DUBAI

Dubai glittered like a city that had never known fear.

From the outside, the Ali estate rose white and immaculate above the desert, a fortress disguised as luxury. Gold gates. Palm-lined drives. Security so discreet it felt invisible. Men died quietly for places like this.

Inside, death waited anyway.

Zayn Ali stood at the foot of his father's bed, posture rigid, face carved from control. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and incense-an attempt to soften what could not be softened. Machines hummed softly, their rhythm unnatural, like a reminder that Hassan Ali's body no longer trusted itself to breathe.