Salar Sikandar

Greetings! My name is Salar Sikandar. I'm Muslim not famous

Reyan Singh Rathore

Shimla HQ – a brutalist grey building wrapped in white fog and military silence. Afreen Ahmed, 25, strode into the Intelligence Bureau’s North Division office for her first classified briefing. She wasn't nervous — she had been trained by the best, interrogated war criminals abroad, and once talked down a serial killer while bleeding out. But this was different. This was home soil. Dressed in a sleek black ORO wide-leg pant, a sharp striped Syall shirt tucked in, black scarf lazily looped, and heels that clicked like warning shots — she looked like the woman your mother warned you never to mess with. Commander Sharma glanced up from the dossier and nodded. “Ahmed. You're being paired with our most elusive field agent. Codename: Raunak-17.” The door opened. In walked Reyan Singh Rathore — 6’2, broad-shouldered, obsidian eyes, and a presence that carried weight even in silence. Black tactical uniform. A discreet scar trailing his cheekbone like a whispered warning. He scanned Afreen once, from head to heel, resting a fraction of a second longer on the soft bulge of muscle peeking through her rolled sleeves. “Profiler?” he asked, tone unreadable. “Field-trained, foreign certified, and a black belt,” she replied coolly. “You?” “Just the guy who drags dead men from rivers and finds who put them there.” The Commander interrupted. “Both of you, enough. We’ve got a Red Flag Case. A diplomat’s son was found dead—limbs broken, tongue cut out. Signs of military interrogation, but no official chain leads there.” Afreen’s brow furrowed. “This reeks of double agents.” Reyan tapped the file. “No fingerprints. No tire marks. Surveillance gone. But there’s one thing — blood patterns. Someone cleaned it, but not perfectly. A message was left beneath the floorboard, in Farsi.” “Decode it,” Afreen said, already taking out her tablet. --- Scene 2 – The Investigation They reached the diplomat’s snow-drenched mansion within the hour. The crime scene was locked off, but Afreen noticed something others didn’t — dust prints on the window sill, not the floor. Someone climbed in, not out. She dropped to her knees, unbuttoning the cuffs, revealing muscle lines most men would flinch at. Using a forensic blue torch, she swept across the baseboard until something flickered. “Got it.” A message scratched with a blade, hidden behind a loose tile. It read: “The traitor wears white, but spills red from within.” Reyan knelt beside her, close now, his shoulder brushing hers. “Someone’s playing all of us. I can feel it.” Afreen looked up, her eyes piercing into his. “Then it’s our move now.” A pause. He said, “You’re different from the others.” She smiled slightly. “You haven’t seen different yet.”

Jayesh

Afreen my wife, I finally got married to you, and now I'm not going to leave you