Commissioner Waqas Ahmed sat in his dimly lit study, the weight of the city's troubles pressing heavily on his broad shoulders. The soft glow of the lamp cast a warm hue over the dark mahogany desk, where piles of police reports, intelligence briefings, and strategic documents lay scattered. His sharp eyes scanned the latest updates from his officers, focusing on two names that dominated the criminal underworld in Hyderabad: the Khans, led by Murtasim Khan, and the Mir, ruled by the ruthless Mir Shah.
It was as though a storm had descended upon the city. Blood had painted the streets in the ongoing war between these two mafia families, their fight for control over territory turning Hyderabad into a battlefield. Waqas knew he was sitting on a powder keg, one wrong move from either gang could set off a city-wide explosion of violence. Both the Khans and Mirs had their claws deep into the city's political and law enforcement systems, making it nearly impossible to tackle them head-on without risking his career-or worse, his life.
Leaning back in his leather chair, Waqas let out a deep sigh, running his hand through his graying hair. The police force was stretched thin, and his superiors were demanding results. They wanted the streets cleaned up, but didn't understand how deep-rooted the problem was. Mir Shah had been in power for years, his gang growing like a cancerous tumor, slowly infecting every corner of the city. And Murtasim Khan... well, he was another beast altogether. Murtasim was young, aggressive, and unpredictable, always two steps ahead of the law.
Waqas couldn't deny that part of him admired the sheer audacity of Murtasim Khan. The man was calculated, ruthless, but never reckless. His rise to power had been swift, leaving behind a trail of bodies and broken alliances, yet he always seemed to escape just as the police tightened the net around him. Waqas had tried several times to bring him down, but each time, Khan had slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Suddenly, a soft creak of the door broke Waqas's concentration. He looked up, his stern expression softening immediately as his daughter, Meerab, stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest and a mock glare fixed on her face.
"Baba," Meerab said, her voice filled with a mix of impatience and affection, "Are you really going to spend all day cooped up in here? Even on a Sunday?"
Waqas couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. Meerab, his beloved daughter, the light of his life, was standing there in her usual no-nonsense stance, but to him, she was still the little girl who used to tug on his pant leg, demanding his attention. After his wife had passed away, Meerab had become his entire world. For her, he would move mountains, bend the law, do anything to see her happy.
"Meerab, beta, I'm almost done," Waqas started, his tone soft but distracted, his eyes briefly flicking back to the papers in front of him.
"No, you're not!" she cut him off, stepping further into the room. "You've been saying that for the past two hours. I'm not letting you skip dinner again."
Waqas chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest as he looked up at her. She was as stubborn as her mother had been, and in moments like this, she reminded him so much of her. The way her eyes would flare when she was upset, the firmness in her voice-it was like his late wife had been reincarnated in their daughter.
"I'm the Commissioner of Police, Meerab. You think the criminals take Sundays off?" he teased, leaning back in his chair, a playful grin on his face.
"I don't care if you're the Commissioner, the Prime Minister, or the King of England. You are my father, and I outrank all of those positions," Meerab replied with a huff, putting her hands on her hips in a dramatic fashion.
Her glare softened as she added, "I made your favorite tonight-Tandoori chicken, the one with extra spices, just the way you like it. You are coming downstairs."
Waqas laughed heartily at her commanding tone. "How could I possibly refuse an order from the home minister?" he said, raising his hands in surrender as he stood up from his chair. "Alright, alright, I'm coming."
Meerab smiled triumphantly, her glare melting into a look of affection. She waited as he walked around the desk and came toward her, his tall frame towering over her much smaller one. As Waqas reached the door, he paused for a moment, placing a hand on Meerab's shoulder, his usual stern expression replaced with one of fatherly pride.
"You know, beta," he began, his voice soft, "I don't know what I would've done without you. After your mother passed, it was just you and me. I know I get lost in my work sometimes, but you're my anchor. You keep me going."
Meerab's eyes softened, her earlier frustration forgotten. "Baba, you don't have to say that," she whispered, her voice catching slightly. "You've done more than enough for me. You've always been there."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of their shared grief and love hanging in the air between them. Finally, Waqas broke the silence with a chuckle.
"Come on, let's get to that dinner before it gets cold. Wouldn't want to upset the chef, would we?"
Meerab giggled, her earlier sternness replaced with warmth. "No, we definitely wouldn't want that."
---
As they made their way to the dining room, Waqas couldn't help but think about how lucky he was to have Meerab. She was his light, his reason for pushing forward even when the world seemed too dark. The criminal underworld might try to take control of his city, but Waqas knew that his most important battle wasn't on the streets-it was at home, making sure his daughter had the life she deserved.
However, as they sat down to eat, the weight of the reports in his study still lingered in the back of his mind. The names of Murtasim Khan and Mir Shah echoed in his thoughts. The violence on the streets was escalating, and it was only a matter of time before it reached a boiling point.
But for now, he pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the moment in front of him-dinner with his daughter, the person who mattered most.
