I have attempted to keep it vague since I myself get extremely shy and nervous, and almost guilty? whenever I write something implying lovemaking, or smut.
And this is also my first EVER remotely spicy fic, itna spice meine gunaah mein bhi ni likha hai abhi tak.
So! Please bear with me, and enjoy my interpretation of our beloved Hamza Ali Mazari.
SORRY if this is not up to the standards!!!
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Hamza is an angel. He definitely values his partner and would make them feel so loved. He’d probably focus on cleaning them up before himself, perhaps through a nice relaxing, warm bath for both of you, and whisper sweet praise in their ear afterwards, of how well you did.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Hamza is definitely a sucker for thighs, and the waist area, for some inexplicable reason. I think he’d love watching his wifey wear like a waist chain over that delicate skin.
He’d also love anything that would highlight the size difference between them, perhaps you’re even smaller than his hands.
And perhaps even you love his hands, especially cause they’re so big and thick, and when he would very methodically twirl his gun, with that ease, it would make you wonder what else those hands could do.
As for himself, he is probably most proud of his biceps. My guy is so bulked up that his kurtas threaten to tear at the sleeves, he’s probably really proud of them, and how he’s able to so casually pick up his wifey with them, or smush your face between them, or even let you grip them when they’re having a particularly intense session.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Hamza isint obsessed with cum, atleast not in the immature way most men are.
He won’t find satisfaction in releasing over his partners face and stuff, since that seems too condescending and degrading for him.
He’s definitely into releasing onto their stomach, or even inside them, when they’re planning for a baby.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
I think Hamza secretly likes his partner being in control sometimes, don’t get me wrong, he’s defoooo a gentle dom, but once in a while i think he’d enjoy his partner taking charge, that soft inner jassi in him that craves for attention healing alongside it.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Hamza is definitely not experienced in the sense he has not had previous partners before his wife.
Since Jassi probably never had a girlfriend, but, as we know Hamza is someone who does everything with precision and planning.
He’s very focused and whatever he does, he does it with perfection.
Hence, i believe my guy knows his way around, and the little tips and tricks, plus he’d probably learn the nuances over time.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
I think hamza enjoys making sure that his partner is satisfied too, and lovesss seeing how he’s affecting her, so he’d defo be into missionary.
Spooning is a close second, especially when he craves comfort, cause that way he’s literally in direct contact, with his chest against her back, and he can bury his face in her neck, tease her skin with his beard.
Now whether the spooning be with them lying down, or you on his lap, with your back against his chest. Mm.
When hamza feels particularly spicy or rough though, it would be hips/ass up, face down. Not a regular, but definitely when the mood is particularly hot.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Hamza was not cold or detached,
but deeply focused on your pleasure, on how you responded to every touch.
He doesn’t joke during intimacy, but he definitely teases you with playful filthy praise or just banter (when you’d tease him and call him weak, just to aggravate him). But overall he’s more into intense eye contact, slow kisses between thrusts, and that quiet growls of satisfaction whenever you made sounds for him.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
SKIP!
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
During the moment, Hamza is quiet but deeply romantic in his own way.
No grand declarations, because didn’t need them. Instead, it showed through touch like, he would slowly caress your cheek while making love.
He’d also be the guy to volunteer his hand to grip onto incase it’s too much for you, and wouldn’t complain even once, if you ever used his back like a canvas with your nails.
He’s just pull you into his chest and wrap both arms around you tightly, afterwards.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Hamza is definitely disciplined, so he’s not the reckless type, if you get what i mean.
He didn’t really do it often, not with you around, at least. But when he was alone, perhaps when you’re out shopping, or busy, and he discovered a particularly spicy photo of you, he’d think of you while doing it, imagining your hands on him, in the bathroom during a long shower or late at night after a long day.
He wouldn’t imagine any wild fantasies, he’d just remember how you looked beneath him, the sound of your voice, perhaps an audio clip if we’re talking D2 Hamza, a spicy photograph? that was enough to get him hard.*
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Hamza is into a few things, limited but not zero.
He’d absolutely LOVE overstimulation, if that is a kink, he would loveeeeee making you gasp and squirm under his touch, and he’d keep on going and going until your crying out his name.
Of course he knows your limits and always has safe words, but he’d definitely enjoy teasing.
Which leads me to the second, denial.
He’d be into teasing you endlessly, and
then denying you the release right at the edge, only to hear you whine helplessly.
He’s also into light impact, not that serious, hurtful kind. The gentle, once again, soft way, wherein he’d playfully spank you when you tease, or try to defy him, or do something without his permission, and his gentle dom would take over. (Perhaps closing your legs when the overstim gets too intense, resulting in a soft tap against your backside?)
He’s not a very vocal man, but he’d definitely whisper sweet, filthy praise into your ears. Calling you his, urdu equivalent of “good girl”, in that deep voice, which he knows will affect you.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Hamza values comfort, he’s not one to enjoy something uncomfortable for him and you.
The bed is his trusty partner, considering his size and weight, he’d probably break the chair and shi.
He’d also LOVE a good steamy shower, and then getting all lovey dovey, as it’s his space to unwind and relax.
If he’s feeling really freaky, maybe even the dining table. 👀. It’s totally imaginable, D2 Hamza, in his big ahh home, with his wifey on da table like dessert.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
I’ve read this somewhere before and I’ll repeat it. Hamza LOVES lingerie.
Hear me out, consider his impeccable fashion sense and those swaggy accessories. My guy loves a good visual.
So… seeing his wifey, in a particular set he specifically picked out himself, or if it’s of his favourite color, possibly black lmao. Mmmmm.
I think that silent, teasing look Hamza gives, like the one he gave to Yalina at the club, or the one when he pulled her onto his lap.
When that look is activated, you know Hamza is in the mood.
And it usually is triggered when you’re purposefully teasing him, maybe wearing his clothes, his huge shirts.
Jealousy doesn’t really trigger him as much, but he definitely is protective.
Protective > possessive, but, when he catches you getting way too friendly with a guy (on purpose to tease him), he will give you EXACTLY what you want that night, just enough to remind you that you’re HIS wifey 😡😉
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Much like popular belief, Hamza is NOT into ropes, i think it’s called bondage?
Yes, he is a gentle dom, yes he enjoys control.
But for a second, let’s remember the Jassi underneath the surface, the guy who has been both his sisters be violated in horrible ways.
The way his heart must’ve broken when he saw Jasleen in that room?
I don’t think, after that trauma, he’s ever going to be able to put his partner in ropes and handcuffs and stuff, even if he knows he’s not hurting her.
Also, contrary to popular belief.
Once again i LOVE reading dark hamza fics, i really do, it’s interesting to see people interpret Hamza in that way.
But IMO, Hamza is NOT into degradation.
He is NOT into calling his partner filthy, disgusting slurs. My guy is so respectful, I DO NOT think he will act that way with the person he loves, and neither is it arousing for him.
Cause once again, there’s that disciplined almost fauji jassi inside him, that would never disrespect a woman.
In the movie too, even as Yalina begged Hamza to kill her, Hamza didn’t even let her grab the gun, and lowered himself onto the floor beside her.
THATS A GENTLEMAN RIGHT THERE! Not a guy who’d enjoy calling his wifey “whore” and stuff.
Also If his wifey hesitates even slightly, his hands still immediately. No frustration, no questions, no pushing.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
HAMZA IS THE BIGGEST GIVER.
I mean buddy practically sacrificed his families and his whole life for the nation-
But other than that, he definitely LOVESSSSS giving, and he’d be very, very good at it. I mean we have established he loves drinking milk straight from the bottle so… (factory scene reference, anyone?)
Also, I don’t think Hamza enjoys his wifey being on her knees to give him pleasure. I really don’t think he enjoys positions wherein she feels inferior, even though he enjoys control and dominance, it would be when both of them feel equal.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Hamza is definitely a slow and sensual guy, I mean after a long day of stress and work, he’d want to come home to you.
But once again, I don’t think he’s the type to go all ROUGH on his wifey, just to take out his frustration, because as we know he’s a very disciplined man.
He’d enjoy longgggg, slow, lazy sessions.
He’d rarely enjoy a rough session IMO, maybe after an argument? You know, the angry kind after a fight, the makeup/patchup lovemaking kind?
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Hmm. This is interesting, because I don’t think Hamza is THAT into it, because I mean, when DOES he get the time to be honest.
And when he does, im sure my guy wants to take his time, because he’s never rash or impulsive.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Hamza would defo be open to anything you would want to experiment with, but I don’t really think he’s THAT into risk.
He wouldn’t do anything that would harm his, and your self respect.
(Whether you imagine yourself in a Hamza x SPY AU <like Anu in my book gunaah> or even if as someone like Yalina)
Although one thing on my mind, and that I have seen in other posts is, THE CHAIR.
OH BOY. Hamza would DEFINITELY, atleast once, when the whole warehouse is practically empty, pull you onto his lap, whilst sitting on that throne.
Maybe he’d even place you down, as his unoffical queen of lyari, and well… have his dinner, or dessert.
Cue False God by Taylor Swift
(The altar is my hips 🎶)
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Is this even a question?
It takes one glance at Hamza to know that man can go on until you’re crying, (although he’d never hurt you) and he’d still not be exhausted.
What else he gonna use those biceps for?? ;)
He’d probably hold you up in the shower, your legs wrapped around his waist, and he could be in that position, way longer than you’d be able to, EVEN IF, HES THE ONE holding you.
My guy got stabbed like thrice in that Iqbal-Hamza fight sequence, got violated by Omar, and still he managed to walk.
Like that man’s endurance is crazy, and m sure it would shine in lovemaking too.
3 is the minimum for him, probably.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Hamza does NOT use toys.
That little, tiny possessive flare in him would light up if he finds out you’re pleasuring yourself without his presence, let along with some random plastic toy.
He would want to be the one who makes you feel good, and he’d always be more than happy to do so.
But he’d never, ever like you using toys, he even himself wouldn’t use toys on you cause he believes he’s self sufficient, and frankly you have to agree on that.
You’d probably buy and use them, when he’s away, doing sher e Baloch duties, but the second he catches you using it without him, or his permission. Uhuh. He gon teach you a lesson that night.. and remind you whether he can make you feel better, or a piece of plastic
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
As established, Hamza is a tease, I mean the look buddy gave to Yalina when she pointed the gun at him-
GOODBYE.
I swear Hamza was NOT thinking holy at that specific moment.
He LOVESSSSS teasing, like I said, through both denial as well as overstim. ;)
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Hamza is NOT loud in my opinion.
He rarely speaks I mean, and when he does it’s so low and gruff, and that’s already so attractive.
He’d probably reassure his partner by like I said, praise, whispered into the ear.
Maybe one time you’d be worried you’re doing something wrong when he’s not making any noise, and he’d reassure you with his words, calling you his “perfect angel” as he’d convince you to go on.
That’s how quiet he is.
BUT BUT BUT, he DEFINITELY groans.
Growls (when he’s feeling feisty, similar to the one in that factory scene when he activates his inner batman), Groans (1000000%), those deep HMMMMMMMS.
He would NOT straight up moan or go like FUHHHHHHHHHKKKKK BABEEEEEEEEE 😭
He’d probably be like, oh fk….
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
IDK MAN M TOO SHY TO WRITE SMUTTTTTT AAAAA
BUT ONE IDEA THAT WILL COME UP IN GUNAAH SOON, you’ll find out.
Hamza giving his wifey a Payal, an anklet, so that whenever she walks around in the house he knows exactly where she is, and also so that it jingles when they-
OKAY. Bye.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
I mean.
I don’t want to be disgusting since the character is portrayed by a real life human, and the rest of the things were entirely fictional based, on the basis of my assessment for Hamza.
And I really admire and respect ranveer singh.
Hence I’d skip this.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
My guy LOVES his wifey, but he’s not horny all the time. He’s not ADDICTED, but I think he’d enjoy it every once in a while, it’s what keeps him human throughout all that work I mean. Realistically speaking :(
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Oh he’d defo make sure you’re comfortable, clean and cozy, and when you’ve fallen asleep, then only he’d probably let himself succumb to sleep too, holding you tighttt and close.
Also I think Hamza would be a totally baby while sleeping, like his lips pouty probably, his eyebrows furrowed in stress that managed to not escape him even in his sleep haha.
A Hearth of Smokeless Ash (Major Iqbal × Mallika)
~ Part 5 ~
WARNING - The characters are fictional. This content is strictly for 18+ peeps.
This story includes some mythological concepts of religion written with literary liberty. Take fiction as fiction.
I separate the parts of chapter with dividers, don't miss the last part of this chapter ;)
The bunker’s entrance hissed shut behind Iqbal, sealing him in a chamber where the air tasted of recycled steel and artificial chill. Fluorescent tubes stretched overhead in relentless rows, their light a sickly, uniform hum that seemed to vibrate the very fillings in his teeth. The hum was not merely auditory, it pressed against his skull, a low‑frequency thrum that made the polished surface of the conference table gleam like a slab of frozen lake.
At the head of the table sat General Yusuf Hasan, his four‑star insignia catching the light and throwing sharp, angular reflections across the polished wood. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, hands clasped tightly before him as if he were holding an invisible sword.
Stone‑faced internal affairs auditors flanked him, their expressions blank, their eyes hidden behind thin lenses that reflected the fluorescents like twin shards of ice. The room smelled of ozone and cold metal, a stark contrast to the salt‑laden, sweat‑soaked air of the Karachi port where the night’s violence had unfolded.
Iqbal stood at the threshold, his boots silent on the anti‑static flooring. The weight of his sidearm, still warm from the night’s discharge, pressed against his thigh. He felt the familiar prickle of heat beneath his skin. He swallowed, the motion tight, and stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Hasan’s unwavering stare.
‘Major Iqbal,’ Hasan’s voice cut through the hum, low and resonant, each syllable measured like the tick of a chronometer. ‘You are aware that you have just removed a key node from our operational network without any formal sanction.’
Iqbal kept his jaw firm, the muscles in his neck tensing as he fought to keep his voice even. ‘General, the asset Tariq was transmitting a hostile signal. The 108‑meter moving dead zone was active, and the encrypted ghost signal indicated a hostile attempt to mask a van’s true identity.’
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Hasan’s mouth, more a baring of teeth than a smile. ‘You speak of phantom signals, Major. Show me the data. Show me the ghost.’
Iqbal lifted a secure tablet from his vest, the screen flickering to life with a cascade of green glyphs. He pointed to a series of timestamps and frequency spikes. ‘Here, at 0213 hours, the dead zone shifted laterally by twelve meters, consistent with a mobile jammer. The ghost signal appeared at 0217, mimicking the telemetry of a legitimate logistics convoy. The decoy van, KAR‑9, was intercepted at the container yard, its cargo manifest falsified.’
Hasan leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his fingers steepled. ‘And yet you chose to execute a billionaire logistics tycoon on the basis of… what? A hunch? A flicker on a screen?’ His tone sharpened, each word a blade. ‘You have turned a calculated intelligence operation into a sloppy act of paranoia. You have destroyed a state asset that funded half of our covert logistics chain.’
Iqbal felt the heat in his chest flare, a sudden surge that made his breath shallow. He forced his voice to remain level, though the words tasted like iron. ‘General, the signal bore the signature of a foreign electronic warfare unit. The ghost was not a glitch, it was a deliberate spoof. If we had allowed the van to proceed, the jammer would have blinded our grid for a critical window, exposing our troop movements to enemy surveillance.’
One of the auditors, a woman with a tight bun and a face carved from stone, spoke for the first time. ‘Major, your report mentions a “decoy van.” Yet the van’s registration shows no ties to any known front. Explain how you concluded it was a decoy without corroborating human intelligence.’
Iqbal’s eyes flicked to the auditor, then back to Hasan. ‘The van’s transponder was spoofed to broadcast a civilian frequency while its actual payload carried encrypted communications equipment. The mismatch between the broadcast and the physical signature was flagged by our SIGINT analysts.’
Hasan laughed, a short, harsh sound that echoed off the walls. ‘You rely on analysts who sit in air‑conditioned rooms, sipping tea while the world burns. You trust their screens over the word of a man who has moved mountains for our work.’ He paused, letting the silence hang thick. ‘Your actions have not only eliminated Tariq, they have severed the financial lifelines that kept our black budgets flowing. Effective immediately, I am freezing all independent financial channels under your command. All expenditures will now route through the newly formed Oversight Committee, headed by Director Salim Rahman.’
The words struck Iqbal like a physical blow. He felt the familiar tightening in his gut, the sensation of a noose cinching around his throat. ‘General, without those funds we cannot sustain the rapid‑response teams that operate beyond the conventional supply chain. Our ability to react to emergent threats will be compromised.’
Hasan’s gaze hardened, the light catching the scar that ran along his jawline, a reminder of a past battle. ‘Compromised? Or perhaps you will learn to operate within the bounds of discipline. Your “initiative” has become a liability. From this moment, you will report daily to the Committee. Any deviation will be met with immediate suspension and a full forensic audit.’
Iqbal’s jaw locked, the muscles in his face standing out like cords. A surge of anger rose, hot and fierce, threatening to burst through the veneer of control he had cultivated over years of service. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the boardroom table shrinking, the pieces being removed one by one until only a few remained, himself, Hasan, and the cold, calculating eyes of the auditors. The realization struck him with crystal clarity, the board just got smaller.
He inhaled sharply, the cold air burning his lungs, and let the breath out slowly, forcing the fury back into a tight coil. ‘Understood, Sir. I will comply with the new directives.’
His voice was flat, devoid of the fire that simmered beneath, but his eyes never left Hasan’s. The general gave a single, curt nod, the motion as precise as a drill sergeant’s command.
‘Good. Dismissed.’
Iqbal turned, his boots clicking against the floor as he walked toward the bunker’s heavy door. The fluorescent lights continued their indifferent buzz, casting long, stark shadows that stretched behind him like the fingers of some unseen hand reaching to pull him back. As the door sealed shut with a pneumatic sigh, the hum seemed to intensify, resonating in his chest as a reminder that the game had changed, the stakes heightened, and the players left on the board were fewer, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous.
He paused just outside the bunker, leaning against the reinforced concrete wall, feeling the vibrations of the facility through his soles. The night’s heat still lingered in his bones, a reminder that beneath the polished veneer of command lay a primal furnace that could not be quelled by paperwork or oversight. He pressed his palm to the cool surface, feeling the faint tremor of the generators below, and whispered to the empty corridor, the words barely audible over the ever‑present hum:
‘The board just got smaller.’
The heavy steel door of Iqbal’s private inner office sighed shut behind him. Fluorescent strips ran along the ceiling in a sterile grid, their light harsh enough to bleach the color from the walls but soft enough to leave a faint, lingering glare on the polished surface of the desk. The room smelled of recycled air, ozone, and the faint metallic tang of the server racks that lined one wall, rows of blinking LEDs like a constellation of wounded eyes.
Lieutenant Farooq followed, his boots muffled on the anti‑static flooring, his face a mask of professional neutrality that barely concealed the flicker of unease behind his eyes. He carried a slim data slate, its screen dark until he tapped it awake, casting a pale blue glow over his clenched jaw.
Iqbal dropped into the ergonomic chair behind the desk, the leather creaking under his weight. He rested his forearms on the cool surface, fingers splayed as if ready to strike. The heat that had been a low furnace in his chest since the night’s execution now flared, a searing pulse that made the skin on his forearms prickle with sweat despite the bunker’s arctic chill.
‘Report,’ he said, voice low, each syllable edged with a steel that threatened to snap.
Farooq swallowed, his throat working. ‘Sir, the proxy accounts Tariq managed are seizing up. The moment the freeze order hit, the automated settlement scripts began to reject inbound transfers. We’re seeing a cascade failure across three jurisdictions, Dubai, Nairobi, and the Cayman front.’ He tapped the slate, a series of red alerts bloomed across the screen, each one a pulsing dot labeled with a codename, OPERATION SABLE, NIGHT HAWK, IRON SHELF.
Iqbal’s gaze flicked to the monitor. The numbers scrolled in real time, balances dropping to zero, transaction logs filling with error codes, INSUFFICIENT FUNDS, ACCOUNT LOCKED, COMPLIANCE HOLD. A cold dread settled in his gut, not for the loss of money, but for what those funds had bought, weapons, safe houses, bribed border guards, the whispered promises that kept militant cells obedient.
‘Show me the safe houses,’ Iqbal commanded, his tone sharpening.
Farooq brought up a map overlay. The satellite imagery of Karachi’s outskirts flickered, then dimmed as red markers began to blink out one by one. Each marker represented a safe house, a concrete bunker tucked behind a textile warehouse, a renovated garage in Lyari, a seemingly abandoned farmhouse near the Indus delta.
As the funding dried up, the lease payments lapsed, the utility cutoffs triggered, and the security systems defaulted to lockdown. The markers turned from solid red to hollow outlines, then vanished entirely, leaving only the faint ghost of their former positions on the map.
‘We lost twelve locations in the last forty minutes,’ Farooq reported, his voice tight. ‘The crews inside are being told to stand down. No extraction, no resupply. They’re going dark.’
A low growl escaped Iqbal’s throat, more felt than heard. He leaned forward, elbows digging into the desk, knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge. The heat in his chest surged, a molten wave that threatened to breach the veneer of control he had cultivated over years of discipline. He could feel the familiar sting of anger rising, a venomous tide that threatened to drown his reason.
‘And the informants?’ he asked, voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of a blade.
Farooq hesitated, then slid a second screen toward him. It displayed a cascade of encrypted messages, each one flashing in bright green against the black background. The sender tags were coded, INFORMANT‑7, SOURCE‑DELTA, GHOST‑9, but the content was raw, unfiltered panic.
‘Sir,’ one message read, ‘The payment for last month’s intel didn’t clear. My family’s safety is at risk. If you don’t send the funds within 48 hours, I will go to the press.’ Another, more urgent, ‘They’re moving troops to the border. I need the uplink codes now or the operation is compromised.’ A third, trembling with fear, ‘They’ve found my drop point. I’m being followed. Please...’
Iqbal’s eyes narrowed. He could almost hear the desperation in each typed line, the raw fear of men and women who had traded their lives for the promise of payment, who now saw that promise evaporating like mist under a scorching sun.
‘The tracking grid,’ he said, voice dropping to a dangerous low. ‘What’s the status on telemetry?’
Farooq’s fingers flew over the slate. A third display sprang to life, showing a sweeping radar sweep of the Arabian Sea and the coastal hinterland. Green pings, representing drones, signal interceptors, and ground sensors, should have been marching across the screen in steady intervals. Instead, the pings were stuttering, fading, then disappearing altogether in large swaths.
‘The grid’s losing juice, Sir,’ Farooq admitted, his gaze flicking to Iqbal’s face. ‘The power draw from the frozen accounts has tripped the auxiliary generators. We’re running on reserve, the signal degradation is about sixty percent in the western sector. Eastern sector’s holding at thirty, but it’s dropping fast.’
Iqbal felt the room tilt, the fluorescent lights seeming to pulse in time with his hammering heart. The realization struck him like a physical blow, by cutting Tariq’s financial lifelines, he had not only punished a suspected traitor but had also severed the very sinews that fed his own intelligence network. The ISI’s covert tendrils, those hidden threads that stretched across borders, into militant camps, into the murky world of proxy warfare, were now withering from lack of nourishment.
He rose abruptly, the chair scraping backward with a harsh screech that echoed off the concrete walls. His movement was sharp, almost violent, as if he were trying to physically shake off the inertia of his own making.
‘You’ve done well, Lieutenant,’ Iqbal said, each word clipped, the edge of his voice razor‑thin. ‘Keep the monitors live. If any account shows a flicker of activity, flag it immediately. I want to know who’s trying to move money through back channels, whether it’s Tariq’s loyalists or someone else trying to fill the vacuum.’
Farooq nodded, his expression grim. ‘Understood, Sir. I’ll set up alerts for any anomalous transactions and keep the grid on low‑power mode to conserve what’s left. I’ll also have the comms team start scrambling for alternative funding routes, hawala, cryptocurrency, anything off the books.’
Iqbal turned to the wall of servers, his palm flat against the cool metal casing. He could feel the faint vibration of the fans, a reminder that even in this artificial chill, machines still breathed, still consumed. He inhaled deeply, the air sharp and sterile, and let it out slowly, attempting to steady the roiling tempest inside him.
‘You understand why I did this,’ he said, not really asking, more stating a fact that hung between them like a taut wire. ‘Tariq was transmitting a hostile signal. He was a node in a foreign electronic warfare grid. If we’d let that van pass, our entire coastal defense would have been blinded for a critical window. The risk was existential.’
Farooq’s eyes flicked to the floor for a heartbeat before meeting Iqbal’s. ‘Sir, the data we have is compelling, but the method… the execution… it’s unprecedented. We’ve never taken out a civilian logistics magnate without judicial oversight. The political fallout could be… catastrophic.’
A humorless smile twisted Iqbal’s lips. ‘Catastrophic is a luxury we can’t afford when the enemy is already inside the wire. Hasan thinks he can rein me in with committees and oversight. He thinks freezing my budgets will make me docile. He’s wrong.’ His voice dropped, the timbre dropping to a near‑growl. ‘He doesn’t see that the board isn’t just shrinking, it’s being reshaped. Every piece I lose forces me to play tighter, to think sharper. He’s cutting off my queen, but I still have my knights, my bishops, and the ability to sacrifice a pawn to expose his king.’
Farooq swallowed again, the sound audible in the quiet room. ‘And if the king falls?’
Iqbal’s gaze hardened, the fire in his eyes reflecting the dull glow of the monitors. ‘Then we all fall. But I’ll make sure the fall is costly enough that whoever replaces him thinks twice before pulling the same stunt.’ He turned back to the desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Lines of code scrolled across the screen as he initiated a manual override, attempting to reroute power from non‑essential systems to keep the tracking grid alive for just a few more minutes.
The room filled with the soft clack of keys, the occasional beep of a warning, and the low, incessant hum of the bunker’s life support. Outside, the city of Karachi continued to bake under a sun that showed no mercy, its streets shimmering with heat haze, its people moving like ants beneath a magnifying glass. Inside this subterranean chamber, a different kind of heat burned, one forged of betrayal, ambition, and the cold calculus of war.
Iqbal paused, his breath catching as a new alert flashed: UNIDENTIFIED TRANSFER DETECTED – OFFSHORE WALLET – 40 BTC. A flicker of hope, however ignoble, sparked in his chest. Someone was trying to move value through the shadows, perhaps a loyalist, perhaps an opportunist. He leaned in, eyes narrowing.
‘Trace that,’ he commanded, voice barely a whisper but carrying the weight of a death sentence. ‘Find the source. If it’s one of ours, bring them in.’
Farooq’s hands danced over the slate, initiating a chain of commands that sent packets of data bouncing through encrypted tunnels, seeking the origin of the transaction. The seconds stretched, each one feeling like an eternity as the monitor displayed a traceroute hopping across continents, bouncing from a server in Singapore to a relay in Estonia, then to a node tucked inside a VPN exit in Iceland.
A sudden spike appeared on the screen, a bright green point pulsing in the Arabian Sea, just off the coast of Karachi. The coordinates matched a known anchorage used by small fishing vessels, a place where covert transfers often took place under the guise of legitimate cargo.
‘Got it,’ Farooq said, his voice tight with adrenaline. ‘The wallet’s linked to a satellite phone registered to a front company in Dubai, Al‑Rashid Maritime. The last ping came from a vessel called Al‑Bahar, currently loitering three nautical miles out.’
Iqbal’s lips curled into a feral grin. He stood, the chair scraping back once more, and moved to the small armory locker built into the wall. He pulled out a compact sidearm, checking the magazine with practiced ease, then slipped a combat knife into his belt. The weight of the weapons felt familiar, grounding, a reminder that despite the bureaucratic shackles Hasan had attempted to clamp on him, his teeth were still sharp.
Farooq stood as well, his expression a mixture of respect and apprehension. ‘Sir, should I inform the Oversight Committee of this operation?’ he asked cautiously.
Iqbal’s eyes flashed, a spark of something dangerous lighting them. ‘Inform them? No. Let them wonder why their precious freeze didn’t stop the money from moving. Let them scramble to explain why their oversight missed a satellite phone ping in the middle of the sea. We operate in the shadows, Lieutenant. The committee sees only the light they’re allowed to see. We’ll work in the dark where the real game is played.’
He turned toward the door, his silhouette framed by the harsh fluorescents, the light catching the sweat on his brow and the faint tremor in his hand, a tremor not of fear, but of the raw, unfiltered energy that had always driven him. The bunker’s hum seemed to rise in pitch, as if the very walls were acknowledging the shift in power.
As they stepped into the corridor, the heavy door sealed shut behind them with a final, resonant clang. The fluorescent lights continued their indifferent buzz, casting long, stark shadows that stretched ahead like the fingers of some unseen entity waiting to grasp at their heels. Iqbal felt the weight of those shadows, not as a burden, but as a cloak, one that allowed him to move unseen, to strike where the enemy least expected.
The door of the Clifton mansion sighed shut behind Iqbal, the latch clicking with a sound that seemed to echo through the marrow of his bones. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by sconces that threw a wan, amber glow onto the polished marble floor. Each step he took sent a faint tremor through the soles of his boots, the vibrations traveling up his legs and into the molten core that had been building since the bunker’s fluorescent glare.
Mallika stood waiting near the grand staircase, her silhouette framed by the soft light spilling from the chandelier above. Her fell in a smooth cascade over her back till her hips, catching the light and throwing tiny highlights that seemed to dance like fireflies in a night‑less sky. She was dressed in a simple maroon silk robe.
She moved forward with a grace that belied the tension coiled in her shoulders, her eyes locking onto his with a mixture of concern and calculation. Without a word, she reached for the heavy buckles of his ISI gear, her fingers deft and sure as they worked the clasps that had held his armor together through countless operations. The weight of the vest, the plates, the holster, each piece seemed to sigh as it was released, clinking softly against the marble as it fell to the floor.
'Let me help you with that,' she murmured, her voice low, a velvety contrast to the harshness that had followed him from the bunker.
Iqbal allowed his arms to drop, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally as the weight lifted. Mallika guided him to a plush chaise near the window, where a small silver tray waited, condensation beading on the surface of a tall glass filled with a clear, amber liquid, scotch, neat, with a single large ice cube that cracked faintly as it settled.
She poured the drink with a practiced hand, the liquid glinting as it caught the light, then placed the glass in his palm. Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, the coolness of her skin seeping into his, a fleeting whisper of the abyss that lived within her.
'Here,' she said, her tone soft but edged with something sharper, something that had been honed in the quiet rooms of power where sentiment was a liability and realism a weapon. 'Drink. It’ll help to calm you.'
Iqbal lifted the glass, the ice clinking against the glass as he brought it to his lips. The scotch burned a trail down his throat, a familiar sting that seemed, for a heartbeat, to mirror the internal inferno that had been stoked by Hasan’s petty machinations. He swallowed, feeling the liquid spread warmth through his chest, a counterpoint to the icy draft that slipped through the cracks of the mansion’s ancient stones.
'Hasan thinks he can choke me with paperwork,' he began, his voice low, each word edged with a steel that threatened to snap. 'He’s freezing my accounts, locking my cells in a cage of compliance. He thinks a budget cut will make me docile. He’s wrong.'
Mallika watched him, her expression unreadable, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of the chandelier. She took a step closer, the silk of her robe whispering against the floor, and when she spoke, her voice was devoid of poetry, stripped to its bare, calculating essence.
'Look at me,' she said, her tone flat, almost clinical. 'Army Chiefs come and go every three years, Iqbal. The ISI stays. Hasan is terrified of you because he knows you operate in a room he doesn’t have the clearance to enter. He’s squeezing your budget today to prove a point to the defense committee. Let him have his little bureaucratic victory this week. Play the loyal soldier, file the paperwork, and wait. The moment one of your planted cells goes rogue across the border because of his budget cuts, the Prime Minister will be begging you to fix it. Let the crisis he’s creating force his hand.'
Her words landed like a precise strike, each syllable a scalpel cutting through the fog of his fury. Iqbal felt the edges of his mask begin to settle, the raw, snarling beast inside him forced back into the shadows beneath a veneer of composure. He forced his features into a smooth, practiced smile, let his shoulders drop, and took another sip of his drink, the scotch now warm against his tongue.
'You’re right,' he said, the words flowing out with an eerie ease, as if they had been rehearsed a thousand times in the quiet of his mind. 'It’s just politics. I’ll have Farooq file the compliance paperwork in the morning. Let Hasan enjoy his night.'
Mallika nodded, a faint smile touching the corners of her mouth, and turned to retreat toward the kitchen, her steps light on the marble. As she moved away, the soft rustle of her robe faded, and the room seemed to hold its breath.
The moment her silhouette disappeared behind the swinging door of the pantry, the façade Iqbal had so carefully constructed shattered like thin ice under a sudden weight. Inside his chest, the liquid mercury of his rage surged, no longer contained by the fragile dam of civility. It was no longer a fire, it was a searing, pressurized stream of molten metal, each beat of his heart hammering it faster, hotter, more insistent.
The insult from the bunker, the sterile, condescending gaze of General Yusuf Hasan, the way his words had clipped Iqbal’s wings, had mutated. It was no longer a simple affront, it had become a catalyst, a chemical reaction that transformed raw anger into a cold, laser‑focused intent. The heat that had been a diffuse, burning fever now coalesced into a pinpoint of pure, glacial determination. He could feel the edges of his thoughts sharpening, each one honed to a razor’s edge, each plan forming with the clarity of a blade drawn from its sheath.
He would not wait three weeks. He would not allow a bureaucrat to breathe the same air that had once been his to command. The rage that had been a roaring inferno was now a glacier moving inexorably forward, silent, unstoppable, crushing everything in its path.
His eyes, dark and unfathomable, fixed on the empty space where Mallika had stood. A silent vow formed in the depths of his mind, a promise written not in words but in the cold calculus of survival, Hasan would learn, in the most visceral way possible, that the ISI’s reach extended far beyond the confines of his office, that the shadows Iqbal inhabited were not subject to the whims of men who wore stars on their shoulders.
The night had deepened over the secure military cantonment, a sprawling enclave of high walls, concertina wire, and patrols that moved like specters beneath the moon’s pale gaze. General Yusuf Hasan’s residence sat at the heart of this fortified enclave, an austere yet imposing villa of reinforced concrete and bullet‑proof glass, its façade softened only by the meticulously trimmed hedges that lined the driveway. Inside, the air conditioning hummed a steady, low‑frequency thrum, a mechanical lullaby designed to keep the interior at a precise, sterile twenty‑two degrees Celsius, a stark contrast to the blistering heat that besieged the city beyond the walls.
Hasan’s bedroom was a study in austere luxury, a king‑size bed draped in crisp, white Egyptian cotton sheets, a polished mahogany nightstand holding a digital clock that glowed a soft, reassuring green, and a wall‑mounted safe that whispered of classified documents and sidearms. The room was sealed, the heavy wooden door bolted from the inside, a habit born of years of paranoia and the ever‑present knowledge that enemies could wear the uniform of friends.
He had retired early, exhausted from the day’s endless meetings, the weight of his new rank pressing upon his shoulders like a leaden vest. Sleep came quickly, or so he thought, as he drifted into the shallow embrace of unconsciousness, his mind still replaying the day’s exchanges with Iqbal, the veiled threats, the subtle challenges to his authority, the quiet confidence that seemed to radiate from the ISI officer like a low‑grade radiation.
It was in the deepest part of that sleep, when the world had narrowed to the rhythm of his breathing and the faint hiss of the ventilation system, that the first anomaly struck.
The digital clock on his nightstand flickered, its green numbers stuttering as if caught in a sudden gust of wind. The plastic casing, usually inert and unyielding, began to soften at the edges, a faint, almost imperceptible warp spreading across its surface like a heat‑induced mirage. A low, almost subsonic whine emanated from the device, a sound felt more than heard, vibrating through the nightstand and into the floorboards.
Hasan’s eyes snapped open, the sudden jolt of adrenaline flooding his system. He inhaled sharply, and the air that filled his lungs felt not like oxygen but like a searing filament, each breath a rasp of scorched tissue. The temperature in the room, which had been a comfortable twenty‑two degrees, began to climb at a rate that defied physics, degrees per second, then tens, then hundreds.
A wave of heat washed over him, invisible yet palpable, as if the very air had been set ablaze from within. The sheets beneath him began to smoke, the fine fibers of the Egyptian cotton blackening and curling at the edges before disintegrating into a fine, gray ash that drifted upward like the remnants of a burnt prayer. The mattress, a layered construct of foam and springs, gave a soft, protesting creak as the heat penetrated its core, the polyurethane beginning to melt and release a acrid, chemical odor that burned his nostrils.
His skin, still covered by the thin cotton of his pajamas, erupted in a violent cascade of blisters. The heat was not a uniform blaze, it was localized, intense, as if a miniature sun had been ignited at a single point just above his sternum and was radiating outward in concentric waves. Each pulse of heat sent a fresh wave of agony through his nerves, the sensation akin to having his flesh brushed with a branding iron that never cooled.
He tried to cry out, but the oxygen in his throat seemed to boil away, the moisture in his mucous membranes vaporizing instantaneously, leaving his vocal cords raw and useless. A strangled, wheezing gasp escaped his lips, the sound more a rupture of air than a voice. His hands, trembling and slick with sweat, flew to the nightstand, fingers scrabbling for the familiar weight of his sidearm, the Beretta 92FS that had been his constant companion through countless operations.
His grasp closed around the cold metal, but before he could lift it, the sheets beneath his elbows ignited, the fabric catching fire in an instant, the flames licking upward with a hungry, orange‑red tongue. The fire spread with terrifying speed, consuming the pillow, the blanket, the very air around him, turning the bedroom into a furnace of light and heat.
The heat was not merely external, it seemed to emanate from within his own body, a furnace stoked by some unseen force. His vision swam, the world reducing to a blur of incandescent hues, reds, oranges, blinding whites, while the edges of his sight began to darken, the periphery narrowing as if the room itself were collapsing into a singular point of incandescence.
And then, at the foot of his bed, where the darkness should have been absolute, a shape began to coalesce.
It was not a shadow, nor a trick of the heat‑haze. It was a towering distortion, a column of pure, shimmering heat that rose from the floor like a pillar of molten glass. The air around it rippled, the light bending and fracturing as if looking through a lens forged from superheated plasma. The figure was amorphous, lacking discernible features, yet its presence was undeniable, a manifestation of raw thermal energy, a living embodiment of the inferno that had seized the room.
Hasan’s bulging eyes, wide and bloodshot, locked onto the apparition. The heat radiating from it was enough to make the sweat on his forehead evaporate before it could form droplets, leaving his skin tight and gleaming. He could feel the intensity of the heat pressing against his retinas, a searing brilliance that threatened to burn the very cells of his vision.
The only certainty that cut through the fog of agony was the terrifying realization that something, or someone, had turned his private sanctuary into a crucible, and the figure at the foot of his bed was its herald.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DON'T FORGET TO LIKE AND REBLOG BABIES
CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS ALWAYS WELCOME <3
I HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT 😭
pleaseee make some uzi arrange marriage headcanons 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺
ARRANGED HUSBAND! UZAIR BALOCH HEADCANONS
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on Danish's portrayal of Uzair Baloch in the Dhurandhar Universe and not intended to glorify the real pos or the events linked with him.
I freehanded this while having my dinner, so bear with it. 😭
Arranged Husband!Uzair who agreed to the marriage because everybody would not shut up about it. Specially Rehman and Ulfat. For months. At some point he just got tired, and said "Fine."
Arranged Husband!Uzair who spent his own wedding looking one second away from disappearing. Like a student attending a mandatory lecture they have no interest in.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who is fully prepared for marriage to be awkward. But he is caught off guard by how normal you are. Because everybody acts weary around him. Everybody, even Hamza, Siyahi and Donga. But then there's you, randomly asking if he wants tea, telling him dinner is ready, complaining about the weather. Like he's your best friend, needless to say, it's unsettling to him.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who keeps expecting you to ask him for things. Money, jewelry, favours anything, something. But you don't, which confuses him and displeases him. Does that mean you don't like him?
Arranged Husband!Uzair who comes home late one night and finds you've fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him. The television is still running and you're asleep on the couch. He stands there staring for a concerning amount of time because nobody has ever waited up for him before. Not even Rehman bhai or Ulfat Bhabhi...
Arranged Husband!Uzair who starts coming home earlier thereafter.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who absolutely refuses to acknowledge the reason why.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who starts looking for you the second he enters the house. Not because he misses you.(Obviously. Or that's what he tells himself)He just wants to know where everyone is.(Right. Of course💀)
Arranged Husband!Uzair who discovers that married life is strangely addictive. The bedroom being organised, someone asking how his day was, someone yelling at him to take off his socks before bed, someone existing in his space, calling him sweet nicknames. It's embarrassingly nice.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who starts talking more than usual with you. One random observation becomes a 10 minute conversation, then another, then another. Suddenly you're the person he tells everything to.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who says things out loud that should absolutely remain inside his head.
You walk past and he glances up.
"That salwar makes your curves look even better."
Five seconds later, his words catching up to him:
"...forget I said that."
Arranged Husband!Uzair who physically cannot recover after saying every illegal thought out loud about you.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who notices every little change.
New earrings? Notices.
Different perfume? Notices.
Haircut? Notices immediately.
Although he claims he didn't. But his eyes are truly the index of his mind.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who develops a habit of bringing home two of everything he buys. One burger? Two is better.
One watch for himself? Well let's get a couples set.
One perfume? Set of two is a better deal.
One blanket? Yeah, one sounds good.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who slowly becomes obsessed with your opinions in almost a religious way."What do you think?","What would you do?", "Do you like this one better?"He starts asking constantly.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who makes you the first person he looks for after a bad day. Because everyone else wants explanations. You just hand him tea and listen to him rant looking all pretty.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who realizes he's become attached to you when he has to leave Lyari for work, thhe stay is nice, the food is nicer, everything is fine, yet somehow the entire trip feels wrong, like he's forgotten something important.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who reaches for his phone more than he'd like to admit. Just to see your face pop up on his screen everytime he turns it on.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who gets home after a week away and immediately starts talking to you about it. About the trip, the people, the food, the weather(minus the ugly part of arms dealing) Because apparently he has seven days' worth of conversations saved up and his wife needs to know all about it.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who one day overhears somebody refer to you as "Uzair's wife." And for some reason that makes him all giddy inside.
Arranged Husband!Uzair who never planned to become a husband. Never planned to enjoy it, never planned to need it. Yet one random evening he's sitting across from you at dinner with everyone else, listening to you ramble about something completely insignificant to Ulfat Bhabhi, and thinking, Yeah. This is actually not bad at all. And for Uzair Baloch? That's practically a love confession.
you had an argument with your older boyfriend rehman before leaving for a political gathering.
there you were casually talking with a guy, smiling and easy, you knew rehman was watching. oh he was always watching when you were around. so you decided to piss him off even more, you leaned forward and brush the guy's arm, laughing about something he said.
and that was it, rehman told jameel that he would be leaving early because he has to take care of some other work.
so now here you were on the passenger seat of rehman's red car with your legs spread and the salwar long gone from your legs as rehman rubbed between your folds, circling them while he drived with the other hand. he told the driver that he'll drive by himself cause of course, he didn't want another men to see what he was doing to his pretty little thing which was you.
he rubbed your clit, he has been overstimulating you since the time you left the political gathering place. whenever he has to shift the hand gear, he would stop and then start rubbing your clit again with his fingers. not stopping till you get home.
"rehman..." you breathed, eyes rollled back due to the sensation.
"kya huva meri jaan?" rehman asked, his voice low and rough from jealousy.
"slow down, will you. please." you said, keeping a hand on his arm that was rubbing circles in your clit.
"kyu? dusre mardon se baat karne ke time toh tumhe yeh yaad nahi aata? ab kya huva?" rehman said, as turned the steering wheel with the other hand, while his hand moved up and down your clit.
"please, rehman..." your pleads were going through and out of his head as he continued to rub your clit and increase the pressure.
...
so now your face is pressed down on the pillow, your ass up in the air as rehman goes in and out of your dripping heat. slapping your ass, he spoke, "itni si baat tumhe samjh kyu nahi aati?" his voice breathy as he goes in and out, increasing the speed. he gave another slap to your ass. "you're mine. and you will be. tum aese kahi jaa ke kisi bhi mard ke sath baat nahi kar sakti, that too touching his arm?"
rehman grabbed your hair in a fistful, pulling you back as he trailed kisses down your neck while his cock ruined your cunt, "you're mine. whose?" he asked, grabbing your hair tightly. "yours.." you breathed out, ruined & helpless.
author's note. this drabble was getting dusty in my drafts, i wrote this when i rewatched dhurandhar and missed rehman.
tags. @willowsgoldenhour @vexillia @maxpaglu @goldenharrysworld @baddiefication101 @scentedwolfdragon @yearnerray @indigo-pdf @royaldreamermonsoon @wtafananya <3 (lmk if anyone wants to be removed or added !!)
The monsoon had arrived in Islamabad long before Bilal ever crossed the threshold, bringing with it a torrential downpour that seemed intent on drowning the city’s sins. The rain did not merely fall; it threw itself against the windowpanes of the small apartment like frantic, impatient fingers, drumming an erratic rhythm that made the concrete walls feel closer, suffocating, and impossibly small. Outside, the capital’s wide avenues and gridded sectors shimmered under the pale, jaundiced glow of streetlights, drowning in grey mist. Inside, however, the shadows did not rely on the weather. They gathered organically in the corners of the rooms, heavy and thick, like soot from an old fire that refused to be swept away.
Zareena stood motionless in the middle of her bedroom, her fingers curled tightly around a porcelain cup. The steam rising from the spiced chai had long since vanished, leaving the liquid dark, stagnant, and cold. She did not drink. She simply stared into the dark surface, watching her own fractured reflection warp with every distant roll of thunder. The physical remnants of her life were etched into her skin in varying shades of violet and yellow. The bruise on her left forearm was nearly a week old, fading into a dull, sickly green. The one hidden beneath the thick fabric of her sleeve, just above the elbow, was fresh—a sharp, blooming purple that throbbed in time with her pulse. But the deepest bruise, the one she carried beneath an agonizingly practiced smile, was the oldest of all. It was a wound woven from years of quiet endurance, an invisible fracture that threatened to give way with the next breath.
From the adjacent living room, the soft, melodic sound of Zara’s laughter drifted through the doorway, cutting through the heavy silence like a silver blade. Zareena turned her head slowly, her eyes softening as she watched her six-year-old daughter. The little girl was entirely absorbed in her own sanctuary, sitting cross-legged on the faded rug, carefully arranging her stuffed animals in a perfect, solemn circle. Zara was hosting a tea party. Her guests of honor included a plush rabbit missing its left button eye, a brown teddy bear whose fur had been worn smooth by years of tears, and a plastic doll with uneven, jagged hair—the casualty of a pair of safety scissors and a child’s creative impulse.
Zareena watched her daughter from the shadows of the kitchen, a profound sadness tightening around her throat. Children possessed an uncanny, almost terrifying talent for alchemy. They could construct vast, impenetrable empires out of the most pathetic scraps left behind by adults. Zara could forge a majestic kingdom from a discarded cardboard box, a vibrant family from broken toys, and a sense of absolute security from a home that was actively splintering into pieces. It was a beautiful, devastating sight. Zareena realized, with a sharp pang of guilt, that the illusion could not last forever. Sooner or later, the fragile glass of childhood would shatter, and Zara would begin to notice the massive, jagged cracks marring the real world around her. She wondered, with a sinking heart, if the child had already seen them and was simply pretending the floor wasn’t burning beneath their feet.
The heavy wooden front door did not just open; it slammed against the wall with a violence that vibrated through the floorboards.
Instantly, the laughter died. The transition from pure childhood innocence to absolute, suffocating terror was instantaneous. The silence that blanketed the apartment was unnatural, heavy and thick with adrenaline. It was the absolute stillness of the wilderness—the paralyzing quiet that takes over a forest when a prey animal senses the distinct, lethal approach of a apex predator. Bilal had returned.
His heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway, each thud sounding like a death knell. Before his physical form even materialized, his presence announced itself through the oppressive, acrid stench of cheap cigarette smoke and stale rain. Zareena’s stomach tightened into a painful, suffocating knot. There were some forms of terror that became so deeply ingrained in the human psyche that they ceased to feel like psychological emotions. They bypassed the mind entirely, mutating into primal, visceral instincts. Her body prepared for impact before her brain could even process the danger.
The bedroom door swung open with a harsh creak. Bilal stood framed in the doorway, a towering, ominous silhouette soaked to the skin by the unrelenting storm. Strands of dark hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes, wild and severely bloodshot, scanned the room with a volatile intensity. For a moment, his expression remained unreadable, a terrifying calm before the inevitable squall. Then, his gaze shifted downward, landing squarely on the half-packed suitcase resting covertly beside the old wooden wardrobe.
The shift in his countenance was immediate and terrifying. It was not shock that washed over his features, nor was it the confusion of a man realizing his domestic life was fracturing. It was rage—pure, unadulterated, intoxicating malice that contorted his face into something monstrous.
"Yeh kya hai?" Bilal’s voice was dangerously low, a guttural growl that vibrated in the base of his chest.
Zareena swallowed hard, the dryness in her throat making the movement agonizing. She forced herself to stand tall, though every nerve in her body screamed at her to shrink into the floorboards. "Aur kitna chalega yeh sab, Bilal? Main thak gayi hoon."
His jaw clenched so tightly the muscles bunched beneath his skin, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Main ne poocha yeh kya hai! Mujhe jawab do!"
"Aik suitcase hai," Zareena replied, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to anchor it. "Hum ja rahe hain."
"Mujhe andha samjha hai tum ne?" Bilal’s voice suddenly erupted, breaking from a low hiss into a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the apartment.
From the threshold of the living room, every remaining ounce of childhood warmth vanished. A small, frail figure appeared at the end of the dark hallway. Zara stood barefoot on the cold tile, her small hands clutching the one-eyed stuffed rabbit against her chest like a shield. She did not cry. She simply stood there, her wide, terrified eyes fixed entirely on her mother. She was watching, as she always did, absorbing the trauma in absolute, heartbreaking silence.
The little girl did not move an inch. Her tiny feet seemed rooted to the floor, her frantic gaze pleading with her mother for protection.
The argument escalated with the terrifying velocity of a wildfire fed by dry timber. Years of accumulated resentment, bitter disappointments, and unexpressed agony erupted into the small bedroom. It was an avalanche of broken promises, apologies that had been repeated so many times they had lost all linguistic meaning, and accusations sharpened by the cruel passage of time. The air became thick, unbreathable, and toxic.Then came the strike.
The sound of his palm connecting with Zareena’s cheek was a sharp, sickening crack that echoed like a gunshot in the confined space. The sheer, brutal force of the blow snapped her head violently to the side. Her vision blurred into a smear of grey and black, and a high-pitched, deafening ringing filled her ears, isolating her from the sound of the storm outside. For a fraction of a second, the world became distant, floating away from her as if she were drowning beneath deep water.
When her vision finally stabilized, the first thing she saw was Zara. The little girl wasn’t sobbing; she wasn’t even hyperventilating. That was the most soul-crushing part of the realization. Zara wasn’t surprised by the violence. She had expected it. She stood there with a hollow, detached acceptance, as if this brutal display was merely another predictable, miserable chapter in a horrific book she had been forced to memorize by heart.
Something inside Zareena snapped. It wasn't a violent, explosive break, but rather something quiet, absolute, and permanent. It was the sound of an ancient, frayed rope finally giving way under the weight of an impossible anchor. The fear that had dictated her every movement for years evaporated, replaced by a cold, crystalline clarity.
Bilal took another menacing step forward, his chest heaving, his right hand rising once more to deliver another blow.
But this time, Zareena did not cower. She did not raise her arms to shield her face. Her hand dropped blindly to the side table, her fingers wrapping around the cool, smooth surface of a heavy ceramic vase. In that desperate microsecond, the object felt strangely, impossibly light in her grasp. Before her conscious mind could analyze the consequences, her survival instinct took absolute control. She swung the vase with every ounce of buried strength she possessed.
The sound of the impact was dull and sickeningly heavy. The ceramic shattered into a hundred glittering shards, raining down on the carpet like porcelain snow. Bilal staggered backward, his eyes widening in absolute, profound shock as a thin line of crimson began to bloom across his temple. He stared at her, unable to comprehend that the prey had finally turned. Then, the light left his eyes, replaced by a sudden, heavy darkness. His large body collapsed forward, crashing onto the floor with a resounding thud.
The apartment fell into an absolute, breathless vacuum. Even the torrential rain outside seemed to hold its breath, the pounding against the glass dulling into a faint murmur. For several agonizing seconds, neither mother nor daughter moved. They stood frozen in the wreckage of their old life, staring at the unconscious man on the floor.
Then, Zara’s tiny, fragile voice cracked through the silence. "Ammi...?"
Zareena looked down at Bilal’s still form, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his back to ensure he was still breathing. Then, she looked up, meeting the haunted eyes of her daughter. In that silent exchange, a profound understanding passed between them. She knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that if they stayed past the dawn, nothing would ever change. Not tomorrow, not next month, not next year. The cycle would continue until there was nothing left of either of them but dust.
People in the outside world always spoke of freedom as though it were a grand, cinematic event—something that arrived with the booming triumph of fireworks and celebrations. They were wrong. Zareena realized then that freedom often arrived shivering. It arrived terrified, bleeding, covered in sweat, and barely able to draw a clean breath.
"Zara," Zareena’s voice trembled, but beneath the shaking lay a core of pure steel. "Hum yahan sey ja rahe hain. Jaldi karo."
Within fifteen chaotic, breathless minutes, the entire trajectory of their lives had been violently compressed into two large, weathered suitcases. They packed with a frantic, desperate efficiency, grabbing only the absolute essentials of their existence: practical clothes, Zara’s school textbooks, a handful of faded photographs from a time before the darkness settled in, a few cherished toys, and their legal identification documents.
Deep within the lining of Zareena’s winter coat lay the true key to their escape: twenty lakh rupees, painstakingly hoarded over five agonizing years in a secret bank account Bilal never knew existed. It was money stolen from grocery budgets, birthday gifts, and hidden jobs—a fortune built from pennies and sheer willpower. That was all that remained of her youth. Years of human existence, suffering, and survival had been reduced to nylon luggage. The sight was profoundly, beautifully tragic. A whole life, Zareena thought, should have weighed so much more than this.
By the time the old sedan - the one her family had owned for years, cleared the toll plazas of Islamabad,, the pale, slate-grey fingers of dawn were beginning to bleed across the horizon. The sprawling city, with all its concrete ghosts and traumatic memories, slowly dissolved into the rearview mirror, swallowed by the rising mist.
Zara lay curled in the passenger seat, her tiny body swaddled in a warm shawl, her arms locking her one-eyed rabbit against her chest as if her life depended on it. She was not peacefully asleep; her slumber was fitful and defensive. Every few minutes, her small body would twitch, her eyes snapping open in a panic to ensure her mother was still gripping the steering wheel. Only after reaching out to touch Zareena’s sleeve would she sigh, her eyelids fluttering shut as she drifted back into the shadows of exhaustion.The mountain road stretched out ahead of them like an endless, winding ribbon cutting through the jagged Margala hills and into the deeper, untamed territory of the north. The rain followed them, sweeping across the windshield in great, blinding sheets that the wipers struggled to clear. The future remained entirely obscured, buried beneath thick, impenetrable layers of mountain fog. For the first time in her adult life, Zareena possessed absolutely no plan, no safety net, and no destination. She possessed only a direction. Forward. Always forward, away from the shadow of the man who had nearly destroyed them.
By late afternoon, the urban landscape had completely vanished, replaced by dense, primeval forests of pine and deodar that clung to the steep cliffs. The air grew biting and cold, carrying the sharp, clean scent of wet earth and pine resin. Exhaustion had begun to dull Zareena’s reflexes, her eyes burning from lack of sleep. Seeing a small clearing ahead, she pulled the car onto a gravel turnout near a perilous, winding mountain bend.
Perched precariously on the edge of the cliff was an ancient, weathered roadside tea stall. The structure looked as though it had grown out of the mountain itself, constructed from rotting wooden benches and a rusted, corrugated tin roof that rattled violently under the weight of the rain. A thin, fragile plume of grey smoke curled lazily from a makeshift brick hearth, rising into the gloomy sky.
Behind the wooden counter stood an elderly tea seller, his form shrouded in a coarse wool khaddar shawl. He was a man of impossible age; his long beard was completely white, resembling the winter snows that capped the peaks above. His dark, deeply lined eyes carried the peculiar, heavy sadness of an elder who had lived long enough to outlast his peers, his family, and the very era he was born into.
Zareena walked up to the counter, holding Zara tightly by the hand. The warmth of the burning coal hearth was an instant comfort against the mountain chill. "Assalamualaikum, Baba," she said softly, her voice raspy from exhaustion. "Do cup chai milegi? Aur thoda sa paratha agar ho toh."
The old man looked up, his expression gentle as he observed the pale, bruised face of the woman and the wide, haunted eyes of the child. "Waalaikumassalam, Beti. Baitho, baitho. Chai abhi tayaar hoti hai."
They sat on a low wooden bench beneath the overhang of the tin roof, watching the old man deftly pour milk and black tea leaves into a battered brass saucepan. Desperate for any information about the remote valley they were entering, Zareena leaned forward slightly. "Baba... hum yahan sey agay ja rahe hain. Jo purani haveli hai, pahaad ke us paar... kia aapko maloom hai woh raasta thik hai?"
The moment the word haveli left her lips, the old man’s hands froze. The practiced, rhythmic motion of his tea strainer stopped completely. The gentle, welcoming smile vanished from his face, replaced by an immediate, stark stillness that bordered on absolute terror. The atmosphere beneath the tin roof shifted, turning icy cold.
"Aap wahan ja rahi hain?" The old man’s voice had lost its warmth, replaced by a strained, hollow tone. "Uss manhoos jagah? Khuda ke liye, Beti, wahan mat jao."
Zareena’s heart skipped a beat, but she forced a calm facade. "Ji, humein wahan jana hai. Meri dadi ki zameen hai wahan. Hamara aur koi thikana nahi hai."
The old man remained silent for several long, excruciating moments, staring down at the boiling tea as if reading omens in the white foam. Slowly, with trembling hands, he poured the steaming liquid into two chipped, mismatched porcelain cups and set them before Zareena and Zara. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, competing with the howling wind.
"Shukriya, Baba," Zara murmured, taking the warm cup in her small hands. The heat seemed to revive her slightly, and she sat up straighter, her curiosity piqued by the old man’s ominous demeanor. Like all children who had known too much sorrow, she possessed a deep, insatiable love for stories—tales where the monsters were tangible and could be defeated, unlike the monsters of reality.
The tea seller turned his gaze toward the dark, jagged peaks of the mountains, his eyes clouding over as if he were peering through the fabric of time itself. "Long before Pakistan existed, before the British surveyors cut these roads through the living rock of the hills, there was a powerful landlord who built a magnificent haveli in that isolated valley. He was a man of immense stature, with wealth that could buy the allegiance of kings. He had vast tracts of land, thousands of loyal servants, and absolute power over life and death in these mountains."
The wind whistled sharply through the cracks of the wooden stall, mimicking a distant, mournful wail.
"But," the old man continued, his fingers tightening around his own wooden stirring spoon, "he did not possess the one thing he wanted most desperately."
Zara leaned forward, her tea forgotten, her eyes wide. "Woh kya chahta tha, Baba?"
The old man looked directly into the child’s eyes, his expression solemn. "Waqt, meri jaan. Unhein waqt chahiye tha."
It was a strange, enigmatic answer. The kind of statement that did not merely pass through the ear, but lingered in the mind, growing heavier with every passing second.
"They say his youngest wife, whom he loved to the point of madness, fell ill with a mysterious wasting disease," the tea seller explained, his voice dropping into the low, rhythmic cadence of a traditional folklorist. "Every renowned hakim failed. Every prayer offered at the shrines returned unanswered. Every medicine turned to poison in her throat. Desperate, and driven mad by the thought of losing her, the landlord turned away from the light. He went searching for things that human beings should never seek. He sought out the ancient secrets buried in the roots of these mountains."
The rain outside intensified, hammering against the tin roof with a deafening fury that made the small stall feel like an isolated island in a chaotic sea.
"My grandmother believed that he went into the deepest caves, searching for a Djinn—a being that did not belong to our world, a creature that lived between the ticking of moments, in the blank spaces between yesterday and tomorrow. He begged this entity for more time. He offered his wealth, his lands, his very soul, just to buy his wife a few more years of breath."
"Aur... kya unhein waqt mila?" Zara whispered, her voice filled with a mixture of childlike wonder and innate dread.
The old man’s face darkened, the deep lines on his forehead casting long shadows in the firelight. "That depends entirely on which version of the legend you choose to believe, Beti. Some say his wife survived, but she was no longer human—she became a hollow shell, moving through the house without casting a shadow or breathing air."
He leaned closer across the counter, his eyes reflecting the dying embers of the hearth. "Others say the house itself became a living, breathing entity, devouring the life force of anyone who crossed the threshold. And a few... a few old souls believed that the haveli stopped obeying the laws of time altogether. It became unmoored from the world. A place where the past, the present, and the future exist in the same room, at the same moment."
A sharp, icy chill crawled across Zareena’s skin, completely unrelated to the mountain wind. She tightened her grip on her teacup, her knuckles turning white. The old man’s words felt uncomfortably heavy, vibrating with an ancient truth that her logical mind wanted to reject.
"The villagers of the old valley spoke of impossible, terrifying things," the tea seller continued, his voice dropping so low they had to lean in to hear him. "They spoke of children hearing the laughter of playmates who had died fifty years prior. They saw the hands of old grandfather clocks running backward with furious speed, while the sun remained fixed in the sky. They spoke of vast, ornate rooms appearing where empty stone walls had stood only a moment before."
The old man’s gaze locked onto Zareena’s, holding her captive with the sheer intensity of his warning. "Within my own lifetime, a young shepherd entered the grounds of the haveli to seek shelter during a sudden, violent blizzard. He was missing for days. His family wept, believing he had frozen to death on the peaks."
"Phir kya hua?" Zara asked, her breath catching in her throat.
The old man hesitated, a sad, bitter smile playing on his lips. "He returned to the village three days later, completely unharmed, his sheep trailing behind him."
"Yeh toh achi baat hai," Zareena reasoned, trying to shake off the oppressive dread tightening around her chest.
"Nahi, Beti," the old man whispered, his eyes wide with a lingering, ancient horror. "Wohan ke logon ke liye teen din guzre thay. Magar us charwahe ke liye? For him, only ten minutes had passed. He had stepped inside the grand foyer, wrung out his wet shawl by the fireplace, and walked right back out. To him, the world had aged three days in the blink of an eye. He lost his mind within a month, screaming that the clocks in his head wouldn't stop ticking. He never went near the valley again."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the rain seemed to alter its tone, sounding less like falling water and more like a chorus of distant, whispering voices trying to break through the tin roof.
The old man turned back to his hearth, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the memory. "My grandmother always ended her warning with the same words, words passed down from her ancestors." He turned his head slightly, his gaze piercing through the gloom. "'Beware of houses that remember more than people do."
A violent shiver ran through Zareena’s spine. For reasons she could not logically explain or articulate, the old man’s story did not feel like ancient folklore or a campfire tale designed to scare travelers. It felt like an omen. It felt like a direct, explicit warning meant specifically for her. But as she looked at the dark road ahead and thought of the broken man waking up in the apartment in Islamabad, she knew there was no turning back. The monsters behind them were real; the monsters ahead were still only stories.
"Aapka bohot shukriya, Baba," Zareena said, rising from the bench and placing several crumpled notes on the counter. "Magar hamare paas koi aur rasta nahi hai. Humein jana hoga."
The old man did not touch the money. He simply closed his eyes and nodded slowly, a look of profound pity in his gaze. "Khuda aapki hifazat kare, Beti. Khuda hafiz."
Night had fallen completely by the time the rented sedan finally crawled into the isolated valley where the ancestral estate lay hidden. The storm had reached a terrifying crescendo, lightning ripping across the black sky in jagged, blinding veins of violet and blue, illuminating the landscape for fractions of a second.
The haveli emerged from the absolute darkness like a monstrous, forgotten deity rising from a nightmare. Its colossal silhouette towered against the weeping sky, a massive, sprawling structure of ancient black stone, intricate wooden balconies, and towering minarets that seemed to pierce the underbelly of the clouds. It stood entirely alone, surrounded by a dying orchard of twisted, barren trees. It was silent. It was ancient. It was watching.
A brilliant flash of lightning fractured the sky, bathing the entire front facade of the mansion in a stark, terrifying white light. And in that fleeting, minuscule microsecond, Zareena’s heart stopped completely. She would have sworn, on her own soul, that she saw movement in one of the high, arched windows of the third floor. A dark silhouette. A human figure, standing perfectly rigid against the glass, staring down at the approach road. Staring directly at them.
The lightning vanished, plunging the world back into pitch-black darkness. The window became an empty, unreadable void once more.
Zareena’s breath hitched, her heartbeat quickening into a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her wrists violently shook. It was just a shadow, she told herself desperately, her mind clawing for any logical explanation. A trick of the light. A reflection of the rain against the old glass. Nothing more. But deep within her gut, a voice whispered that she was lying to herself.
The car approached the massive, towering wrought-iron gates that guarded the perimeter of the estate. They were choked with thick, thorny vines that looked like tangled nests of black serpents. Zareena shifted the car into park and stepped out into the freezing rain, her hands trembling as she approached the lock. To her surprise, the ancient, rusted chain lay broken on the ground, snapped by time or something far more deliberate.
With a heavy, straining push, she forced the gates open. The metal did not merely swing; the hinges groaned and shrieked against the rust, a high-pitched, agonizing scream that echoed across the desolate valley like a dying animal. The wind howled through the iron bars, a cold, violent gust that nearly knocked her off her feet.
The trees within the estate grounds swayed violently under the assault of the storm, their bare, jagged branches scratching against one another with a dry, rhythmic clattering. It sounded precisely like a gathering of old, withered spirits engaging in a hurried, malevolent whispered conversation, passing the news of the newcomers from branch to branch.
Zara slowly stepped out of the passenger side, her tiny shoes sinking into the thick, dark mud of the driveway. The little girl tilted her head back, her wide eyes taking in the immense, terrifying scale of the black haveli. The rain soaked her hair, plastering it against her pale forehead. She did not look amazed by the grand architecture; she looked profoundly unsettled. She frowned, her small lips parting as she turned to her mother.
"Ammi," Zara’s voice was small, but it carried an eerie clarity that cut through the roaring wind.
"Hmm? Kya hua, beta?" Zareena asked, wiping the rainwater from her own eyes as she grabbed their heavy suitcases from the trunk.
"Yeh ghar... yeh ghar bohot udaas lagta hai," the child whispered, her eyes never leaving the dark windows above.
The words sent an instantaneous, inexplicable chill straight through Zareena’s veins. It was a terrifyingly accurate observation. The haveli did not look abandoned. It did not even look traditionally haunted, like the broken ruins of old ghost stories. It looked lonely. It looked profoundly, agonizingly lonely. It bore the heavy appearance of a structure that had spent decades, perhaps centuries, trapped in a state of perpetual suspended animation, waiting in the dark for someone to arrive. Anyone.
A powerful, unnatural gust of wind suddenly swept across the overgrown courtyard, carrying with it the faint, impossible scent of blooming jasmine—a flower that had no business blooming in the dead of a mountain storm. The wind slammed against the heavy front doors of the mansion.
Somewhere deep within the dark, cavernous interior of the house, a heavy wooden door slammed shut with a resounding boom.
A second later, another door slammed on a higher floor. Then another. Then another.
The consecutive thuds echoed through the empty halls of the haveli in a perfect, rhythmic sequence. It did not sound like accidental drafts moving through an old house. It sounded like heavy, deliberate footsteps walking down a long corridor. It sounded like an echo of a life lived long ago. It sounded, with terrifying clarity, like a welcome.
Mother and daughter exchanged a long, terrified glance in the pouring rain, the shared trauma of their past tying them together in this new, incomprehensible nightmare. There was no going back. The road behind them was swallowed by the dark, and the man they fled was a monster of flesh and bone.
Behind them, without warning, the massive wrought-iron gates began to move. Slowly, deliberately, the heavy metal frames swung inward.
The iron groaned and shrieked one final time before the gates slammed shut with a deafening, metallic crash that vibrated through the very earth beneath their feet. The broken chain rattled against the bars, a sound that felt absolute, permanent, and entirely unavoidable. It was the sound of a trap snapping shut. It was as if the valley itself, or some unseen, ancient intelligence residing within the stone walls, had quietly, firmly decided that they belonged to this place now. They were no longer guests; they were residents.
And high above them, in a forgotten, dust-covered room hidden deep behind walls that time had forgotten, a dark shadow stood perfectly still beside the rain-streaked window. It did not move. It did not breathe. It simply watched the mother and child standing in the courtyard below, waiting with an infinite, terrifying patience.
Because some stories in this world begin the moment people make a conscious choice to enter a house. And some stories—the ones born from the dark folklores of an ancient land—begin because the house has finally, patiently found the exact people it has been waiting for across the centuries.
Authors Note
DRUMROLLSSSSS 🥁🥁🥁 Finally done with the first chapterrrrr yayyyyyy !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Requests are closed, as I need to complete this series (it's long af 😭)...
Y'all... this is officially my first ever horror AU 😭✋
I usually live in the land of angst, emotional damage, found family, and people staring dramatically into the rain, so writing actual horror had me side-eyeing my own draft at 2 am💀
Also, if the haveli starts giving red flags... trust me, it's only getting worse 😭
Anyway, please be nice to me because I'm entering my horror era for the first time 🫡🕯️
Happy haunting besties 👻✨
Send prayers for Zara and Zareena 🙏🙏🙏
✨ Wrote this extra poetically because apparently horror wasn't enough and my brain decided to use every fancy word in its vocabulary 😭✋
I hope you enjoyed the spooky vibes, emotional damage and the unhealthy amount of metaphors and shashi tharoor level vocab 👻 📖 💀☠️
dailybridgerton
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