The Lahore sky was moody that night — thick clouds lumbered across the heavens as if weighed down by secrets. A storm threatened, but the city remained alive in that unruly, untamed way only Lahore knew. Rickshaws screeched, chai stalls buzzed, and behind a crumbling colonial façade near Anarkali, **Murtasim Khan** lit a cigarette and watched the clock tick closer to 8:30.
He wasn’t a man who usually waited. But tonight was different.
She would be exiting the Punjab University Library wearing a white kurti, blue jeans, and a red dupatta. That’s what his informant had said. His men were on standby, ready to move.
“Target locked,” came a whisper through his earpiece. “She's leaving. Red dupatta confirmed.”
“Move.”
The girl stepped out, adjusting her bag as her dupatta flared behind her in the breeze.
A swift grab. A cloth pressed over her mouth. A muffled cry.
Then, silence.
What no one noticed in the chaos of the city was that **they had kidnapped the wrong girl**.
---
Meerab’s head pounded as she came to. Her mouth was dry, her wrists ached, and the dim room smelled like damp wood and cold concrete. She tried to sit up but found herself tied to a chair.
“What the—?!”
A calm male voice cut through the air like a blade. “Ah, you’re awake. Finally.”
She twisted her neck toward the voice and came face-to-face with a tall man dressed in black, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. He looked like trouble wrapped in leather and arrogance. A gold chain glinted under his shirt collar, and his beard was trimmed too perfectly for a man who clearly operated outside the law.
“Who the hell are you?!” she barked.
“I’m the man who should be asking the questions,” he said coolly. “Name?”
“Meerab Fatima Siddiqui,” she spat. “And unless you want to be behind bars for the rest of your cursed life, you’ll untie me right now.”
He froze.
“You’re not Shabana Ali’s daughter?”
“Shabana who?” she snapped.
Murtasim’s face dropped. “Oh, *hell.*”
Her eyes narrowed. “Wait... you kidnapped me by mistake?!”
He ran a hand through his hair, visibly agitated. “You were wearing the red dupatta—how was I supposed to know every damn girl on campus has the same wardrobe?”
“Congratulations,” she said icily, “you’ve just ruined the life of a law student with anger issues and pepper spray in her purse.”
“I really don’t need this headache right now,” he muttered.
“You don’t need this headache? *I* just got kidnapped by some idiot mafia prince with a God complex!”
“You talk a lot for someone who just got abducted.”
“And you screw up a lot for someone who calls himself a professional.”
He walked toward her, crouching until they were eye-level. His tone dropped dangerously. “Listen. I don’t hurt women. Ever. You got pulled in by mistake. I’ll fix this.”
“Oh, how thoughtful. Shall I give you a Yelp review while I’m at it?”
He blinked, then burst into an unexpected chuckle. “You’re either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.”
