his expression.
["Fine, keep being shy then, someone else will look at me and walk away."]
The mock threat works instantly. Hamza’s head snaps up. He maps the way the warm light catches the dark strands of hair framing my face.
“Koi bhi dekh sakta hai lekin apna nahi sakta,” he states flatly, his large, calloused hand reaching across the center console to envelope mine, lifting my fingers to press a lingering, reverent kiss against the back of my hand.
["Anyone can look, but no one can claim you as theirs."]
I pull my hand back slightly, “Main kisi ki amanat nahi hoon.”
["I am no one's keepsake."]
“Lekin main toh aapka amanat hoon?” he counters smoothly.
["But aren't I your keepsake?"]
I let out a soft, exasperated huff, turning my head to lightly push at his dark cheekbone to force his face away from my space.
Bite.
“Hamza!” I almost yell, the car slightly swerving as I violently yank my hand back. The scoundrel just clamped his teeth down onto the soft tip of my finger. I glare at him through the dashboard, my chest heaving with a mix of irritation and a sudden, betraying heat.
He lets out a low, vibrating rumble of amusement, leaning his heavy shoulders back into the leather seat.
“Isilye main Rizwan ko saath lana chahti thi,” I grumble aggressively, rubbing the faint indents on my finger. “Uske bina aap hosh kho dete ho.” ["This is exactly why I wanted to bring Rizwan along. Without him, you completely lose your senses."]
Hamza groans, rolling his head to the side as he stares out the window. “Uska naam matt lo abhi. Waise hi humare saath bohot ghum chuka hai woh.”
["Don't take his name right now. He's already wandered around with us far too much anyway."]
“Waise... Aaj bohot khubsurat lag rahi ho,” Hamza murmurs. ["By the way... You look very beautiful today."]
I tilt my chin, keeping my eyes fixed on the sweeping lines of the highway. “Achcha? Aapko koi takleef nahi mere aise kapde pehenne se?”
["Oh? You don't have any issue with me wearing clothes like this?"]
The question isn't entirely innocent.
I am currently wearing a crisp, white premium silk shirt with the top buttons left daringly open near my cleavage, tucked into a tailored black pencil skirt that perfectly accents the delicate gold waist chain he had gifted me, finished with structured leather ankle boots.
In the conservative, heavily scrutinized circles of his underworld province, it is a striking, unapologetically bold statement.
Hamza shifts in his seat, his eyebrows drawing together in genuine confusion. “Takleef? Mujhe kyun hogi takleef?”
["An issue? Why would I have an issue?"]
“Bewakoof matt bano. Tum jaante ho main kya keh rahi hoon,” I counter smoothly. “Nikah ke baad mujhe burkhe mein toh nahi rakhoge?”
["Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I am saying. You won't force me into a burqa after marriage, will you?"]
A sudden, deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, his eyes instantly lighting up with an amused glint. “Iska matlab tum nikah ke liye taiyar...”
I cut a sharp, warning glare sideways.
“...ho,” he finishes, clearing his throat to steady his voice into a more serious note. “Theek hai, sanjidgi se, mujhe koi takleef nahi hai. Tumhe yeh sawal karne ki zarurat tak nahi thi waise. Jaise main nikah ke baad nahi badlunga, waise hi tum bhi nahi badlogi.”
["So you're ready for the… marriage. Fine, in all seriousness, I have absolutely no issue. You didn't even need to ask this question, by the way. Just as I won't change after marriage, you won't change either."]
I offer a slow nod. “Hmm. Kaafi jadeed soch hai aapki. Unexpected tha. Lekin iska matlab yeh matt samajhna ki tum mujhpar koi ehsaan kar rahe ho.”
["Hmm. Your thinking is quite modern. It was unexpected. But don't you dare think you are doing me a favor by thinking this way."]
Hamza slowly shakes his head. “Bilkul nahi. Main bas bata raha tha ki tumhari marzi se hi yeh rishta hai.”
["Not at all. I was simply stating that this relationship exists entirely by your own choice."]
“Itni achchi baatein karni kahan se sikhi? Mujhse pehle kitni maashukayen reh chuki hain aapki?” I question. ["Where did you learn to speak such beautiful things? How many lovers have you had before me?"]
Hamza’s eyes widen instantly, a look of pure panic. “Khuda ke vaste aisa na bole, Sanaz Sahiba. Aap hi meri pehli aur akhri ishq hain.”
["For God's sake, do not say such things, Lady Sanaz. You alone are my first and last love."]
I roll my eyes toward the windshield. This dramatic, ridiculous guy. “Jhooth matt bolo.”
["Don't lie."]
“Ammi ki kasam,” he swears instantly. ["I swear on my mother."]
I cut a brief glance sideways, taking in the intense sincerity burning in his green eyes before shifting my focus back to the road, my lips twitching with a hidden smile.
“Fir bhi bharosa nahi?” he groans softly, leaning his head back against the seat with a defeated sigh. “Mujahe shayari ka shauk hai. Mir, Iqbal, Ghalib. Inse hi baatein banana sikha.”
["Still no trust? I have a passion for poetry. Mir, Iqbal, Ghalib. I learned how to weave words from them."]
I tilt my head, thoroughly amused by the image of the fierce Sher-E-Baloch studying classical Urdu ghazals in his compound. “Achcha? Humein bhi sunaiye apni shayari.”
["Oh really? Recite some of your poetry to us as well."]
“Pakka na?” he asks. ["For sure?"]
I offer a single, encouraging nod.
Hamza sits up slightly straight in the passenger seat, adjusting the collar of his black silk shirt as he clears his throat. “Toh gaur farmayen...”
["Then lose yourself in this..."]
“Ishq mein tere hum iss qadar hosh khote hain,
Ki log humein dekh kar ab pagal kehte hain.”
["In your love, I lose my senses to such an extent, that people look at me and call me crazy now."]
“Waah waah,” I mutter flatly.
[“Wow, wow.”]
Hamza leans slightly closer across the center console, “Tum toh khuli zulfon mein qayamat lagti ho, Hum kho dete hain apni shareefi ko.”
["You look like a devastating storm with your hair open, and I completely lose my gentlemanly behavior."]
The audacity.
I slowly turn my head sideways, my eyes narrowing. Without breaking eye contact, I reach down into the footwell, unzipping and smoothly sliding off one of my leather ankle boots.
Hamza’s eyes dart down, as violently flinches back against the passenger door, raising his large hands.
“Arey abhi se joote kyun maar rahi ho—”
["Hey, why are you already hitting me with shoes—"]
The sleek Bentley grinds to a smooth halt directly outside the grand, minimalist entrance of the Clifton contemporary art gallery. Shifting the luxury vehicle into park, I lean down to zip my leather ankle boot back up, smoothing out the hem of my black pencil skirt before stepping out.
Hamza moves around the hood, catching me before I can reach the steps. He lifts the heavy cheetah-print fur jacket from the back seat, his large hands careful and surprisingly tender as he drapes the thick material over my shoulders, his fingers lingering against the collar of my white silk shirt for a fraction of a second.
The uniformed security guard instantly bows his head, swinging the heavy glass doors open to let us pass.
The transition is immediate. The interior rooms are profoundly chilled, bathed in a soft, architectural track lighting that mutes the outside world. The gallery is beautifully sparse—only a few scattered members of the Clifton elite moving quietly through the exhibits, some cradling warm ceramic cups of coffee or tea, others deeply absorbed in thick art journals.
“Wow,” Hamza mutters under his breath, his eyes slowly scanning the vast concrete walls and towering canvases as we begin to walk through the exhibitions, his boots making a low thud against the floor.
He cuts a sideways glance at my profile. “Tumhe yeh sab pasand hai? Sophisticated.”
["Wow. You like all this? Sophisticated."]
I let out a soft chuckle at his subtle jab, adjusting the fur jacket on my shoulders. “Haan. Kyun? Aapko boring lagta hoga na?”
["Yes. Why? You probably find it boring, right?"]
“Nahi,” Hamza replies instantly as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. “Kaafi shant jagah hai yeh. Meri duniya se alag, magar boring nahi.”
["No, this place is very peaceful. Different from my world, but not boring."]
I hum softly in agreement.
We drift deeper into the wing, our footsteps slowing to a complete halt before a massive, isolated exhibit that instantly commands the air with a raw horror.
The canvas is particularly disturbing. Painted with aggressive, thick strokes of oil, it depicts a stray dog hung brutally by its own tight leather leash, its hind legs twisting into nothingness as it frantically, desperately claws its way up the very cord that is systematically choking the life out of it.
I step closer, my eyes tracking down to the small, descriptive brass plate mounted beside the frame detailing the artist’s thesis.
No Way Home.
The text seems to bleed into my vision.
We wander through the remaining wings of the gallery for another hour, the initial dark chill of the hanging dog canvas slowly melting away as we end up laughing through some of the more bizarre, abstract modern art installations.
To my absolute surprise, Hamza is incredibly, naturally adept at catching the hidden structural symbols woven into the paint
After we’ve had our fill of the exhibits, we head up to the gallery’s exclusive, glass-paneled rooftop café, overlooking the sprawling expanse of the skyline.
We slide into a private booth, and I lean forward, propping my chin in my hand as I look across the candlelit table. “Kya loge aap? Tea? Coffee? Please sharab matt bolna.”
["What will you have? Tea? Coffee? Please don't say alcohol."]
“Grenade.”
“Hamza.”
Hamza lets out a defensive scoff, snapping the gold-embossed menu open. “Itna gyaan hai mujhe. Koi gali ka gunda nahi hoon,” he grumbles, “Hmm, latte.”
["I have that much sense. I'm not some street thug. Hmm, a latte."]
“Frappe,” I counter smoothly, signaling the waiter.
The uniformed staff member steps into our perimeter, pen poised over his pad. “Anything else, ma'am? Sir?”
“Strawberry shortcake and cookie dough ice-cream,” I list off instantly without a single shred of hesitation.
Hamza lowers his menu, staring at my order with a look of pure skepticism. “Only sweets?”
“We have different options as well, sir,” the waiter chimes in helpfully, gesturing toward the artisanal savory section.
“Okay, maybe...” Hamza blinks, his eyes settling on a classic, high-end item. “English breakfast for me.”
A few minutes later, the waiter returns, meticulously setting down my lavish desserts before placing a minimalist white porcelain plate in front of Hamza. Arranged with aesthetic precision on the plate is a single artisanal sausage, one perfectly poached egg, a tiny decorative mound of baked beans, and a solitary slice of thin, toasted sourdough.
The Sher-E-Baloch stares down at the plate. He blinks once. He blinks twice. The sheer, profound disappointment on his face is staggering.
He looks up at me, completely serious, “Itne toh main ek mutthi mein khata hoon.”
["I eat this much in a single fistful."]
I close my eyes, my hand flying up to my forehead as I almost facepalm right into my ice cream. Dear God, take him back to Lyari.
He literally finishes the entire plate in under a minute flat. I am practically crying from suppressed laughter, watching the empty porcelain slide back onto the table. “Bhook lagi hai?”
["Are you hungry?"]
Hamza offers a deeply tragic nod of confirmation.
I flag the waiter back over, and he quickly orders a heavy, high-yield protein and rice bowl. When the massive steaming portion finally arrives, the fierce Sher-E-Baloch looks visibly, profoundly satisfied.
He aggressively works through the meal, eventually leaning back into the leather booth to finish his hot latte while I am still slowly, meticulously sipping my cold frappe through the straw.
I lift my eyes over and a soft, helpless chuckle escapes my lips. Sticking out like a stark white contrast against the dark, coarse mustache is a small, prominent dollop of frothed milk.
He has absolutely no idea.
I slide my Samsung smartphone out of my pocket and snap a quick, silent picture of his face, archiving this rare, beautifully unbothered fragment of his soul on my drive.
I set the phone down, leaning my torso across the narrow, candlelit table. Reaching out my hand, my thumb gently brushes against the edge of his coarse mustache, wiping the stray foam away from his skin.
Hamza doesn't flinch, as he deliberately slurs his tongue out to lick his lips right against the lingering warmth of my touch.
Oh God.
My internal processor completely short-circuits, and I violently yank my hand back, burying my fingers deep into the pockets of my cheetah-print jacket to hide the sudden, betraying tremble in my skin. Hamza merely watches me, a low, incredibly smug vibration of amusement rumbling in his chest.
Once the table is cleared, he instinctively reaches into the breast pocket of his brown leather jacket, pulling out a heavy alligator-skin wallet to settle the high-end damages.
I instantly reach across the marble, my fingers pressing down on his wrist to freeze his movement. “Nahi Hamza, rehne do.”
["No, Hamza, let it be."]
In the conservative, pride-heavy underworld structures he runs, a woman paying is an anomaly.
But Hamza doesn't trigger a territorial argument. He doesn't try to force his cash over mine to prove a point. Instead, his grin turns into a slow, profoundly tender smile.
He simply slips his wallet back into his jacket, keeping his eyes locked onto mine as I slide the local Pakistani bills into the leather presentation folder.
Our fingers remain tightly locked together as we walk back down the concrete steps of the gallery to the idling vehicle. Hamza smoothly slides into the driver's seat this time, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his black silk shirt as he takes the wheel.
I look out at the horizon, the brilliant blue of the Karachi sky beginning to fracture into deep gradients of amber and violet. “Shaam hone waali hai. Mere ghar chaloge?”
["Evening is approaching. Will you come to my house?"]
“Bilkul chalunga,” he replies instantly.["Of course I will."]
Within twenty minutes of navigating the winding, elite coastal lanes of Clifton, the Bentley glides into the private driveway of my secluded seafront bungalow. I turn the key in the brass lock, pushing the heavy door open.
I drop my keys onto the side table, gesturing toward the floor-to-ceiling glass panels at the back of the house. “Saamne hi sahal hai. Khursheed utarne ke samay bohot khubsurat dikhta hai.”
["The shore is right ahead. The sun looks incredibly beautiful when it sets."]
I slide out of my leather ankle boots and socks, letting my bare feet press against the cold, polished floorboards. Hamza follows my movement, untying his heavy brogues and setting them neatly by the threshold.
We shed the outer layers, slipping off my heavy cheetah-print fur jacket while he discards his brown leather coat, leaving us exposed in the quiet of the house.
“Intezar karo,” I murmur softly, offering him a fleeting glance before heading up the winding staircase to the privacy of my master bedroom.
["Wait for me."]
Upstairs, I shed the silk shirt and the pencil skirt, stepping into the raw freedom of my own space. I slide into a minimal, black halter-neck top that leaves my waist completely exposed, paired with simple, stretchable denim shorts.
As I look down at my bare feet, the light catches the clean white sheen around my ankles. The custom platinum strands. The microscopic, intricately carved lotuses blushing with the fire of rare pink diamonds, entirely devoid of loud, jingling bells.
The proposal vow.
I haven't taken them off since the evening he knelt in the sand.
I slowly walk back down the stairs.
Hamza is waiting near the glass doors, his broad frame framed against the darkening crimson of the coastal sky. As my bare feet hit the bottom step, his green eyes slowly map the transformation.
His lips part slightly, a sudden, breathless trace of raw fascination freezing his features before his jaw sets and his lips close again. He doesn't drop a single comment. He doesn't break the sacred, fragile quiet of the room.
Instead, as I reach his side, he simply extends his hand to lock his fingers back through mine. He leans his heavy head down, pressing a soft, lingering, and profoundly tender kiss directly against my temple.
Together, entirely barefoot and silent, we step through the doors and walk out into the cool, shifting sand, heading straight toward the edge of the dark roaring water as the final rays of the sun sink into the Arabian Sea.
We walk further away from the safety of the porch, our bare feet sinking deep into the cool, shifting expanse of the sand. Above us, the sky is a staggering, chaotic canvas of natural violence—painted in brilliant, bleeding strokes of crimson, deep orange, molten gold, soft pink, and heavy purple all at once.
The sharp, salt-heavy coastal wind sweeps across the open shore, biting cleanly against the exposed skin of my bare back and thighs.
Without a word, Hamza reaches down, pulling his black silk shirt completely over his head and dropping the fabric onto the sand. The heavy silver chains around his neck instantly catch the dying fire of the horizon, glinting against his skin. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as I force my eyes to remain steady, desperately trying not to stare.
He is so perfectly, overwhelmingly thick.
It isn't a shredded, gym-sculpted physique; it is the raw, heavy mass of a natural-born predator.
His arms are massive, easily twice the size of my head, leading down to dense, hard lines across his midsection, yet his stomach carries a heavy, solid baseline, slightly pushing outward despite being flat. The coarse, dark hair patterns across his forearms and his chest catch the shifting light.
“Khursheed se kuch zyada hi pasand aagaya main?” Hamza’s voice suddenly slices through the crash of the waves.
["Do you like me a bit more than the sun?"]
I snap out of the trance instantly, my head jerking away as a sudden, betraying heat flushes furiously across my cheeks.
He lets out a low, vibrating chuckle and shifts his weight, sinking down onto the sand before gently but unyieldingly pulling me down by my waist to sit directly beside him.
I look at the crashing tide, the crimson light reflecting off the water. “Khursheed se zyada khubsurat hain aap,” I murmur softly. ["You are more beautiful than the sun."]
“Khubsurat?” Hamza questions, the syllables sounding heavy and unfamiliar on his tongue.
["Beautiful?"]
I tilt my head, tracking the severe, sharp lines of his profile. “Kyun? Aapko kisi ne kabhi khubsurat nahi bulaya?”
["Why? Has no one ever called you beautiful?"]
Hamza slowly shifts his gaze away, “Bulaya toh bohot kuch gaya hai mujhe. Lekin khubsoorat sirf aapne bulaya.” He pauses, “Mujh mein khubsurat bolne layak kuch hai bhi?”
["I have been called many things. But 'beautiful' is something only you have called me. Is there even anything in me worth calling beautiful?"]
The sheer tragedy of his words makes my chest ache.
I lean closer into his space, slowly resting my head against the massive shelf of his shoulder, “Kamal karte hain aap, Hamza sahab. Khud ka chehra aayine mein dekhte ho ya nahi? Itni gehri aankein hain - hari zameen ki tarah, lambe ghungraale baal, seedhi naak, aur—”
["You are unbelievable, Mr. Hamza. Do you even look at your own face in the mirror? Your eyes are so deep—like green earth, long wavy hair, a straight nose, and—"]
“Aur kya?” he prompts softly, his voice dropping into a low whisper against my hair.
["And what else?"]
“Aur dole shole bhi,” I tease lightly, reaching my hand down to aggressively squeeze the massive muscle of his forearm.
["And these huge muscles too."]
A genuine, beautiful chuckle erupts from his chest.
He doesn't preen or flex his muscles to show off; he simply rests his massive frame against the sand, completely comfortable in his own skin. I slowly rise to my feet, brushing the loose grains from my denim shorts. As I stand up, my eyes track a quick, split-second movement, Hamza lazily reaching up to pop something small into his mouth, his jaw immediately working to chew it.
I turn away, pacing along the edge of the roaring tide, holding up my smartphone to click a series of vibrant pictures of the fading, blood-red sunset and a few candid frames of myself. Through the glass lens, I notice his towering shadow slowly trailing behind me at a distance. Near the surf line, a small shore crab scoots sideways through the wet foam, aggressively clicking its tiny claws against the wet gravel.
“Waise khubsurat toh hain, andar se bhi aur bahar se bhi!” I yell back over the loud. ["By the way, you really are beautiful, both from the inside and the out!"]
He is standing roughly ten feet away, casually using the toe of his bare foot to shoo the stubborn crab out of his path. I instantly pivot, switching my phone into video mode to record his frustration.
“Sanaz, nahi—” he warns. ["Sanaz, don't—"]
He launches into a sudden sprint directly toward my position.
I let out a breathless laugh, turning on my heel to run wildly across the cool shore. Within mere seconds, his massive arms wrap completely around my waist from behind.
Hamza lifts me cleanly off the ground, spinning my body through the air in a dizzying arc. I can't help but giggle frantically, my legs dangling in the empty space until the momentum breaks.
We collapse onto the soft sand together—the impact cushioned entirely by his heavy frame as I land squarely on top of his chest, still laughing into the cool twilight.
Shifting my weight slightly, we both sit up against the slope of the dune, using our hands to fan our tousled, wind-blown hair away from our faces. He shifts his posture to lean directly behind my back. From this proximity, the sheer scale of our physical contrast is ridiculous; the tip of my bare foot doesn't even reach the height of his massive ankle.
Suddenly, his hands reach around my torso, effortlessly snatching the smartphone out of my grip. He locks his elbows on either side of my frame, trapping my hands completely beneath his forearms as he lights up the display.
“Hamza—” I protest mildly, but he ignores the whine, his thumb already swiping through the recent data fields.
Thankfully, this is a regular-use device.
He deletes a few of the blurry, shaky sunset captures. When he reaches the candid picture of his own latte-stained mustache, a soft, rumble of amusement escapes his throat, and he leans his head forward, deeply nuzzling the rough, stubbled edge of his cheek straight against the bare skin of my shoulder.
“Yeh sab karti ho chhup chhup kar, huh?”
["You do all these things secretly, huh?"]
His jaw is still rhythmically chewing whatever candy or seed he had popped into his mouth earlier. His thumb continues to trail backward, accessing the older media folders. The contents are intentionally boring—medical textbook references, Clifton scenery, mundane hospital schedules—until the screen suddenly cuts to a highly irregular frame.
The image of me, leaning against a dark backdrop, playfully pressing a kiss against the cold steel barrel of a sleek handgun.
Hamza’s thumb freezes instantly against the glass. “Yeh bandook kaise aayi tumhare paas?”
["How did this gun come to be with you?"]
The air shifts for a microsecond. I keep my pulse perfectly flat, “Fake model hai.”
["It's a fake model."]
He lets out a low, ambiguous hum, his eyes tracing the grip pattern in the photo before he cuts a look sideways at my face. “Hathiyaar bohot pasand hai tumhe huh?” He reaches up, using his thick fingers to aggressively pinch and squeeze my cheek until I let out a sharp whine of protest.
["You really love weapons, don't you huh?"]
Before I can claw his hand away, Hamza taps the share icon, smoothly transmitting the high-resolution picture of his armed Seherzadi straight from my drive directly into his own personal phone.
“Yeh kya aap gutka chaba rahe hain?” I question suddenly.
["What is this, are you chewing tobacco?"]
Hamza glares down at me with a look of pure offense. He dramatically turns his head sideways, spitting the small mass out onto the damp sand. “Nicotine hai, khotti.”
["It's nicotine, you donkey."]
How dare he. My jaw drops at the casual audacity of the insult. “Tu khotta.”
["You're the donkey."]
A low, deep growl escapes his chest. Before I can twist away, his massive, calloused hand violently locks around the bare curve of my waist, squeezing the soft flesh with a sudden, possessive heat that makes my entire core quiver under his touch.
I steady my breath, looking up at his sharp profile. “Nicotine kyun?”
["Why nicotine?"]
His jaw setting as a sudden, rare flush of genuine embarrassment crosses his rugged features. “Kyunki aapne mujhse kaha tha aapko cigarette peene waale mard pasand nahi.”
["Because you had told me that you don't like men who smoke cigarettes."]
“Oh?” I murmur, slowly looking over my bare shoulder to track his expression. “Mere liye cigarette chhorne ko taiyaar ho?”
["Oh? You are willing to quit cigarettes for me?"]
“Hmm,” he replies softly, “Koshish karunga. Waise bhi... Mujhe pasand nahi. Par ab aadat si hogayi hai.”
["I will try. Anyway... I don't even like it. But it's just become a habit now."]
I tilt my head slightly, “Pasand nahi?”
["You don't like it?"]
He doesn't reply.
His eyes drop down to my midsection, tracing the subtle, glittering reflection of metal against my skin in the dim twilight.
“I noticed you're wearing my waist chain,” he murmurs.
His thick fingers slowly tread through the metal line, meticulously tracing the soft, uncovered contour of my tummy. The rough, calloused texture of his skin triggers a sharp, intensely ticklish sensation against my nerves, and I can't help but let out a soft, breathy giggle as I try to arch my back away from his touch.
Hamza doesn't let go. He pulls my frame flush against his massive chest. “I love it.”
“I'm wearing the anklets you gave me as well.”
“I noticed,” Hamza murmurs.
“I have a question, though. Bina jhanjhar waale payal kyun? I mean, practically, I can understand that I can wear it anywhere. But...”
["Why anklets without any bells?”]
He slowly shifts his weight, resting his heavy, stubbled chin directly onto the slope of my shoulder. “I didn't really think about it much, honestly. Jab main yeh taufa le raha tha tab bass mujhe tumhari khushi ki fikr thi. Pata nahi, I just felt like if I'd chosen something with bells, it'd remind you of me whenever you walk. I didn't want that. I wanted the anklets to be yours. Not mine.”
["When I was buying this gift, I was only concerned with your happiness. I don't know, I just felt like if I'd chosen something with bells, it'd remind you of me whenever you walk."]
“That's... a very rare thought, Hamza...” I whisper into the twilight. “I've never met a man with so much dimension.”
“Mera sohnna dildaar...” I murmur in a breathy tone, as I slowly curve my hand around the back of his head, my fingers tangling deep into his hair to pull him closer into my universe.
["My beautiful, generous beloved..."]
Hamza lets out a low, deep hum that vibrates straight through my skin. He leans his heavy head closer into the curve of my collarbone, lazily dragging the sharp edge of his nose over my neck and shoulder, breathing my scent deep into his lungs as if trying to memorize my molecular structure.
God. A sudden, violent flutter of butterflies turns my stomach completely funny.
“Sanaz,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice carrying the weight of a warning.
“Hamza,” I answer in a breathy whisper, my defenses completely fracturing.
He presses his lips right there against the sensitive column of my neck, trailing a slow, agonizing sequence of tiny, burning kisses upward toward my jawline.
I can almost sense the deep, flushed pink blooming violently over my skin from the rough friction of his wild, dark hair brushing against my neck.
Above us, the final remnants of the sun sink entirely beneath the horizon, the sky leaking its last, spectacular hues of deep green and twilight blue before fading into the absolute, suffocating dark of the ocean night.
Suddenly, both of his massive arms wrap completely around my torso. Moving with an effortless strength, he pulls my body flush into his chest, setting me sideways across the massive, solid shelf of his lap. My fingers instinctively reach upward, tightly gripping onto the heavy silver chains resting over his bare, broad chest to anchor my balance.
He finally leans his face closer into mine.
And it happens.
His lips press flat against mine—for the very first time in our history.
The contact lasts for a few hanging, breathless seconds, unhurried, and warm; before Hamza violently closes the remaining distance between us.
His large palm reaches up to securely cup the side of my face, tilting his head at a deeper angle to lock our lips completely. I can't help but let out a soft, helpless moan directly into the warmth of the kiss, my eyelashes fluttering wildly against my cheeks.
It is gentle, fresh, and devastatingly soft.
There is no tongue, no raw underworld aggression—just the pure, unadulterated press of his mouth, the coarse texture of his mustache brushing against my sensitive skin.
I slowly force my eyelids open as he finally pulls his head back a fraction. The world around us is completely dark now, the crash of the tide echoing through the night, but my heart is still beating wildly against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Hamza’s thumb tenderly traces the curve of my flushed cheek.
“Duniya ka koi bhi ishq mere ISHQ SE ROOHANA NAHI.”
["No love in this world is as spiritual as mine."]
Masterlist.
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Meera’s voice cuts through the quiet of the dark pre-deportation holding room.
I offer a small nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the cold metal surface of the desk between us as my trembling fingers restlessly fiddle with the stiff fabric of my dress.
She sits directly in front of me, her posture rigid, a faint, encouraging smile touching her lips that doesn't quite reach the sharp eyes. “Yaad rakhna tumhara mission sirf tumhara nahi hai, Bharat mein rehne waale sabhi insanon ka hai.”
["Remember, your mission is not just yours, it belongs to every single human living in India."]
Meera pushes a thick stack of finalized intelligence documents across the table, topped by a crisp, pristine green booklet. A Pakistani passport.
I slowly slide the cover open. My own eyes stare right back at me from a tiny, starkly lit square photograph on the identification page. Next to the picture, stamped in bold ink, is a completely foreign name.
Sanaz Siddiqui.
“Iss naam ka matlab jaanti ho?” Meera questions softly. ["Do you know the meaning of this name?"]
“Full of grace... Full of pride,” I mutter under my breath, my voice small. It’s a Persian name. A beautiful, delicate name.
Meera offers a slow, dignified nod. “Correct. Shaan se jeena hai tumhe. Sabke saath itni dhal jao ki koi tumhare mukaam tak nahi pohonch paaye.”
["Correct. You have to live with pride. Blend in so deeply with everyone that no one can ever trace your level."]
I stare down at the counterfeit green booklet. “Mujhe nahi pata aisa hoga ya nahi. Mere jaise aur bhi assets hain.”
["I don't know if I'll be able to do that or not. There are others like me as well."]
“Hain,” Meera concedes softly, reaching across the desk to place her hand over mine, “Lekin meri baat ko samjho. Tum successfully infiltrate kar lo, aur humein khabar pohonchati raho, yehi humari jeet hai.”
["There are. But understand my point. You successfully infiltrate, and keep sending us intelligence, that alone is our victory."]
Hmm. I quiet the panic in my throat. “Samajh gayi.”
The script is already etched into my brain like software. Get into the high-society medical institutions of Karachi, use the stethoscope as an all-access pass to slip close to the syndicated operatives and militant leadership, and funnel every single whisper back to the Intelligence Bureau channel.
Meera suddenly shifts her weight, her fingers squeezing my hand with a sudden alertness. “Sanyal sir aa rahe hain. He makes sure to meet everyone before they leave.”
["Sanyal sir is coming. He makes sure to meet everyone before they leave."]
I look up, the heavy humidity of the Delhi basement settling over my neck. “Kyun?”
["Why?"]
The dry, sharp clear of a throat breaks the silence from the threshold before Meera can answer.
Ajay Sanyal is here.
He steps out of the corridor shadows and into the warm cone of our desk lamp, a man dressed in a sharp, unglamorous grey bureau suit, his eyes obscured behind thick wire-rimmed glasses, a half-bald head, and a stiff, traditional mustache. The Chief.
Meera and I instantly begin to rise from our chairs, but he casually waves a hand, beckoning us to remain seated as he leans against the edge of the adjacent filing cabinet.
“I make sure to meet everyone before they leave so I could remember the faces of the weapons I've made.”
He doesn't look at me like a daughter of the soil; he looks at me like a high-precision firearm being shipped across the border to fire a single, lifetime shot.
I tilt my chin up, staring straight through the glare of his glasses. “How many faces do you remember, sir?”
Sanyal doesn't flinch. “Plenty.”
I don't offer a reply.
“Haar nahi manna,” the Chief commands softly, extending his arm forward, his fingers curling into a tight, solid fist. “Jai Hind.”
["Never accept defeat. Victory to India."]
A faint smile touches the corners of my lips as I look at the hand that just signed away my identity.
I lift my hand, my small fist bumping lightly against his knuckle. “Jai Hind.”
The flight from New Delhi to Afghanistan is short.
The second we ground on the tarmac, the transformation begins. In the cramped, dimly lit airport restroom, I strip away the last remnants of my civilian life.
I change into a simple black kurti and palazzo, methodically wrapping a dark dupatta tightly around my shoulders and head, pulling the fabric high over the bridge of my nose to leave nothing but my eyes exposed to the harsh, dry desert air.
आधी बातें आँखें बोले
बाकी आधी ख़ामोशी कह दे
हमज़ुबाँ की तलाश है
(Let the eyes speak half the truths,
Let the silence say the rest,
I am in search of one who speaks my language.)
I pack my existence into a single canvas travel bag.
The change of clothes, the medical degrees, the counterfeit transcripts, the forged green passport... and tucked deep into the interior velvet pocket, a thin, golden necklace.
It’s a fragile, unstylish piece of old jewelry—the one from my mother's wedding day, gifted by my father. I trace the cold metal with my thumb, a single stray tear burning down my cheek before I viciously wipe it away.
The girl who cried is dead. I check out of the local transit hotel, stepping into the crowded, chaotic streets to blend seamlessly with the sea of moving burqas.
ना तो कारवां की तलाश है
ना तो हमसफ़र की तलाश है
(I seek no caravan,
I seek no companion on this road.)
An unregistered, matte-black helicopter waits for us in a deserted, sun-bleached clearing on the outskirts. The rotors scream against the wind, and within a few grueling hours of turbulent flying over the rugged mountain ridges, we are dropped near the volatile Pakistan-Afghanistan border crossing.
The heat is suffocating, thick with dust and the smell of diesel. A line of moving bodies presses toward the chain-link checkpoint. The border guard's eyes are sharp, and entirely desensitized as he snaps his fingers toward me.
“Parda hataiye,” he commands flatly, his hand extended for my documentation.
["Remove the veil."]
I hand over the pristine green booklet stamped. I pull the dupatta down from my face for a few measured seconds, letting him scan the features of the weapon Sanyal sir built.
मेरा शौक़ तेरा दीदार है
यही उम्र भर की तलाश है
(My only passion is a glimpse of you,
This is my lifelong search.)
Thud.
The heavy ink stamp hits the page.
The identity is locked.
A rusted, mud-splattered transit bus idles in the gravel lot just past the gate, its exhaust coughing dark plumes of smoke into the evening sky. I approach the open door, lowering my voice into a soft, localized dialect. “Bhaiya, yeh bus kahan jayegi?”
["Brother, where will this bus go?"]
“Karachi,” the driver grunts back without looking up.
I climb the metal steps, finding a seat by the scratched glass window as the vehicle violently shakes to life, launching itself down the long, starlit desert highway toward the coast.
By the time the bus grinds to a screeching halt, the deep indigo of evening has completely settled over the sprawling, chaotic labyrinth of the city.
I step down into the humid air, immediately pulling the black dupatta back over my nose and mouth to shield myself from the prying eyes of the metropolitan grid.
Pulling out my encrypted mobile phone, I pull up a single, low-resolution photograph saved on the secure drive, the visual coordinates of my local contact point.
The KK Pharmacy.
I step through the threshold of the shop, leaving my locked bag safely near the entrance. Near the front glass counter, a few regular customers are quietly clearing their bills, while a middle-aged man sits behind a flickering laptop screen near the back shelves, his eyes sharp and calculating.
He notices my frame, his voice dropping into a hospitable local cadence. “Haan ji, madam, kya chahiye aapko?”
["Yes, madam, what do you need?"]
I approach the desk, keeping the black dupatta held firmly over my nose and mouth. Without a word, I pull out my phone and slide the screen forward, showing him a specific, high-resolution picture of a medical prescription saved on my secure drive.
The man’s posture immediately straightens. He offers a tight nod, gesturing toward the back door. “Andar aao.”
["Come inside."]
I follow him through the narrow storage corridor and down a flight of concrete stairs into a quiet, heavily fortified basement. The room is lined with wooden crates and filing cabinets. He turns to face me, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Naam?”
["Name?"]
“Sanaz.”
“Naam.” he repeats, his tone turning rigid.
“Sanaz Siddiqui. Lahore, Pakistan.”
A flicker of validation clears his eyes. Khalid nods, stepping over to a rusted iron safe in the corner and pulling out a thick, official stack of papers along with a heavy bundle of local Pakistani currency from the drawer.
“Aapka admission Jinnah Sindh University mein kara diya gaya hai. Paas hi ke ek PG mein aapka ghar hoga,” he announces flatly, transferring the documents and the cash directly into my hands. “Main aapse har hafte ek din ke liye milne aata rahunga. Aapka chacha bankar. Kya bulaogi mujhe?”
["Your admission has been secured at Jinnah Sindh University. Your accommodation will be at a nearby PG. I will keep coming to meet you once every week. As your uncle. What will you call me?"]
I look at the official university enrollment forms bearing my forged square photograph, my jaw setting beneath the veil. “Chacha jaan.”
["Uncle dear."]
A faint, proud smile finally breaks through Khalid’s stern expression, and he offers a reassuring pat on my arm. “Chalo. Safar bohot lamba hai.”
["Come on. The journey is very long."]
“Five star ratings zarur dijiyega, madam,” Khalid says flatly as we step back out into the main pharmacy storefront, his voice instantly sliding back into the loud, welcoming cadence of a regular merchant for the sake of the lingering customers.
["Please make sure to give a five-star rating, madam."]
I offer a small, polite nod beneath my dupatta. The slither has officially begun.
Lyari General Hospital, Karachi — 2009.
The clatter of the auto-rickshaw vibrates through my spine as it makes a sharp, swaying turn into the entryway of Lyari General Hospital. It’s the final week of my clinical internship here.
Just as my auto pulls up to the concrete curb, a heavy, dust-splattered military-grade jeep aggressively cuts through the traffic, its massive tires screeching as it turns toward the private rear lot.
My eyes instantly narrow through the window. That vehicle. I pay the driver, quickly stepping onto the crowded veranda to escape the blistering midday heat.
As I push through the heavy double doors of the general ward, an older, senior nurse carrying a stack of patient charts immediately spots my frame and flags me down.
“Arey Sanaz, tum?” she addresses me, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “Hamza dhundh raha tha tumhe.”
["Oh Sanaz, you're here? Hamza was looking for you."]
A cold flicker runs through my chest, pulling my white lab coat over my shoulders as I slide into my small examination cubicle. “Achcha, mujhe kyun?”
["Oh, why me?"]
“Ab toh yeh baat Hamza khud hi jaane,” she says with a knowing, slightly amused shake of her head. “Waise maine use bata diya tum shayad kisi aur hospital mein ho. Mujhe laga woh tumhara akhri din tha yahan.”
["Well, only Hamza would know that. Anyway, I told him you might be at a different hospital. I thought it was your last day here."]
I offer her a tight, grateful smile as I reach for my stethoscope. “Sahi kiya.”
["You did the right thing."]
The second she leaves the cubicle, I let out a long, silent breath, organizing the medical files on my desk.
I genuinely hope that man doesn't try to track me down through the local registers. The sheer weight of the way he was staring at me through his blood-matted eyelashes last week—leaning his heavy forehead completely into my hands while I pulled the sutures through his skin—had me intensely irritated.
He is a volatile, dangerous underworld variable, and the last thing my deep-cover mission needs is an eccentric Lyari rebel disrupting me.
National Stadium, Karachi — 2011.
A low-frequency hum vibrates through the encrypted phone in my palm. I slide the screen open, the text glowing against the dim shadows of the lower stands.
[ENCRYPTED CHANNEL — ROUTE 07]
MS: Proud of you, Sanaz.
SS: Thank you.
AS: Good luck with the next phase.
SS: Thank you.
I immediately lock the device, slipping it deep into the interior pocket of my black graduation gown.
I look out across the massive stadium.
The sweeping concrete tiers are almost completely deserted now, the thousands of vibrant, cheering families having already dissolved into the Karachi streets. Only a few scattered maintenance workers remain on the grass, slowly clearing the leftover confetti and barricades.
I stand alone near the railing, the stiff black mortarboard hat resting heavy against my hair. This is my triumph, and there isn't a single soul in this country who can know my real name to celebrate it.
“Maaf karna, beti, kaam ke wajah se late hogaya.”
["Forgive me, daughter, I got late because of work."]
I turn to see Khalid Kashmiri entering the section, his posture casual, perfectly mimicking the hurried, apologetic gait of a doting local relative.
I offer a small, reassuring shake of my head, adjusting the tassel on my black hat. “Koi baat nahi.”
["It doesn't matter."]
He steps into my space, pulling me into a firm, warm embrace, and I hold onto his shoulder for a beat longer than necessary. In this entire hostile province, he is the only fragile anchor I have to the basement where my sacrifice began.
Releasing the hug, he guides me quietly back down the concrete steps toward his sedan idling in the VIP lot. As we reach the vehicle, he reaches into the back seat and lifts a massive, beautifully wrapped cardboard box, placing the heavy weight directly into my arms.
I raise my eyebrows, balancing the parcel against my chest. “Isme kya hai?”
["What is in this?"]
Khalid offers a slow, affectionate smile, “Taufa.”
["A gift."]
I slice through the heavy adhesive tape, flipping the large cardboard flaps open. Nestled perfectly inside custom-molded velvet slots is a chillingly beautiful, state-of-the-art arsenal disguised as a professional milestone.
A high-end Littmann electronic stethoscope gleaming in polished matte-black and surgical silver. A heavy titanium surgical tool set containing high-yield scalpels and retractors.
And resting right beside the steel, is a compact, beautifully weighted silver handgun. Tucked into the interior lid are the official Pakistani administrative permits, completely forged and stamped under the local grid.
For "Defense," the fine print reads.
I can’t help but let out a genuine chuckle, my fingers lightly tracing the cool metal frame of the weapon. “Shukriya, chacha jaan. Mujhe bohot pasand aaya.”
["Thank you, Uncle dear. I liked it very much."]
Khalid steps smoothly into the driver's seat, closing his door as the engine rumbles to life.
“Highly placed medical professionals go anywhere they want without suspicion,” he states, his voice a low that cuts right through the low hum of the air conditioner. “Militant safehouses, high-ranking bureaucratic lounges, underworld grids... everyone gets sick. Everyone needs a doctor they can buy. You are about to become that doctor.”
I offer a slow nod.
As the dark Karachi streets roll past the tinted windows, I pack the titanium toolset and the medical licenses back into the custom casing. But I leave the silver firearm in my lap.
I pull out my smartphone, angling the front-facing camera upward into the dim starlight of the cabin.
Holding the sleek silver frame up to my face, I press my lips into a playful, mocking pout directly against the cold mouth of the barrel, winking one dark eye at the lens before snapping the shutter.
South City Hospital, Clifton, Karachi — 2011.
The South City Hospital is an absolute world away from the chaotic, blood-slicked triage rooms of other hospitals. The air conditioning hums at a freezing frequency, the floors are polished to a mirror-like sheen, and the elite clientele ensures my civilian cover remains completely flawless.
For the past few months, the routine has been smooth. I’ve shifted my base of operations into Khalid uncle’s old residential house, the proximity drastically cuts down my commute and secures my communications grid.
I’ve treated a handful of high-profile bureaucrats and corporate elites already, but establishing deep, operational proximity to them is proving much harder than the handlers back in Delhi anticipated. They enter my ward as patients, wrap themselves in strict confidentiality, and leave the second their prescriptions are signed.
I am quietly charting files in the cool sanctuary of the examination room when the heavy door swings open. Two men stride into the private ward. I immediately straighten my posture, sliding my new black-and-silver stethoscope around my neck as I rise to meet them.
“Khushamdid, kya takleef hai aapko?” I address them. ["Welcome, what seems to be the trouble?"]
“Ji mujhe nahi, inhe,” the man in front replies anxiously, his arms carefully shifting to reveal a tiny, fragile girl child cradled against his shoulder. “Hum safar kar rahe the aur inhe bohot zyada ultiyan hone lagi.”
["Well, not to me, to her. We were traveling and she started vomiting severely."]
I offer a reassuring nod, my pen immediately scratching against the medical intake chart to document the onset of symptoms. Stepping forward, I gently guide the weak, lethargic child onto the examination bed.
I press the cold silver diaphragm of the stethoscope against her tiny chest, carefully monitoring the rapid, shallow cadence of her heartbeat and the subtle rattle in her breathing.
As I adjust her posture, I note the distinct, upward slant of her eyes, the low-set ears, and the characteristically small, shortened neck.
“Down syndrome hai inhe?” I question softly, keeping my eyes on the guardian.
["Does she have Down syndrome?"]
The man nods quickly, his face tight with exhaustion and worry.
The second man, shifting uncomfortably behind his thick wire-rimmed glasses, speaks up. “Doctor, aap jald hi dawai likh dijiye. Humein kahin zaruri taur par jaana hai.”
["Doctor, please write the medicine quickly. We have to go somewhere urgently."]
I slowly lower my pen, my eyes narrowing. “Severe dehydration in Down syndrome patients can trigger rapid electrolyte collapse. If you put her back in a moving vehicle right now, her throat will constrict from the stress. She needs an immediate intravenous line and at least four hours of strict clinical observation.”
The man in glasses instantly closes his mouth, his defensive posture fracturing.
Beside the bed, the man holding the child offers a slow, somber nod of compliance. He reaches up, removing his dark black aviator shades to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes.
He leans slightly toward his companion, his voice a whisper.
“Mir, tu Bade Sahab se mil. Main shaam tak aunga.”
["Mir, you go meet the Big Boss. I will come by evening."]
Mir offers a tight nod and immediately slips out of the private ward, his boots clicking rapidly down the polished corridor.
I turn back, my pen poised over the crisp white paper as I continue digging into their profile. “Naam?”
["Name?"]
“Safeena Iqbal.”
“Umar?”
["Age?"]
“Teen.”
["Three."]
“Aap itni chhoti bachchi ko apne saath kyun le jaa rahe the?” I question smoothly, as I check the child's pulse once more. “Ghar par koi khayal rakhne wala nahi hai?”
["Why were you taking such a small child with you? Is there no one at home to take care of her?"]
He shakes his head, a heavy, exhausted shadow falling over his harsh features. “Aaya hai, lekin aaj woh nahi aa paayi.”
["There is a nanny, but she couldn't come today."]
“Aur ammi?” I ask casually. ["And her mother?"]
“Nahi hai.”
["She isn't there."]
His words makes my pen stop completely against the paper. The tip leaves a small, dark ink bleeding spot on the white page. I lift my head, staring directly into his unblinking gaze for one long, silent second.
I don't say a single word. I simply drop my eyes back to the sheet. “Guardians name.”
The man adjusts the sleeping girl against his chest.
“Major Humaid Iqbal.”
What.
Is he the…
My fingers tighten around the barrel of the pen. I force a slow, composed nod. “Woh aapke saath kon the?” I ask. “Kaafi jaldi mein lag rahe the. Unhe samajhna chahiye aapki haalat.”
["Who was that with you? He seemed to be in a big hurry. He should understand your situation."]
Major Iqbal lets out an exhale, his broad shoulders shifting under his jacket, “Woh aise hi hain. Sajid Mir, jaanti hogi?”
["He's just like that. Sajid Mir, you must know him?"]
Yes. Every single operative across the border knows that name. It is the same Major Iqbal of ISI. The high-ranking military counter-intelligence architect whose signatures and shadow logistics sit on the absolute highest priority files in the New Delhi basement.
The man behind the orchestration of the 26/11 attacks. And his closest associate, the man who just walked out of my clinic with a pair of glasses, is the primary operational link to the entire regional militant network.
“Kaafi suna hai aapke baare mein,” I murmur softly, “Aapki marzi ke bagair Pakistan ka ek patta bhi nahi hil sakta.”
["I have heard a lot about you. Without your permission, not even a single leaf can move in Pakistan."]
Iqbal simply nods, his expression remaining entirely flat, and exhausted. He doesn't preen under the flattery. He doesn't care about the heavy honorifics or the terrifying weight of his own shadow legacy anymore; right now, he is just a man watching the, slow rise and fall of his daughter's chest.
“Khair...” I whisper.
I tear the official prescription sheet from the pad and hand the paper directly across the space into his calloused palm. “Ise third floor waale counter par dikhayega. Wahan par aapko saare medicines mil jayengi. Aur dhyaan rahe, bachchi ka rest karna zaruri hai.”
["Anyway... Show this at the third-floor counter. You will get all the medicines there. And remember, it's critical for the child to rest."]
Our fingers briefly brush against the paper—the R&AW phantom and the ISI mastermind, completely bound together by a medical script.
For an entire week, Major Iqbal subtly disrupts his high-ranking military schedule, personally visiting my private Clifton ward every single afternoon to analyze the child's fluctuating lab sheets and electrolyte reports.
But my real victory is engineered through the child. Safeena grows intensely attached to my presence. She learns to associate the sharp, stinging bite of the intravenous injections with the immediate, sweet reward that follows, the premium chocolates I always keep hidden in my lab coat pocket specifically for her.
Within a month, the weekly hospital checkups naturally transition into a highly exclusive, private domestic arrangement. I begin visiting Major Iqbal's house twice a month for routine checkups.
During my second home visit, I am sitting on the carpeted floor of the inner sunroom, playfully snatching a chocolate bar out of Safeena's tiny hands while she giggles frantically, trying to climb over my knees to reclaim it.
“Bade Sahab ke private doctor ko kisine khatam kar diya,” Khanani rasps out, “Ab ek kamyab doctor dhundhna mushkil hai.”
["Someone has assassinated the Big Boss's private doctor. Finding a competent, trustworthy doctor now is going to be incredibly difficult."]
“Ek suggestion hai mere paas.”
["I have a suggestion."]
“Kaun?”
“Humsheera.”
["Sister."]
I smoothly rise from the carpet, gently sliding the chocolate back into Safeena’s hands to quiet her. I smooth down the front of my kurti, and lean against the framework of the study door with a warm innocent smile.
“Kya hua, Iqbal bhai?”
["What happened, Brother Iqbal?"]
“Inse milo, yeh hain Javed Khanani.”
[Meet him, he's Javed Khanani.]
I lift my hands with elegant docility, offering a soft gesture of reverence. “Salam.”
“Sanaz, tumhare liye ek kaafi badhiya mauka hai apna hunar dikhane ka,” Iqbal continues smoothly, his large hand lightly patting the adjacent sofa cushion to invite me into the inner circle.
["Sanaz, there is a very great opportunity for you to showcase your skill."]
I step forward, as I choose to sit directly opposite the financial mastermind. “Oh?”
“Agar tum chaho toh tumhe haspatal ke lambe kaam se nikala jaa sakta hai. Aur dugna paise bhi milenge,” Khanani speaks up.
["If you wish, you can be removed from the long hours of hospital work. And you will receive double the pay."]
I let out a soft, breathy laugh, “Mazak kar rahe hain aap.”
["You must be joking."]
Iqbal slowly shakes his head, “Mazak karna bhool gaya hoon. I'm serious. Aur tumhari fikr bhi karta hoon.”
["I have forgotten how to joke. I'm serious. And I care about your well-being too."]
My playful demeanor drops instantly.
“Humein ek achche doctor ki talash hai. Puri tarah se private aur secure. Lekin fikr matt karo, aapki security ka pura dhyaan rakha jayega.”
["We are in search of a good doctor. Completely private and secure. But do not worry, your security will be fully taken care of."]
I steady the rhythm of my pulse, keeping my hands perfectly still in my lap as I look him dead in the eyes, “Achcha... Toh kaun hai mere client?”
["I see... So who is my client?"]
“Chalo, tumhe milwata hoon,” Major Iqbal commands flatly, turning on his heel to guide me toward the exit.
["Come, let me introduce you."]
“Oye bhosdike Major, kahan marne jaa raha hai?”
[“Hey idiot Major, where are you going to die?”]
The coarse roar of his father’s voice suddenly erupts. Iqbal doesn't even flinch. His posture remains completely rigid, paying absolutely zero attention to the old man's vulgar outburst as he keeps his focus pinned to the mission grid. “Safia.”
With a quick, silent nod, the nanny immediately steps out of the shadow corridor, gently taking a now-sleeping Safeena from his arms to carry her off to the nursery.
The ride back to Clifton is a tense blur.
White House 13.
We step through the heavy double oak doors. Suspended directly above the grand marble foyer is a massive, crystal-cut chandelier, easily as large and heavy as a structural car, casting a brilliant, cold glare over the polished floors.
Before I am allowed to take a single step toward the interior parlor, a deadpan security unit forces me through an invasive physical checkup, testing every seam of my clothes and checking my bag before finally stepping back to let me pass.
We settle onto the plush, expensive leather sofas in the main receiving lounge.
Thud... Thud... Thud.
My eyes dart upward, tracking a thick figure slowly descending the marble steps. His movements carry a heavy age, yet his presence radiates a terrifying gravity.
A thick, burning cigar rests between his knuckles, a dense stream of grey smoke obscuring his features, a stark, iconic mustache cutting across his severe jawline.
Major Iqbal and Khanani instantly stand up, their postures shifting into a deferential code of respect. I am the last one to rise from the leather, the air completely dying inside my throat as I offer a low, barely audible whisper.
“Assalam walaikum...”
“Dawood.” The man himself speaks.
“Ibrahim.” Iqbal adds seamlessly.
“Kaskar...” I finish the line beneath my breath.
The trinity is complete. I am standing inside the inner sanctum of the D-Company, looking directly at the face of the most wanted ghost on the planet.
Major Iqbal glances sideways at my pale expression, offering a low, entirely serious reassurance. “Ghabrao matt, kaafi achche insaan hain.”
["Don't be scared, he's a very good human being."]
I force a stiff, compliant swallow down my dry throat, my fingers tightening against the hidden strap of my bag as I stare into the golden-rimmed glare of the devil’s eyes.
Oh, really?
“Bhai, yeh hai Sanaz. Kaafi achchi doctor hai. Aap aankh band karke bharosa kar sakte hain,” Major Iqbal’s voice carries an uncharacteristic warmth
["Brother, this is Sanaz. She's a very good doctor. You can trust her with your eyes closed."]
A silent, uniform-clad staff member glides into the room, quietly placing a silver tray loaded with steaming tea and porcelain saucers onto the mahogany table before stepping back into the shadows.
Dawood slowly tilts his heavy head, his dark sunglasses catching the sharp, cold refraction of the car-sized chandelier hanging above us. His gaze drills directly into my profile, heavy with decades of unadulterated suspicion. “Kya qualifications hai aapki?”
["What are your qualifications?"]
I don't shift my weight. “Jinnah Sindh Medical University se MBBS kiya hai, Bhai. Gold medalist hoon clinical pathology mein,” I reply smoothly, looking straight through his tinted lenses. “Pre-graduation training Lyari General Hospital, Karachi government hospitals aur bhi bohot jagahon se kiya hai. Post-graduation training South City Hospital se chal rahi hai, and I specialize in advanced critical care and internal medicine.”
["I did my MBBS from Jinnah Sindh Medical University, Brother. I'm a gold medalist in clinical pathology. My pre-graduation training was at Lyari General Hospital, Karachi government hospitals, and several other places. My post-graduation training is ongoing at South City Hospital, and I specialize in advanced critical care and internal medicine."]
The old monster offers a slow nod. From this close proximity, I note the coarse, brittle streaks of silver and white bleeding through his dark hair, and the distinct tremors pulsing through his fingers as they rest near his cigar.
He isn't that old to be this physically compromised. There is a deep rot eating at him from the inside out.
“Safeena ko sirf ek hafte mein theek kar diya. Kaafi achche se dekhbhal karti hai,” Major Iqbal chimes in. ["She cured Safeena in just one week. She takes care of things very well."]
Dawood’s jaw sets under his mustache. “Kahan rehti ho?”
["Where do you live?"]
“Ji South Karachi. Chacha ke saath.”
["South Karachi. With my uncle."]
“Khandan mein aur koi nahi?”
["No one else in the family?"]
“Hai. Ammi Abbu Dubai mein rehte hain,” I weave the fabrication flawlessly, “Mujhe marizon ki seva karna achcha lagta hai, isilye yahan reh gayi.”
["There are. My mother and father live in Dubai. I just love serving patients, that's why I stayed behind here."]
He tilts his head a fraction lower, “Yeh kaam toh aap Dubai mein bhi kar sakti thi?”
["You could have done this work in Dubai as well?"]
I offer a measured nod. “Haan. Lekin main iss mitti ki shirkat hoon. Pakistan ki bhalai ke liye mujhe jo bhi karna pade, mujhe manzur hai.”
["Yes. But I am a partner to this soil. Whatever I have to do for the sake of Pakistan, I accept it."]
Dawood's mouth loosen, a satisfied smile touches his peeling lips.
Got him.
“Kaafi wafadar ho,” Dawood replies, his voice dragging heavily through the dense cloud of cigar smoke. “Kya aisi hi wafadari humare saath nibha sakti ho?”
["You are quite loyal. Can you maintain this same loyalty with us?"]
“Beshak,” I reply instantly, without a single millisecond of hesitation. ["Of course."]
“Theek hai fir. Apni khwahishen zahir karo,” the old monster commands, leaning back into his leather throne as his trembling, spotted fingers tap against the armrest.
“Meeting ke liye aapko har waqt taiyyar rehna padega. Aap mere cardiologists aur neurologists ke under kaam karengi. Lekin saari baatein personal rahengi. Badle mein aapko clifton mein rehne ke liye ghar aur ek manpasand car di jayegi. Aur jo bhi aap chahen.”
["Fine then. State your desires. You will have to be ready for meetings at any time. You will work under my cardiologists and neurologists. But everything discussed will remain strictly confidential. In return, you will be given a house to live in Clifton, a car of your choice, and whatever else you want."]
I offer a slow nod. “Manzoor hai. Mujhe Bentley bohot pasand hai. I can't wait to take care of you, Bade Sahab.”
["I accept. I like Bentleys very much. I can't wait to take care of you, Big Boss."]
A dry, genuinely amused chuckle escapes past his frosted mustache. Dawood dips his burning cigarette into the crystal ashtray, “Honest girl. I like it. Aajiz hone ka natak nahi karti.”
["Honest girl. I like it. She doesn't put on a drama of being humble."]
The official non-disclosure medical contracts are finalized, assigning me to a strict twice-a-week rotation of White House 13, supplemented by sporadic consultations at South City Hospital.
The rewards of the deception are immense.
On the coast of Clifton, a luxury stone house overlooking the sea is quietly being cleared and furnished with premium interior stock to host my new base of operations.
More importantly, Dawood personally hands me the unilateral administrative license to manage the exclusive import of his foreign medicines.
I am in the middle of sorting through my room at the old safehouse, packing the final remnants of my civilian uniform to officially relocate to the Clifton estate, when a familiar shadow breaks the light.
“Kuch bhul toh nahi rahi?” Khalid uncle’s voice interrupts the silence of the bedroom. [“Are you forgetting something?”]
I turn around to find him holding a large, soft tiger plushie—the exact one he had tracked down and bought for me months ago when I had broken character for a single fraction of a second and admitted how desperately I missed the small comforts of my real home in India.
A soft, genuine smile finally breaks across my face, and I step forward, taking the massive plushie into my arms and crushing it against my chest. “Ise kaise bhul sakti hoon, yeh toh meri dost hai.”
["How can I forget this? She is my friend."]
Khalid lets out an affectionate chuckle, leaning down to help me press the remaining medical files into the heavy travel bags. “Apna aur apne dost ka dhyaan rakhna. Call ya fir message karte rehna. Agli baar Dawood se kab mil rahi ho?”
["Take care of yourself and your friend. Keep calling or messaging. When are you meeting Dawood next?"]
“Agle hafte,” I reply flatly, “Chacha... Mujhe dimethylmercury chahiye.”
["Next week. Uncle... I need dimethylmercury."]
Khalid’s posture instantly stiffens. He stops short, straightening his spine as he slowly sits down on the edge of the mattress, “Woh toh pehle se hi bohot bimaar hai na?”
["He's already very sick, isn't he?"]
I step over, settling onto the mattress directly beside him, “Hai. Maine uske bohot purane medical records check kiye. Kuch 80s-90s ke time ke. Reports mein thallium ke traces the.”
["He is. I checked his very old medical records. Somewhere from the 80s-90s era. There were traces of thallium in the reports."]
Khalid raises a sharp, stunned eyebrow, “Kisi first-generation spy ka kaam hai.”
["It's the work of a first-generation spy."]
I offer a solemn nod of validation. “Haan. Uske baad Dawood ne security aur bhi tight kardi hai. Lekin symptoms abhi bhi dikhte hain, jaise uske haath kaapte hain, jaise uski aankein andar dhas chuki hai.”
["Yes. Dawood tightened security significantly after that. But the symptoms are still visible, like how his hands shake, how his eyes have sunken inside."]
“Magar Sanaz,” Khalid warns, reaching out to firmly grab my arm, his eyes heavy with a rare terror for my safety. “Dimethylmercury is extremely poisonous. Tumhare jaan ka bhi khatra hai.”
["But Sanaz. Dimethylmercury is extremely poisonous. Your own life is in danger."]
I look past his shoulder, tracking the dark, shifting shadows of the Karachi skyline through the windowpane, “Chinta matt kijiye.”
["Don't worry."]
Inside the cold shadows of the old stone Victorian house, I stand over the workbench, wearing two thick layers of specialized protective gloves, my fingers vibrating with an involuntary tremor.
The danger in the room is invisible and absolute. Sitting in the center of the clean surface is a tiny, unmarked glass vial containing the altered dimethylmercury.
Directly beside it rests a single, unsealed softgel medical capsule, the exact daily maintenance pill I had meticulously slipped out of Dawood's mansion during my last rotation.
I uncushion the micro-syringe. I draw up one single, microscopic droplet of the translucent toxin. The needle tip punctures the soft outer layer of the gel capsule with a faint click, and I depress the plunger, injecting the compound directly into the core before sealing the membrane.
I slide the lethal capsule back into the primary prescription bottle, mixing it seamlessly among the identical ordinary pills. I let out a long, shuddering sigh, clearing the chemical apparatus from the table, stripping off the protective layers, and tearing the respirator mask from my face.
The execution is loaded.
Dawood Ibrahim lies propped up against the expensive linen pillows of his bed, the morning starlight filtering through the heavy drapes.
I arrange the imported medicine bottles across the silver bedside tray, positioning the modified container right at the front. I step toward the edge of the mattress, gently sliding the fabric sleeve of his gown upward to wrap the blood-pressure cuff around his thick arm.
“Yeh lijiye, sab ek saath lena hai,” I instruct softly
["Here, take this, you have to take them all together."]
The old monster lifts the glass with his trembling, spotted fingers, tilting his head back to swallow the lethal pill without a single fraction of suspicion.
He sets the crystal back down, his dark, heavy eyelids fluttering shut as a rare shadow of absolute relief settles over his weathered features.
“Kaafi achcha mehsus hota hai jab tum aati ho. Iqbal sahi kehta tha,” he murmurs into the quiet room, his voice carrying the raspy exhaustion of a dying empire.
He settles his head back into the pillows, “Aankh band karke bharosa kar sakta HOON AAP PAR.”
["I feel quite good when you come. Iqbal was right... I can trust you with my eyes closed."]
Masterlist.
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And the Prey and the Hunter Both Forgot Who Was Who
"KHANANI BHAI, LIGHTER pass karna."
["Khanani brother, pass the lighter."]
My voice is flat over the roar of the Karachi airport arrivals terminal.
I reach into my vest pocket, pulling out a thick, premium cigar and clipping the end. Khanani steps into my space, the sharp click of his metal lighter sparking a bright amber flame against the dawn.
I lean forward, taking a long drag until the tip glows a fierce crimson.
My dark sunglasses rest lazily on the bridge of my nose. Beside me, Amarjit stands in silence. To the passing crowds flowing out of the terminal doors, we look like nothing more than elite, high-society businessmen waiting for a corporate flight.
In reality, Dawood has sent word of a high-value international dealer landing today.
My eyes lazily trace the sea of faces until they suddenly lock onto a tall, broad-shouldered man cutting through the crowd. He wears a heavy black leather jacket over a crisp white t-shirt, a single sling bag draped across his chest.
His hair is short, his facial hair groomed.
His face...
The air leaves my lungs.
Before my trained instincts can stop me, my hand flies up, yanking the dark sunglasses straight off my eyes. The half-smoked premium cigar slips clean through my numb fingers, tumbling against the hard concrete of the asphalt below, sparks scattering across my boots.
I don't even look down.
A wave of memories violently floods my brain, dragging me straight back to the blood-soaked dirt of Punjab. The bone-crushing hugs. The taste of revenge. The cold, damp concrete of the jail cells. The sacred, unbreakable promises whispered in the dark when we had nothing but our names.
My heart skips a few violent beats against my ribs.
Compose yourself.
I force my features back into a mask of unbothered stone, sliding the dark sunglasses back over my eyes to hide the sudden, dangerous fire in my gaze. I take three heavy steps forward, breaking away from the SUV to meet the group.
There are three other men walking with him, their heads wrapped in traditional turbans. I step into their circle, extending a firm hand to shake theirs one by one as they introduce themselves in heavy, thick accents. I don't pay attention to a single syllable of their names. My internal processor is entirely focused on the leather jacket standing a foot away.
Finally, one of the older men gestures toward the tall figure, offering a warm smile. "Aur yeh hai Gurbaaz Singh. Pyaar se inhe sab Pinda bulate hain."
["And this is Gurbaaz Singh. Everyone affectionately calls him Pinda."]
A slow smile pulls at the corner of my mouth, my jaw tightening until the bone aches under my beard as I reach out, my hand firmly gripping his in an ironclad handshake.
I know. I have known that name ever since I learned the alphabets.
The heavy doors of the SUV thud shut, sealing the four of us inside the plush, air-conditioned cabin as the convoy rolls out of the airport grid.
Rizwan takes the wheel, his eyes alert in the rearview mirror, while Khanani occupies the front passenger seat. In the back, Gurbaaz-Pinda-and I sit side-by-side.
I keep my gaze locked out the tinted window, deliberately refusing to turn my head toward him. I break the quiet with a casual question. "Waise kahan se ho Pinda sahab?"
["By the way, where are you from, Master Pinda?"]
Gurbaaz casually leans back into the leather upholstery, his shoulders loose. "Pathankot jaante ho paaji?"
["Do you know Pathankot, brother?"]
I offer nothing more than a low hum in response.
Pathankot. The name echoes like a gunshot in the caverns of my memory. That soil was once my home.
Khanani clears his throat from the front seat, turning around to face the back. "Saman ki list hai?"
["Do you have the list of goods?"]
Gurbaaz nods smoothly, reaching into his leather jacket to pull out a folded piece of paper, handing it over. Khanani snaps it open, his eyes scanning the handwritten lines before a dry, incredulous chuckle escapes his lips. "Sau kilo feem, nabbe kilo khargosh, eksau biss kilo mandakini... Pura Hindustan nashedi banana hai kya?"
["One hundred kilos of opium, ninety kilos of rabbit, one hundred and twenty kilos of mandakini... Do you plan to turn the whole of India into drug addicts?"]
Gurbaaz and Khanani trade a low chuckle. I keep my face completely straight, my jaw locked behind my sunglasses.
Twenty minutes later, the convoy pulls up near Major Iqbal's territory, idling right outside Zahid's shop-the exact location Iqbal had pointed out to me on the day I had explicitly planned my meeting with Sanaz.
We all exit the vehicles, filing through the non-descript storefront and entering the back rooms. Inside, the space opens up into a massive, heavily secured warehouse clearing.
Major Iqbal is already waiting for us in the center of the room. He steps forward with a booming laugh, enveloping me in a heavy hug before pivoting to warmly welcome Gurbaaz and his turbaned companions.
The security detail and the other travelers immediately scatter around, pulling up heavy wooden chairs. Suddenly, the distinct click of footsteps echoes from the back corridor.
Iqbal lifts a hand, pointing directly behind my shoulder with a sharp, knowing smile. "Hamza inse milo, yeh hai Zahid Akhund."
["Hamza meet him, this is Zahid Akhund."]
I pivot slowly. Standing before me is a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses and a traditional prayer cap perched on his head. He looks like an ordinary, meek shopkeeper.
"Sachcha Pakistani," Iqbal adds, his tone dripping with dark pride. "Waise miya pehle Zahoor Mistry ke naam se mashhur the."
["A true Pakistani. By the way, the gentleman was previously famous by the name of Zahoor Mistry."]
The name drops into the room like a live grenade. Zahoor Mistry. The operative from the 1999 Kandahar IC-814 hijacking.
Zahid offers a greasy smile, extending his right hand toward me to seal the alliance.
I don't move a muscle.
Sensing the rejection, Zahid quickly lets out a forced, high-pitched laugh, pulling his hand back and smoothing down his vest to salvage his dignity. "Aap hi ki dukan hai Iqbal bhai," he mutters quickly, deflecting the tension as he slides into a nearby chair.
["This shop belongs entirely to you, Brother Iqbal."]
I walk over to the main table, dropping heavily into the seat directly opposite Gurbaaz. I lean back, casually lifting one leg to rest my ankle over my other knee.
"Shuru karte hain."
["Let's begin."]
A large, rectangular platter is placed directly in front of Gurbaaz. Divided into neat, metallic sections, it looks less like a smuggling evaluation and more like a high-end tasting menu, except instead of appetizers, it is filled with small plastic pouches of white substance, sterile syringes, and liquid vials.
Looking at the spread, I can already feel a violent vein throbbing at my temple. I am genuinely losing my mind.
Gurbaaz leans over the plate with an infuriatingly casual focus. He begins evaluating the inventory one by one of a seasoned culinary critic-dabbling a pinch of powder onto his lower lip, rubbing it against his gums, and sniffing a micro-dose straight through his nose to test the purity.
I sit dead still across the table.
"Hash - 90 kg..." [Hashish]
"Khargosh - 110 kg..." [Pure Cocaine]
"Chika Powder - 100 kg..." [Brown Sugar Heroin]
"Mandakini - 120 kg..." [Crystal Meth]
"Safeda - 100 kg..." [Amphetamines]
"Feem - 110 kg..." [Raw Opium]
"Cham Cham - 120 kg..." [MDMA / Ecstasy]
"Dubai Dashing - 110 kg..." [Ketamine Blend]
"Lollipop - 100 kg." [Narcotic Lozenges]
This entire display is giving me literal cancer. What the hell is this? Some kind of a five-star international buffet?
"Pure sola crore," Khanani concludes, tapping the ledger with a heavy finger, a greedy gleam in his eye. "Hindustan mein kamsekam yeh eksau bees crore ka bikega."
["Total sixteen crore. In India, this will sell for at least one hundred and twenty crore."]
One of Gurbaaz's turbaned associates leans in, murmuring in a thick Punjabi accent. "Sola mein deal karein?"
["Shall we close the deal at sixteen?"]
Gurbaaz lets out a slow, satisfied breath, setting down a tiny glass vial of liquid meth back into its designated section. He wipes his fingers on a handkerchief, "Done karo ji."
["Lock it in, sir."]
"Itne saare... drugs, border ke uss paar jayega kaise?"
["So many... drugs, how will they cross the border?"]
The question leaves my mouth.
"Dada ka business hai, paaji. Isse pehle bhi bohot kuch kiya hai humne," Gurbaaz answers with an infuriatingly relaxed shrug, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. "Aur aap toh honge na deliver karne ke liye border tak."
["It's grandfather's business, brother. We've done a lot more than this before. And you'll be there to deliver it to the border, won't you?"]
I offer a tight nod.
Major Iqbal pushes his chair back, standing up with an authoritative scrape against the concrete. "Hamza, jitna bhi saaman hoga sab aaj raat tak Zahid ki dukan se border tak pohonch jana chahiye. SP rahega tere saath. Baaki aage ka Pinda sambhal lenge."
["Hamza, whatever goods there are, it all must reach the border from Zahid's shop by tonight. The SP will be with you. Pinda will handle the rest ahead."]
Before the meeting can dissolve, Gurbaaz steps into the clearing, spreading his arms wide with a loud, booming laugh. "Oo paaji, pehli baar Pakistan aaye hain. Kuch mahol toh bana do."
["Oh brother, it's my first time in Pakistan. At least set up some sort of vibe for us."]
Iqbal lets out a low, patronizing chuckle, shaking his head as he adjusts his collar. "Arey nahi miya. Aaj mujhe Muridke jaana hai, jumme ka din hai. Lekin Hamza hai yahan, woh karayega imtezaam."
["Oh no, sir. Today I have to go to Muridke, it's Friday. But Hamza is here, he will make the arrangements."]
The absolute hypocrisy of this man.
Major Iqbal exits through the back corridor, his security trail following him out. The warehouse grows quiet. Gurbaaz slowly turns his entire frame toward me.
I lift my head slightly, "Club shab hai yahan."
["There are clubs and stuff here."]
"Oo hum koi canedda se aaye hain?" Gurbaaz fires back instantly, a genuine smirk breaking through his groomed beard.
He steps closer, his voice dropping into a register that carries the heavy, unspoken weight of our shared promises. "Humein toh jamta hai yaaron ke sath desi tashan."
["Oh, what, do you think we've come from Canada? We only enjoy a raw, local showdown with brothers."]
A slow controlled smile pulls at the corner of my mouth and I nod.
ओ मेरा दिल था अकेला तूने खेल ऐसा खेला.
(Oh, my heart was lonely, until you played such a game.)
The dhol beats vibrates straight through the expanse of my garden, accompanied by a dozen rough, deep male voices singing in aggressive unison.
My house is completely overrun with guests. This evening is testing the absolute outer limits of my psychological sanity in every possible way.
तेरी याद में जागूं रात भर.
(In your memory, I stay awake all night long.)
"Oye SP mere veere!" Jameel shouts over the music, practically throwing his entire weight forward to envelop the police chief in a crushing hug. "Bilkul pathan lag raha hai. Mera matlab tu pathan hi hai, lekin yeh shawl-"
["Hey SP, my brother! You look like a true Pathan. I mean, you are a Pathan, but this shawl-"]
SP Chaudhary Aslam doesn't move a muscle. He sits rigidly on the plush center sofa, a sharp expression fixed on his face, his massive frame completely wrapped in a thick, traditional tribal shawl over a white kurta.
He looks less like a party guest and more like a landmine waiting for someone to step on him.
A few feet away, Khanani sits back, lazily blowing dense plumes of grey smoke into the air. My eyes filter past the crowd, scanning the area near the roaring fireplace.
There stands Gurbaaz.
The Indian dealer has a heavy glass of raw whisky clamped in his hand, his posture completely loose as he stands in front of one of my decorative marble animal statues.
He is actively talking to it.
He tilts his head, mutters something confidential into the carved stone ear, and then literally wraps his free arm around the marble in a deep, emotional embrace.
I let out a heavy, exhausted sigh.
बाज़ीगर ओ बाज़ीगर तू है बड़ा जादूगर.
(O player, O gambler, you are a great magician.)
I break away from the main seating area, walking over to the custom drinks stall setup in the corner where Alam bhai is preparing mixers for the crowd.
I lean against the counter, my voice dropping into an irritated mutter. "Jabse aaya hai nashe mein hai. Kya karun iska?"
["Ever since he arrived, he's been completely wasted. What do I do with him?"]
Alam bhai doesn't look up from his ice bucket, his movements calm. "Pehle dhyaan rakh apna."
["First, take care of yourself."]
"Kiska dhyaan rakhne ko bol rahe ho Alam miya?" Jameel suddenly pops out of absolute nowhere, his face beaming as he wedges himself between us at the bar.
["Whom are you telling him to take care of, Master Alam?"]
"Mehmano ki," Alam bhai replies smoothly without blinking. The two older men trade a low, knowing chuckle. Alam looks at Jameel, tilting a bottle. "Kya banaun aapke liye?"
["The guests. What shall I make for you?"]
"Ek kaam karo, cheeku shake bana do," Jameel orders. ["Do one thing, make me a sapodilla shake."]
Alam nods, reaching for the blender. I look between the two of them, the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly standing up. "Mujhe theek nahi lag raha. Kuch bura hone wala hai."
["I don't feel right about this. Something bad is about to happen."]
Both of them simultaneously pause. They turn their heads, looking at me for one heavy second before reaching out and casually patting my back in the dismissive, patronizing comfort of senior spies who have survived a hundred regular execution orders.
Senior spies. They've seen too much blood to care about a bad feeling.
"Aap log tamasha dekhte rehna," I mutter sarcastically, pulling away from the counter.
["You guys just keep watching the entertainment."]
I stride back through the smoke and the roaring chorus of Baazigar, dropping heavily onto the sofa right next to SP Chaudhary Aslam.
ओ तेरे प्यार पे क़ुरबान मेरा दिल मेरी जान.
(Oh, sacrificed upon your love is my heart and my soul.)
SP Chaudhary Aslam lifts his glass, taking a slow sip before his eyes shift sideways to look at me. His voice drops below the roar of the dhol. "Agle mahine Uzair Dubai se wapas aa raha hai. Meri Lyari task force ki convoy lene jayegi."
["Next month Uzair is returning from Dubai. My Lyari task force convoy will go to receive him."]
"SP tu jayega?" Jameel suddenly chimes in, dropping onto the edge of the sofa beside us, "Tera sar katane ka zabaan diya hai usne!"
["SP, will you go yourself? He has given his word to sever your head!"]
Aslam's face hardens, "Karachi jail tak pahunchane se pehle woh zinda nahi bachega. Mujhe Lyari mein aur keede nahi chahiye."
["He won't survive long enough to reach Karachi jail. I don't want any more pests in Lyari."]
"Aur tu," Aslam continues, turning his heavy gaze entirely onto my profile, his finger tapping the armrest for emphasis. "Teri gang mein abhi bhi Uzair ke deewane hain. Unhe sambhal."
["And you, there are still fanatics of Uzair in your gang. Control them."]
I offer a single nod.
A soft tap lands against my right shoulder.
I pivot around.
Sanaz.
तुझे लग जाये मेरी उमर.
(May you be blessed with my lifespan.)
The music blurs into static. I find myself standing up from the sofa before my brain can even process the administrative error. What the hell is she doing here?
"Tumhari toh aaj meeting thi na?" The questions leave my mouth as I step into her space, effectively blocking her from the scanning eyes of the room. "Aane waali thi bataya kyun nahi? Main Rizwan ko bhej deta, takleef ki gunjaish nahi hoti."
["Didn't you have a meeting today? If you were planning to come, why didn't you tell me? I would have sent Rizwan, there would be no room for discomfort."]
"Meeting thi par jaldi khatam hogayi." She looks up at me, looking breathtakingly gorgeous in a rich maroon sharara. The expensive fabric hugs the slender lines of her waist and ribs, "Isilye socha aapse mil loon."
["There was a meeting, but it ended early. That's why I thought I'd come meet you."]
My eyes track upward, noticing the heavy veil draped over her head, meticulously concealing the soft, dark waves of her hair from the gaze of my guests.
"Insab ki zarurat nahi," I murmur.
Without waiting for her permission, my hand reaches up, my fingers gently grasping the fabric and smoothly sliding the veil off her head. I lean in slightly, my thumb catching a stray, silk strand of her hair and tenderly tucking it behind her ear, exposing her flushed cheeks.
बाज़ीगर मैं बाज़ीगर दिलवालों का मैं दिलबर.
(I am the gambler, the player, the lover of the pure-hearted.)
"Baloch," To SP Chaudhary Aslam's disapproval, as he looks up from the sofa at the two of us. "Aise waqt mein ayyashi kam kar aur kaam par dhyaan de."
["Baloch, cut down on the debauchery at a time like this and focus on the work."]
This isn't ayyashi. This is ishq.
I need to take my Seherzadi away from them before the dark reality of tonight's border delivery bleeds into her space.
I walk her into the secondary living room, serving her a warm plate of biryani myself. I offer her a small, quiet promise to return the second I clear the floor, before turning on my heel.
Striding back toward the open garden patch, my eyes instantly resume focus on Alam bhai, Khanani, and the security detail.
"Paaji... bathroom kitthe hai?" Gurbaaz slurs heavily, stumbling out of the smoke, his bloodshot eyes unfocused as his glass of whiskey sloshes over the rim.
["Brother... where is the bathroom?"]
I lift a hand, pointing directly toward the arched entrance of the house. "Yahan se enter karein aur right jaayein."
["Enter from here and go right."]
"Aap bhi chalo... ghum jaana hai maine itne nashe mein," he mutters with a loose, sloppy smile, swaying on his feet.
["You come too... I'm going to get lost in this state of intoxication."]
I let out a low breath, pushing away from the railing to anchor him. We walk back into the main corridor. My eyes instantly lock onto the seating area, where Sanaz and Rizwan are standing together, deep in conversation.
The second her eyes lift and find mine across the room, I raise my eyebrows slightly, offering her a microscopic, reassuring smile. Good. She is eating, she is secure, and Rizwan is guarding.
We finally step inside the cold, marble-tiled bathroom, and I swing the heavy wooden door shut, clicking the lock into place.
The second the bolt slides home, the drunken, stumbling facade of the international dealer completely drops. Gurbaaz shrugs his heavy black leather jacket off his shoulders, tossing it onto the counter.
He pulls a thick rubber cord from his pocket, wrapping it tightly around his forearm and biting down on the end to engorge the vein. He picks up a loaded syringe, driving the needle into his flesh to inject the dose without blinking, before reaching into a concealed pouch to slide a sheet of smiley-face acid tabs directly under his tongue.
He looks up, his eyes meeting mine in the glass. "Ghar bada achcha banaya hai, paaji."
["You've built a very nice home, brother."]
"Shukriya yaar," I murmur smoothly. I reach up, unbuttoning and sliding off my long jacket, draping it over the rack to reveal the deep navy blue silk of my kurta underneath.
"Kabse ho idhar?" Gurbaaz questions. ["Since when have you been here?"]
I step up to the white sink, turning on the cold tap. I scoop the water into my palms and violently splash it against my face, trying to wash away the exhausting friction of the evening. "Yehi kuch do dhai saal."
["Just some two, two-and-a-half years."]
"Ghar ki yaad nahi aayi tujhe... Jassi?"
["Didn't you miss home... Jassi?"]
The cold water freezes on my skin.
Every single survival cell in my brain flatlines. Slowly, I straighten my spine, lifting my head to stare directly into the mirror.
Because of the architectural angle of the parallel glass panels on the wall, the reflection fractures; creating a terrifying, endless infinity of our faces stretching deep into the void. Hamza Ali Mazari. The King of Lyari. Jassi. The ghost from Punjab. And Gurbaaz Singh.
A lump forms in my throat. I look at the man who knows the exact layout of my grave, and I slowly gulp down the terror.
I turn my entire frame to face him. The water drops from my face drip slowly onto the collar of my navy blue kurta, cold against my throat.
"Oo bhonk la bhen da yaara!" Gurbaaz snaps, spinning around on his heel to confront me directly. "Maa di yaad nahi aayi? Jasleen?"
["Oh speak up, you absolute fool! Didn't you miss your mother? Or Jasleen?"]
"K-kaisi hai?" I question, instantly hating the vulnerable stutter that slips past my lips.
["H-how is she?"]
"Theek hai," Gurbaaz mutters darkly, breaking the look to snatch his leather jacket off the counter. He shrugging his broad shoulders back into the leather.
["She is fine."]
I swallow down the sudden, burning lump in my throat, "Tune... Shaadi ki usse?"
["Did you... marry her?"]
"Behen hai teri, teri baat pe chal rahi hai. Nahi ki shaadi," he lets out a rough, hollow huff of a chuckle, running a hand over his groomed beard. "Kehndi main ab uske layak nahi han."
["She is your sister, she is following your word. We didn't get married. She says I am no longer worthy of her."]
Thank God.
I had told her years ago, before everything went dark: Complete your studies no matter what. Only marry him if he leaves the chemical poison trade. Looking at the twitching, hollowed-out addict standing before me with acid sheets melting under his tongue, I am intensely glad she stayed away.
"Kya kar rahi hai?"
["What is she doing?"]
"Wahi patrakari. Dhundhi hai tujhe." Gurbaaz lets out a heavy beat of silence. "Kabse hai idhar?"
["The same journalism. She's searching for you. Since when have you been here?"]
I force my voice into a rough mask. "Das. Sukhwinder ke ladkon se bach kar bhaag nikla. Hindustan mein koi jagah nahi bachi thi toh border par kar liya."
["Ten. I managed to escape from Sukhwinder's boys. There was no place left for me in India, so I crossed the border."]
Gurbaaz lets out a venomous huff, his face twisting in bitter derision. "Mera fauji Jaskirat... Saala jhootha fauji Jaskirat!"
["My soldier Jaskirat... That damn lying soldier Jaskirat!"]
I gulp down the violent insult. I take a heavy step forward, as I look at the ruined state of his body. "Pinda... Tu attawadi ban gaya hai. Yeh kya haal bana rakha hai apna...?"
["Pinda... You've become a terrorist. What a state you've turned yourself into...?"]
"Oye, yeh drama mujhe matt dikha," he sneers, his posture coiling tight.
["Hey, don't show me this drama."]
I close the distance between us, as I lift my hands, my voice dropping into a raw whisper. "Bhai... Yeh deal chhor de, main tere haath jodta hoon. Lakhon maasoon jaane jayengi."
["Brother... leave this deal, I beg of you with folded hands. Lakhs of innocent lives will be lost."]
"Haan toh jaane de! Mujhe ki fark painda?" he bellows back. ["Then let them be lost! What difference does it make to me?"]
I take a deep breath, reaching out to firmly clamp my hand around his leather-clad arm, trying to anchor him back to the boys we used to be. "Apne desh ke liye soch."
["Think about your country."]
"Keda desh?" Gurbaaz violently jerks his arm out of my grip, his chest heaving, "Jinhone humare logo ko chaurasi mein maara? Jis desh ne humein kabhi apna manya hi nahi?"
["Which country? The one that slaughtered our people in 1984? The country that never accepted us as its own?"]
I slowly close my eyes. There is no political counter-argument for the blood spilled in our history.
"Bhai, meri baat sun..." I start softly, opening my eyes to reach for him again.
["Brother, listen to me..."]
"Main sirf apni kaam ka wafadar hoon," Gurbaaz snarls, pointing a shaking, aggressive finger directly at my chest as he backs toward the door. "Aur tu konsa Hindustan ke liye saga hai saale? Jo apni maa behen ko chhor kar bhaag aaya? Gaddaar sala!"
["I am loyal only to my work. And what kind of faithful son are you to India, brother-in-law? The one who abandoned his own mother and sister and ran away? You absolute traitor!"]
I lunge forward, my fingers desperately clamping around his wrist again. "Ruk, aaram se baat karte hain..."
["Stop, let's talk calmly..."]
But the touch triggers something volatile inside him. I watch his pupils blow wide, expanding until the deep black swallows the irises for one terrifying second before he blinks, his breath hitching into a ragged, uneven wheeze.
He stares at my face as if looking at a ghost. "Oye... Tera game ki hai, Jassi? ...hindustani agent hai tu?"
["Hey... What is your game, Jassi? ...Are you an Indian agent?"]
Fuck no. Not now. Not here.
I drop my voice into a sharp whisper, my eyes darting toward the heavy wooden door. "Dheere bol..."
["Speak softly..."]
He blinks again, his eyes stretching wider and wider as the paranoia takes complete control of his nervous system. He frantically twists his body, throwing his weight toward the brass handle to tear the door open, but I dive across the tile, slamming my forearm against the wood to block the exit.
He violently recoils from me, his spine hitting the marble counter. He is trembling. He is looking at me with an absolute, primitive fear. What the hell is going on? Are the drugs finally rotting his brain? Why is he suddenly so terrified of me? Is the acid short-circuiting his vision, hallucinating my face into some kind of a distorted, blood-thirsty monster?
[Destiny, you know what I want to be. Destiny, so please don't you lie to me.
Who am I supposed to be? Should I change what's close to me?
Or is it all destiny? Destiny, don't lie to me.]
"Bhai-" I start, extending a calm, open palm to de-escalate the panic.
Before the syllable can leave my mouth, Gurbaaz snaps. He blindly reaches sideways, ripping the heavy ceramic vanity lamp off the counter and swinging it straight at my face.
I barely have a fraction of a second to react. I violently throw my arms up, bracing my forearms to absorb the heavy impact. The ceramic shatters across my skin in a brutal explosion of shards and dust.
The force of the blow staggers me, and before I can regain my footing, his broad, leather-clad frame slams into my chest, caging me violently against the wall. Moving with an unhinged strength, he grabs the collar of my navy blue kurta and lifts my weight completely off the floor, launching me forward.
CRACK.
My head collides directly with the hard, thick edge of the glass slab.
A blinding, white-hot flash of static detonates behind my eyelids. The copper tang of fresh blood instantly fills the back of my throat.
"Pinda... Pinda, ruk-" I choke out, my vision fracturing.
[I never quit going hard enough. Never quit showing everyone.
Never quit killing what I touched. Never quit when it got too much.
It got too much often. It got too much quickly. It got me, but it never got in me.]
He isn't even looking at the real me anymore. He's completely out of his mind, screaming a guttural curse as he violently drives his fist straight into my reflection in the mirror, the silvered glass spider-webbing into a thousand jagged lines.
Using the distraction, I surge forward from the floor. I tackle him around the waist, pinning his massive weight down against the tiles. I slide beneath his frame, my legs wrapping tightly around his thighs from underneath to lock his hips, while my arms clamp around his shoulders to completely destabilize his center of gravity.
"Hosh mein aa-" I roar directly into his ear. ["Come to your senses-"]
[I thought that it'd get me back when they would never quit making fun of me. Never quit saying wannabe. Never quit those comparisons.
Never quit.
How embarrassing.]
Gurbaaz convulses beneath me, his chest heaving as he fights the chokehold. Then, his right elbow drives violently into the soft flesh of my lower ribs.
The paralyzing shock of the strike forces my muscles to involuntarily give out. My breath hitches into a choked gasp, my grip instantly loosening from his shoulders as my vision darkens at the edges.
Gurbaaz violently throws my weakened arms off his frame, scrambling back to his feet through the shattered glass, his chest heaving like a cornered animal.
[Don't you remember which school suspension made my feet work early?
Don't you remember me hiding myself just so you don't hurt me?
Never quit when I should have quit.
Never quit once a bully when I could duck under fists and laugh at the joke he's pushing with.
I never quit staying versatile, but I quit taking personal.
Then I quit caring who meant it, 'cause I quit taking opinions.]
Through the hazy, blinding pain in my ribs, I force my eyes open. Gurbaaz is aggressively lunging back toward the counter, his trembling fingers snatching another loaded chemical syringe. The paranoia has completely hollowed him out.
I surge up from the tiles, throwing my weight forward to pin his arms from behind. "Ruk-"
Before I can lock the submission, his heavy combat boot stomps violently down onto my foot. He cages me against his chest, his thick forearm wrapping like an iron vise around my neck, pinning my head back as he drives the glinting, metallic needle of the syringe directly in front of my wide, horrified eyes.
[Never quit tryna be better.
Never quit, never surrender.
Never quit stacking these letters.
Never quit putting in pressure.
However, whoever, whenever, never quit being me.
Who better? You better? None better.
I never seen defeat.]
The survival instinct trained into my bones takes over. I violently drop my weight, slipping beneath the chokehold.
The abrupt release of resistance sends Gurbaaz lunging forward into empty air. His own panicked strike drives his right hand upward.
Squelch. The long, metallic needle sinks completely into his right eyeball.
Inhuman scream rips through the small bathroom space. Blood detonates everywhere-splattering across the shattered mirror, pooling onto the white marble sink, and soaking the front of his black leather jacket.
[I never quit running.
Running when the gun go off.
I never quit gunning.
Gun to my head, still none of y'all would ever see me slow my roll.
Highest on the totem pole, destiny my only goal.]
His knees buckle instantly, his equilibrium entirely destroyed as his frame begins to violently tilt backward toward the hard, porcelain edge of the bathtub.
Ignoring the agonizing scream of my ribs, I dive across the blood-slicked tiles, throwing my upper body beneath him.
Thud.
I catch him in my lap just inches before his skull could shatter against the tub, his heavy, twitching chest colliding against mine. My eyes stretch wide with primitive horror. "Pinda... Pinda...!"
A desperate, broken cry rises in my throat, and I violently slam my own blood-stained hand over my mouth to stifle it. Did my childhood friend just die in my lap? On the soil of the enemy?
Man atkeya beparwah de nal.
Us deen duni de shah de nal,
Haan, deen duni de shah de nal.]
(The heart is entangled with the Carefree One,
The heart is entangled with the Carefree One,
With the Sovereign of both faith and the world,
Yes, with the Sovereign of both faith and the world.)
My fingers tremble violently as I press two digits directly over his nose, holding my breath. A faint, hot, ragged puff of air brushes against my skin.
He's breathing. He's alive.
I scramble to my feet, dragging his dead-weight frame with me. I rapidly turn the deadbolt on the alternative inner bathroom door, locking the primary chamber from the inside to conceal the worst of the carnage.
Grab a towel, I wipe the fresh smudge of blood off my own temple, clearing the immediate traces of our physical struggle before hauling his heavy arm over my shoulder.
I violently throw the secondary bathroom door open, staggering out into the main corridor as I bear his bleeding weight.
"Rizwan!" I bellow at the top of my lungs, "Gaadi start kar! Yeh insaan marna nahi chahiye!"
["Rizwan! Start the car! This man must not die!"]
Out of the corner of my tracking vision, I see Alam bhai's sharp eyes instantly lock onto the blood soaking my kurta. I let my fingers slip-purposefully dropping my master key ring onto the grass.
An absolute chorus of gasps, panicked shouts, and Punjabi curses erupts from Gurbaaz's men and Khanani as they surge out of their seats. I don't give them a single second to process.
Jameel, Khanani, and the turbaned associates sprint alongside me as we carry Pinda's thrashing body out the front doors, piling into the back of the idling SUV. Rizwan slams his foot onto the accelerator.
As the car tears out of the driveway gates, I cast one final look back through the rear window.
Through the glass, I watch Alam bhai calmly lean down, retrieving the fallen keys, walking directly toward the bathroom door. And right beside him, standing completely frozen under the golden glow of the chandelier, is Sanaz.
Within fifteen minutes the SUV slams to a halt right under the fluorescent lights of the private hospital. Within seconds, the heavy rear doors are ripped open. Jameel's phone calls on the drive over have already mobilized a team of urgent-care medical staff is already waiting with a steel stretcher.
"Eye trauma, possibly remove ya replace karna padega!" a young doctor barks aggressively to the nurses, his fingers rapidly checking Pinda's erratic pulse as they violently wheel the bed through the automated double doors of the Emergency Room.
[Eye trauma, possibly requiring removal or replacement!]
The doors swing shut, the frosted glass completely blocking our view.
I drop heavily onto a cold, metallic waiting chair in the corridor, the silence of the hospital settling over my chest like a sheet of lead. I lock my hands over the back of my head, my eyes staring directly at the polished linoleum floor.
"Hamza ji, kaise hogaya ye sab?"
["Master Hamza, how did all this happen?"]
Amarjit's voice.
I slowly look up from my hands.
"Bathroom mein gaya tha," I start, "Pinda sahab pehle se hi nashe ki halat mein the, theek se khade bhi nahi ho paa rahe the. Achanak se woh zameen pe gir gaye, aur..."
["He had gone to the bathroom. Master Pinda was already in a severe state of intoxication, he wasn't even able to stand properly. Suddenly he collapsed to the floor, and..."]
"...aur counter par rakhi hui ek glass syrenge unki aankh mein seedhe dhas gayi." I finish, wiping a stray drop of cold sweat from my jawline. "Main unhe bachaane ke liye aage badha, lekin tab tak bohot der ho chuki thi."
["...and a glass syringe kept on the counter pierced straight into his eye. I lunged forward to save him, but by then it was too late."]
Amarjit doesn't break eye contact. His hand leaves his pocket, fingers slowly tracing the edge of his turban.
"Nashe mein toh woh hamesha rehte hain, Hamza bhai," Amarjit says quietly, "Par aisi thokar unhe pehle kabhi nahi lagi."
["He is always intoxicated, Brother Hamza. But he has never stumbled like this before."]
The young doctor steps out, pulling off his latex gloves with a sharp snap. His coat is stained with a sickening streak of crimson.
"Patient is stable for now," the doctor announces, looking between me and Amarjit. "But the damage to the right eyeball is absolute. The metallic needle ruptured the sclera and completely destroyed the internal structure. We have to perform an immediate surgery to remove the ruptured eye and prevent infection from spreading to the brain."
Khanani steps up, cursing under his breath. "Operation mein kitna waqt lagega?"
["How long will the operation take?"]
"Kam se kam do ghante," the doctor replies, shifting his clipboard. "Aap log form bhar dijiye."
["At least two hours. Please fill out the form."
Khanani snatches the clipboard, moving to a nearby desk to rapidly scribble out the syndicate's local clearance details. Across the hallway, the four turbaned men from Gurbaaz's inner circle pull into a tight, frantic huddle, whispering in rapid, hushed tones.
I push myself up from the metal chair, I check the heavy silver watch on my wrist. "Barah bajne waale hain, cartel ki delivery karayen ya nahi?"
["It's almost twelve o'clock, shall we carry out the cartel's delivery or not?"]
The men break their huddle, trading a series of uncertain glances. "Pinda ji ke bagair kuch nahi keh sakte."
["We can't say anything without Master Pinda."]
I offer a tight nod. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone and slide the screen open.
"SP sahab," I start, letting out a controlled, heavy sigh against the receiver. "Aaj delivery nahi hogi."
["SP sir, the delivery won't happen today."]
Then, SP Chaudhary Aslam's voice cuts through the speaker, "Tu kisi ka saga nahi hai." ["You are not loyal to anyone."]
"Hospital se aakar call karta hoon," I murmur flatly. ["I'll call you after returning from the hospital."]
"Zaroorat nahi," Aslam fires back instantly. "Deal pakki hogi tab hi call karna."
["No need. Call me only when the deal is finalized."]
The line goes completely dead.
"Yeh deal nahi hui toh Bade Sahab naraz ho jayenge," Amarjit says. ["If this deal doesn't happen, the Big Boss will be furious."]
I lean my spine back against the cold wall. "...koi aur bhi toh kar sakta hai," I mutter quietly, my eyes flicking between him and Khanani. "Jo shayad isse zyada paise de."
["...someone else could do it too. Someone who might pay more than this."]
Amarjit and Khanani trade a quick look across the hallway. A heavy beat of silence passes before Khanani clears his throat, adjusting his jacket. "Shayad agli baar se. Filhal inpe dhyaan dete hain."
["Perhaps from next time. For now, let's focus on them."]
The next two hours dissolve into an agonizing test of physical and mental endurance. Finally, the heavy double doors of the recovery wing swing open, and a tired-looking doctor emerges, pulling off his mask.
"Unhen hosh aagaya hai. Aap ab mil sakte hain."
["He has regained consciousness. You can meet him now."]
Amarjit and the four Punjabi associates immediately push past us, donning sterile masks and latex gloves before entering the intensive recovery cubicle. They stay inside for a few hushed minutes before filing back out into the hall, their faces unreadable.
Then, it's our turn. Jameel, Khanani, and I step through the threshold, the rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor instantly filling my ears.
Gurbaaz is propped up against the stiff hospital pillows. The sight is a brutal reality check. A massive thick white surgical bandage is wrapped completely around the right side of his skull, entirely blanking out the eye that held our shared childhood memories. His left eye is open, dull and bloodshot, staring fixedly at the blank beige wall.
Khanani steps up to the edge of the guardrail, leaning in with a tense frown. "Pinda, theek ho?"
["Pinda, are you okay?"]
Gurbaaz doesn't blink. Slowly, mechanically, his left eye rolls sideways, locking onto Khanani's face. Of course he isn't fine.
"Deal ke baare mein kya socha?" Khanani presses immediately. ["What have you thought about the deal?"]
"Mydydicpivob."
Khanani freezes, his eyebrows knitting together confusion as he leans closer to the bed. "Eh?"
"Anaesthesia aur pain killers diya gaya hai," Jameel mutters quickly from behind his mask. He grips Khanani's elbow, guiding him back toward the threshold. "Isilye se theek se bol nahi pa raha. Hum thodi der baad aate hain."
["Anesthesia and painkillers have been administered. That's why he isn't able to speak properly. We'll come back after a little while."]
Khanani offers a frustrated grunt but complies, allowing Jameel to drag him out into the corridor. The heavy wooden door swings shut.
On the bed, Gurbaaz's chest heaves beneath the thin hospital blanket. "Jas..."
My entire nervous system violently locks up, I surge forward. I lean my upper body heavily over the steel safety guardrail.
"Pinda, yeh Punjab nahi hai," I whisper, my voice slicing right through the hum of the oxygen machine. "Muh band rakh. Zara bhi kuch idhar udhar hua toh yeh log hum dono ki bund phad denge."
["Pinda, this is not Punjab. Keep your mouth shut. If even a single thing goes out of line here, these people will tear both of us apart."]
"Deal... Nahi chhodunga."
The words leave his mouth.
I grit my teeth. "Haalat dekh apni. Aankhein chali gayi par akal nahi aayi."
["Look at your condition. You've lost your eye, but you still haven't gained any sense."]
I cast a protective glance over my shoulder, ensuring the frosted glass pane of the heavy recovery room door remains completely undisturbed before turning back to his frame.
I drop my voice into a cold whisper. "Matt chhor. Lekin abhi nahi. SP ne already mana kar diya hai. Uske security ke bagair main border tak pohonch nahi sakta cartel ke saath."
["Don't drop it. But not right now. The SP has already refused. Without his security, I cannot reach the border with the cartel."]
I lean even closer over the steel guardrail, "Tu ek kaam kar, hindustan waapis ja," I command, my eyes drilling into his dilated pupil. "Wahan achche se apna ilaaj karwa. Ek mahine baad wapas aa."
["You do one thing, go back to India. Get yourself treated properly there. Come back after a month."]
A hollow chuckle slips past his cracked lips, "Gaddar sala..." he rasps out. "Hindustan bhej kar mujhe pakadwa dega."
["You absolute traitor... You'll send me back to India just to get me arrested."]
Man.
"Theek hai fir kahin bhi jaa, lekin apna dhyaan rakh," I murmur softly..["Fine then, go anywhere you want, but take care of yourself."]
I reach down, my large hand firmly enclosing his trembling wrist. I squeeze it once, hard enough to anchor him through the haze of the anesthesia, anchoring the boy who used to run through the fields of Punjab beside me.
"Bhai hai tu mera."
["You are my brother."]
I lean back immediately, my posture smoothing out the exact millisecond the heavy wooden door jiggles and the others file back into the recovery room.
"Deal, paaji?" Amarjit questions.
"Jaari aa. Par kuch din baad," Gurbaaz rasps from the pillows.
["It's on. But after a few days."]
We all quietly walk back outside into the sterile corridor, leaving the broken international dealer to slide back into his rest.
The second the door clicks shut, I let out a long, heavy sigh, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my kurta. Jameel steps into the center of our tight circle, his eyes scanning the weary faces of the syndicate. "Aap log wapas jaa rahe hain?"
["Are you guys heading back?"]
The Punjabi associates and Khanani all offer exhausted nods. Rizwan immediately steps up, guiding them toward the exit to drop them back to their respective safehouses across the city.
The second the hallway clears, Jameel and I pivot, locking ourselves inside the nearest public hospital bathroom. The lock clicks home.
"Alam miyan ne message kiya," Jameel speaks up immediately, "Unhone tere ghar ka bathroom lock kar diya hai."
["Master Alam messaged. He has locked the bathroom at your house."]
I offer a nod of validation. I pull a cigarette from my pack, flicking the lighter open, and inhale a dense, calming stream of grey smoke to numb the screaming ache. "Aap inke saath rahiye deal tak. Pinda mujhpar bharosa nahi karega. Pata lagaiye kahan chhup raha hai aur R&AW ko intel bhejiye."
["You stay with them until the deal. Pinda won't trust me. Find out where he is hiding and send the intel to R&AW."]
Jameel steps closer, extending a hand to pat my shoulder-and a sharp, involuntary wince rips through my jaw.
"Bohot himmat dikha di aaj, bachche," Jameel murmurs softly, his eyes softening."Chal, ab aaraam kar. Paas hi mein koi hospital ya fir Sanaz ko dikha."
["You showed a lot of courage today, child. Come on, now rest. Get checked at a nearby hospital or show it to Sanaz."]
He reaches up, his rough fingers carefully parting the hair near my temple to assess the damage from the glass slab. I let out a low, irritated groan. There is a thick, sticky blood clot hardening right against the scalp.
"Sanaz ko kya bolunga?" I huff out sarcastically, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the exhaust fan. "Raaste mein mera bhi accident ho gaya?"
["What will I tell Sanaz? That I also met with an accident on the way?"]
Jameel lets out a dry, his shoulders shifting under his suit. "Bol dena. Shayad maan bhi le."
["Tell her that. Maybe she'll even believe it."]
I drop the spent cigarette into the toilet bowl, watching the glowing ember die with a small hiss before hitting the flush. I look Jameel dead in the eyes.
"Jameel mamu. Yeh cartel India nahi pohonchna chahiye."
["Uncle Jameel. This cartel must not reach India."]
Jameel gives a heavy nod.
Rizwan slides back into the driver's seat after a grueling thirty minutes. I don't waste a second. My hand darts forward, snapping open the dashboard compartment to pull out a few loose tissues and medical bandages-the defective sample products from Sanaz's import grid that I usually keep stored in the cabin for emergencies.
An involuntary, guttural groan rips past my teeth as I press a dry tissue directly against my temple, aggressively wiping away the remaining smear of dark, half-dried blood.
I can't walk back into my house wearing a visible surgical bandage; it would trigger an immediate forensic interrogation from everyone in the parlor. But I also can't leave an open, raw scalp wound hidden under my hair to fester with a hospital-grade infection.
I reach down, grabbing a cold, sweating can of beer from the floorboard slab and pressing the frigid aluminum directly against the swelling to numb the tissue.
Goddamn. The icy shock makes my jaw lock. Fortunately, the laceration from the glass slab is small, and the thick, copper-scented blood has already clotted enough to seal the breach. I drop the bloody tissues onto the floor, using my trembling fingers to violently comb through the thick, dark waves of my hair, forcing the strands into a side part to drape over the bruised temple, completely burying the wound out of sight.
"Bhai... Theek ho?" Rizwan mutters under his breath, his hand reaching across the console to firmly grip my arm, his eyes heavy with a rare, naked anxiety.
I offer nothing but defensive grunt, pushing his hand off my arm with a rough shrug. "Zinda hoon saale."
["I'm alive, you idiot."]
I swear under my breath, my fingers catching the hem of my navy blue silk kurta and hooking it upward to inspect my midriff in the shadows. Thankfully, the skin isn't broken, there's no puncture wound from whatever blunt metal tool Gurbaaz drove into my side, but the deep, localized ache warns me that the muscle tissue is severely bruised.
"Tujhse hamdardi dikhani bekar hai," Rizwan mutters. ["Showing sympathy to you is completely useless."]
But even through the dry sarcasm, his hand reaches back into the compartment, retrieving a fresh pack of antiseptic swabs and tossing them directly onto my lap.
I don't thank him. I just tear a swab open with my teeth, the sharp, medicinal tang of the alcohol instantly filling the closed air of the cabin.
The heavy tires of the SUV crunch quietly over the my driveway.
The festive thrum of the dhol has finally died down, replaced by the low, murmuring static of the remaining party guests.
I slide my phone into my pocket and look sideways at the driver's seat. "Rizwan, jitne bhi log bache hain sabko nikaal."
["Rizwan, clear out whoever is left."]
He doesn't need further instruction. He knows exactly how to softly, deceptively usher the cartel muscle and local syndicates toward the gates without making it look like a forced evacuation. Glancing through the tinted window, I can see SP Chaudhary Aslam and Omar still lounging on the veranda, aggressively nursed by whatever liquor is left in the bottles.
Most of the crowd has dissolved into the night. Near the outdoor bar, Alam bhai is calmly rinsing out the blender, methodically wiping down the counter. I reach down, smoothly adjusting the weight of the iron firearm hidden beneath the deep blue folds of my silk kurta, ensuring the barrel rests flat against my skin before stepping out of the vehicle.
I stride over to the bar counter, my boots making no sounds. "Sab theek hai?"
["Is everything fine?"]
Alam bhai offers a single nod. Without a single word, his hand glides across the surface under the cover of a dish towel, smoothly transferring the master bathroom keys directly into my palm.
"Oye Baloch! Deal final hui?" SP Aslam's voice suddenly booms across the dark grass. ["Hey Baloch! Is the deal finalized?"]
I offer him a nod, my expression entirely deadpan as I deliver the script. "Aapko chinta karne ki zarurat nahi. Jameel sahab saari details bhej denge."
["You don't need to worry. Master Jameel will send all the details."]
Satisfied with the administrative buffer, the SP turns back to his drink. I turn on my heel and step through the grand arched entrance of my house.
The transition is staggering. The sprawling living rooms are almost entirely deserted now, the chaotic energy of Baazigar completely replaced by the rhythmic, hollow scraping of brooms as the domestic staff sweep away the broken glass and spilled rum. In the distant kitchen corridor, the faint clinking of dishes echoes through the quiet.
A sudden, sharp hollow sensation hits the center of my stomach. Damn. I'm hungry. I should have just sat down in the secondary room, pulled up a chair beside her, and eaten that plate of warm biryani when she had asked me to.
"Sanaz Sahiba wapas chali gayin?" I question the domestic worker. ["Did Miss Sanaz go back?"]
"Nahi Hamza sahab, woh kuch der pehle hi upar waale floor mein gayi thi," the boy replies quietly, gesturing toward the grand staircase with his broom.
["No, Master Hamza, she went to the upper floor just a little while ago."]
I offer a silent nod, turning on my heel to climb the steps. The dark, cavernous corridors of the upper floor welcome me. As I approach the master wing, my eyes instantly narrow. The heavy wooden door to my bedroom is slightly ajar, a sharp blade of warm light cutting across the dark hallway floor.
I enter without a sound, my boots gliding like oil over the rug. My gaze filters straight through the bedroom, locking onto the walk-in closet. There, illuminated under the harsh vanity bulb, is a rich maroon figure frantically scrambling on her knees across the floorboard grid.
I reach backward, grabbing the edge of the bedroom door and swinging it shut, deliberately forcing the heavy brass bolt to click into place with a loud, ringing echo that shatters the silence of the suite.
Sanaz snaps upright, spinning around on the floor. Her expression instantly locks into an unreadable mask, a hitch in her breathing.
She is cornered.
My eyes drop past her frame, scanning the floorboards behind her. The sight makes the blood clot at my temple throb violently. There is an unmistakable smear of fresh crimson on the wood, the sharp glint of tiny shattered glass shards, and a messily tucked bundle of files shoved back into a displaced cardboard carton.
The locked storage.
She didn't just wander in here.
She must have breached the hidden compartment, the leather-bound diary where I record the networks, the shipments, and the names of every single target marked for execution.
She takes a cautious step backward, but the rigid wall of the closet traps her frame. I stride into her immediate space.
"Hamza..." she whispers, a defensive warning.
"Kya kar rahi thi yahan?" I question ["What were you doing here?"]
Shaken by the coldness in my tone, she shifts her weight to retreat further, but the heel of her shoe catches aggressively on the heavy, embroidered hem of her maroon sharara.
Her balance breaks.
Before she can collide with the shelf, my large hand darts forward, my fingers wrapping around the curve of her waist, yanking her body forward until her chest crashes directly against mine.
I lean down into her space, my breath hot against her skin, "Kisliye aayi thi?"
["What did you come here for?"]
"Tumhe pata hai kya kar rahi thi," she fires back, refusing to break under the pressure as she lifts her chin to look me dead in the eye, "Main sab jaanti hoon. Lekin, meri baat suno-"
I don't let her finish. My right hand reaches beneath my navy blue kurta. I pull the heavy iron firearm from my waistband as I press the cold, unyielding mouth of the barrel directly against her temple.
"Mujhe maarne se tumhara koi fayeda nahi hoga," she squeezes out. ["Killing me will not bring you any benefit."]
"Mohabbat karne waale aise ghar mein nahi ghuste, kon ho tum?" I murmur.
["Those who love do not break into houses like this. Who are you?"]
"Pehle bandhook niche karo," she commands softly. ["First, put the gun down."]
"Tum sab jaanti ho na? Toh itna bhi jaanti hogi ki mere aur mere maqsad ke beech koi nahi aata."
["You know everything, right? Then you must also know that no one comes between me and my purpose."]
The barrel is heavy against her temple. Jaskirat is holding a gun to the only woman who made him remember what a home felt like.
Shoot.
Click.
The barrel is empty. It was never meant to take her life; it was a cold intimidation designed to shatter a trespasser's resolve and force a confession.
For a single microsecond, I feel the frantic hammer of her heartbeat racing violently against my chest through the silk of my kurta. But her panic doesn't turn into surrender.
Before my brain can register the shift in her stance, her right hand dives smoothly beneath the heavy, pleated layers of her maroon sharara. Moving impossibly fast, she slips a heavy steel gun into the clearing.
Clack. The cold mouth of her barrel drives violently upward, pinning itself directly against the soft flesh under my jawline.
"Picche hato," she commands, her voice dangerously low. She snaps the cylinder open for a fraction of a second, exposing the gleaming brass heads of full, live ammunition catching the light. "Yeh waali khaali nahi hai."
["Step back. This one isn't empty."]
But I don't retreat. Instead, a dark possessiveness flares in my blood, and my left hand tightens its ironclad grip around her waist. The muzzle of her gun digs deeper into my neck.
How? How does a sophisticated, sheltered doctor from the elite sectors of Clifton possess a concealed, licensed firearm? More importantly, how does she know how to clear her draw and establish a lethal point-of-contact in under a second?
Who the hell are you, Sanaz?
Or worse... is my Seherzadi an enemy spy deployed by the state to systematically hunt me down?
Thud. I open my fingers, letting my empty firearm clatter uselessly against the floor. I don't break eye contact.
"Hindustani Agent ho tum?" she questions. ["Are you an Indian Agent?"]
I stay completely still, the copper tang of old blood heavy in the back of my throat.
I offer a deliberate nod. "Haan."
["Yes."]
Sanaz's breath hitches violently, her single left hand wavering as her eyes widen.
I don't give her a single second to recover. Leveraging the exact moment her focus fractures, my right hand streaks forward like a striking viper.
I clamp my fingers around her wrist, twisting the bone with a brutal, clinical force to break her grip. She lets out a sharp screech as the loaded firearm is violently ripped from her palm.
In the chaotic struggle, the heavy movement catches the delicate, crimson glass bangles lining her wrists, they snap instantly, splintering into a dozen sharp, glinting fragments that rain down onto the floorboards.
I hurl her weapon out of the closet, watching it land heavily on the center of my unmade bed, before pivoting my weight. I seize both of her arms, wrenching them firmly behind her back.
Crunch.
My heavy leather combat boots step forward, ruthlessly crushing the fallen glass shards of her broken bangles into fine, glittering dust against the wood.
I violently slam her front frame flat against the rigid closet wall, caging her hips with my own, my chest heaving violently against her shoulder.
"Hamza-!" she gasps out, her cheek pressed hard against the wood, her muscles straining against my ironclad hold.
"Sanaz... Mere ghar mein ghus ke-" I breathe heavily into the hollow of her neck. "Kiski bheji hui ho tum? ISI? Dawood?"
["Sanaz... Breaking into my house-who sent you? ISI? Dawood?"]
She violently shifts her weight, trying to drive the heel of her shoe directly down onto the leather of my boots to break my stance, but my reflexes are entirely clinical.
I hook my ankle behind hers and kick her shoes completely off her feet.
"Jaahil matt bano, Hamza," she warns, her voice sharp, her fingernails digging frantically into her palms as I maintain the joint lock. "Mera haath chhoro, dukh raha hai."
["Don't be a savage, Hamza. Let go of my hands, it hurts."]
I don't loosen my grip by a single millimeter.
"Hamza... Main bhi R&AW ki asset hoon, tumhari tarah."
["Hamza... I am also a R&AW asset, just like you."]
The universe violently flatlines.
What?
It's an ambush. It has to be. The ISI has finally mapped my coordinates, or Dawood's inner circle has engineered a sick, psychological loyalty test to see if Hamza Ali Mazari will flinch at the mention of the Indian flag.
I drive my forearm harder into her shoulder blades. "Jhooth. Sach bolo, Seherzadi."
["Lie. Tell the truth, Seherzadi."]
"Sach bol rahi hoon," she replies; her frame finally stills. "Agar aaj tumne mujhe maar diya toh bohot bada gunaah ho jayega."
["I am telling the truth. If you kill me today, it will be a monstrous sin."]
My fingers instantly freeze against her raw wrists. I step back.
She slowly turns around to face me in the dim vanity light. She lifts her hands, gently squeezing the bruised skin of her arms to soften the throbbing ache. "Itna kaafi hai?" she whispers, her voice cracking slightly at the edges.
["Is this much enough?"]
I look at her face, and for the first time since I entered this room, my armor completely fails me.
There is a faint, glittering glassiness in her dark eyes, actual, unshed tears of pain and shock reflecting the overhead bulb.
I did this to her. I forced my Seherzadi against a wall, shattered her glass bangles under my boots, and treated her like a target.
I gulp down the bitter knot in my throat.
So... she is R&AW.
She is a verified asset operating under Meera Singhaniya, the direct, high-level administrative co-operative of Sushant Bansal, my own desk handler back in New Delhi. The internal wiring is undeniable.
Khalid Kashmiri... I haven't heard the name on my local channel, but he must be a deep-cover phantom operating within the Karachi civilian grid, exactly the way Jameel Jamali acts as mine.
2007. That was her entry marker. That's a bit late for being deployed into the same provincial unit operation as mine... or is it?
"Operation?" I question.
Sanaz lifts her chin, her voice ringing out with an absolute finality.
"DHURANDHAR."
Masterlist.
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bitch bhikmangeki tarah apne below average writing lekar jo attitude deti ho isiliye koi zayda engagement nehi atior aegi bhi nahi i know you are the one who was spreading hate for low engagement in the fandom
Here we observe the rare Lyari Alpha Male in his natural habitat.
Note the aggressive posturing, the territorial roars, and the complex hierarchy maintained through decades of unspoken loyalty. Tread carefully - one wrong move and the entire pack turns on you.
Perhaps it can be treated as a brief ASMR moment. Perhaps it’s simply an oddly satisfying piece of character work. Either way, I keep coming back to it.
There’s something fascinating about this scene. For a split second, he doesn’t sound human at all. It’s less of a shout and more of a warning, raw, instinctive, almost like the growl of a cornered lion.
I should probably be concerned by how often I’ve replayed it.
Instead, I remain equally impressed, intimidated, and slightly unsettled.
And She Looked Upon His Hands, Red with a Different Sin
"KHURSHEED DUBNE KE baad.”
["After the sun sets."]
We all nod in silent agreement.
Around the camp clearing, the twilight chill begins to settle as the tribal families head back inside their mud huts. The remaining guards clear the heavy brass platters, eventually retreating inside to rest before the long night patrol. Soon, the clearing is empty. Only the three of us are left out in the open, slowly roasting under the last, stubborn rays of the sinking desert sun.
With nothing left to do but wait out the clock, I give up on my rigid posture and lie down on the wide charpai beside him.
But the universe and the basic laws of physics immediately penalizes me. The loose woven ropes of the traditional bed instantly gravitate toward his massive, heavy weight. The entire center of the mattress dips violently, effectively sliding my body down the slope and smashing me directly against his hard, black-kurta-clad side.
Ugh. This is so incredibly awkward.
I stiffen my spine, desperately trying to anchor myself and lie completely straight on my back, staring hard at the purple sky to pretend I am miles away.
Until the third element enters the equation.
Rizwan, apparently feeling left out, decides to lie down on the absolute edge of the frame. Because the center is already heavily compromised by Hamza, the balance shatters. Rizwan starts slipping down the incline, his arms flailing as he frantically tries to hold onto Hamza’s shoulder for stability.
Hamza rolls his head sideways, glaring at his bodyguard, “Tu ek kaam kar—”
["You do one thing—"]
Wobble.
COLLAPSE.
“Hamza—” I scream, my hands blindly tearing through the air.
“Ammi—” Rizwan shrieks.
“Aye khuda—” Hamza groans as the entire sky flips upside down.
The entire woven structure gives out beneath us. The snapping of fibers cracks as we all land violently down in the dirt, a tangled mass of black silk, heavy silver jewelry, and limbs. In the panic of the freefall, both Rizwan and I have instinctively clamped onto Hamza’s broad shoulders and jacket fabric like he is a human life raft who can somehow defy physics and save us from the floor.
Goodness... I swear, I will never have a boring day with these people as long as I live.
“Arey theek ho tum sab?” Shirani’s voice echoes from across the clearing, filled with sudden alarm. “Yeh bakri...”
["Hey, are you all okay? This goat..."]
I shake the dust from my hair, frantically trying to stand up and reclaim my dignity.
Beside me, the fearsome Sher-E-Baloch is scrambling to his feet in a state of absolute, unhinged panic, his hands desperately clutching the waistband of his shalwar to keep it from falling down after the rope snap.
A foot away, Rizwan is heavily coughing, hoisting himself out of the dirt by using the broken wooden locks of the bedframe like a ladder.
There, standing completely unbothered in the wreckage, is the tiny white baby goat. The little creature had not only eaten cleanly through Rizwan's "secure" rope hoop, but it had spent the entirety of our whispers chewing through the main structural ropes of the bed.
It looks up at us, lets out a small, innocent bleat, and calmly munches on a stray piece of woven fiber.
“Shirani sahab, yeh agli eid tak bada hojayega na? Isko ba—”
Rizwan’s voice cuts off mid-sentence with an abrupt, dry swallow as Hamza pivots his head.
[“Master Shirani, this one will grow big by next Eid, right? For Sa—”]
Shirani simply lets out a deep chuckle, aggressively patting the little goat on its head before scooping it up into his arms and walking it away from the crime scene. A few of the camp hands immediately rush over to gather the splintered wooden locks and frayed ropes, attempting to salvage the wreckage of the bed.
Hamza lifts his wrist, dusting off the glass of his silver Rolex to track the sinking light. “Aadha ghanta aur.”
["Half an hour more."]
“Aadhe ghante mein toofan bhi aajayega. Aaj jitne kand hue...” I mutter, I drop down, sitting directly onto the cool slope of the sand dune.
["In half an hour, a storm will arrive too. With the number of disasters that happened today..."]
Seeing a gap, Rizwan eagerly steps forward, bending his knees to join me on the slope. But before his trousers can even touch the sand, Hamza waves a large, dismissive hand at him, his expression deeply annoyed. “Andar ja.”
["Go inside."]
Rizwan lets out a visible sulk, turning on his heel to stomp off toward the mud huts, leaving us completely alone as the last amber glow of the sun dips behind the mountain peaks.
Hamza takes a step closer, his long hair catching the light as he drops down onto the sand slope right beside me, tucking one long leg beneath him. “Hamesha mere saath hi rehta hai na, toh aadat hogayi hai. Waise, aapki koi dost ho toh...”
["He always stays with me, so it's become a habit. By the way, if you have a friend..."]
I freeze, slowly turning my head toward his profile. My eyes narrow into two sharp, disbelieving slits, “Main aapko matrimonial site dikh rahi hoon? Itni hi jaldi hai toh khud kyun nahi dhundhte apne dost ka rishta?”
["Do I look like a matrimonial site to you? If you're in such a hurry, why don't you look for your friend's proposal yourself?"]
“Main uske baare mein nahi puchch raha tha.”
["I wasn't asking about him."]
A sharp, disbelieving gasp hitches in my throat. My hands instantly ball into fists against the fabric of my gown. Really. I am genuinely, absolutely about to throw hands with this man right here on the sand—
“Arey, ruko,” Hamza chuckles softly, lifting his hands in a mock surrender. He leans in closer, “Mera matlab tha... kya Clifton jaana zaruri hai? Koi intezaar kar raha hai aapka?”
["Hey, stop. I meant... is it necessary to go to Clifton? Is someone waiting for you?"]
I slowly shake my head, my gaze dropping slightly. “Ji nahi. Koi nahi hai.”
["No. There is no one."]
“Hmm...”
Hamza lets out a low hum from the depths of his chest. He shifts his weight on the slope, sliding even closer until his broad shoulder completely blocks out the rest of the camp. The heavy silver jewelry against his black kurta gleams in the dying indigo light.
“Agar main nikah ki baat kar bhi raha hota,” he murmurs, “toh mujhe sochne ki kya zarurat jab tum ho mere saamne?”
["If I were even talking about marriage, why would I need to think when you are right in front of me?"]
The sheer boldness of the declaration makes my heart skip. I force my eyes to lock with his, “Humein mile do mahine hue hain.”
["We met two months ago."]
Hamza doesn't blink. “Chaar saal, do mahine, bara din, aur teen ghante.”
["Four years, two months, twelve days, and three hours."]
“Har ek pal aur lamha bhi gin lete,” I mutter, rolling my eyes in a desperate bid to shield myself from the terrifying accuracy of his memory. “Aur waise bhi chaar saal ka hisab nahi. Hum sirf ek baar mile the hospital mein, aur uske baad kabhi nahi.”
["You might as well count every single moment and breath too. And anyway, that four-year calculation doesn't count. We only met once at the hospital, and never after that."]
“Achcha, aisa hai?” Hamza tilts his head, a slow smug smile bleeding into his dense beard as he pretends to think deeply. “Toh fir itna gussa kyun hogayi thi jab maine puchcha tha aapki koi dost hai mere liye?”
["Oh, is that so? Then why did you get so angry when I asked if you had a friend for me?"]
“Kyunki—” I catch myself, letting out a sharp. “Kyunki hum ek rishte mein hain na?”
["Because—Because we are in a relationship, aren't we?"]
Hamza nods slowly, the satisfaction in his gaze absolute.
“Magar uska matlab yeh toh nahi ki humein itni jaldi nikah karna chahiye?” I counter gently. ["But that doesn't mean we should get married so quickly, does it?"]
“Sahi kaha,” he agrees instantly, his large, warm hand shifting on the sand to gently curve near mine, though he doesn't force the contact. “Main aapko zabardasti nikah ke liye haan nahi kehne ko bol raha.”
["True. I am not telling you to say yes to marriage by force."]
“Lekin...”
There it is. “...kisi ke saath ek ghar basane ka socha hai toh woh sirf tum ho.”
["...if I have ever thought of building a home with anyone, it is only you."]
I blink, a sudden, dizzying wave of weightlessness washing over me.
“Mujhe nahi pata main aapko manpasand ghar de paungi ya nahi,” I whisper back, the confession slipping past my tightly guarded defenses. It is the closest thing to a warning I can give him. ["I don't know if I will be able to give you the home of your choice or not."]
Hamza doesn't hesitate. He doesn't ask for guarantees. He simply reaches out, his thumb lightly tracing the back of my hand. “Tum jo bhi dogi, usi se hum ghar banayenge.”
["Whatever you give, we will make a home out of that."]
Hum.
Hamza reaches down to his own hand. With a slow, deliberate movement, he slides a heavy, dull-gleaming ring off his own ring finger—a thick band of solid silver intricately carved into the roaring visage of a lion. The mark of the Sher-E-Baloch himself.
He takes my hand, his grip warm.
“Tasdeeq,” he whispers fiercely. ["Confirmation."]
The gravity of the gesture shatters into a million pieces the exact second he lets go.
The ring doesn't fit. It doesn't even come close. The massive silver band instantly slips down the slender line of my finger, hanging comically loose and wobbling against my skin.
“Gussa mat dilao,” I snap. I forcefully yank my hand back from his space, aggressively turning my face away from his profile with a sharp, loud huff.
["Don't make me angry."]
Really? The fearsome, multi-layered kingpin who prides himself on tracking every single hour of my existence for four entire years couldn't manage basic logistical arithmetic?
If he was truly, absolutely serious about building a future, he couldn't have exercised a fraction of that tracking efficiency to buy a single, elegant ring that actually matched my size and my liking?
Instead, he just casually hands me a weapon-grade piece of men's jewelry that could literally slide off my hand if the wind blows too hard.
Hamza watches the heavy silver band slip completely off my fingers, tracking it as it tumbles a few inches down the cool slope of the sand dune before his large hand darts out, smoothly catching it before it gets swallowed by the dark.
He holds the lion crest in his palm, “Tumhe pasand nahi aaya?”
["You didn't like it?"]
“Pasand—” I turn my entire body toward him, gesturing wildly at my own hands. “Hamza, yeh mere haath mein hathkadi jaisa lagta hai.”
["Like—Hamza, this feels like a handcuff on my hand."]
A low, knowing rumble vibrates in his chest as he casually slides the massive silver ring back onto his own finger, where it fits perfectly. “Sahi size ka lata toh mujhpar ilzam lagati ki main tumpar nazar rakh raha hoon.”
["If I brought the right size, you would accuse me of keeping an eye on you."]
My breath hitches. “Rakh rahe ho?”
["Are you?"]
“Nahi.”
The denial is flat, absolute, and entirely unreadable.
I let out a heavy, defeated sigh, running a hand through my hair as the wind picks up across the peaks. I cut my eyes sideways at his massive frame. “Aapko laga mujhe aise zevar pasand hain?”
["Did you think I like this kind of jewelry?"]
Before I can blink, Hamza reaches deep into the inner pocket of his black kurta and pulls out a small, velvet box. The deep crimson fabric catches the faint amber glare.
I raise my eyebrows, my heart doing a treacherous, violent flip against my ribs. He doesn't say a word. He simply extends his broad hand, offering the elegant box to me like a peace offering.
I slowly reach out, my fingers brushing against his warm skin as I take it from his palm.
My fingers tremble slightly against the plush crimson fabric as I flip the small latch. I lift the lid, revealing a soft velvet pouch nestled inside the custom casing. Reaching in, my fingertips brush against something cool, fluid, and incredibly delicate.
I pull it out into the starlight. Anklets.
I hold the shimmering strand up between my thumbs, watching it glisten. The clean, brilliant white sheen instantly catches my eye. That’s not traditional silver. My eyes widen.
Platinum.
The band is thin yet structurally strong, entirely devoid of the loud, jingling bells typical of local jewelry. Instead, dangling at perfect intervals along the platinum chain are microscopic, intricately carved lotuses—their petals blushing with the unmistakable, brilliant fire of rare pink diamonds.
This is... breathtakingly beautiful.
I slowly turn my head to look at his profile, completely speechless.
Hamza doesn't move away. He gently reaches out, his fingers sliding beneath the delicate chain in my palm, lifting one of the shimmering lotuses to let the diamonds catch the moonlight. “Suna hai aapko kanwal bohot pasand hai?”
["I've heard you like lotuses a lot?"]
I genuinely do not know how or what to feel anymore. The crisis isn't the fact that this piece is staggeringly expensive. The real, operational terror is that... he knows my choices so thoroughly.
Swallowing down the sudden lump in my throat, I try to weaponize my tongue, “Pasand hai,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Aur aap meri pasand ki cheezon ko mere pairon mein rakhna chahte hain?”
["I like it. And you want to place the things I love at my feet?"]
A slow beautiful smile breaks, he doesn't drop his gaze. “Galat matt samajhiyega, lekin aapke har pasandida cheez ko main aapke kadmon par rakhunga.”
["Don't misunderstand me, but I will lay every single thing you love at your feet."]
“Khud ko bhi?”
["Yourself too?"]
“Main toh pehli mulaqat se hi wahan hoon, Seherzadi.”
["I've been right there since our very first meeting, Princess."]
My mind violently tracks back four years; remembering his bloody, battered face in that dimly lit hospital room, the metallic tang of iron in the air as I meticulously stitched up his torn forehead. Even then, covered in grime and targeted by the state, he had simply closed his eyes under my hands, completely leaning into my touch as if I were his only sanctuary.
Keeping a faded, cheap hairband for four long years of absolute silence and zero contact... it wasn't a criminal's eccentricity. It was a vow.
Before I can process the roar in my ears, Hamza shifts smoothly in the sand, dropping down to his knees at my feet. His large hands reach out, tenderly sliding my feet out of my sandals, wrapping the platinum strand around my right ankle and clicking the custom clasp into place.
It fits perfectly.
He pauses, leaning his heavy head down to press a quiet, lingering kiss right against the top of my foot.
A sudden, violent jolt of electricity shoots straight up my spine, settling into a deep, heavy warmth in my stomach that I haven't felt in decades. Or perhaps... never.
Hamza reaches up, smoothly taking the second platinum anklet from my frozen fingers. He repeats the motion with an agonizing slowness, the coarse, thick brush of his mustache scraping softly against my sensitive skin as he secures the left clasp.
My breath catches in my throat, my toes instinctively curling inward, burying themselves tight against the rich, dark fabric of his black kurta.
Why is he genuinely the perfect man I’ve ever wanted but... has such questionable hobbies?
I mean, the baseline criteria for a dream partner is entirely there—he’s deeply attentive, hyper-observant, completely devoted, and coordinates custom jewelry based on my favorite flower. He just happens to run a massive, illicit black-market syndicate on the weekends. Maybe a perfect partner really isn't found in the pristine, structured spaces you expect.
Hamza finally lets go of my ankles, straightening his broad shoulders as he looks up at me. “Jhanjhar bhi nahi hai isme, toh tum har roz pehen sakti ho.”
["There are no bells in this either, so you can wear it every single day."]
He settles back into the sand beside me.
“Kanwal toh mitti mein khilta hai na? Khalis ki alamat hai yeh,” I whisper, “Ki kaise kichad mein rehkar bhi apne upar daag nahi aane deti. Aap mujhe us layak samajte ho? Yeh janne ke baad bhi ki main kaise logon ka ilaaj karti hoon?”
["The lotus blooms in the mud, right? It's a symbol of purity. How despite living in the muck, it doesn't let a single stain touch it. Do you consider me worthy of that? Even after knowing what kind of people I treat?"]
Hamza doesn't hesitate. He reaches out, his calloused palm smoothly cupping the side of my face, his thumb wiping away a stray strand of hair. “Maine pehle hi kaha tha na, mujhe khalis se fark nahi padta. Mujhe tum chahiye—achcha, bura, aur har ek hissa jo chhipa hua hai.”
["I told you before, didn't I? I don't care about absolute purity. I want you—the good, the bad, and every single hidden piece that you keep concealed."]
His eyes burn into mine. “Aur tumne bhi toh mujhe quboola hai—ek hathiyar nahi, balki ek insaan ki tarah.”
["And you have accepted me too—not as a weapon, but as a human being."]
“Kaafi... pyaara taufa hai,” I mutter under my breath, looking down at the platinum to hide the sudden heat in my eyes.
["It's a very... lovely gift."]
“Wapsi taufa isse bada lunga,” he murmurs back. ["The return gift I take will be even bigger than this."]
A genuine, breathy chuckle escapes my lips. Hamza reaches out, his thick arms wrapping completely around my shoulders to pull me into his chest. Giving in to the exhaustion of the day, I wrap my arms around his waist, burying myself in his space.
The sensory overload is immediate. The faint, rich scent of his expensive perfume mixes with the sharp tang of sweat radiating off his warm skin after hours in the sun.
My nose brushes right against the edge of his black kurta where the top buttons are left open, the soft skin of my cheek grazing the cold, heavy links of his silver chains. He leans his head down, resting his chin firmly over my dark hair.
“Firse daadhi fasa matt dena,” I whisper directly into the fabric of his chest, my tone sharp but entirely fond.
["Don't get your beard tangled in my hair again."]
A low, vibrating chuckle rumbles against my cheek as his grip tightens around me.
I gently pull back from the heavy embrace, my fingers sliding up the thick column of his neck to lightly trace the sharp, rigid line of his cheekbone, “Mujhe maaf kardo maine aapko maara. Main aisa firse nahi karungi.”
["Forgive me for hitting you. I won't do it again."]
As my fingertips linger against his warm, dark brown skin, the close proximity reveals something. Scattered across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose are tiny, faint freckles, dusted over his face like hidden constellations. I want to stay right here and count every single one of them.
Hamza doesn't pull away. He allows my hand to remain pinned to his face, “Hmm. Aur mujhe bhi. Maine kuch zyada hi zaalimana baatein bol di thi.”
["Hmm. And me too. I said some things that were far too cruel."]
My fingers still against his cheek. “Aap mere baare mein sach mein aisa toh nahi sochte na?”
["You don't really think of me like that, do you?"]
“Kya tum sochti ho mere baare mein waisa?” he counters instantly.
["Do you think of me like that?"]
“Nahi...” I finally whisper, “Main samajhti hoon aapki majboori.”
["No... I understand your compulsion."]
Hamza offers a slow, solemn nod, accepting the truce. At this distance, his striking sap-green eyes are completely exposed, the sharp iris shot through with metallic flecks of gold and smoky grey under the starlight.
My gaze slips lower, dropping to his mouth, his lips are partially shaded by the coarse drop of his mustache, a thinner, dusky pink contrast.
Before my brain can register, I find myself leaning closer, tilting my chin up until the absolute crests of our lips are almost brushing, the heat of his breath fanning directly against my mouth.
“Hosh kho rahi hain aap, Sanaz sahiba.”
["You are losing your senses, Lady Sanaz."]
He doesn't lean back, and he doesn't close the final millimeter of distance. Instead, he uses my formal title like an anchor, his dark green eyes blazing down into mine in the starlight, waiting to see if his Seherzadi will snap out of the trance or completely throw her uniform into the fire.
I abruptly pull my face back, heat instantly rushing up to my cheeks. If there is one thing I deeply respect about this man, it is how he constantly, unyieldingly tries to protect my dignity, even from my own fleeting lapses in judgment and never once takes advantage of my vulnerability.
I steady my breath, “Kabhi aap bhi kho kar dekhiye. Achcha lagega.”
["You should try losing your senses sometime too. You'll like it."]
Hamza leans forward, a faint, teasing glint returning in his eyes. “Yeh sab aapko kaise pata?”
["How do you know all this?"]
“Aapke jaise bohot ziddi mareezon ko dekha hai maine,” I reply smoothly.
["I've seen many stubborn patients like you."]
“Mareezon ko. Main woh nahi.” The teasing warmth instantly vanishes from his face. “Aapne mera zid dekha nahi hai, Seherzadi. Jab main hosh khota hoon toh daag reh jaate hain.”
["Patients. I am not that. You haven't seen my stubbornness, Princess. When I lose my senses, stains are left behind."]
That sentence somehow makes me intensely aroused and deeply terrified at the exact same time.
I swallow hard, a visible gulp moving down the line of my throat. “Mujhe manzoor hai woh daag.”
["I accept those stains."]
We stare at each other for one infinite second. The gravity of what I’ve just admitted presses down on my chest until, unable to handle the burning sincerity in his eyes for a single second longer, I abruptly look away.
Hamza’s large hand reaches up, his fingertips gently gathering a loose strand of my hair and tucking it securely behind my ear. His touch lingers for a fraction of a second before he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly against the heated curve of my cheek.
My lips part slightly in a quiet gasp, my eyelashes fluttering shut as I instinctively turn my face toward his warmth.
Except... there is nothing there.
My balance gives out, and I violently lurch forward, almost face-planting straight into the coarse dirt of the sand slope. My eyes snap open, my internal processor short-circuiting.
He’s gone.
Hamza... Haramzada.
Instead of the fearsome Lion of Balochistan, Rizwan is standing a foot away, holding a thick wool woolen cloth, blinking down at me with an expression of pure, innocent neutrality.
I scramble to my feet, my cheeks burning with a mixture of residual heat and pure embarrassment. I vigorously dust the desert sand off the dark silk of my gown, aggressively pulling my tangled hair up into a tight, messy bun. “Aap kab aaye?”
["When did you come?"]
Rizwan blinks, entirely unbothered by my hostile tone. “Bas yeh shawl dena tha. Thand lage toh odh lijiyega.”
["Just had to give you this shawl. If you feel cold, please wrap it around yourself."]
I let out an irritated huff, snatching the fabric from his hands and loosely draping it over my shoulders. Near the perimeter, Shirani and a few other camp members emerge from the shadows, systematically packing the large plastic leftover containers into the trunks of the waiting vehicles.
“Raaste mein bhuk lage toh khaa lena,” the same elderly woman calls out, offering a warm wave.
I instinctively look down; my prominent pulao food baby is still undeniably present under the fabric of my dress, though thankfully less tight than before.
“Car mein baitho sab, main thodi der mein aata hoon,” Hamza’s deep, commanding voice echoes across the dirt clearing.
["Everyone sit in the cars, I'll be out in a moment."]
Within seconds, the security detachment and Rizwan filing into three of the heavily armored vehicles. I step toward the remaining SUV, the one equipped with the custom open-roof facility, sliding into the seat.
Through the clear pane of the window, I keep my eyes locked on his distant figure. Hamza stands near the center of the camp, his frame expanding as he slips back into his tailored waistcoat and the long, heavy commander's jacket.
Shirani steps forward, his movements solemn as he hands him the massive, white chieftain turban. As Hamza wraps the heavy cloth around his head, the desert wind begins to blow like crazy, whipping the dust into violent spirals around them.
My focus entirely on the movement of his lips, catching the fragments of his voice slicing through the gale.
“Pehle Rehman, fir Uzair, aur ab aapke pote ke saath Baloch bachche,” Hamza says, his face hardening, “Aisa aadmi qayamat tak nahi rukega, Shirani sahab. Agar zyada der ki toh SP Chaudhary Aslam mujh tak, aap tak bhi pohonch sakta hai.”
["First Rehman, then Uzair, and now Baloch children along with your grandson. Such a man won't stop until doomsday, Master Shirani. If we delay any longer, SP Chaudhary Aslam can reach me, and you as well."]
Shirani offers a single, heavy nod, “Jo tum sahi samjhoge, Hamza. Wahi hoga.”
["Whatever you deem right, Hamza. That is what will happen."]
“Uzair do mahine baad Dubai jail se wapas aa raha hai,” Hamza responds, “SP use maarne zarur aayega. Kya karna hai, kaise karna hai... Woh aap tay kijiye.”
["Uzair is returning from Dubai jail in two months. The SP will definitely come to kill him. What to do, how to do it... you decide that."]
Before Hamza turns away from Shirani, their eyes simultaneously shift, locking onto a single figure standing near the edge of the fading crowd. It’s a young boy, barely old enough to shoulder a rifle, his dark eyes wide.
Are they...?
There is no conversation after that heavy, lingering glance. The brutal reality of the province needs no explanation. Hamza simply breaks the look, his heavy combat boots crunching against the dirt as he strides purposefully toward the SUV.
I instantly snap my head forward, staring rigidly out the windshield to pretend I haven’t spent the last five minutes reading his lips.
The driver's side door swings open, and his frame slides into the seat beside me. Without a word, he reaches up, unpinning the gold chains and unwrapping the heavy white turban, tossing the fabric onto the backseat.
He hits the console button, and the mechanical roof groans, retracting completely to expose us to the vast, ink-black sky.
Ahead of us, the headlights of the first armored SUV flash once before the vehicle rolls forward into the dark terrain. The second follows, then the third, creating a protective trail across the wasteland.
Finally, our car moves, bringing up the rear.
Only us.
“Thand lag rahi hai?” Hamza’s voice cuts through the low rumble of the engine. ["Are you feeling cold?"]
I silently shake my head, the crazy desert wind instantly catching the loose strands of my hair, whipping them across my face. I lean back completely into the leather headrest.
But as I shift my weight, a sudden, alarming restriction pulls tight across my ribs.
My right hand covertly slips down the side of my hip, my fingers frantically tracing the hidden zipper of my silk gown. I give it a subtle, desperate tug. Please don't tear…
“Zor se khichogi toh toot jayegi.”
["If you pull it hard, it will break."]
Hamza’s hand reaches across the console, hovering in the small space between us for a hesitant second, before his fingers gently find the metal pull at my hip. With agonizing slowness, he slides the zipper down, releasing the structural tension of the silk.
The fabric parts. The side of my midriff, waist, and upper hip is suddenly exposed to the night air, but the paralyzing restriction vanishes. I let out a deep, heavy chest expansion.
“Behtar?” he questions softly. ["Better?"]
“Shukriya,” I hum under my breath, my hands instantly scrambling to drag Rizwan’s thick wool shawl down. I pull the heavy folds tight over my hip, desperately trying to hide the pale, silvery stretch marks lining the skin.
“Kichad mein jo kanwal khilta hai,” Hamza starts quietly, “Uski pankhudiyon par mitti ki lakeerein hoti hain. Unhe mitao mat, Seherzadi. Woh batati hain ki tumne kahan se guzar kar apni hifazat ki hai.”
["The lotus that blooms in the mud has lines of earth on its petals. Don't erase them, Princess. They tell the story of where you have passed through to protect yourself."]
My fingers freeze against the wool. I slowly let my hands drop, allowing the shawl to slide just enough to let the wind graze the exposed skin. “Aapke liye aasan hai bolna.”
["It's easy for you to say."]
“Haan, shayad,” he replies, a rare, somber honesty settling into the lines around his eyes. “Main nahi soch sakta tum har mahine kin halaton mein khud ko sambhalti ho ya fir aayine mein khud ko dekhne se darti ho. Lekin samajh sakta hoon. Main yeh nahi bolunga tum be-aib ho. Main bhi nahi hoon. Woh kehte hain na khoobsurti dekhne waale ki aankhon mein hoti hai.”
["Yeah, perhaps. I can't imagine what circumstances you manage yourself in every month, or how you fear looking at yourself in the mirror. But I can understand. I won't say you are flawless. Neither am I. They say beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, don't they?"]
I stay absolutely silent. Down below, the platinum lotuses feel incredibly light yet piercingly cold against my bare ankle.
Twisting my fingers into the wool, I ask the one question. “Kab tak?”
["Until when?"]
Hamza shifts slightly in the driver's seat, his heavy eyebrows raising.
“Kab tak?” I repeat, my voice cracking slightly. “Bezaar nahi hojaoge? Mohabbat karna aasan hai, mohabbat karte rehna mushkil.”
["Until when? Won't you get fed up? Falling in love is easy, staying in love is difficult."]
“Chaar saal pehle tumhe jaane diya tha, kyunki tum mohabbat thi, zid nahi. Roz aayine mein khud ko dekhta hoon, toh apne is chehre par tumhari di hui nishaani dikhti hai, tab bezaar nahi hua.”
[“Four years ago I let you go, because you were love, not a stubborn obsession. Every day I look in the mirror and see the mark you left on this face, and I didn't get fed up.”]
My eyes instinctively lift, tracking the faint, silvered line of the scar cutting across his forehead.
“Tumhare liye mohabbat karna aur rehna do alag baatein hongi, Seherzadi,” Hamza continues. “Mere liye yeh dono ek hi hain. Main jis mitti se hoon, wahan log dushmaniyan pashthon tak nibhate hain. Toh phir tumne yeh kaise soch liya ki main apni mohabbat adhoori chhor dunga?”
["For you, falling in love and staying in love might be two different things, Princess. For me, they are the same. The soil I am from, people carry out enmities for generations. So how did you think I would leave my love incomplete?"]
I stay completely quiet, letting out a long, shaky sigh. “Shayad mujhe hi zyada tashkeen ki zarurat hai.”
["Perhaps it is I who needs more reassurance."]
“Toh woh main aapko dilata rahunga. Bezaar nahi hounga.”
["Then I will keep giving it to you. I won't get fed up."]
A tiny, defenseless smile breaks through.
Reaching across the console, I let my hand slip into his, my fingers curling around his warm palm. I close my eyes, letting the rhythmic thrum of the engine wash over me, allowing my thoughts to wander into the dangerous, prohibited territory of a real future with him.
But the peace shatters into pure, electric friction the exact second his hand leaves mine.
His calloused fingers shift, tracing a slow, deliberate path up the exposed skin of my side where the silk zipper hangs open. As his rough fingertip lightly brushes against the silver stretch marks on my hip, a violent, helpless quiver hits my core, my eyes flying open.
“Achcha nahi hai?” he murmurs, his green eyes flicking sideways to catch the sudden hitch in my breath.
["Is it not good?"]
I frantically shake my head, my knuckles gripping the edge of the seat, “Bas... thodi nazuk hoon.”
["Just... I'm a little delicate."]
A smug smile edges into the dark shadow of his beard. Huff. He doesn’t pull back. Instead, his hand traces further inward, sliding past the divided silk of my gown with an agonizingly slow, grounding pressure.
I would be lying to myself if I said I didn't absolutely melt under the coarse texture of his rough hand against my skin. A sharp, ragged gasp escapes my parted lips as his broad palm completely slips inside, his fingers spreading wide to firmly, tenderly palm the soft pudge of my tummy.
He can probably feel the erratic thrum of my heartbeat vibrating straight through my skin. God, this is so incredibly embarrassing.
Before I can even attempt to smooth over the awkwardness, his fingers twitch, and he gives the soft skin of my tummy a slight, playful pinch.
“Ah!” I wince, my hand instantly flying down to sharply slap the back of his rough knuckles. Rude. Defensively, I yank the heavy shawl back down, tucking the fabric firmly over my exposed midriff so I don't catch a sudden chill from the howling highway wind.
Hamza lets out a low, vibrating chuckle against the rush of the air, entirely unbothered by the assault. His large hand remains on top of the fabric now, his palm slowly slipping down from the curve of my waist to rest steadily against my thigh.
It stays there—a grounding weight that warms my skin through the wool, comforting and constant, never once escalating further into the dark territory.
Outside the open roof, the jagged silhouettes of the Balochi mountains roll past like ancient, silent guards, the brilliant white crest of the moon faithfully following the line of our four-car convoy.
“Kya soch rahi ho, Sanaz?” he questions softly. ["What are you thinking, Sanaz?"]
“Kuch nahi. Bas... soch rahi hoon ki Karachi pohoch kar is mitti ka rang kaise badal jayega.”
["Nothing. Just... thinking about how once we reach Karachi, the color of this soil will completely change."]
I lean my head back against the leather, tracking the stars.
I’m not going to lie to myself anymore—I genuinely had fun here. For the first time in a long decade I have experienced hospitality that didn't feel wrapped in razor wire.
Yes, Bade Sahab Dawood and Major Iqbal are always perfectly polite, but their version of hospitality feels like a rigid administrative duty rather than genuine, human warmth.
Iqbal only treats me with high regard because I manage the medical care for his daughter; and as for Dawood... I am never truly certain what reality hides behind his calculating eyes.
But here, in the middle of the dirt and the smoke, the warmth was terrifyingly real.
“Mitti ka rang kuch bhi ho,” Hamza responds, his voice dropping into that possessive cadence.
“Tum par sirf mera rang chadhega. Aur woh koi UTAAR NAHI SAKTA.”
["Whatever the color of the soil may be. Only my color will bleed into you. And no one in this world can ever wash it off."]
Masterlist.
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And She Looked Upon His Hands, Red with a Different Sin
“HAQ SE TOH Sher-E-Baloch Uzair hai. Lekin niyat se... tum ho.”
["By right, the Lion of Balochistan is Uzair. But by intent... it's you."]
Shirani’s voice carries over hum of the idling engine just as Rizwan steps forward to pull open the door of the black Mercedes Benz.
Hamza steps out into the blinding, golden light first. He offers a microscopic, respectful tilt of his head toward the elder statesman. “Badi baat bol di hai, Shirani sahab.”
["You've spoken a very big thing, Master Shirani."]
Turning back to the vehicle, he extends his large, ring-adorned hand toward me, his grip firm and steady as he carefully guides me out onto the dusty terrain. “Sanaz, yeh hai Shirani. Baloch United Force ke founder.”
["Sanaz, this is Shirani. The founder of the Baloch United Force."]
I offer a polite, measured smile. The man standing before us carries the literal history of the province in the deep lines of his face. He is older, his head wrapped in a traditional, heavy cloth, a long, snow-grey beard falling over his chest.
His ancient eyes track the way Hamza’s hand lingers protectively at my waist, a low, knowing rumble vibrating in his chest. “Achche shauhar banoge, Hamza.”
["You'll make a good husband, Hamza."]
Shau—what.
The word catches like a piece of glass in my throat. Hamza, however, doesn't flinch. He merely lets out a low, amused chuckle, his fingers tightening securely around mine as he leads me forward.
He looks entirely in his element here.
He wears his signature crisp kurta and pyjama, layered with a tailored waistcoat and a long, sweeping black jacket that catches the dust-laden wind. His dark hair is left open, framing his sharp jawline like a wild lion’s mane, his dark sunglasses perched firmly on the bridge of his nose.
To match his silhouette, I am dressed in a fluid, entirely covered black gown. The fabric is light and flowing, designed to breathe against the arid climate, leaving the heavy, intricate silver jewelry at my wrists and neck to serve as the focal point. My hair is left open as well, whipping across my face as the desert breeze sweeps through the camp.
The horizon stretches out endlessly in every direction, a sun-drenched expanse of earth where the heat waves dance on the perimeter, though the unyielding mountain wind makes the temperature bearable.
As we cross the threshold of the camp, the sea of people parts. Rows of Baloch men and women line the dirt pathways, their faces completely exposed, their hands lifting to shower us with a thick rain of vibrant flower petals.
I look at the faces in the crowd. This isn't the hyper-stimulated, terrified adrenaline of the Lyari political rally from a few weeks ago.
This is unadulterated generational adoration. To them, he isn't the ruthless administrator of a Karachi syndicate. He is the keeper of their fire.
Ena bhar aaliya, ou entia la,
Ma ndeerik ba’eeda ma nebki aalik...
[“The sea is too vast for me, and you are not here,
I won't keep you far away, nor will I cry over you...”]
Hamza moves through the entrance with the effortless grace of a monarch, his large hand never breaking its secure hold on mine. He keeps his palm pressed firmly against his chest, dipping into low, respectful bows toward the tribal elders and fighters flanking the aisle.
Behind us, Rizwan and a tight, heavily armed security detachment file.
As we reach the center of the sprawling tent, a group of young Baloch men erupts into a traditional dance. They are dressed in stark, immaculate white kurtas, their heads wrapped in heavy, layered turbans.
La zhar la memoon la,
Aargoob zine...
[“There is no luck, no fortune,
Only the trajectory of beauty...”]
They spin in a dizzying, flawless circle, the fabric of their clothes snapping against the air. Suddenly, the front liners leap high into space, their heavy boots clearing the ground before they slam back down, firing a rifle directly into the packed dirt floor.
The sudden, deafening explosions of gunpowder send a small cloud of dust swirling around our ankles. I keep my posture perfectly rigid, but my pulse shifts. Oh wow. I can’t say I’m not thoroughly impressed.
Didi didi didi didi, zin di wah—
Didi wah, didi didi di hazzine day...
[“Take it, take it... this beauty is real—
Look at her, look at how beautiful she is today...”]
At the head of the tent stands a massive, elevated seat, beautifully draped in vibrant, hand-woven tribal textiles and traditional embroidered cloths.
Hamza steps up to it, sliding his dark sunglasses off the bridge of his nose, his eyes burning with an unreadable intensity as he begins to offer a slow, heavy clap to the rhythm of the dancers. Rizwan immediately takes up a protective, frozen stance directly beside the seat, his arms crossed over his tactical vest.
Hamza drops into the throne-like seat first. Before I can even register his trajectory, his hand hooks around my waist. With a single strong tug, he pulls me straight down onto his lap.
A sharp gasp escapes my throat before I can stop it. This man…
But I force my features to remain ironclad. Shifting my weight with a subtle movement, I slide off his thighs just enough to sit directly beside him on the wide cushion—our hips pressed flush against each other, the heavy black silk of my dress tangling with the fabric of his long coat.
Hamza doesn't object to the shift. He simply lets out that low rumbling chuckle, his arm sliding over the back of the seat.
Shirani steps forward, weathered hands lifting a heavy white chieftain turban. With slow, deliberate precision, he wraps the immaculate cloth around Hamza’s head, adjusting the gold chains that gleam against the fabric before letting the remaining lengths of cotton fall over his shoulders, perfectly framing his sharp face and long, dark beard.
He doesn't look like Hamza anymore. He looks like Hamza Ali Mazari. The full, unedited weight of his identity, a man born from the very dust of these mountains.
Shirani turns, retrieving a heavy, polished rifle from a velvet-lined case. Engraved deeply into the dark wood of the stock are the words: Sher-E-Baloch.
Hamza accepts the weapon. He doesn't hoist it in the air for cheap applause. Instead, his long fingers close around the barrel, and he slowly, reverently brings the cold, dense metal up to press against both of his closed eyes, honoring the sacred title with a heavy oath of protection.
I watch him from the seat beside him, a soft, involuntary smile pulling at my lips.
The solemn gravity of the ritual fractures the very next second when a young boy steps forward, carefully placing a tiny, white-furred baby goat directly into Hamza’s arms.
A genuine, incredibly wide smile splits Hamza’s face, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes the fragile animal and rests it gently against his lap. His large, ring-adorned fingers shift, his touch turning remarkably soft and tender as he begins caressing the tiny creature's body, smoothing down its fur.
The elder reaches out, taking Hamza’s right hand into his own. With deep, generational respect, Shirani bows his head, lightly touching both of his closed eyes directly to the back of Hamza’s knuckles—consecrating his vision, his trust, and the future of the entire Baloch United Force to the hands of the man sitting before him.
The formal ritual concludes.
I reach out, my hands sliding under the tiny, fragile body of the baby goat, smoothly lifting the creature from his lap. It lets out a soft, trembling bleat, its small head tilting into my palm as I gently caress the fine fur between its ears.
I keep my eyes on the fragile animal. “Aap shuruaat se hi itna bada bojh utha rahe hain?”
["Have you been carrying such a heavy burden from the very beginning?"]
“Yeh bojh nahi hai, Sanaz,” Hamza corrects instantly, his voice steady, and entirely devoid of hesitation.
["This isn't a burden, Sanaz."]
Before I can look up, his ring-adorned hand moves across the space, his fingers lightly brushing against mine as our hands connect over the tiny creature’s head. We both continue to caress the newborn animal in a shared, suffocatingly close proximity.
“Ammi kehti thi iss mitti mein paida hue hain toh apne haq ke liye ladna padega,” he murmurs. “Mera qarz hai iss mitti pe.”
["Mother used to say if we are born of this soil, we must fight for our rights. It's my debt to this land."]
I stare at him, my mind momentarily flatlining. How does one even reply to this?
“Achche khayalat hain,” I finally mutter, intentionally pulling my gaze back to the animal to hide the sudden, erratic shift in my chest.
["They are good thoughts."]
Shirani breaks the heavy gravity of our silence, stepping forward with a proud, expansive gesture of his arms. “Sher-E-Baloch ki nawazi mein humne sabhi ke liye dawat taiyar kiya hai. Umeed hai ki sabko pasand aayega.” “Shyam tak rukoge na, Hamza?”
["In honor of the Lion of Balochistan, we have prepared a feast for everyone. I hope everyone will like it. You'll stay until evening, right, Hamza?"]
Hamza offers a decisive nod. “Bilkul rukenge.”
["We will absolutely stay."]
He cuts his gaze across the expansive perimeter of the tent, looking at his inner circle. Standing just a few paces back, Rizwan and the rest of the Lyari tactical detachment offer immediate, respectful nods, wide smiles breaking across their faces as the promise of a traditional tribal feast settles over the camp.
People begin roaming freely.
Out in the open, Rizwan stands idly under the blazing sun, using the toe of his combat boot to trace meaningless geometric shapes into the shifting golden sand, though his eyes remain sharp.
The rest of the Lyari tactical unit splits up, taking up stationary security positions along the camp boundaries.
Shirani moves toward the open dining clearing, his hands sorting through woven traditional mats and large metal utensils to prep the ground for the feast.
Needing a moment to breathe in the heavy air, I stand up and walk toward the back of the encampment. Hamza follows a single pace behind me, still cradling the tiny white kid in his arms.
We trace the scent of burning wood and spices to a heavily shadowed, massive cooking tent. Inside, a few local women and elderly cooks are actively wielding long wooden oars, stirring mounds of thick, rich mutton inside massive copper cauldrons. The steam carries the heavy, fragrant profile of a traditional Balochistani pulao scent of whole spices, cardamom, and rendered meat instantly making my stomach growl.
The cooks peek out through the canvas flap, their faces lighting up with wide smiles as they enthusiastically gesture for us to come inside out of the wind.
Hamza steps through the threshold without a single second of hesitation. The fearsome commander simply drops his large frame onto the packed earth floor near the wood fire, completely unbothered by the soot or the dirt.
He reaches over to a cooling metal tray, plucking up small leftover crusts and stray bits of cooked rice, patiently feeding them one by one to the tiny kid in his lap. I watch him from the entrance, a soft, involuntary smile breaking through my guard.
I turn back toward the clearing, stepping over to where Shirani is struggling slightly with the heavy, unrolled carpets. Behind me, inside the cooking tent, I catch the faint murmur of the camp hands questioning my departure.
“Arey unhe nahi bulaya? Sanaz ji naraz hain kya?” one of the older women asks, wondering if the city doctor finds the rustic setup beneath her.
["Oh, didn't you call her inside? Is Sanaz Ma'am upset?"]
“Nahi, bas daryaft kar rahi hain,” Hamza’s voice instantly clearing the air with a calm deflection before anyone can misinterpret my distance.
["No, she's just exploring."]
I take a deep, steadying breath of the mountain air, stepping directly onto the edge of the woven mat. Reaching down, I grab the rough fibers and help Shirani smooth the heavy material flat against the uneven earth.
Shirani’s ancient face splits into a warm, crinkling smile, his hands waving in polite protest. “Arey tumhe karne ki zarurat nahi. Aaram se baitho.”
["Oh, there's no need for you to do this. Sit comfortably, relax."]
I shake my head smoothly, refusing to let go of the rough woven fibers. “Karne dijiye, Shirani sahab.”
["Let me do it, Master Shirani."]
He lets out a soft, defeated huff, stepped back to let me flatten the heavy mat against the sun-baked earth. I smooth down the edges, keeping my tone entirely non-threatening. “Hamza bohot mohabbat karta hai iss jagah se. Hai na?”
["Hamza loves this place very much. Doesn't he?"]
“Rehman ke baad kisine humara sabse zyada saath diya toh woh hai Hamza,” Shirani replies as he looks down at me. “Apni quom ka pakka hai. Kabhi dhoka nahi dega.”
["After Rehman, if anyone stood by us the most, it's Hamza. He is true to his people. He will never betray us."]
I press my lips into a tight, thin line. We'll see about that.
As we begin walking down the dusty pathway toward the huts, I subtly lean into the prompt, digging deeper into the historical matrix of the syndicate. “Rehman bhai bhi yahan aksar aate the?”
["Did Brother Rehman also come here often?"]
“Ji nahi. Humne unhen Sher-E-Baloch ki takht se nawaza tha jab Lyari mein unki hukumat shuru hui thi. Tab se hi yahan aana jaana shuru hua.”
["No. We honored him with the throne of the Lion of Balochistan when his rule began in Lyari. That's when the coming and going started."]
I offer a slow, empathetic nod, “Dukh ki baat hai woh zinda nahi rahe. Warna Hamza ko aise mukam par dekhkar... Bohot khush hote.”
I pause, intentionally revealing a tiny sliver of personal history. “Main bhi Hamza se pehli baar usi din mili thi.” I let out a soft, genuine chuckle. “Aapke Sher-E-Baloch ek sui se dar rahe the.”
["It's a matter of sadness that he didn't survive. Otherwise, seeing Hamza at such a position... he would have been very happy. I also met Hamza for the first time on that very day. Your Lion of Balochistan was scared of a needle."]
Shirani’s heavy beard shifts as a rich, grandfatherly chuckle ripples from his chest. “Khair, kamsekam Rehman ki maut ne use aapse toh milaya.”
["Well, at least Rehman's death brought him to you."]
“Uzair bhai agar jaldi pohonch jaate toh shayad woh zinda hote,” I note softly, dropping the bait into the water.
["If Brother Uzair had arrived earlier, perhaps he would have been alive."]
“Sab khuda ki marzi hai, Sanaz. Uzair uss din humari tarseel lene aaya tha. Hamza ne koshish ki bachane ki.”
["It's all God's will, Sanaz. Uzair had come to collect our consignment that day. Hamza tried his best to save him."]
My eyes narrow fractionally. I look directly at him, my voice completely level. “Kis cheez ki?”
["Consignment of what?"]
“Hamza ne nahi bataya?” Shirani muses, stopping completely in front of a low-profile, heavily reinforced mud-brick hut near the edge of the mountain ridge. He reaches down, unlatching a heavy iron deadbolt, and throws the thick wooden door wide open.
The dim afternoon light spills into the windowless room, illuminating rows upon rows of industrial metal racks. My breath hitches in my throat. The entire interior is systematically packed to the ceiling with first-copy assault rifles, tactical submachine guns, crates of military-grade ammunition, and stacked rows of high-density explosives.
“Jab bhi zarurat hoti hai, woh humse saman lekar jaata hai,” Shirani notes with casual pride.
["Whenever there is a need, he takes supply from us."]
Oh. Oh wow.
I let out a heavy, practiced sigh, playing the role of the slightly overwhelmed, sophisticated city doctor. “Socha nahi tha unhe itne bade khilauno ka shauk hai.”
["Didn't think he had a hobby for such large toys."]
A heavy, imposing shadow suddenly swallows the light from the doorway. I don't need to turn around to know it’s him. Hamza stands directly behind me, the air around him shifting with his arrival.
“Mere raaz jaanne ki taiyari ho rahi hai?” he muses, his voice dropping low, that makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He leans in, his breath hot against my ear as he raises a dark, inquisitive eyebrow.
["Is there a preparation underway to learn my secrets?"]
Shirani simply offers Hamza a knowing pat on the shoulder before stepping out, leaving us alone in the arsenal.
I turn my head, my eyes flicking over his shoulder to look at him, keeping my expression cool and unimpressed. “Isme raaz ki kya baat? Sabko pata hai aap wahi purana Rehman bhai ka karobar chala rahe ho.”
["What secret is there in this? Everyone knows you're running that same old business of Brother Rehman."]
My mind is racing. The weapons. He’s taking them from here, but I know the Lyari workshops are capable of manufacturing their own. Is this a supply chain issue? Is the Baloch United Force funding him? I need to know why he’s sourcing from the mountains instead of the city.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he sways into my space, splaying his large body over mine. He wraps his thick, heavy arms around my waist, his chest pressing firmly against my shoulders, effectively pinning me to the room.
“Hamza—” I protest, but he simply begins to walk, forcing me to shuffle forward deeper into the arsenal.
I can’t help it—a stupid, involuntary chuckle bubbles up in my throat. The sheer absurdity of the moment is overwhelming; his massive weight is literally forcing me to stumble forward, yet those same heavy arms are keeping me perfectly balanced, shielding me from tripping over the crates of mortar shells.
I tilt my head back, looking up at him as he towers over me. “Agar main gir gayi toh tumhe goli maar dungi.”
["If I fall, I'll shoot you."]
He lets out a harsh, arrogant scoff, his grip tightening around my waist as he maneuvers us around a rack of heavy-duty explosives. “Tum? Tum toh AK ko utha bhi nahi sakti.”
["You? You can't even lift an AK."]
I drive a sharp elbow backward into his ribs.
The impact hits solid muscle, but it’s enough to make him let out a low grunt and finally loosen his suffocating grip. But as we both try to shift away, a sudden, sharp tug pulls at my scalp.
How does this even happen…
Several stray strands of my long, open hair have managed to get completely caught and tangled in the coarse expanse of his dense beard.
Hamza carefully tilts his head back, untangling the knots with a lazy, amused focus before stepping away. I immediately pull my hair over my shoulder to the front, smoothing down the rogue strands.
“Itna guroor theek nahi,” I snap, my voice tight as I try to stabilize my erratic pulse.
["So much arrogance isn't good."]
“Aww, bura laga?” he mocks, a slow, insufferable smirk spreading across his lips. He waves his large hand dismissively, turning his attention to the industrial metal shelves. He casually reaches out, plucking a beautifully finished, matte-black assault rifle from the rack with practiced ease.
["Aww, did it hurt your feelings?"]
I don't waste a single beat.
Stepping up to the adjacent rack, I grab an identical rifle. I hoist the heavy steel and nestle the stock firmly against my shoulder.
Hamza’s movements freeze. His eyes snap directly to me, the arrogant amusement instantly vanishing from his features. “Ab ye kahan se seekha?”
["Now where did you learn that from?"]
I shrug my shoulders carelessly, keeping my face a mask of innocent, civilian curiosity as I lower the barrel. “Seekha nahi, dekha. Jaise aapne kiya.”
["Didn't learn it, I just saw it. Exactly how you did it."]
“Hmm...” Hamza steps back into my personal space, his eyes dropping to track the exact placement of my hands.
He looks thoroughly at my fingers, immediately logging the undeniable fact that my index finger is resting safely flat along the receiver, completely avoiding the trigger guard until a target is acquired.
“Isse khelna khatarnak hai, Seherzadi,” he murmurs softly, his voice dropping, a warning as his hand wraps around the barrel, gently but firmly prying the weapon out of my grip and setting it back onto the wooden crate.
["Playing with this is dangerous, Princess."]
“Khatarnak toh aapke liye bhi ho sakta hai,” I mutter softly. “Waise Karachi ke badshah ko Balochistan ke bandookon ki kya zarurat pad gayi?”
["It could be dangerous for you as well. By the way, why does the King of Karachi need Balochistan's guns?"]
“Kaam hai, aur qoum ke liye wafadari bhi,” Hamza replies smoothly, his broad shoulder leaning back against a wooden crate of ammunition, his posture relaxed but his eyes hyper-focused on my profile.
["It's business, and loyalty to the nation/people too."]
I keep my back to him, tracing the cold metal receiver of a nearby rifle with a single finger. “Yeh kaam toh aap khud bhi kar sakte hain na?”
["You could do this work yourself, couldn't you?"]
“Haan, lekin kabhi kabhar customers ko achche quality ke hathiyar chahiye hote hain,” he explains, his tone carrying the casual arrogance of a monopoly lord. “Mera business first copies banane ka hai, magar BUF ke hathiyaron mein rusiyon amerikiyon ka naam cheeda hota hai.”
["Yes, but sometimes customers want high-quality weapons. My business is making first-copies, but the BUF's weapons have Russian and American names engraved on them."]
Oh.
Lyari handles the cheap, mass-produced domestic forgery, but the mountains of Balochistan serve as the primary import node for authentic, foreign military-grade hardware.
I pause, letting the detail settle. “Aur... yeh aap ISI ko transfer karte hain?”
["And... you transfer these to the ISI?"]
There is a beat.
“...Haan.”
The syllable drops heavily.
I finally pivot on my heel, turning fully to face him. My hands drape loosely at my sides against the black silk of my gown. There is no heated accusation in my eyes. No emotional tremor.
“Haal hi mein ISI ne Balochistan ke school mein zeher mila diya tha, nahi?” I ask, pinning him with a steady, unblinking gaze. “Aur SP Chaudhary Aslam ne Karachi ke college se chaar ladko ko maar diya, yeh bolkar ki woh BUF 'terrorists' hain?”
["Recently, the ISI poisoned a school in Balochistan, didn't they? And SP Chaudhary Aslam killed four boys from a Karachi college, claiming they were BUF 'terrorists'?"]
He claims his loyalty is to the soil and his mother's memory, yet his weapons are fueling the exact machine that murders Baloch students in cold blood.
Hamza freezes, his large frame tensing under the layers of his black jacket. He takes a slow, heavy step forward, his shadow swallowing me whole as he closes the distance between us.
“Chaar nahi, paanch the,” he corrects, “Ek Shirani sahab ka pota. Tumhe kya lagta hai, main apni aankhen band karke dhandha karta hoon?”
["Not four, there were five. One was Master Shirani's grandson. What do you think, I run my business with my eyes closed?"]
I stare at him, my lips parting fractionally, my analytical brain temporarily stalling.
“Main baadshah hoon Sanaz, khuda nahi,” he says, his jaw tightening as he tilts his head down toward me. “Aur ek baadshah ko apne mukam tak pahunchane ke liye lakhon qurbaniya deni hoti hai.”
["I am a king, Sanaz, not God. And for a king to reach his position, lakhs of sacrifices must be made."]
A cold, defensive instinct sparks in my chest. “Masum jaanon ki?”
["Of innocent lives?"]
“Haan.”
["Yes."]
He lets out a long, heavy sigh, the sound carrying the exhaustion of a man who has long since bartered away his conscience. He doesn't offer a pathetic excuse. He doesn't try to sugarcoat the horror. He simply owns it.
And that raw, unblinking acceptance of brutality actually sends a violent, freezing shiver straight down my spine.
“Lekin,” he adds sharply, lifting a heavy, ring-adorned finger to point directly into the space between us, “waqt ke hisab se. Main uss seema tak nahi pahuncha jahan se main inn sab ka ikhtiyar kar paun. Mere se jo ban sakta hai, woh main karta hoon.”
["But, according to time. I haven't reached that threshold yet where I can control all of this. Whatever I can manage, I do."]
He is laying out his long game. He is arming the establishment now because he lacks the absolute leverage to dismantle them today.
Then, his hand drops, his gaze narrowing. “Aur tum, Sanaz?” he questions softly, stepping so close that the gold chains on his white chieftain attire lightly brush against the fabric of my gown. “Tum bhi toh Iqbal aur Bade Sahab ke liye kaam karti ho?”
["And you, Sanaz? You also work for Iqbal and the Big Boss, don't you?"]
I clench my jaw so hard the muscles ache.
“Aapki himmat ki daat deni padegi,” I breathe out, my eyes flashing with a dangerous, icy fire. “Aapne mujhe aur apne aap ko ek hi taraju mein rakha. Main doctor hoon, Hamza. Dehshadgard nahi.”
["I have to praise your courage. You put me and yourself in the same scale. I am a doctor, Hamza. Not a terrorist."]
The word dehshadgard leaves my lips like a bullet. The moment it hits the air, Hamza freezes. He looks at me as if I have just spilled lethal poison directly into the space between us.
“Aur.... Aur tum mujhe dehshadgardon se mawaz rahi ho?” he growls.
["And.... And you are comparing me to terrorists?"].
This time, the anger vibrating in his chest is entirely genuine, stripped of all political theater. He takes a sudden, heavy step forward. My breath hitches in my throat, my instincts screaming as I take a swift step back—until the small of my back hits the rough, cold surface of the mud-brick wall.
Before I can reorient my stance, his large hand shoots forward, his fingers cupping my jaw in a tight. “Guroor toh tumme bhi hai, Sanaz,” he whispers harshly, his face inches from mine. “Mujhse kahin zyada.”
["Arrogance is in you too, Sanaz. Much more than me."]
I refuse to look away, my voice steady. “Guroor nahi. Haqeeqat hai.”
["Not arrogance. Reality."]
He shakes his head, as his thumb presses harder into the line of my jaw. “Haqeeqat yeh hai ki tumhe fark nahi padta. Logo ki sewa nahi, paison ke laalach mein andhi hogayi ho tum. Tumhe pata bhi hai Dawood kya karta hai—”
["The reality is that you don't care. Not for people's service, you've gone blind in the greed for money. Do you even know what Dawood does—"]
CRACK.
The sound of my palm striking the side of his face explodes inside the windowless arsenal.
The force of the slap snaps his head sideways, the heavy gold chains on his turban rattling violently against the cloth. My hand remains suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, trembling from the sheer impact against his jawline.
I pull my hand back, pressing my spine hard against the mud wall as the air in the room completely dies. “Dobara mujhse aise baat mat karna,” I command, though an involuntary, treacherous tremor shakes the edges of my voice.
["Don't ever speak to me like that again."]
His head remains turned to the side. His dark eyes are slightly wide, staring blankly at the racks of ammunition as if his brain is actively struggling to process the physical shock of the impact. Slowly, deliberately, he turns his face back to meet mine.
The anger I braced myself for isn't there. Instead, his eyes are distinctively glossy. My heart skips a beat against my ribs—for god knows what reason.
He doesn't yell. He doesn't retaliate. He simply leans his broad frame slightly closer into my space, “Dard hota hai na?” he murmurs. “Jab koi ayina dikhata hai?”
["It hurts, doesn't it? When someone shows you a mirror?"]
Je takes a heavy step back, breaking the physical lock.
The sting on my palm matches the hollow ache in the room. “Maaf kijiyega...” I mutter softly, the apology slipping past.
["Forgive me..."]
Hamza slowly shakes his head, “Tum toh jaan bhi maang logi toh de dunga,” he says, “Lekin Sanaz, main rukunga bhi nahi. Yahan tak pahunchane ke liye maine bohot kuch khoya hai. Chahe yeh aag mujhe lekar khaak kar de.”
["If you even ask for my life, I'll give it to you. But Sanaz, I won't stop either. To reach this point, I have lost a lot. Even if this fire consumes me entirely."]
I offer a slow, heavy nod, my own internal mission parameters echoing against his words. “Mera bhi wahi hisab hai, Hamza. Lekin... main ek khudgarz insaan nahi hoon.”
["My equation is the same, Hamza. But... I am not a selfish person."]
“Har koi khudgarz hota hai, Seherzadi,” he counters softly, “Sab matlab ke liye jeete hain. Chahe woh matlab kitne bhi be-nafs kyun na ho.”
["Everyone is selfish, Princess. Everyone lives for a purpose. No matter how selfless that purpose might be."]
I am a ghost. I am a lie. I am deceiving a man who just offered me his life. My gaze drops to the floorboards as I mutter under my breath, “Shayad main utni paak nahi jitna khud ko samajhti hoon.”
["Perhaps I am not as pure as I think myself to be."]
He reaches out, his large, scarred hand wrapping around mine.
There is no strength in his grip this time.
“Aur mujhe paak se koi matlab nahi,” he whispers, pulling my hand just a fraction closer to his chest. “Mujhe bas tum chahiye. Puri ki puri.”
["And I have no interest in purity. I just want you. All of you."]
I feel even worse for slapping him.
“Lekin aaj ke baad, tum mujhse koi sawal nahi puchogi.”
["But after today, you will not ask me any questions."]
The sudden change in his tone causes my face to drop instantly.
I tilt my chin up. “Kyun? Dar gaye?”
["Why? Are you scared?"]
Hamza doesn't take the bait. “Ek sawal ke liye ek jawab, jaan. Agar tum mujhe apna sach bata sakti ho, toh main khud ko nahi rokunga.”
["One answer for one question, my life. If you can tell me your truth, then I won't stop myself either."]
The words hit me like a physical blow.
He isn't yelling, and he isn't punishing me for the slap. He is doing something infinitely worse: He is offering a blood-barter of absolute honesty, completely blind to the reality that if I actually give him my "truth," the man holding my hand will be forced to become my executioner.
I only offer a tight, muted nod, my teeth sinking into my lower lip.
Before the silence can swallow us completely, the heavy canvas flap rustles and Rizwan steps into the threshold, clearing his throat with a loud, deliberate cough.
“Khana taiyar gaya hai. Sab intezar kar rahe hain.”
["The food is ready. Everyone is waiting."]
We walk out into the warm, late-afternoon clearing. Dropping down onto the newly laid woven mats, we join the circle as large, steaming platters of the rich mutton pulao are laid out, accompanied by clay jugs of fresh water, cooling traditional drinks, and arrays of local desserts.
I take my spot directly beside him. Despite the chaos in my chest, the first bite of the food is an absolute revelation, the meat is perfectly tender, heavily spiced, and absolutely delicious. Hamza falls into an easy, fluid rhythm, leaning over to converse with Shirani and the other tribal elders, his demeanor entirely shifting back into the smooth, respected leader as he eats.
A sudden, muffled commotion breaks through the low murmur of the dinner circle. I look up, a genuine, uncontrollable smile breaking across my face. A few paces away, the men standing guard are actively chuckling into their hands as Rizwan frantically tries to maintain his stoic, terrifying security persona while aggressively whispering, “Shh! Shh!” at the tiny white baby goat.
The stubborn little creature is relentlessly tracking his movements, trying to stick its small snout directly into his plate to steal a bite of the rice.
Under the low drop of the shared cloth, Hamza casually shifts his weight, resting his heavy knee directly on top of mine. The micro-aggression is instantly irritating.
Refusing to be pinned or subdued, I tighten my core, forcefully pulling my knee up and shifting my posture with an aggressive, swift movement to stack my leg firmly above his instead.
An elderly woman standing near, slowly waving a large woven fan to cool the air, catches it. She lets out a soft, crinkling chuckle, her eyes warm. “Abhi bhi bachchon waali harkate karte hain.”
["They still act like children."]
Yeah. Chaalis saal ka bachcha.
[A forty-year-old child.]
I catch myself right before my eyes can physically roll back into my skull.
I watch in a state of mild horror as Rizwan physically loops a thick rope around the tiny goat's neck, anchoring it to a nearby wooden stake.
With a completely straight face, he reaches into a scrap bucket and offers the herbivore a chunk of shredded mutton. It eagerly snaps it up.
Cannibalism? I don't even know.
Before I can mentally unpack the biological crisis unfolding in the corner of the camp, the same elderly woman looks between my rapidly emptying plate and the goat, letting out a delighted chuckle.
“Dekho kitne achche se khaati hai. Bilkul Hamza ke jaise takatvar hai.”
["Look how well she eats. She is strong, just like Hamza."]
A sudden, intense heat floods my cheeks. I genuinely can’t tell if that’s an authentic compliment on my vitality or a deeply coordinated dig at my appetite.
But the moment I look across the circle and see the knowing, amused expressions on the elders' faces—and Hamza’s slow, insufferable smirk as he casually raises his mutton leg piece, clinking it against mine in a mocking silent cheer—I know exactly what it is.
I glare at him.
Don't.
I don't care how many elite tactical protocols I am breaking by overeating. I hadn't eaten a single scrap of food since the crack of dawn, and there was absolutely zero chance I was going to let an international border crisis stand between me and a perfectly spiced, wood-fired pulao.
By the time the heavy communal platters are finally cleared, the victory comes with a heavy physical toll. I am sporting a prominent, undeniable food baby stomach under the dark, fluid silk of my gown. Yielding entirely to the exhaustion of digestion, I lean my upper body back against the rough, woven frame of the charpai, breathing heavily.
I cut my eyes sideways. The forty-year-old toddler is somehow still eating, casually tearing into another piece of meat, his tailored black vest framing a completely, unfairly flat stomach.
I let out an irritated, heavy huff, aggressively turning my face away from his profile. Reaching blindly toward the small brass dessert bowls laid out on the edge of the mat, I defiantly pluck up a spoonful of the warm halwa. If I'm going down, I'm going down in a complete sugar coma.
“Hamza, aur khao na.”
An older woman hovers near the platter, her face beaming.
Hamza raises a large, ring-adorned hand, offering her a smooth, charming smile as he shakes his head. “Arey nahi, baaki pack kar dijiye.”
["Oh no, pack the rest of it, please."]
My hand freezes halfway to my mouth. I turn my head toward him in absolut disbelief. Pack the rest? He has been eating like a black hole for the last forty minutes, his stomach is still completely flat against his tailored vest, and now he is unashamedly asking for a doggy bag to take back to Karachi?
Without a single second of hesitation, I drive my elbow sharply sideways.
“Inke liye rakho kuch,” I hiss under my breath, my tone sharp. “Kaise Sher-E-Baloch ho tum?”
["Leave something for them. What kind of Lion of Balochistan are you?"]
“Arey nahi, Sanaz. Hamza jab bhi sheher se aata hai toh hum dabba bhar kar bhejte hain. Humein koi takleef nahi hoti.”
["Oh no, Sanaz. Whenever Hamza comes from the city, we always send him back with packed containers. It is no trouble for us at all."]
The elder woman waves her hand dismissively, already searching the back of the cooking tent for large plastic containers.
Yeh Balochistan hai ya iska naani ghar? I mean, technically and ancestrally, it is his maternal homeland, but... ugh.
Hamza finishes his last bite, entirely unbothered by my judgmental glare. He wipes his grease-stained fingers clean against a cloth before standing up and tracing the dirt path toward the rusty iron tubewell near the edge of the clearing.
I hurriedly follow a pace behind him, the heavy silk of my gown rustling against the weeds. Stepping up to the heavy iron apparatus, I grab the long metal anchor handle, throwing my weight into it to move it up and down.
The mechanism groans, and a freezing torrent of clear groundwater explodes out of the mouth of the pipe.
Hamza ducks down, cupping the flowing water in his large hands to vigorously wash his mouth and scrub his beard clean. Once he finishes, he smoothly shifts his body, reaching out to take the heavy iron handle from my grip.
He begins pumping the anchor with slow, effortless strokes, the water gushing anew as I lean down to wash the sweet stickiness of the halwa from my hands and face.
By the time we return to the seating area, the fierce afternoon glare has completely melted away. The vast desert sky has turned into a breathtaking, bruised twilight—deep gradients of violet, burnt orange, and indigo stretching over the jagged silhouette of the mountains.
Hamza steps out of his heavy leather combat boots, leaving them by the dirt edge, and unceremoniously lies down across the woven threads of the charpai. He reaches up, unpinning the gold chains and unwrapping the heavy white chieftain turban, setting the cloth aside to finally let his long, dark hair fall free and loose over his shoulders.
I drop down onto the edge of the frame right beside his reclining form, pulling out my phone to illuminate the screen. “Oye? Yahan sone aaye ho? Abhi das ghante lagenge wapas Clifton jaane mein.” I tap the digital clock display. “Abhi paanch baj rahe hain.”
["Hey? Did you come here to sleep? It's going to take ten hours to get back to Clifton. It's already five o'clock."]
“Neend aa rahi hai...”
["I'm feeling sleepy..."]
Hamza murmurs against the woven surface of the charpoi. He sits up just long enough to peel off his heavy black jacket, followed by the tailored waistcoat. He drops them to the edge of the frame, settling back down in just his thin, fluid black kurta.
Fuck off. He’s not hot.
My internal processor glitches violently as I look down at him. He isn't hot. That’s just... the dark fabric clinging to the broad expanse of his chest. And the dull, heavy gleam of his silver jewelry resting against his collarbones.
I snap my attention back to my phone, “Gale tak khaya hai, neend toh aayegi hi.”
["You've eaten up to your throat, of course you'll feel sleepy."]
But he's already closing his dark eyes, his long eyelashes casting shadows against his cheekbones as he completely tunes me out.
“Hamza.” No answer. I nudge his shoulder with my foot. “Utho.” Nothing. I lean over his reclining form. “Tumhare zevar chura lungi.”
["Wake up. Wake up. I'll steal your jewelry."]
Still, absolute silence. Losing my patience, I reach down and aggressively grab the stiff fabric of his kurta collar, shaking him back and forth. “Utho! Utho!”
["Wake up! Wake up!"]
“Kya hogaya bhai ko—”
Before I can even register the blur of motion, Rizwan materializes out of absolute thin air. He drops to his knees beside the charpoi with a look of sheer, panicked determination, as if he has been waiting for this exact medical emergency his entire adult life.
Without a single second of hesitation, Rizwan locks his hands together, slams them onto Hamza’s chest, and starts violently pumping down. “Bhai, sans lo—”
["Brother, breathe—"]
My eyes go completely wide, my hands flying up in a frantic wave of panic. “Arey mara nahi hai woh—”
["Hey, he isn't dead—"]
Hatt saale—”
The "corpse" suddenly reanimates with terrifying velocity. Hamza’s eyes fly open, and his large hands shoot upward, violently grabbing Rizwan by the shoulders and shoving him entirely off his face and chest.
Rizwan stumbles backward onto the dirt, completely unbothered, while Hamza slowly hoists himself up onto his elbows. He glares between his over-eager bodyguard and me, his chest heaving under the black kurta as he lets out a deeply irritated, exhausted growl.
“Tum dono mujhe chain se jeene nahi doge.”
["You two won't ever let me live in peace."]
I let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “CPR zaruri tha?”
["Was CPR really necessary?"]
“Maine kabhi bhai ko sote hue nahi dekha,” Rizwan answers instantly. To a man who has watched Hamza rule the Karachi underworld without ever blinking, a closed pair of eyes is a medical emergency. Valid reaction.
["I have never seen Brother sleep."]
Hamza shakes his head, running a large hand through his long, newly freed hair to clear the dust. “Ek baar mujhse toh pooch leta main zinda hoon ya nahi?”
["You could have at least asked me if I'm alive or not?"]
“Arey par sach mein mar gaye t—” Rizwan starts to defend himself.
["But you really could have died—"]
I let out a sharp groan, cutting through the bickering. “Chup ho jao! Dekho, Clifton jaane mein das ghante lagenge. Aur fir aap dono ko Lyari bhi jana hai. Waise hi der hogayi hai, aadhi raat ko pohonchenge.”
["Shut up! Look, it will take ten hours to get to Clifton. And then you both have to go to Lyari as well. It's already late, we'll arrive at midnight."]
“Aap chahen toh main aapko ghar chhor deta hoon,” Rizwan offers smoothly, completely sidelining his boss to accommodate the lady.
["If you want, I can drop you home."]
“Haan, main aur baaki ke log paidal aayenge na?” Hamza clocks him instantly. ["Right, and the rest of us will walk back, will we?"]
“Dusri gaadi khadi hai—” Rizwan notes casually, lifting a hand to point toward the perimeter where Hamza’s fleet of four straight, heavily armored black SUVs are parked.
["The other car is standing right there—"]
Hamza slowly shakes his head, turning his full attention back to me. He slides closer across the woven threads of the charpoi, leaning his head in until our shoulders are almost brushing. “Itni jaldi kyun hai aapko?” he whispers, “Kisi ka appointment hai?”
["Why are you in such a hurry? Do you have an appointment with someone?"]
“Nahi,” I whisper back, leaning into the tight huddle, keeping my voice just as low. “Lekin main thak gayi hoon. Aur mujhe AC ke bina neend nahi aati.”
["No, but I'm tired. And I can't sleep without AC."]
Suddenly, a third head drops into the huddle. Rizwan leans all the way in. “Aapko takleef nahi hogi, safar mein AC on rahega.”
["You won't have any trouble, the AC will stay on during the journey."]
Hamza ignores his bodyguard's input, “Thodi der aur ruk jaate hain. Jab khursheed pura dhal jayega tab nikalenge. Open roof mein, aapko toh achcha lagta hai na long drive?” he whispers, his voice carrying a rare, quiet softness.
["Let's stay a little longer. We'll leave when the sun has completely set. In the open roof—you like long drives, don't you?"]
I blink, looking between Hamza’s hyper-focused eyes and Rizwan’s deeply serious expression, “Woh sab toh theek hai lekin hum aise kyun baat kar rahe hain?” I whisper aloud to the circle.
["That's all fine, but why are we talking like this?"]
The spell instantly breaks.
We all simultaneously lean back, clearing our throats in unison and shifting our eyes away toward the fading horizon.
We genuinely lose our brain cells when we're together—a classic teen TIGADA, KAAM BIGADA.
Masterlist.
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And So He Learned the Shape of Her Days, as One Studies a Weapon Before Use
“MUJHE ISS MUKAM tak pahunchane ke liye main Pakistan ka qayamat tak saath dunga!”
["To keep me at this position, I will stand by Pakistan until judgment day!"]
The sea of thousands below goes into an uncontrollable frenzy as my voice roars through the metallic speakers.
A barrage of celebratory gunfire fractures the open air as I raise my fist toward the clouds. Beside me, Nawaz Shafiq steps into the blinding spotlight, grabbing my forearm and hoisting it high into the air.
“Aap sabhi ki badaulat hum PAP se das percent zyada vote ke kabil hue,” Shafiq bellows into his own microphone, “Mera yeh wada hai apni aawam se ki humare CM Jameel Jamali aur unke administrative Hamza Ali Mazari ke saath milkar... Pakistan ko uske urooj tak pahunchane mein safal honge!”
["Because of all of you, we were able to secure ten percent more votes than the PAP. This is my promise to my people, that along with our Chief Minister Jameel Jamali and his administrator Hamza Ali Mazari... we will succeed in taking Pakistan to its absolute zenith!"]
The evening sky over Karachi violently flares with a spectacular network of crackers and deafening fireworks, painting the smog in shades of toxic gold and crimson.
The moment the formal oaths conclude, I turn on my heel and march backstage, my heart rate accelerating for a completely different reason.
I know very well that behind the heavy canvas of the VIP tent, someone is waiting for me.
But the moment I clear the threshold, I am completely bombarded by a chaotic wave of party loyalists, local leaders, and security detail.
Heavy, fragrant marigold flower necklaces are aggressively looped around my neck, and boxes of traditional sweets are shoved into my hands.
Jameel Jamali laughs loudly, clapping a hand against my shoulder. I intercept a passing tray, popping a fresh, hot gulab jamun into my mouth, the sticky sweetness coating my tongue. My eyes drop to the master box in my hand.
I slide the lid shut, tucking it securely under my arm. Someone else in the back room has a far bigger sweet tooth than anyone in this tent.
Outside, the perimeter remains heavily secured by armed guards, the ambient noise of men hugging each other and laughing echoing through the canvas. Through the gap in the flaps, I watch the foot soldiers organizing the massive lines of trucks, lifting heavy green flags and painted banners, preparing the city-wide victory rally.
I pull off the suffocating flower necklaces, toss them onto a plastic chair, and push through the secondary curtain into the quiet, air-conditioned VIP holding room.
She is seated near the far corner, grouped tightly with a few other elite women—likely the high-society wives of the elected ministers.
I halt on the carpet. For a split second, I just watch her. Then, I slowly adjust my posture and step forward, letting the heavy weight of my presence make itself known across the room.
Sanaz looks up from her Samsung screen. The moment her gaze locks onto mine, a genuine, soft smile breaks across her face, and she gracefully stands up to greet me.
She is wearing a deep, rich sap-green kurti, the expensive silk material tailored perfectly to her frame, catching the low light with a subtle sheen along the intricate stone lace work.
Her lips are painted a matte terracotta, and her ears are weighed down by heavy, glittering statement earrings. Even tucked into elegant heels, when she steps into my space, I still have to drop my chin to meet her eyes.
But it’s the center of her face that completely holds my breath. Resting delicately between her arched eyebrows is a tiny, faint stone bindi.
“Mubarak ho,” she whispers, her smooth voice cutting through the distant thrum of the subwoofers outside.
["Congratulations."]
She extends her arms, handing me a beautifully arranged, premium bouquet.
Stargazer lilies.
Well... I didn't expect that. Especially not from her. Especially not in a chaotic green room like this, given to a hardened street weapon like me.
The sheer elegance of the gesture hits me like a physical blow to the ribs. It makes me want to turn into a complete puddle right there on the rug.
I take a slow stabilizing breath, my fingers securely gripping the paper wrapping. “Shukriya.”
["Thank you."]
My voice is rough.
Because dare I actually accept an unprompted pocket of softness like this? I look from the pink petals back to her eyes. “Bohot khoobsurat hai. Lekin aapse thode kam.”
["They're very beautiful. But a little less than you."]
Shut up.
Sanaz lets out a soft scoff, rolling her eyes at my shameless flattery, but a quiet, amused chuckle breaks from her lips anyway. I mirror the laugh, the tension melting from my shoulders.
I lift the bouquet slightly, taking in the deep, exotic fragrance of the Stargazers once more. I know the folklore behind the bloom.
Stargazers. Cultivated for prosperity, meant specifically for the ones who dream exceptionally big and possess the ruthless ambition to achieve it.
“Mithai khao,” I murmur, sliding the lid of the catering box open. I deliberately pluck a soft, milk-soaked piece of rasmalai from the tray and guide it directly toward her lips.
["Have some sweets."]
Sanaz doesn't hesitate.
She parts her lips, taking the rich sweet in a single, clean bite, her warm mouth softly brushing against the pad of my index finger to catch the stray cream in the process.
Haye rabba—
A sharp, electric shockwave hits my spine. My lungs completely lock up as she locks her dark eyes onto mine, holding the stare with a lazy, knowing glint that tells me she is fully aware of the chaos she just caused inside my chest.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. She casually covers her lower face with a delicate hand, her cheeks puffing out slightly as she chews with absolute composure.
“Astagfirullah—”
“Yeh aaj kal ki ladkiyan...”
[“These are the girls of today…”]
The muffled, scandalized whispers of the political wives cut through.
Right.
I completely forgot we aren’t alone.
But there was absolutely nothing wrong with what she did. We have been moving in each other's orbits for a solid month now. I slowly turn my head, casting a cold glare toward the group of aunties and their elite husbands.
Sanaz doesn't even log the tension. She either genuinely didn't notice the social code fracture, or she simply doesn't care about their high-society rules. A quiet, proud smile pulls at my lips.
“Lagta hai aapke ghar ek extra box bhejwana padega,” I tease, closing the lid of the box.
["Looks like I'll have to send an extra box to your house."]
“Bhijwa dijiye, Hamza Sahab,” she retorts smoothly, “Aapke upar zindagi bhar ka ehsaan rahega.”
["Do send it, Mr. Hamza. I'll be indebted to you for the rest of my life."]
I let out a low huff, stepping just a fraction closer into her personal space, dropping my voice into an unreadable whisper so the surrounding ears can't intercept the metrics. “Shipments mein koi takleef toh nahi hui?”
["Any trouble with the shipments?"]
“Mm-hm, nahi,” she murmurs softly, pulling a crisp linen handkerchief from her bag and gently patting the corners of her mouth.
My gaze automatically drops, tracking the movement, completely transfixed by the stain against the white fabric.
She tucks the linen away, looking up through her lashes. “Aapne toh kamal hi kar diya.”
["You performed an absolute miracle."]
“Farz tha,” I say softly as I hand the box of sweets over to her.
["It was my duty."]
I turn my back to her for a split second, masking my face from the room as I casually bring my index finger to my mouth, wiping away the remaining trace of cream right where her warm lips had brushed against my skin.
I don't even know what the hell I'm doing anymore.
“Hamza, bahar sab taiyar hogaye hain, tu kab nikal raha hai?”
Jameel Jamali’s booming, authoritative voice cuts through the ambient whispers as he pushes past the heavy velvet curtains. [“Hamza, everyone is ready outside, when are you leaving?”]
“Abhi. Sanaz bhi aayegi,” I state flatly, adjusting the collar of my jacket.
["Right now. Sanaz is coming along too."]
Jameel halts, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion as his eyes bounce between the two of us. He steps closer into my personal perimeter, his voice dropping into a tense, hurried whisper. “Dhyaan se. Dawood—”
An immediate, sharp chorus of gasps erupts from the surrounding politicians and their wives. The name alone carries enough lethal voltage to short-circuit the entire room.
“...Bade Sahab ki chahiti hai,” Jameel finishes smoothly, leaning in closer to my ear, entirely unbothered by the social panic he just caused. “Main piche waali gaadi mein rahunga Khanani ke saath.”
["She is Dawood's favorite. I'll be in the trailing vehicle with Khanani."]
He pulls back, turning his grandfatherly, political charm directly onto Sanaz. A wide, respectful smile breaks across his face as he greets her with practiced elegance. “Bohot hi honhar bachchi hai, Karachi ke badshah ke liye ekdum kaabil!”
He offers a warm, paternal pat against her shoulder blade. “Achche se jaana, haan?”
["She is a very brilliant girl, absolutely worthy of the King of Karachi! Travel safely, alright?"]
I let out a slow breath, shaking my head in utter disbelief.
First Rizwan, and now the literal Chief Minister of the province is actively trying to pitch me as a suitable match to Dawood Ibrahim's shadow doctor.
The entire leadership of the underground matrix has turned into a matrimonial bureau.
“Fikr matt kijiye, Jameel Sahab. Hamza bilkul mehfooz hai mere saath,” she replies smoothly, her voice carrying an unbothered warmth.
["Don't worry, Mr. Jameel. Hamza is perfectly safe with me."]
Jameel lets out a roaring laugh, thoroughly amused by her confidence. He turns his gaze back toward the frozen crowd of politicians and their wives, finally registering the absolute terror paralyzing their faces.
He waves a dismissive hand, trying to dissolve the tension. “Arey aap sab log chehra kya dekh rahe hain? Fanta peena hai kisiko?”
["Hey, why are you all staring like that? Anyone want a Fanta?"]
“Arey, sharminda kar rahe hain...” [“Hey, you are embarrassing us…”]
“Nahi, nahi, sugar high ho jata hai...” [“No, no, my sugar level goes high…”]
The aunties quickly stammer out polite, frantic excuses, their voices trembling as they desperately try to blend back into the background.
I let out a low huff. “Chalo,” I mutter, extending my open hand toward her.
["Let's go."]
Sanaz quickly reaches for a glass, draining a final sip of water. She turns to gather her long, matching sap-green dupatta from the wooden table, but my fingers get there first.
I take the expensive silk fabric before she can touch it. I drape the green length directly over my own neck, letting the heavy, shimmering stone-work fall squarely over the front of my black jacket and kurta. It looks exactly like a high-ranking political sash.
Sanaz halts, raising a single eyebrow as she looks at her fabric resting against my chest. “Yeh konsi sarkar ka patka hai?”
["Which government's victory sash is this?"]
I look straight into her dark eyes, “Sanaz ki sarkar.”
["The government of Sanaz."]
She doesn't even blush. She just rolls her eyes. “Corny.”
“Rude,” I counter flatly.
I don't remove the green silk. Keeping her colors anchored firmly around my neck.
We march out of the VIP enclosure.
Ahead of us, the lead vehicle is already idling. Jameel Jamali stands tall in the open-roof jeep, the official, heavy dark green and golden political sash draped across his shoulder like a shield of state legitimacy. Seated right beside him is Khanani, the financial ghost of the syndicate.
I guide Sanaz toward my own open-top jeep. Noting the height of her heels against the rugged metal step, I wrap my hand firmly around her waist, smoothly hoisting her up into the passenger seat before she can lose her balance.
I place her bouquet of Stargazer lilies securely in the back, right next to the tactical gear.
I climb up next, stepping onto the floorboard where a heavy, unzipped duffel bag stuffed with stacks of political cash rests against the transmission tunnel.
Rizwan is already behind the wheel, his hand resting within an inch of his sidearm. I slide my dark sunglasses over my eyes, gripping the heavy metal roll bar as I stand at my full height.
“Pakistan?!” a voice roars through a megaphone from the front line.
“Zindabad!” the sea of thousands screams back.
The massive convoy jolts forward, as the crowd begins to march alongside us, waving the green flags of the Muslim Movement Party into the air.
“Jab tak suraj chand rahega—”
The vehicle ahead keeps up the rhythmic, deafening slogans, their speakers pushing the frequencies to the absolute limit.
I drop my gaze from the crowd, looking down at Sanaz. She is sitting perfectly composed amidst the madness, her green silk shimmering under the streetlights.
Reaching into the dashboard socket, I pull out a pair of wired earphones, extending the cord down toward her. “Bore ho rahi ho?”
["Are you getting bored?"]
She accepts the wires, looping them around her fingers as she looks up at me. “Ji bilkul nahi. Bohot achcha lag raha hai.”
["Not at all. It feels very good."]
I let out a low chuckle, the wind whipping past my jacket. I remember every metric of her file. I remember her distinctly telling me in her kitchen that she despises noise and chaos.
“Ab sach bolo,” I say, leaning down slightly so my voice carries over the sirens.
["Now tell the truth."]
Sanaz lets out a soft, defeated sigh, a small, genuine smile breaking through her guarded demeanor. “Yeh naya hai mere liye. Lekin bura nahi.”
["This is new for me. But it's not bad."]
I offer a slow nod, my chest tightening with a strange pride as I straighten up, keeping one hand on the roll bar and the other anchored near her seat.
Through my peripheral vision, I track the movement of her slender fingers as she plugs the jack into her phone and loops the wires over her ears.
Pachchi pindaan da sardar mera yaar ni,
Jitt ke main ohnu ajj dill gayi aan haar ni...
[“The leader of twenty-five villages is my beloved,
Winning him over today, I have lost my heart to him...”]
Up ahead in the lead jeep, Khanani is aggressively waving his hands to the rhythm of the sirens while Jameel Jamali practically dances on the seat. I offer a slow clap from my position.
Reaching down into the open duffel bag at my feet, I grab a massive, thick fistful of local currency and fling it high.
The paper notes rain down over the crowd like green confetti. “Hamza! Hamza!” the front lines cheer, shoving each other to scoop the cash off the asphalt.
Ishq-e-majaaji da taaj sir te paa leya,
Sohna-sunakkha enna, jaan devan vaar ni...
[“I have placed the crown of earthly love upon my head,
He is so handsome, I would lay down my life for him...”]
I reach down again, grabbing another thick stack of notes, and hold them out directly to her. Sanaz hesitates for a split second, her eyes darting from the currency to my face, before she finally accepts the paper.
She raises her arm and tosses the money into the air with a delicate flick of her wrist—looking less like a politician throwing bribes and more like someone gently freeing a white dove into the sky.
Ishq-e-majaaji da taaj sir te paa leya,
Jad vi bulaave sohna, daudi main aavan...
[“I have crowned this earthly love,
Whenever my beautiful one calls, I come running...”]
Suddenly, I feel a sharp, insistent tug at the hem of my kurta. I lean down instantly, following the direction of her finger as she points toward the edge of the barricade. A tiny street kid is leaning over a concrete barrier, aggressively kissing a massive, glossy campaign poster of Jameel Jamali’s face.
Sanaz throws her head back, a sudden, bright burst of laughter escaping her lips as she grabs her forehead in sheer amusement at the absurdity of the political matrix.
I bite my inner lip hard, forcing my own face to remain steady.
It is the first time in four years that I have seen her teeth. The first time she has smiled without a single layer of calculation.
Ni main— (Mera sohna ae yaar)
Ve main dill gayi aan haar...
Ni main— (Mera sohna hathyaar)
[“Oh I— (My beautiful beloved)
Oh I have lost my heart...
Oh I— (My beautiful weapon)”]
Okay, enough. I force my focus back to the streets, continuing to empty the duffel bag, flinging handfuls of cash over the crowd as people scramble and fall to the ground.
I dip my hand into the bag one more time, pulling out a final, heavy stack of notes.
Instead of throwing it straight out, I hold the money over her head, slowly rotating the fistful of cash in a circle around her face—traditional nazar to ward off every evil eye in this corrupt city—before launching the bills into the roaring crowd.
Sanaz freezes.
She stares up at me, her eyes wide, locked onto my face for a long stretch of time. She doesn't utter a single syllable over the music pulsing in her ears. Her expression is a complex, unreadable matrix. Is she confused? Bewildered by my madness?
Or is Dawood's untouchable shadow doctor finally, completely impressed?
Ni main vaari jaavan (Mera sohna ae yaar)
Ni main vaari jaavan (Ve main dill gayi aan haar)
Ni main vaari jaavan (Mera sohna hathyaar)...
[“Oh, I sacrifice myself for him (My beautiful beloved)
Oh, I sacrifice myself (I have lost my heart)
Oh, I sacrifice myself (My beautiful weapon)...”]
Through the dark tint of my lenses, I catch the sudden, sharp hitch in her shoulders. Her head snaps away from me, her index finger quickly tracing the outer corner of her eye.
Wait, what?—
Is she... is she crying?
I instantly drop down from my standing position on the roll bar, sliding roughly onto the vinyl seat directly beside her.
Rizwan’s eyes dart to the rearview mirror, his hands tightening on the steering wheel, but he keeps the jeep moving at a slow, protective crawl.
I reach out, my large hand hovering over her shoulder for a fraction of a second before I gently, firmly force her to face me. I rip the dark sunglasses off my face, tossing them blindly onto the dashboard.
“Sanaz?” I press. “Kya hua?”
["Sanaz? What happened?"]
I lean into her space, my eyes frantically searching her face.
“Kuch nahi. Bas aankhon mein dhul chali gayi thi,” she says softly, her voice carrying a faint tremor despite her efforts to steady it.
["It's nothing. Just some dust got in my eyes."]
She takes a long, stabilizing breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulls the wired earphones from her ears and wraps them around her palm, effectively shutting out the music.
I don't call out the lie. I squeeze the delicate frame under the green silk, anchoring her to the seat. “Main hoon tumhare saath.”
["I'm here with you."]
She doesn't argue. She merely offers a single, quiet nod, her gaze dropping to her lap.
It’s because of my gesture, isn't it? The traditional sadqah, the unprompted warmth in front of a stadium of thousands. In her line of work, surrounding herself with corrupt, self-serving cartel lords like Dawood—she has probably entirely forgotten how it feels to be genuinely taken care of.
To be protected just for the sake of existing.
The unending ride through the labyrinthine streets of Lyari suddenly feels exhausting. I lean forward across the console, “Rizwan. Alam bhai ke dukan par chal. Bohot hogaya aajka.”
["Rizwan. Head over to Brother Alam's shop. That's enough for today."]
Rizwan shifts gears instantly. Our jeep cuts away from the flashing cameras and the roaring trucks, quietly melting into a dark, parallel side street.
I pull my phone from my jacket, speed-dialing the lead vehicle. The moment Jameel Jamali, I cut straight to the chase. “Hum jaa rahe hain, bohot der hogayi hai. Sanaz ko ghar bhi chhorna hai.”
["We're leaving, it's gotten very late. I have to drop Sanaz home too."]
Through the receiver, Jameel lets out a supportive chuckle, the noise of the main convoy bleeding into the background. “Aaram se jaa. Aage main sambhal lunga.”
["Go easy. I'll handle the rest from here."]
I cut the call, dropping the device back into my pocket.
The jeep grinds to a halt along the curb of a dimly lit commercial block. Hanging above the entrance is a weathered, hand-painted sign: Mohammed Alam Juice Shop. The metal shutters are still rolled high, the warm, yellow light of the stall cutting through the night.
He’s still working.
We push the heavy vehicle doors open, and I step onto the pavement first, immediately turning around to offer my hand to Sanaz, ensuring her heels clear the high metal floorboard of the jeep safely.
“Sanaz, Alam bhai,” I introduce softly, nodding toward the elder man behind the counter. “Ek saal tak inke yahan kaam kiya hai maine.”
["Sanaz, this is Brother Alam. I worked at his place for a whole year."]
“Yeh wahi ladka hai jo mixer tod deta tha,” Alam bhai emerges from behind the heavy steel counters, a faded white cotton towel slung casually over his shoulder.
A wide smile splits his face as his eyes track my kurta and the green silk draped over my chest. “Aur ab dekho kaha pohoch gaya. Babbar Sher.”
["This is the exact same boy who used to break the mixers. And now look where he's reached. The Lion."]
A genuine chuckle breaks from my throat as I step forward, enveloping the old man in a tight, respectful embrace. “Aapki dua hai Alam bhai.”
["It's all because of your prayers, Brother Alam."]
Through the corner of my eye, I watch Sanaz. Her expression softens, a slight contemplative smile pulling at the corners of her terracotta lips.
“Aao aao, sab andar baitho,” Alam bhai insists, aggressively gesturing toward the plastic furniture arranged inside the tiled shop.
["Come, come, everyone sit inside."]
We slide into the booth.
Sanaz sits directly beside me, her shoulder lightly brushing mine, while Rizwan slides onto the plastic bench opposite us, his armed posture relaxing slightly against the wall.
The handful of local laborers and late-night patrons who are nursing their drinks immediately stand up out of sheer, terrifying respect for my presence, but I quickly offer a low, placating gesture with my palm, silently signaling for everyone to sit down and continue their night in peace.
The hum of the old refrigerator fills the silence as Alam bhai begins cracking open fresh fruit for the table.
“Zyada takleef toh nahi ho rahi?” Alam bhai questions, his eyes darting anxiously from the fine silk of her kurti to the worn plastic of the booth. “Pankhe highest speed pe kar doon?”
["Is it causing too much discomfort? Should I turn the fan to the highest speed?"]
I cut my gaze sideways, tracking the subtle shifts in her posture. “Theek hoon,” she says softly, her voice steady and entirely devoid of the high-society pretense the old man is expecting.
["I'm fine."]
A small ache pulls behind my ribs at Alam bhai's hesitation. It hurts a fraction that he automatically assumes the power and the status have changed me—that I’d ever look down on or judge the exact four walls where I sweated out a year of my youth.
I’ll never forget this dirt. I’m not entirely sure about her, though. But as I study her profile, there isn’t a single trace of disgust or discomfort on her face. She just looks... resting.
“Achcha kya piyoge tum sab? Alcohol, non-alcohol?” Alam bhai asks, wiping the laminate table down with his towel.
“Non-alcohol,” the three of us answer in a perfect, immediate chorus.
Alam bhai lets out a dry chuckle, nodding approvingly. “Achche bachche.”
["Good kids."]
“Watermelon, pineapple, mango, strawberry aur jamun hai. Ya fir doodhsoda peena hai?”
["We have watermelon, pineapple, mango, strawberry, and java plum. Or do you want milk-soda?"]
“Watermelon,” Rizwan inputs flatly, his arms crossed over his chest as his eyes monitor the street outside.
“Mango,” I answer, leaning back against the booth, my hand still resting.
“Jamun,” she speaks up.
“Badhiya choice,” Alam bhai notes. ["Excellent choice."]
Our eyes collectively track his movements under the harsh hum of the fluorescent bulb. He slices the fresh fruits with speed, tossing the vibrant flesh into the heavy glass blenders along with calibrated scoops of sugar, crushed ice, and filtered water.
Within a few short minutes, the whirring dies down, and he smoothly slides three condensation-heavy glasses onto the laminate table.
He places a thin plastic straw directly into her vibrant purple drink. Sanaz accepts it with a soft murmur, drawing a sip. “Bohot achchi bani hai.”
["It's very well made."]
“Arey waah, aapko bhi pasand aagaya. Dil khush ho gaya,” Alam bhai beams, wiping his hands down with the towel on his shoulder.
["Oh wow, you liked it too. My heart is happy."]
Sanaz offers him a genuine, slight smile.
We drink in a comfortable, unbroken silence, the natural chill of the fresh pulp infinitely more refreshing than any premium packaged beverage. The second her glass hit the table empty, my eyes automatically track her face.
She subconsciously parts her lips, and I notice that the dark, rich juice has left her tongue slightly stained a faint, soft purple.
Cute.
I quickly pull my leather wallet from my jacket pocket, slipping out a few bills. Alam bhai’s hand shoots out instantly, blocking the gesture. “Ab main tujhse paise lunga? Andar rakh ise!”
["Am I going to take money from you now? Put it away!"]
“Mujhe achcha lagega, Alam Bhai,” I counter smoothly, as I slide the paper cash firmly across the laminate surface, right over his fingers. “Jitna hisab tha utna diya, na zyada, na kam.”
["I would prefer it, Brother Alam. I gave exactly what was owed, no more, no less."]
Alam bhai’s eyes narrow for a microscopic fraction of a second. The old asset nods slowly, slipping the bills into his apron pocket. “Firse zarur aana!”
["Do come again!"]
I pull my keys from my pocket, casting a glance toward the driver's side. “Rizwan...”
“Iss baar nahi jaunga,” he cuts in instantly, as he aggressively plants himself behind the steering wheel of the jeep, staring straight through the windshield. “Pehle ghar chalte hain fir inhe chhor kar aana.”
["I won't leave this time. First we go home, then you can drop her off."]
I let out a heavy, defeated sigh, shaking my head at his sheer stubbornness. I offer a low gesture to Sanaz, stepping forward to help her climb into the front passenger seat. Since the three of us had been awkwardly squeezed into the front row like a frantic unit on the way here, I willingly pull open the rear door and slide onto the backseat.
The arrangement is an absolute circus. I am sitting in the dark rear of the open-top jeep, flanked on one side by heavy, oiled assault rifles, spare ammunition crates, and tactical black gear—and flanked on the directly opposite side by a beautifully arranged, fragrant pink bouquet of her Stargazer lilies.
As if this doesn't look awkward as hell as well.
Rizwan shifts gears with a heavy click, and the jeep rumbles to life, navigating out of the commercial alleyway and tracing the path back toward the deep, residential heart of Lyari where my compound stands.
The urban noise has completely died down now. The roads are getting progressively quieter, save for a few stray laborers walking back to their quarters or late-night transport trucks moving silently through the haze.
Then, Sanaz shifts slightly in her seat, turning her head toward the driver's side.
“Aap bhi inke saath politics mein hain?” she questions him.
["Are you in politics with him as well?"]
I pull a fresh Treasure London cigarette from my pack, the spark of my lighter briefly illuminating the dark rear of the chassis before I blow a thick stream of smoke out into the midnight wind.
From this specific, irritating angle in the backseat, the backs of their heads look exactly like two horses stubbornly pulling a chariot while I'm being carted around like baggage.
Okay, enough. I look out at the passing streetlights.
“Ji nahi,” Rizwan answers her, his tone conversational but characteristically tight. “Jaise Jameel Jamali ke right hand hain, waise main inka right hand hoon.”
["No, ma'am. Just like he is Jameel Jamali's right hand, I am his right hand."]
I stare dead at the back of his skull through the smoke. Chutiyapa.
A soft chuckle ripples from the front passenger seat. Of course. Go ahead, everyone just laugh.
“Achcha, bohot purani dosti lagti hai aap dono ki,” Sanaz muses, her voice carrying a light, investigative curiosity.
["I see, you two seem to have a very old friendship."]
“Hmm, yehi kuch gyarah saal se saath hain,” Rizwan inputs casually.
["Hmm, we've been together for about eleven years now."]
My fingers freeze against my cigarette. Wow. He is actively calculating our exact R&AW academy training years in India and weaving it seamlessly into his street alibi without missing a single beat. The man is a machine.
“Oh...” Sanaz responds. The syllable drops heavily, she seems... disappointed? Jealous, even? “Kaafi achchi baat hai. Inhi ke saath kaam karte the?”
["Oh... That's quite a good thing. Did you always work with him?"]
Rizwan shakes his head, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel as he navigates. “Nahi. Pehle Arshad Pappu ki gang mein tha. Use toh jaanti hongi?”
["No. Before this, I was in Arshad Pappu's gang. You must know of him?"]
“Haan, suna hai,” Sanaz pauses, “Wahi Arshad Pappu na, jiske kate hue sar se Uzair Baloch ne football khela t—”
["Yes, I've heard," she pauses, "the same Arshad Pappu whose severed head Uzair Baloch used to play football wi—"]
I violently hack, smoke catching in my windpipe as a harsh cough tears from my chest. How the hell…
I lean forward over the front seats, my eyes wide in absolute, unadulterated shock. “Aapne woh video dekhi hai?” I question.
["You have seen that video?"]
“Mera matlab...” Sanaz’s head snaps toward the window, her cheeks visibly flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson under the streetlights as she realizes she just broke character. “Woh video kaafi viral hua tha. Aap keh sakte hain curiosity killed the cat.”
["I mean... that video went quite viral. You could say curiosity killed the cat."]
I sink slowly back into the cushions, my mind completely short-circuiting. I am the one who covertly recorded that horrific, classified underworld video for intelligence logs. Rizwan is the one who beat up his own cartel boss to secure our positions.
And this high-society, delicate doctor sitting in my front seat, who claims she hates noise, spent her free time watching Lyari gang-war snuff films on the dark web out of "curiosity."
She is a complete and utter psychopath. And I am completely, deeply in love with her.
Shut up.
“Aap toh bohot hi cool nikli, doctor sahiba,” Rizwan says, as he eyes her through the rearview mirror.
["You turned out to be quite cool, Doctor."]
Sanaz offers a calm nod, her gaze fixed on the dashboard. “Abhi toh bohot kuch janna baaki hai. Toh kahan the aap?”
["There's still a lot left to know. So, where were you?"]
“Haan, fir Karachi mein Hamza ki hukumat hone lagi aur main inka chahiti ban gaya,” Rizwan continues smoothly.
["Right, so then Hamza's rule began in Karachi, and I became his favorite."]
Sanaz shifts in her seat, looking at him thoroughly. “Arey aap beech ka hissa kha gaye—”
["Hey, you skipped the entire middle part—"]
“Beech ka hissa baad mein sunaunga,” Rizwan retorts with a lazy smirk, completely unbothered.
["I'll tell the middle part later."]
I let out a heavy sigh, blowing a thick cloud of grey smoke. These two... I swear they are going to be the death of me.
“Aapne apne baare mein toh bataya hi nahi?” Rizwan questions back, skillfully turning the interrogation directly onto her.
["You didn't tell anything about yourself?"]
“Hmm, meri family zyada bahar hi rehti hai. Bataya tha maine Hamza ko,” she answers fluidly, dropping the pre-fabricated cover story we mapped out weeks ago. “Mujhe logo ki madad karna achcha lagta hai isliye doctori seekhi. Aur abhi bade sahab ke liye kaam karti hoon.”
["Hmm, my family mostly stays abroad. I told Hamza. I like helping people, that's why I studied medicine. And right now, I work for the big boss."]
Rizwan lets out a dry, knowing huff, glancing at her through his peripheral vision. “Dekhiye aap bhi beech ka hissa kha g—”
["Look at that, you skipped the middle part too—"]
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
Before he can finish the syllable, I reach down, grab the heavy, oiled barrel of the assault rifle resting beside the lilies, lean halfway out the open window, and fire a deafening three-round burst straight into the dark alleyway.
Both of them flinch violently in the front seats as the hot, spent brass casings clatter loudly against the metal floorboard. In the distance, a pack of stray Lyari street dogs begins to bark frantically in panic.
I pull myself back inside, leaning my forearms directly over the headrests, sliding my face right into the space between them. My eyes are narrowed.
“Aaj hi saari baat karega?” I growl directly into Rizwan’s ear. I gesture sharply toward the dark road behind us. “Utar ja, ghar peeche reh gaya.”
["Are you going to talk about everything today? Get out, you drove right past the house."]
Rizwan kills the engine just enough to throw the door open, stepping out into the dark street with an aggressive, irritated sigh.
“Toh seedhe muh bol nahi sakta tha?” he shoots back. “Yeh aatankwadi waali harqat karne ki kya zarurat thi? Kutton ko pareshan kar diya.”
["So you couldn't just say it directly? What was the need for this terrorist-like stunt? You've troubled the dogs."]
“Zyada zuban mat chala,” I snap, sliding over the backseat leather.
I reach down, carefully picking up the delicate arrangement of pink Stargazer lilies from the floorboard, and shove the paper wrapping directly into his chest before crushing the glowing ember of my cigarette against the metal frame. “Iise vase mein rakh dena paani ke saath. Jaldi hi lautunga.”
["Don't wag your tongue too much. Put this in a vase with some water. I'll be back soon."]
Rizwan catches the bouquet with a dry hum. He looks at me, his eyes deadpan behind his lenses. “Intezar karunga.”
["I'll be waiting."]
I glance at Sanaz through the rearview.
She is tracking the entire exchange from the passenger seat, her dark eyes wide and fixed on the two of us as if she is watching a slow-burn, high-stakes movie about two tragic souls yearning for each other’s survival.
With the intense, dramatic way Rizwan and I handle our goodbyes, it honestly wouldn't surprise me if that's exactly what it looks like to an outsider.
He turns on his heel, marching toward the heavily reinforced iron gates of the compound. I remain still, tracking his silhouette through the shadows until the heavy front door clicks shut, securing him inside. Only then do I smoothly slide over the center console, dropping straight into the warm leather of the driver's seat.
I shift into gear, the engine roaring back to life as I pull the jeep away from the compound, charting a direct path out of the Lyari grid toward the coastal silence of Old Clifton.
“Beech ka hissa janne ki bohot dilchaspi hai aapko, huh?” I question her smoothly, casting a sidelong glance toward her profile.
["You're very interested in knowing the middle part, huh?"]
Through the dim, amber glow of the passing streetlights, I catch the sudden, telltale tension in her shoulders. Her matte lips part slightly as she looks away toward the dark window, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson as she gets thoroughly embarrassed all over again.
Sanaz clears her throat softly, “Ab jab hum itne kareeb aa gaye hain toh... Aap bata sakte hain.”
["Now that we've gotten this close... You can tell me."]
“Kitne kareeb, Sanaz?” I question her, my voice dropping low.
["How close, Sanaz?"]
I force her to face the reality of the space we are occupying. I want her to look me in the eye and define the exact parameters of this proximity, to tell me if she is still just a shadow moving through my empire, or if the gravity of my world has finally pulled her too deep to ever cross back.
“Jitna kareeb aapne mera dupatta pehna hai,” she murmurs, her gaze fixed on the shimmering green silk anchored around my neck. “Itne kareeb jab aapne apne ungaliyon ko chuma jaha mere labon ne chhua.”
["As close as you have worn my dupatta... As close as when you kissed your fingers where my lips had touched."]
Oh.
Damn.
The breath catches in my throat. She saw. She saw every single erratic, desperate impulse I thought I was keeping buried under the mask of the administrator.
I keep my eyes on the road, but my voice is barely a whisper. “Aap ki nazar bohot tez hai.”
["Your eyesight is very sharp."]
She offers a slow, dangerous smile, the dim moonlight catching the faint stone bindi between her brows. “Ji nahi, bas khaas cheeze dhundh leti hain.”
["Not at all, I just find the special things."]
The facade is gone. I stop playing the game, and for the first time, I give her the truth—or at least, the version of it that I want her to carry into her files.
“Khandan Baloch United Army mein tha,” I begin. “Sahid ho gaye. Bade bhai ne bandook chalani sikhayi thi. Fir Rehman ki gang mein join hogaya.”
["My family was in the Baloch United Army. They were martyred. My older brother taught me how to fire a gun. Then I joined Rehman's gang."]
We cross the threshold into Clifton, the sprawling, manicured boulevards of the elite district rising to meet us.
“Saalon tak kaam kiya. Lekin SP Chaudhary Aslam ne encounter mein maar diya. Nahi bacha paya. Uzair ko bhi jail ho gayi Arshad Pappu ko maarne ke zurm mein. Toh mujhe hi dhandha sambhalna pada.”
["I worked for years. But SP Chaudhary Aslam killed them in an encounter. I couldn't save them. Uzair also went to jail for the crime of killing Arshad Pappu. So, I had to take over the business."]
I cast a glance toward her.
“Mera Dawood se milne ka koi plan nahi tha,” she replies, “In fact, mere maa baap mujhe Dubai bula rahe the. Lekin ek din Iqbal bhai ki beti se mili hospital mein. Aur bas wahin se...”
["I had no plan to meet Dawood. In fact, my parents were calling me to Dubai. But one day, I met Iqbal Bhai's daughter in the hospital. And just from there..."]
“Lagta hai Iqbal bhai humein milane ka ek zariya hain.”
["Seems like Iqbal Bhai is the medium that brought us together."]
“Beshak,” she chuckles. ["Undoubtedly."]
A few minutes later, the jeep glides to a final stop in front of the vintage stone house by the ocean.
“Shukriya aaj ke din ke liye,” she murmurs softly. ["Thank you for today."]
I reach out, my hand moving to open the passenger door for her, but she anticipates the motion and pushes it open herself. A sudden, sharp yelp cuts through the quiet air. Instantly, my reflexes kick in. I lung forward, grabbing her hand before she can lose her footing entirely. “Aaram se. Theek ho?”
["Easy. Are you alright?"]
She doesn't look at me. Her brows are tightly furrowed, her dark eyes tracking down toward her foot. Did she twist her ankle because of those ridiculous heels?
“Main chali jaungi,” she insists, her tone sharpening as she attempts to pull her hand back and place weight on her foot.
["I'll go on my own."]
“Nahi. Andhera hai,” I flatly counter.
["No. It's dark."]
I don't waste time debating. I step out of the jeep, my movements swift and fluid. Before she can log my trajectory, I slip one large, heavy palm securely against the small of her back and slide my other arm directly under her knees.
Sanaz lets out a sharp gasp, her face instantly turning embarrassed as I hoist her effortlessly into the air. “Iski zarurat nahi thi...” she mutters, her voice sounding thoroughly grumpy and defensive.
["There was no need for this..."]
“Kaise nahi thi? Tumhare pair mein chhot hai,” I reason calmly, stepping over the gravel pathway toward her front porch.
["How was there no need? Your foot is injured."]
“Par main apahij nahi bangayi,” she snaps back. ["But I haven't become disabled."]
I don't offer a response. I simply carry her up the stone steps, entirely unbothered by her resistance. When we reach the heavy wooden door, she lets out a defeated sigh, reaching into her purse to pull out her keys.
She drops them into my open palm, and I smoothly unlock the deadbolt with one hand, pushing the door open into the dark, quiet hallway.
I step inside the threshold, casually kicking off my leather oxfords without breaking my stride.
“Mujhe pakdo,” I command in a low, quiet murmur.
["Hold onto me."]
She hesitates for a fraction of a second before her arms slowly rise, looping tightly around my neck. She pulls herself close—so close that her warm, soft breath brushes directly against the skin of my throat.
I carefully lower her weight onto the edge of the entry bench, but I don't let go completely. Keeping my posture low, I slide my hand down the smooth line of her ankle, my fingers wrapping around the strap of her shoe. I smoothly pull the footwear off.
Maximum four inches. Size four as well. Mmm.
I guide us deeper into the interior of the house, the soft click of the lock echoing in the stillness. Reaching out, I flip the switch on the floor lamp beside the plush sofa, filling the living room with a warm, amber glow that chases away the shadows of the Karachi night.
I carefully help her slide onto the cushions.
“Barf hai? Dawai—”
“Hamza... Main theek hoon,” she cuts in softly, her slender fingers reaching out to lightly press against my forearm, stopping me before I can head toward the kitchen.
["Is there ice? Medicine—"]
["Hamza... I'm fine."]
“Pakka? Jhooth toh nahi bol rahi?” I press, dropping down on one knee onto the hardwood floor.
["Are you sure? You're not lying?"]
I carefully cradle her bare foot in my palms, my thumb tracing the delicate curve of her skin as I examine the ankle under the lamp.
“Arey ruko, kya kar rahe ho—” she murmurs, her posture stiffening slightly.
["Hey wait, what are you doing—"]
I don't find any visible redness or swelling along the joints. Satisfied, I lift my gaze to meet hers. “Tumhe sharmane ki koi zarurat nahi hai. Mai bas tumhara khayal rakh raha hoon.”
["There is no need for you to be shy. I'm just taking care of you."]
She offers a quiet nod, but her defenses spark just enough for her to gently, deliberately slip her foot out of my hands. I don't pull back. Instead, I lean deeper into her personal space, my hand rising to run smoothly through the dark strands of her hair.
I lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly against her forehead.
“Balochistan aana chahogi?” I whisper against her skin.
["Would you like to come to Balochistan?"]
“Mhm,” she breathes out, her eyelids fluttering, growing visibly heavy and sleepy. She offers a slow nod.
A quiet smile breaks across my face. “Neend aa rahi hai?”
["Are you feeling sleepy?"]
Without waiting for an answer, I slide my arms back under her frame, hoisting her effortlessly into my chest once more. I march up the staircase, the wooden steps creaking softly under my weight. I guide us into her dark bedroom, stepping up to the mattress and gently lowering her onto the sheets.
I linger over her for a second too long, my shadow falling across her face. Suddenly, her eyes blink open, a sharp, frantic clarity cutting through her drowsiness. “Hamza, nahi—” she whispers, her hands instantly rising to push against my chest, pulling her body back.
["Hamza, no—"]
Wait, did she really think I would...?
The realization stings, but I instantly check my ego, letting my hands drop away from her to eliminate any threat. “Jaan,” I say softly, wrapping my fingers around her hand, squeezing it with absolute sincerity. “Tum mehfooz ho.”
["My life... you are safe."]
Reaching across the mattress, I grab the plush tiger teddy bear from the pillows and tuck it securely against her chest. Sanaz doesn't argue; her arms instinctively wrap around the toy, pulling it close as she sinks back into the pillows.
I straighten up, preparing to slip back, but her sleepy voice catches me at the edge of the bed. “Dupatta bhi rakhne ka khayal hai?”
["Do you plan on keeping my dupatta too?"]
A low chuckle breaks from my throat. I look down at my chest, realizing her sap-green silk is still draped tightly around my neck like a victory banner. I untangle the fabric, tossing the green length over the adjacent vanity table before reaching up to draw her heavy bed curtains closed, sealing her into the darkness.
I move silently down the stairs. I slide my feet back into my leather oxfords, engage the heavy locks on the front door from the inside. Navigating to the side window, I slip through the frame into the cool coastal air, carefully sliding the glass pane shut behind me until the lock clicks into place.
I stride back to the idling jeep.
I pull out my encrypted, state-issued device, anchoring it to the dashboard mount. My thumbs move across the black glass with rapid, practiced precision, bypassing three layers of biometric firewalls before opening the direct, untraceable uplink to my handler, Bansal.
I finish the transmission, hitting the encrypted send command. The interface blinks once, compressing the packet before the final, classified summary lines glow sharply against the dark screen:
TARGET PROFILE UPDATE:
Sanaz Siddiqui — Dawood's personal physician — emotional volatility detected. Psychological attachment forming. High probability she could become a structural liability to the syndicate.
I slide the device back into my inner pocket, my eyes fixing firmly on the empty, DARK HIGHWAY AHEAD.
Masterlist.
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