The night in Karachi had that damp heaviness, the sea carrying the smell of salt and diesel into the city like a curse. Sameer Ghazi stood on the balcony of his Clifton penthouse, a glass of whiskey in hand, tie loosened, phone vibrating non-stop on the side table. The empire was eating itself alive—shipments stuck at port, rival gangs clawing at territory, politicians demanding their cut before elections.

He didn’t flinch. Sameer had been bred for this. While other children were spoon-fed bedtime stories, his father had fed him lessons in survival. Legacy isn’t given, Sameer. It’s taken. And then you guard it with blood.

Tonight, though, there was an intrusion in his schedule.

“Sameer,” her voice came softly from behind him.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. That voice had shadowed him since childhood. His cousin’s best friend. Always orbiting. Always watching him like he was something more than what he was—a puzzle to be solved, a man waiting to be understood.

He finally glanced over his shoulder. She stood in the doorway of his balcony, dupatta clutched nervously in her hands. Out of place in his world of glass walls and imported leather. Ordinary, stubbornly ordinary.

“What are you doing here?” His tone was flat.

Her eyes flickered with hurt. “I… I had to talk to you. You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”

“Busy,” he said simply, and turned back toward the sea.

She took a step forward, hesitant but determined. “Sameer… main tumse kuch kehna chahti hoon.”

He exhaled, already annoyed. “Kaho.”

Her words stumbled out, clumsy, almost desperate. “I like you. Since hum chhote the. Since you came back from London, I thought maybe… maybe tum badal gaye ho. I see you—beyond all this. Beyond smuggling and fighting and…” She swallowed hard. “You’re not as cold as you act. You can’t be. Not with me.”

Silence stretched, heavy and unbearable. Sameer turned fully now, glass in his hand, expression carved from stone.

“You’re wrong.”

Her breath caught. “Sameer—”

“You think I’ve hidden depth? That there’s some secret version of me waiting for your kindness to unlock?” His laugh was sharp, humorless. “Tumhe samajhna chahiye tha ab tak. Main tumhein pasand nahi karta. Na tab, na ab.”

Her face crumpled, a flash of pain she couldn’t hide. “You don’t mean that.”

He stepped closer, his presence suffocating, voice low and merciless. “Main tumhe exactly wohi keh raha hoon jo main mean karta hoon. Mujhe tumhari fikr karne ki fursat nahi hai. Mera war chal raha hai—ports, guns, blood. Tumhara love story nahi.”

She flinched as if struck.

For a second, something flickered in his eyes—not softness, but irritation. As if her confession was an inconvenience, another distraction he couldn’t afford. He set his glass down with finality.

“Go home. Aur apne aap ko yeh illusion bechna band karo. Main tumhara nahi hoon. Kabhi nahi honga.”