Hyderabad's streets bustled with life as the sun began to set over the city, casting an amber glow on its ancient architecture. The chaotic marketplace was alive with the familiar sounds of vendors shouting, horns blaring, and people negotiating prices. It was a usual evening in the city, but for Murtasim, nothing about this evening felt ordinary.
Perched on the balcony of a dimly lit café, Murtasim Khan observed the street below with a calculating gaze. Known as one of the most feared and ruthless mafia leaders in Hyderabad, his presence was enough to command respect and silence wherever he went. With a legacy built on blood and power, he had taken over his father's empire and ruled it with an iron fist. His dark eyes were cold, devoid of any softness, as he listened to the reports from his trusted right-hand man, Faisal.
"Murtasim bhai," Faisal said, leaning in closer, "the situation with the Mirs is getting out of hand. They've started pushing into our territory. The police are on their payroll now, and they're targeting our operations on the outskirts. We need to move fast or we'll lose control over our shipping routes."
Murtasim barely acknowledged him, his mind wandering elsewhere. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling upward as his gaze scanned the crowd beneath him. The mafia world was full of deception, betrayal, and violence-a world he had mastered long ago. Nothing stirred within him anymore. Fear, anger, even joy-it was all muted.
But then, his eyes caught something-someone.
Among the masses of people moving through the crowded street, she stood out like a vision. A young woman in a pristine white chikankari kurta, her dupatta loosely draped over her shoulder, her big oxidized jhumkas swinging gently as she moved around the marketplace, his sharp eyes barely registering the chaotic scene below. Faisal continued to talk about their rival gangs and the police's recent actions, but Murtasim's attention had drifted to something-no, someone-else entirely.
At first, it was just a flicker in the crowd, a movement he might have ignored on any other day. But today, it caught his eye. Through the haze of street noise and the ebb and flow of people, he saw her.
There she was, standing by a street vendor's cart, a radiant vision of purity amidst the bustling crowd. Dressed in a simple yet elegant white chikankari kurta, she looked like a dream-delicate, untouched by the harshness of the world around her. Her long hair cascaded down her back, and her big, oxidized jhumkas swung gently as she laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She was with a friend, both of them enjoying golgappe, giggling like carefree girls without a single worry in the world.
For a moment, Murtasim forgot who he was. He forgot the weight of his empire, the blood on his hands, and the wars he had to fight every day just to keep his position intact. All he could see was her. There was something about the innocence in her smile, the way her eyes sparkled with genuine happiness, that stirred something deep inside him-something he hadn't felt in years.
It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling, as though she had pierced through the cold walls he had built around his heart. Murtasim Khan, the man who controlled life and death with the snap of his fingers, was suddenly mesmerized by this girl, by her simple joy, her pure laughter.
"Bhai?" Faisal's voice broke through his reverie, bringing him back to the harsh reality of the world he lived in.
Murtasim blinked, tearing his eyes away from the girl for a brief second to look at Faisal, who was watching him with confusion. "What?" Murtasim said, his voice sharper than intended, as if he was irritated by the interruption.
"I was saying," Faisal repeated, "we need to act on the Mirs before they take any more of our territory. If we let this slide, it'll show weakness. They've already bribed half the police force. We need to retaliate."
