Lahore's night held its breath the moment Arham Shah decided she was his.
The city was wrapped in silence—the kind that pressed against your chest and refused to let go.
Fatima pulled her shawl tighter around her as she stepped out of the small clinic where she worked evenings. The air was cold, but not colder than the feeling that someone was watching her.
Again.
She walked faster.
Behind her, a black SUV crawled down the empty street. Not too close. Not far enough.
She didn't look back.
In a dark office miles away, Arham Shah watched her on a screen—silent, focused, dangerous. Cameras. He had them everywhere. On the street outside her home. At her workplace. He never missed a moment.
"Har saans gin raha hoon tumhari, Fatima…" he whispered to himself, fingers tapping against his desk.
She didn't know his name.
Not yet.
But he knew everything about her.
Where she lived. What chai she liked. How she never answered unknown calls. How she flinched at loud noises. How she always looked over her shoulder—because some part of her already knew
She was being hunted.
And the hunter was no ordinary man.
Arham Shah didn't fall in love.
He claimed what was his.
She didn't know that love had already chosen her—and that it wore the face of a man who destroyed everything he touched.