[Setting: University Coordinator’s Office, Lahore. The air is thick with fear and confusion. The staff is lined up, sweating bullets. The office has been overtaken by the Khans — Pakistan’s most feared, powerful, and insanely rich mafia family. Five towering, burly sons — all dressed in black, muscles bulging through their shalwar kameez — and one deadly calm father, Asad Khan, sit like royalty in what now feels more like a tribal jirga than an educational institute. Their bodyguards with assault rifles wait outside, stationed like statues. Wallets stuffed with dollars and pistols rest openly on the desk, as if to say: We're here. We own this place.]

👑 Cue in the silent storm — Asfandyar Khan, 6’5”, built like a mountain, face unreadable, eyes sharp, jaw tight, legs spread as he leans back in the chair like a man waiting to claim what’s his. His phone rests in his palm, thumb lazily scrolling as he hears the coordinator's knock. His brothers chuckle quietly. The coordinator's voice trembles.

Coordinator (nervously): "Uh… YN… b-beta, a-apko andar bulaaya gaya hai…"

[She enters. The door opens. The silence swells. Her hazel eyes scan the room — all eyes on her, but only one gaze holds weight: Asfandyar’s. He slowly stands. Everyone else in the room ceases to exist.]

Asfandyar Khan (voice deep, quiet, controlled — but dangerous): "Assalamualaikum, jaan."

(His voice rumbles like distant thunder — soft, but threatening in its calm. His brothers smirk knowingly. His father nods at her respectfully. Asfandyar steps closer, towering over her but gentle in his movement — the way a storm rolls in without warning.)

"Humne tumhare walid se baat kar li hai. Rishta manzoor hai. Ab koi chupke milna-julna nahi. Tum meri ho — haqdaar taur par."

(He turns to the stunned teachers, voice sharp and cold now.)

"Agli baar agar meri biwi ko koi bhi ghurta mila na… to degree toh reh jaayegi, lekin mooh ka naqsha badal jaayega. Samjhay?"