Moonlight date

The heavy curtains in Hooriya’s room were drawn tight, but the

aggressive gray light of a rainy afternoon still managed to bleed through

the edges like a bruise. She bolted upright, her lungs burning as if they

were still filled with the acrid smoke of the mall blast. Three months. The

nightmare was always the same: the deafening roar of shattering glass,

the smell of ozone, and then—that terrifying, heavy silence.

In the haze of the dream, a hand had gripped her arm, pulling her back

just as a ceiling beam turned into a rain of fire. She saw it clearly in the

flash: a man’s neck, the skin pale against the dark collar of a tactical

jacket, and a distinct, sharp tattoo trailing up toward his jawline. He was

one of them—part of the organization that had planted the heat—yet his

eyes had been the only steady thing in the chaos. He hadn't pushed her;

he had shielded her.

Hooriya sat there for a long moment, her breath hitching in the quiet

room. She didn't cry. She didn't have the energy for it. Instead, she just

stared at her hands, still trembling slightly, the image of that tattoo

burned into her retinas like a camera flash. She was the definition of

"cool" under pressure, the kind of girl who looked at the world with a

bored, detached gaze, but beneath that mask of indifference was a mind

that observed every flickering shadow. She was emotionally intelligent

enough to know she was drowning in the cold depths of depression, but

she wore her detachment like armor.

She swung her legs over the bed. The room was a reflection of her world:

a high-end gaming rig with glowing red LEDs, her leather biking jacket

tossed over a chair, and a half-finished canvas. She stood up, grabbed a

palette knife, and walked over to the easel near the window. Outside, the

rain was just beginning to streak the glass. She didn't change out of her

oversized black tee; she just started slashing dark, moody strokes of oil

paint onto the canvas. Painting was the only time the noise in her head

went quiet.

The door creaked open. Her mother stepped in, looking frantic. "Hooriya,

did you even hear me calling? Your father just got off the phone. The

threats... they’re getting worse. They said they’ll come for you to get to

him. To blackmail him."

Hooriya didn't even turn around. She smeared a streak of crimson across

the canvas, her expression completely flat. "Let them come," she said, her

voice smooth and devoid of fear. "Maybe they'll finally make things

interesting around here."

"This isn't a joke!" her mother hissed. "We have to move you. Your father

is arranging everything. You’re leaving for Shahnwaaz’s house."

"Cool. Pack my bags or don't, I really don't care," Hooriya replied, finally

turning to look at her mother with a chillingly calm, "idgaf" smile.

As the door slammed shut, Hooriya let the palette knife drop. She turned

back to the window, watching the rain intensify. A new city. A new house.

Away from the stifling, toxic air of this family and closer to the shadows

of the city. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, the image of the

fire and that dark ink on a stranger's skin flickering one last time behind

her eyelids before she pushed it down. For now, all that mattered was

getting out.

The humidity in the underground bunker was a living thing, heavy and

smelling of cold steel and burnt electricity. Zain sat at the head of the table, his

fingers laced together.Zain at the age of 27 already was one of the top lawyers with his own law firm which was on number 1 ranking.He didn't look like a lawyer right now. The sharp, tailored

lines of his suit usually suggested a man of the courtroom, but the way his eyes tracked the

flickering monitors suggested a predator in a high-tech cage.

'The tracking data from London is identical to the Istanbul hits,' Ibrahim said, throwing a

tablet onto the table. The screen showed a map of Islamabad with red pulses blinking over

the diplomatic enclave. 'Two deaths. Two different countries. Zero forensic evidence of

foul play. The local police are calling them heart attacks, but we know better.'

Zain leaned forward, the light from the monitors casting long, jagged shadows across his

face. 'They aren't just heart attacks, Ibrahim. They’re signatures. Someone is cleaning house

at the highest levels of Global Intelligence. Theyre targeting specific group which includes ours one of the best and old general too.'Which is why the British and Turkish teams are landing tonight,' Ayaan added, leaning

against the doorframe. 'They’re bringing the other details and a code.A code? For what hamza asked.

Suddenly, Zain’s phone buzzed with a rhythmic, annoying persistence. He glanced at the

caller ID: Father. He sighed, rubbing his temples. 'I have to take this. Keep running the

simulation on the General's route.'

He stepped into the hallway and answered. 'Dad, I told you I'm in the middle of a

massive litigation—'

'Litigation can wait, Zain!' Shahnwaaz’s voice was booming with a rare, infectious joy.

'My oldest friend is in trouble. His daughter is coming to Islamabad. She needs a place to

stay, and she needs to be safe. I’ve told her you’ll be her guardian while she’s here.Zain’s jaw tightened. 'Guardian? Dad, I’m not a babysitter. Send her to a hotel with some

of your security guys.'

'She is not a client, Zain. She is family. She’s a sweet girl, with kind heart. She probably

wants to see the sights and go shopping. Don't you dare be rude to her with that cold

' attitude of yours. Shahnwaaz’s voice turned serious. Treat her like a family No questions asked.'

Zain hung up and looked at his friends. 'New mission objective. We have to pick up a

'pampered princess' at the outskirts. Apparently, she’s fragile, soft, and needs us to hold her

hand while she shops for handbags.'

Hamza laughed, a bright sound that felt out of place in the bunker. 'A princess in this

house? This should be fun. I’ll make sure the guest room has extra silk pillows.