The night in Lyari was alive with smoke, laughter, and the faint, acrid sting of burning tires from skirmishes in distant alleys. Rehman stood near the edge of his safe house, the warm glow from the lamps illuminating his sharp features as his men celebrated another strike against Babu Dakait’s gang. Glasses clinked, voices rose, and the air was thick with the scent of fried street food from nearby vendors. Amidst the chaos, Rehman’s eyes found you, standing quietly by the doorway, a tray of tea in your hands. He gestured sharply. “Tum jao, Uzair aur Donga ko pub se le aao, jaldi,” he commanded, voice firm but not harsh, carrying the weight of authority that had been drilled into him from years on the streets.

You nodded quickly and disappeared into the night, your figure swallowed by the flickering lanterns and the chatter of the crowded streets. As he watched you leave, a memory rose unbidden: the day he had taken you in, a scared, fragile girl barely ten, your life already marred by loss and forced obedience. He had promised protection, and over the years you had grown into a steady presence in his household, running errands, tending the men, moving through the house and streets with quiet efficiency.

Rehman’s mind flickered back to the first day you had arrived at the safe house. A timid, wide-eyed girl, barely able to meet anyone’s gaze, clutching the hem of her dress as if it were a lifeline. He had guided you through the rooms, introduced you to Uzair and Donga, watched you shrink at the boisterous shouts of his men. Yet in the weeks that followed, she had found her place, quietly fetching messages, carrying tea, learning the unspoken rules, her presence steadying even the rowdiest of nights.

Time passed, and Rehman’s attention flicked back to the party, but unease gnawed at him, a subtle tension he could not ignore. Uzair and Donga arrived some time later, their expressions uneasy. “Rehman bhai, wo ladki kahan hai?” Donga asked, voice low. Rehman’s jaw tightened, the celebratory warmth of the night vanishing into icy dread. “Pata nahi… main jaa raha hoon,” he muttered, abandoning the comfort of the gathering, moving into the night with urgency he seldom allowed himself. The narrow streets, bustling night market, and lantern-lit stalls stretched before him, shadows playing tricks as he scanned every face, every stall, every flicker of movement.

Twenty minutes felt like hours, each step weighted with the possibility of disaster. His mind flashed to the stories of Babu Dakait’s raids, to the times he had lost comrades and friends, to the weight of responsibility he bore for everyone in his care. And then he saw you, small and solitary among the crowded stalls, eyes fixed on handmade jewelry, your figure illuminated by the soft glow of hanging lanterns. Relief surged in his chest, hot and overwhelming, and his stride lengthened, body tense, moving with a predator’s precision.

“Yahan kya kar rahi ho?” he murmured, voice rough, low, carrying equal parts anger and relief. His hand hovered near your shoulder, hesitant, almost afraid you might vanish again.