The Godown – Night
The tires of Murtasim's black Mercedes screeched to a halt outside the godown, kicking up a cloud of dust that swirled in the dim yellow glow of the flickering streetlights. The moment the car stopped, Murtasim was already pushing the door open, his polished Oxfords hitting the cracked pavement with a sharp click. The air smelled of smoke and something more metallic—blood.
Faisal and Ali scrambled out after him, their hands instinctively reaching for the pistols tucked into their waistbands. The usual hum of the docks was absent tonight, replaced by an eerie silence that set Murtasim's teeth on edge.
The godown—once a fortified warehouse storing the Khan family’s most valuable shipments—was now a skeleton of its former self. The heavy steel doors hung off their hinges, bent inward as if a truck had rammed through them. The walls were scorched black in places, the lingering stench of gasoline clinging to the air.
Murtasim stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanning the destruction. Crates lay splintered, their contents—guns, drugs, stacks of cash—either looted or destroyed. The concrete floor was slick with spilled liquor and something darker.
And then he saw him.
Khyber.
Propped against a half-burned crate, his face a mess of bruises and blood, one arm bent at an unnatural angle. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps, his shirt soaked through with sweat and crimson.
Murtasim moved toward him, his steps measured, his expression unreadable.
Khyber’s swollen eyes fluttered open at the sound of approaching footsteps. When he recognized Murtasim, his cracked lips twitched into something resembling a smile. "B-Bhai…" he rasped, his voice barely audible.
Murtasim crouched down beside him, his black slacks staining with the blood on the floor. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush. He simply waited.
Khyber coughed, a wet, painful sound. "M-Mir Zubair…" he managed, his voice breaking. "He—he came with at least twenty men. We tried to hold them off, but—" Another cough, this one bringing up blood. "They took everything. Burned what they couldn’t carry."
Murtasim’s jaw tightened, but his face remained eerily calm. "What else?"
Khyber swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. "He… he left a message for you." His trembling fingers reached into his torn shirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, stained red at the edges.
Murtasim took it, unfolding it slowly.
Scrawled in bold, jagged letters were the words:
"This is just a glimpse."
A beat of silence. Then Murtasim carefully folded the note back and slipped it into his own pocket.
Faisal, standing a few feet away, shifted uneasily. "Bhai, we should—"
Murtasim held up a hand, silencing him. His dark eyes never left Khyber’s face. "Where is he now?"
Khyber’s breath hitched. "He—he said he had business at the police station. That he was going to meet the new commissioner."
Murtasim’s nostrils flared slightly. Waqas Ahmed.
A long moment passed before Murtasim finally stood, his movements slow, deliberate. He turned to Ali. "Get him to the doctor. The one who doesn’t ask questions."
Ali nodded and immediately moved to help Khyber up, careful of his injuries.
Faisal stepped closer, his voice low. "Bhai, what do we do about Mir Zubair?"
