Fatima walked into her small apartment, locked the door behind her, and leaned against it for a second longer than usual.
She hated how paranoid she'd become. Always checking over her shoulder. Always locking the door—twice.
But fear had a way of teaching you things.
She set her bag down, lit the dim lamp in the corner, and headed to the kitchen to make chai—her one comfort after long shifts. As the water began to boil, her phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
Again.
She didn't answer.
—
Across the city, Arham Shah sat alone in his private study, the glow of the screens casting shadows across his face. Footage of her day looped like a ritual—clinic, corner store, home. Always the same. Always careful.
He admired that about her.
"Tum itni simple ho… aur issi simplicity mein kuch hai jo jaan le leta hai," he murmured, half-smiling.
The door creaked. Inaya stepped in quietly, his younger sister—sharp-eyed, wary.
"Phir wohi ladki?"
He didn't look away from the screen.
"Fatima," he said simply.
Inaya crossed her arms. "Obsession hai ya mission?"
"Dono."
She frowned. "Bhai, she's not for this world. Not yours."
At last, he looked up. Calm face. Sharp eyes.
"Main tay karta hoon kis duniya ka kaun hissa banega."
—
Fatima didn't know it yet—but her fate had already been sealed.