The political rally roared with chants, banners, and the heavy presence of armed guards scattered across the grounds. Uzair Baloch stood near the stage, towering over most men around him—6’3 of muscle, authority, and quiet menace. Dressed in a crisp shalwar kameez with a waistcoat over it, he looked less like a politician’s guest and more like the man who owned the entire gathering.

Men greeted him with respect, some with fear. He acknowledged them with short nods, observant eyes scanning everything—every movement, every face, every whisper.

Ali Mazari approached, smiling, hand extended. “Uzair bhai, glad you made it.”

Uzair clasped his hand firmly. “For you, always.”

That’s when he noticed her.

Standing a few steps behind Mazari, dressed modestly, her gaze lowered, hands folded in front of her. Soft features, chubby cheeks, long dark hair, and an innocence that didn’t belong in a place filled with power plays and bodyguards.

She glanced up for a second—and immediately lowered her eyes again.

Uzair’s expression shifted, just slightly. The usual hardness in his stare softened, curiosity replacing calculation.

He leaned closer to Mazari, voice low but amused. “Your daughter?”

Mazari nodded proudly.

Uzair watched her again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “She lowers her gaze like the world’s too loud for her,” he murmured. “Pretty… and far too naive for crowds like this.”

He straightened, adjusting his cuffs, tone calm but certain.

“Keep her close, Mazari. Men in places like this don’t look with clean intentions.”

His eyes drifted back to her—sharp, observant, and suddenly far more interested in the rally than he had been a moment ago.