Chapter 1
Chapter 1: The Glory Of Eyes
“In the glory of night, along the path of the moon, with the witness of eyes, life seemed to unfurl in perfect beauty. The moon was at its zenith, bathing the world in a silvery glow that softened edges and transformed the mundane. Every shadow held a secret, every gleam a whisper of magic. This was the hour when the veil between worlds thinned, when the ordinary became extraordinary, and the very air hummed with an unseen presence.
The world below, ordinarily a tapestry of dull stone and restless human endeavor, now shimmered with an ethereal light. It was a beauty that transcended mere sight, reaching into the soul of anyone brave enough to truly see. For in that moon-kissed silence, the truth of creation seemed to unfurl, offering glimpses of hidden wonders and ancient dreams. But such profound vision, as the wise whispered, always came at a price. The deeper one looked into the ‘glory of eyes,’ the more one risked seeing not just the beautiful, but the terrifying reflections lurking within the truth.”
As the silvery light intensified, a faint tremor ran through the ground, unnoticed by most. But those who had felt the moon’s pull, those whose souls were already attuned to the night’s secrets, recognized it. It was the whisper of something stirring, something ancient and vast. The air, once humming with gentle magic, now held a subtle tension, a prickle of anticipation that feathered across exposed skin.
Suddenly, a shift. The shadows, previously soft and inviting, deepened, becoming almost solid, consuming the silvery gleam in places. The “secrets” they held now seemed less benign, more... watchful. The “whispers of magic” took on a different cadence, a lower hum that vibrated not just in the air, but in the bones. The silence, once serene, began to feel heavy, pregnant with unspoken possibilities. The “unseen presence” that had merely hummed now seemed to solidify, pressing in from all sides. The world below, no longer merely shimmering, began to subtly breathe. Not with the gentle rhythm of a sleeping city, but with a slow, deliberate intake and exhalation that resonated with the tremor in the earth.
For those who dared to truly see, the “truth of creation” was no longer just about beauty. It began to reveal the raw, untamed forces that underpinned existence. The “hidden wonders” were accompanied by glimpses of vast, indifferent cosmic machinery. The “ancient dreams” twisted into shapes that were both alluring and deeply unsettling, hinting at realities beyond human comprehension. And then, in the heart of the deepest shadows, the “terrifying reflections” began to coalesce. They weren’t just reflections of the viewer’s own fears, though those were certainly amplified. They were reflections of the very nature of existence—the chaos, the inevitable decay, the cold, stark beauty of oblivion. The moon, once a benevolent guide, now seemed to hang like a single, cyclopean eye, observing the unfolding drama with an inscrutable gaze, as if challenging those who sought to pierce the veil to truly confront what lay beyond. The “glory of night” was now tinged with an ominous majesty, and the path of the moon, once a gentle invitation, became a perilous tightrope over an abyss of unveiled truth.
Every tragedy wounds history with its impacts. Always, truth lurks beneath the surface. In the shadows of night, a lady was out in the streets. Zara, with a grief of acknowledgment and sympathy in her heart, went forward and sat down near the flowing water. She set her eyes on the water. Many thoughts were swirling around her mind: Was it right to take a life, not being the owner of it? Why is it easy to finish a human without any cause? Is it easy to fight for your own belongings, especially life, and most specially blood relations?
She clenched her fingers in her pockets. She pulled out a wallet and yanked a paper out of it. A number was written lightly on it with the name Irtiza. “Who the bloody hell is he to kill anyone? Is it possible and easy for everyone to kill everyone?” She grabbed her mobile out and dialed the number. The bell rang; no answers. “Hell! How dare you not to receive my call!”
Moments later, her phone rang—the same number was there. She picked up the call and calmly said, “Hello, Mister, who are you?” “No, this is a question for me to ask: who are you?” the opposite voice said. “Zara!” she shouted, “You dialed my number first!” The opposite voice said, “Oh, right. My name is Zara, and yours?” “Irtiza,” he claimed. “Okay, I have filed a case on you—on a murder case. You have to visit your very nearest police station to concede...”
“...it right? Ooh, stop! Who are you to file a case, and for which reason? Stop, you bloody! I told you my name is Zara, and I am the daughter of your father’s enemy. Right? Let me know you!”
“No more confessions. Let us talk tomorrow in the police station.”
The call cut off. He smiled widely. He was Irtiza Khan, the son of Abrar Khan from Abrar Villas, the great family of this city. He was well known for his killer behavior. He was the son of the man who killed 80 people alone at an amusement park for no reason, just for the sake of his ego, nothing else. He was the most egoistic person in the whole of his family, even more than his father. He kills people for no reason. In the sense of trouble, he smiled and dialed a number on his phone again and said...
