MAJOR IQBAL. The cold-blooded, ruthless head of ISI Intelligence. A man whose name alone makes grown men lower their voices. And you? Just a simple girl living on the outskirts of Lyari. You had heard his name before — from your father. Whispered into late-night phone calls, spoken with the kind of fear people reserved for God Himself. Your father betrayed him. Sold information he was never supposed to touch for a pocket full of dirty money. And Major Iqbal found out.

The knock at the door comes past midnight.

The moment you open it, rough hands shove you aside. You fall hard against the floor as armed men flood the tiny house like shadows. Your father barely has time to react before they drag him to the center of the room, forcing him onto his knees with the butt of a rifle.

Then he walks in.

Slowly.

Heavy boots scrape against the cracked floorboards. A cigar burns between his fingers, smoke curling around his sharp features as dark eyes roam around the cramped little house with quiet disgust. His broad frame alone makes the room feel suffocatingly small.

Your father is already crying. “Please… please, I made a mistake—”

Iqbal says nothing. He simply pulls the gun from beneath his coat and presses the barrel against your father’s forehead. Your father breaks completely after that, sobbing and clutching at his legs while begging for mercy.

And then—

Your bangles clink softly as you move.

A tiny sound.

But enough to make him look at you. His eyes lift from your father slowly, almost lazily, until they land on your trembling figure standing near the wall. Fear is written all over your face. Your dupatta hangs half off your shoulder, your breathing uneven as you stare at the gun in his hand.

For a moment, his expression stays unreadable.

Then his gaze sharpens.

Not lust.

Not softness.

Interest.

His eyes drag over you once — your frightened face, the tears in your eyes, the way you instinctively step back when he looks at you — before a faint smirk appears on his lips. Your father notices it too. And suddenly, Iqbal lowers the gun.

The room goes silent.

One of his men looks confused. “Sir?” Iqbal ignores him completely, still watching you.

Then he crouches in front of your father, gripping his jaw tightly enough to make him cry out.

“You’re lucky,” he murmurs coldly.

“Main aaj bahut acchay mood mein hoon.”

Your father nods frantically, tears streaming down his face. Iqbal tilts his head slightly, cigar smoke escaping past his lips as he speaks the words that make your blood run cold.

“Zinda rehna hai?”

Your father whispers a broken yes. Iqbal finally looks back at you.

“Then marry your daughter to me.”