VILLAIN

2am. Islamabad~~ Pakistan.

Engines roared and tires screamed as smoke rose in thick circles.

Crowds shouted his name, Sikander!

Midnight streets of Islamabad glowed under streetlights, reflecting off the glossy hood of his brand-new BMW M4, freshly imported, still carrying that scent of danger and money.

He wasn’t just another racer.

He was Zehran Sikander — the man of drifting, the king of the midnight roads.

The city knew him for his control, his calm, and that wild smirk that made people wonder if he was racing for thrill... or for something darker.

As the engine roared again, Zehran flicked his wrist, and the BMW spun flawlessly through the smoke, a perfect drift, smooth as silence, loud as sin.

Cheers erupted. Cameras flashed. But in his eyes, there was nothing but emptiness, a silence that no applause could fill.

The race ended with a cloud of smoke and the echo of his name bouncing off the empty streets.

Zehran’s BMW screeched to a halt, tires hissing against the asphalt.

He stepped out... tall, calm, a faint trail of smoke following the car like a shadow. The crowd rushed closer, chanting, recording, screaming his name.

Uzair, his closest friend, pushed through the crowd with a wide grin.

“Bro, girls are literally fighting to get a photo with you tonight,” he laughed, panting slightly from excitement.

Zehran didn’t even look up. He slipped his car keys into his pocket, his voice steady and detached.

“Tell them I’m going home.”

Uzair blinked. “That’s it? Bro, you just won against Shahbaz—”

But Zehran was already walking away, the roar of the crowd fading behind him.

He didn’t care for the cheers, the cameras, or the girls. Winning meant nothing to a man who had already lost.

He slid into the driver’s seat, the cold air brushing his face as he started the engine again.

The city lights blurred as he drove home... fast, quiet, and alone.

_________

The house was already awake before the sun.

Soft whispers of Subha ki dua( morning prayers) echoed faintly from a small prayer mat in the corner. The scent of fresh air slipped through the window curtains as Mahmel Farooq finished her prayer, folding the prayer rug with quiet grace.

It was still a little dark outside, the sky slowly turning pale blue when she hurried downstairs. Her steps were light, her dupatta sliding neatly over her shoulders.

The kitchen greeted her with silence. Within minutes, the sound of clattering plates and sizzling eggs filled the air.

By the time the house stirred awake, breakfast was ready. The table was neatly set...eggs, bread, tea, all perfectly arranged.

“Mehmal!”

Her aunt’s sharp voice cut through the calm.

She rushed to the table, hands still damp from washing.

Farzana, in her 40s, stood there with her usual expressions, irritation mixed with pride.

“How many times have I told you, I like half-fried eggs! Why do you always make them full-fried?”

“I’m sorry, Chachi ( Auntie)… I thought—”

“Stop thinking. It doesn’t suit you,” Farzana snapped.

Just then, her two daughters, Sana and Javeria, entered the dining room, hair perfectly done, nails polished, eyes already rolling.

“Ugh, not this again,” Sana muttered, glancing at the table.

“Why do you always make boring breakfasts?” Javeria added, sitting down dramatically.

Mehmal bit her lip, trying to hide her frustration.

“I made halwa puri yesterday,” she said softly. “It’s eggs and bread today. We can’t eat the same thing every morning.”

Before another word could rise, a firm yet gentle voice interrupted.

“what happened?”

All eyes turned.

Khadaim Hussain entered — tall, composed, with silver hair and the calm dignity of a man who owned both businesses and hearts.

“Nothing, uncle,” Mehmal said quickly, forcing a smile.

He took his seat at the head of the table. “Sit down, beta.”( daughter).

She obeyed quietly.

“How’s your course going?” he asked kindly, pouring himself tea.

“It’s good, Uncle. I have a night shift today… if you allow me,” she said hesitantly.

Before he could respond, Farzana interrupted sharply. “No! She’s not going anywhere at night.”

Khadaim looked at his wife, his tone patient but firm.

“Farzana, Javeria also works overtime. You never stop her. Why only Mehmal?”

Farzana said nothing just pursed her lips.

He nodded calmly, pulled out his wallet, and handed Mehmal some notes.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me.”

Mehmal hesitated, noticing the jealous stares of her cousins. But she accepted it respectfully, whispering, “JazakAllah, Uncle.”

She rose from her seat, adjusting her white chadar gracefully around her head and shoulders.

“Allah Hafiz,” she said quietly.

No one replied except her uncle’s faint smile.

Outside, the morning light greeted her softly. She breathed in the cool air, her chest rising with a strange sense of relief.

Away from the shouting, away from the judging eyes, the world outside felt alive.

She took one deep breath, whispered Alhamdulillah, and began her walk toward the hospital, her place of peace.

_________

Morning sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Sikander mansion, hitting the glass dining table that looked more like a business desk than a family spot. Everything in that house screamed perfection — except Zehran.

He came downstairs, messy hair, black t-shirt, still half-asleep but somehow stylish. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the echo of his father’s voice.

Haroon Sikander, the great politician, stood by the table reading his morning paper like he was reviewing national affairs instead of breakfast. His presence filled the room... serious, strict, spotless.

The second Zehran’s boots touched the marble floor, Haroon’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s a new car parked outside. Where did it come from?”

Zehran didn’t bother sitting. He reached for a coffee mug, poured himself half, and said casually,

“It’s mine.”

Haroon folded the paper slowly, lowering it with suspicion.

“Yours? And where exactly did you get the money for it?”

Zehran smirked, slicing through an apple with a butter knife.

“Started something with Uzair. Small business. Don’t worry, it’s not drugs....yet.”

“Zehran!” His father’s voice rose. “You left your own business to go support someone else’s? You’re twenty-seven, not seventeen. It’s time to start acting like a man.”

Zehran leaned against the counter, unbothered. “I’m acting like one, just not your version.”

Haroon glared. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

Zehran glanced up, expression calm, voice almost bored.

“Only speed limits… sometimes.”

“Zehran!”

But he was already halfway out of the room, apple in one hand, car keys in the other.

“Mom, tell your favorite politician I’ll be late for lunch.”

“Where are you going?” Haroon barked.

Zehran didn’t even look back. The front door shut behind him, engine starting seconds later, loud and disrespectful, like an intentional goodbye.

Haroon’s jaw tightened. He turned to Sonia. “This is your mistake, Sonia. You never disciplined him.”

Sonia crossed her arms, her tone calm but sharp. “He’s your son too, Haroon. He’s exactly like you...he just doesn’t pretend to care.”

Haroon picked up his coat and muttered, “Never mind,” before storming off.

Sonia sighed, shaking her head with disappointment.

“Like father, like son,” she murmured, turning toward the kitchen, the only peaceful corner left in the house.

~~~~~~

Zehran parked his BMW in front of Uzair’s house, engine humming, music low, sunglasses on. He leaned back in his seat, tapping the steering wheel like he owned the street.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open and Uzair Suliman stumbled out... hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, eyes barely open. He looked like sleep itself had given up on him.

Zehran smirked. “You look like you fought your pillow and lost.”

Uzair yawned. “Don’t even start, bro. Suliman Sahab threw me out again last night. Said I’m becoming a disgrace to the his name.”

Zehran chuckled, starting the car. “At least he still calls you his son. Haroon Sikander just gives me a look that says ‘this is not my DNA.’”

Uzair laughed, rubbing his face. “So… breakfast?”

“Yeah. Haroon Sahab didn’t let me eat anything. Apparently, owning a BMW makes me irresponsible.”

“Same goes to Suliman Sahab. He caught me sneaking in at 3 a.m. Told me to find a new house if I love the streets so much.”

Zehran burst out laughing as he pulled onto the road. “We should start a club, bro.. The Disowned Sons Association.”

Uzair grinned. “President: Zehran Sikander. Vice President: Me. Motto — ‘Baap ka gussa, beta ka breakfast.’”

(Father's anger, Son's breakfast.)

Both laughed until Uzair suddenly leaned back in the seat, grinning wickedly.

"Let me drive "

Zehran get off from driver seat and give keys to uzair and said,“Race to Café Town?”

Uzair's smirk widened. “You sure? Last time your car almost broke."

“Last time my car had issues, bro. This time, it's brand new, no excuses.”

Uzair revved the engine. “Challenge accepted.”

The BMW shot forward like lightning, engine roaring through Islamabad’s morning calm.

Uzair yelled over the noise, half laughing, half terrified.

“BROOO! are you sure we'll not crash!”

Zehran laughed. “Hold your heart, soldier!”

The car hit a curve ..smooth, perfect until a faint click echoed from under the hood.

Then—

“BRAKES! BRO—BRAKES!” Uzair screamed.

Zehran looked at him.

And uzair press hard but nothing.... And then~~

“OH, SH—”

The car skidded, spun once, and slammed right into a tree with a thud! Leaves rained down like confetti of their stupidity.

For a second, silence. Then Uzair groaned.

“You okay?”

Zehran nodded, blinking. “Yeah… but I think the tree’s in shock.”

Uzair burst out laughing, clutching his side. “Bro, we just kissed nature at 230 km/h.”

Zehran leaned back, chuckling. “And they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

The BMW sat half-twisted against a tree, its hood steaming faintly. Broken glass glittered across the road like scattered diamonds. Inside,

Zehran's hands rested on the board, his knuckles pale, his pulse still racing.

Uzair groaned beside him, head leaning back on the seat. “Bro… my head’s bleeding,” he muttered, pressing his palm against his forehead.

Zehran turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing. “Your head? My arm’s bleeding, idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

For a moment, they both just sat there, breathing hard.. the smell of smoke and burnt rubber thick around them. Then, they get out slowly from it, and they started laughing. Loud, shaky laughter, the kind that came after you realized how close you’d been to dying.

“Hospital?” Uzair managed between laughs.

“Definitely,” Zehran replied, wincing as he flexed his arm.

They both turned toward the mangled car, the front bumper practically hugging the tree. Uzair kicked a loose piece of metal and sighed. “Not in this thing, we’re not.”

Zehran leaned his head against the seat, closing his eyes. “Great. Breakfast plan turned into a funeral plan.”

Uzair took out his phone, dialing someone. “Let me call Asher. Tell him to pick us up before your dad finds out we wrapped his BMW around a tree.”

As Uzair talked, Zehran’s gaze lingered on the car and a wave of dread washed over his face.

Uzair noticed. “Why are you looking at it like that?”

Zehran exhaled. “Because… I bought it using Haroon Sikandar’s company account.”

Uzair froze, eyes wide. Then he groaned. “YOU DID WHAT?”

Zehran rubbed his temple. “Yeah.”

“Bro, you’re dead,” Uzair said, shaking his head. “He’s gonna bury you in the garage and park another car on top of you.”

Despite the panic, they both started laughing again — tired, bleeding, ridiculous laughter...as Asher’s car headlights finally appeared from the corner of the road.

*********

The atmosphere inside Haroon Sikandar’s office was as sharp as the scent of freshly brewed coffee. The towering glass windows overlooked the city skyline, but his attention was on the file spread open across his mahogany desk.

His secretary stood nervously by the door. “Sir… about yesterday’s transaction. The new BMW was purchased using the company account. Mr. Zehran said you approved it.”

Haroon lifted his gaze slowly, disbelief hardening into fury. “He said I approved it?”

The secretary hesitated. “Yes, sir. He even mentioned it was for business purposes.”

Haroon’s jaw clenched as he turned the file toward him, scanning the receipts. The corner of his lip twitched — not in amusement, but pure frustration.

“Business purposes?” he repeated quietly. The file snapped shut with a loud thud. His voice thundered through the room.

“ZEHRAN!”

The secretary flinched. Haroon rose, straightening his blazer with calm fury. “From now on,” he said coldly, “do not release a single rupee to that boy without my written permission.”

He took his coat from the rack and stormed out, his polished shoes echoing down the marble hallway.

Behind him, the secretary sighed softly, whispering under his breath, “Someone’s about to get a lecture of a lifetime.”

What's up guys!! Your author is back with a new burning story.. and welcome to the world of VILLAIN 🔥💙🖤