Gyarah Baj Kar Unsath Minute (Eleven Past Fifty Nine Minutes)

Bismillah (In the Name of Allah)

Sunlight filtered through the window, falling straight onto the round table placed right in front of it. A white teacup sat on the table. Someone pulled the chair on the left and sat down. The newcomer crossed his left leg over his right knee and leaned in slightly to pick up the teacup. A minor itch flared up in the wound on his right wrist, which he completely ignored. Bringing the old analog watch on his left wrist closer to his eyes, he checked the time: the short hand was on eight, the long hand on twelve, and the second hand was still slowly ticking along. He brought the tea to his lips and instantly winced. It tasted terrible.

“How many times have I told you, Arsal, don’t put so much sugar in my tea!” he yelled, placing the cup back on the table.

He had barely leaned back when Arsal came rushing out from the kitchen.

“Sorry, Bhaiya! I put it according to my guess. Let me make another one for you!” Arsal said hurriedly, picking up the cup.

“No, leave it!” he said with a sharp flick of his right hand. As he raised his arm, the wound on his wrist showed clearly. Arsal took the cup and headed back into the kitchen.

For a long time, he sat there in complete silence, staring blankly out the window. Then, slipping his right hand into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. Sarim’s name was flashing on the screen. He answered it and put it to his ear.

“We found a body at the old theater.”

He took a deep breath, stood up, and started walking toward the main exit.

“Any suspect?”

“No!”

“Is it the same killer?”

“Looks like it. The killer wrote ‘11:59’ in blood on the victim’s chest again.”

“What time did the murder happen?”

“I got the call at 9:15.”

“Hmm! I’m on my way,” he said and hung up.

Within a short while, he arrived at the crime scene. Entering the theater hall, he took the stairs two at a time. A harsh light from above hit his face. He was a man with a wheatish complexion. Dark circles under his eyes were proof enough that he hadn’t slept in nights. He had a strong jawline covered in a rough, three-day-old beard.

He was wearing a khaki sleeveless jacket over a dark blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Heavy official leather boots on his feet made a distinct thud with every step on the floor. Climbing the last few steps, he reached Sarim.

“This is the fifth murder,” Sarim said with a look of regret, gazing down at the body.

“This killer thinks he can just get away with murder. He has no idea who he’s messing with! My name is Ahyan Safdar!” Kneeling down, he began searching the body. He pulled out two theater tickets from the victim’s pocket. Unfolding them, he saw the number ‘11’ written on one ticket and ‘59’ on the other. Ahyan took a heavy breath.

“The victim’s seat number was actually 234,” Sarim noted, looking at the tickets in his hand.

Ahyan nodded and stood up.

“Send the body for an autopsy,” he instructed, walking back down the stairs. He was heading straight to the CCTV control room to check the footage.

From morning until evening, he kept interrogating people at the theater. As usual, checking the CCTV was useless - all the recordings had been wiped clean. Hands resting on his waist, he stood right in front of the theater’s main entrance.

“Everyone’s gone back! We’re not going to find anything here,” Sarim’s voice came from behind as he walked over to stand beside him.

“You go ahead. I’m going to search this place again. No matter how smart he thinks he is, he’s bound to leave some clue behind,” Ahyan said, heading back inside. Sarim sighed deeply and walked out.

Evening had turned to night, and the darkness was growing deeper. He checked the time on his wristwatch - it was 11:30 PM, and he still hadn’t found anything. Right now, he was trying to search around seat number 11. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the seat, letting his head fall back against the headrest. ‘There has to be a clue somewhere. He should have been caught by now,’ he thought as he closed his eyes.

A little later, he snapped his eyes open in a panic. Oh God, did I actually fall asleep?

‘I need to go home and get a proper night’s sleep first,’ he thought, shaking his head. He checked his watch -11:58 PM.

He was just about to get up when he felt a tight, vicious grip on the back of his neck. Someone clamped a hand firmly over his mouth. Panicking, he tried to shove the hand away. Before he could process what was happening or make a move - a sharp, horrifying pain pierced through the back of his head. Sharp, stopping his heart instantly. Someone had shot him.

In a fraction of a second, he collapsed completely. His lifeless body slumped over the seat. The watch on his wrist was still ticking away. The time was 11:59 PM.

He sat up with a sudden jolt, gasping for air!

Confused and panicked, he looked around - he was at home, in his bedroom, on his own bed. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He was wearing his light-blue pajamas. Trying to get his racing heart under control, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and lit up the screen.

The numbers glowed back at him: Tuesday, June 16, 7:30 AM.

“Was that... just a dream?” he thought.