Chapter Text
Ridder, kazakhstan
The slow drizzle of rain tapped rhythmically against the windowpane, casting a cool, somber shadows across the room. Outside, Ridder was swallowed by a quiet, mist-shrouded morning; inside, the air hung heavy with a melancholic stillness.
Two bodies lay tangled in the dim light. Hamza’s eyes shifted restlessly beneath tightly shut lids, trapped in the suffocating web of a dream—the kind of dream that had haunted his sleep all night, a beautiful nightmare he never wished to see, yet couldn’t escape.
Beside him lay Ishmir, his three-year-old baby boy, completely oblivious to the ache bruising his father's soul. Ishmir small leg is thrown carelessly over Hamza, his tiny hand wrapped around him , his soft face buried deep into Hamza chest. The child was his anchor, yet looking at him only made the weight in Hamza heart heavier.
Hamza choked back a breath, his fingers gently brushing through Ishmir’s soft hair. The silence of the room was loud, filled only with the agonizing echo of his own thoughts.
He pulled the child closer, a tear slipping silently into the boy's curls as he stared at the rain.
The somber mood of the rain softened just a fraction as the reality of a Monday morning crept into the room. Hamza opened his eyes, the heavy shadows of his dream slowly retreating as he looked down at the tiny soul resting against his chest.
A faint, tender smile tugged at Hamza’s lips—the only genuine smile he ever wore these days, reserved exclusively for this little boy.
He leaned down, pressing soft kisses all over Ishmir’s face. He kissed his chubby cheeks, the tip of his button nose, and his chin. Ishmir let out a soft, sleepy giggle, his eyes still tightly shut as he tried to burrow even deeper into the warmth of Hamza chest,
Hamza chuckled softly, and pressed a final, long kiss against that tiny forehead.
"Uth jao, mere laadla... subah ho gayi. Aaj school nahi jaana kya? Agar phir se late hue na, toh woh badi ma'am tumhare papa ko bohot daantengi. Phir mat kehna ke bataya nahi."
Ishmir squirmed, a tiny pout forming on his lips as his hands gripped Hamza’s shirt a little tighter, loath to leave the safety of his father's arms. Hamza rubbed the boy's back gently, the warmth of the child's body the only solace against the cold, gray morning outside. "Chalo, utho ab... meri jaan ho na tum? Chhoti-chhoti aankhein kholo ab."
Ishmir blinked against the dim morning light,
letting his lashes flutter open. He rubbed his eyes with his tiny fists and sat up, looking small and wonderfully messy.
Hamza swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor a sharp contrast to the warmth they had just left. He reached out his arms, and without a second thought, Ishmir crawled right into them, burying his face into the nook of Hamza neck as he was lifted off the mattress. Hamza held him close, supporting his weight feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
He walked toward the window, looking out at the gray sky, swaying the boy gently from side to side to soothe the morning crankiness.
"Kya hua, baccha? Aaj bilkul dil nahi hai jaane ka? Hmm?"
Ishmir didn't answer, only wrapping his small arms tighter around Hamza's neck, hiding from the rest of the world. Hamza sighed, resting his chin on Ishmir’s soft hair,
" kya karein, thoda toh padhna padega na, jaan?"
Ishmir nodded solemnly against Hamza’s shoulder, his little voice muffled but clear. "Yes, baba," he murmured, his perfect little accent echoing in the quiet room.
Hamza couldn't help but let out a soft laugh, He pulled back just enough to look at his sleepy face, gently bopping the boy's nose with his finger.
"Hayee... mera angrej di aulaad! English chhad ke kujh hor nahi aundi tainu? Ki karaan main tera, Waheguru!"
Ishmir just blinked blankly completely unbothered by his father's dramatic sigh. Hamza smiled, kissing the tip of the boy's nose again, his heart melting just a little more.
"Chalo, thoda bohot toh mitti ki bhasha seekh lo, jaan. Sifatiyan hi karda reh jaanga main teri, par tu toh bas 'yes baba' te 'no baba' hi seekheya ae." Hamza carried him into the washroom, where the quiet morning finally broke into a flurry of giggles and splashes. A minor war ensued over the running water—Ishmir eagerly flicking droplets with his small fingers while Hamza tried, with laughing protests, to actually get him clean without soaking the entire bathroom.
Once dried off, Hamza picked out a set of soft, loose clothes for the boy—a comfortable t-shirt and matching trousers that made Ishmir look incredibly handsome, Hamza then quickly got himself ready, slipping into a pair of easy trousers and layering his t-shirts against the chilly Ridder morning.
Setting Ishmir down on his feet, Hamza patted his shoulder gently.
"Chalo baby, pack your bag, okey? Main tab tak breakfast banata hoon."
Ishmir nodded dutifully, a bright grin returning to his face. "Yesss, baba!" he chirped.
With a smile, Hamza headed into the kitchen to get the morning moving. He poured out a bowl of cornflakes with warm milk for Ishmir and brewed a cup of light coffee for himself, letting the rich aroma cut through the leftover heaviness of his dreams. Then, moving efficiently, he put together a quick, comforting pasta, packing it carefully into a small tiffin box for Ishmir to take to school.
Ishmir trotted out of the bedroom, his little backpack bouncing slightly against his shoulders before he dropped it by the chair. Hamza smiled, lifting him up and settling him comfortably at the table. Sitting down right next to him, Hamza picked up the spoon and began feeding him the cornflakes,
Between bites, Hamza wiped a stray drop of milk from Ishmir’s chin and leaned in, his voice soft but playful.
"Achha, ye toh batao... school ka homework poora ho gaya tha na kal? Woh jo ma'am ne diya tha?"
Ishmir chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and looked up at Hamza "Yes, baba! Woh... diary mein tick lagaya tha maine. All done!"
Hamza chuckled, shaking his head at the adorable mix of languages as he brought another spoonful to the boy's lips.
"Shabaash, Agar kaam poora na hota, toh aaj tumhare papa ki khair nahi tha."
The crisp, chilly air of Ridder nipped at them the moment they stepped outside, the gray sky still weeping a very gentle drizzle. Hamza quickly walked to the car, holding Ishmir close under a large umbrella, and settled him safely into his car seat in the back. After clicking the harness securely, he leaned over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek before closing the door.
Hamza jogged around to the driver's side, slipping into his seat, and turned the key. As the engine hummed to life, he checked the rearview mirror.
Ishmir was already looking out the window, his tiny fingers pressing against the glass. As Hamza shifted gears and started driving, the boy began his usual morning routine—babbling away without a pause, his voice a sweet, chaotic rhythm against the sound of the windshield wipers. He pointed excitedly at everything passing by, turning his head rapidly to catch every detail of the rain-soaked streets.
"Baba! Look, look... woh doggy! Bheeg gaya woh!"
Hamza smiled, his eyes shifting between the wet road and the mirror,
"And baba, see! Badi wali gaadi! Red color!" Ishmir chirped, bouncing slightly in his seat as a truck passed them by.
"Bohot badi gaadi hai, beta. Tum bas aaraam se baitho, hum bas pahunchne hi wale hain."
Before long, the familiar gates of the school building appeared through the misty rain, surrounded by other parents and children rushing inside under a sea of colorful umbrellas. Hamza pulled the car up to the drop-off lane and came to a gentle stop, looking back at his little Englishman, who was now staring at the school gates with wide, curious eyes.
As hamza stepped out into the cool, damp air, pulling the umbrella open. He walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and unbuckled his little world. Reaching into the car, he scooped Ishmir up into his arms, lifting him close to his chest to shield him from the mist.
Holding him tight, Hamza leaned in and pressed a kiss first on Ishmir's left cheek, and then on his right, making the boy squeeze his eyes shut with a smile.
"Apna dhyan rakhna, meri jaan. Aur saara pasta khatam karna, thik hai?"
Ishmir wrapped his tiny arms around Hamza’s neck and, mimicking his father perfectly, planted two big, wet kisses right back—one on Hamza's left cheek, and one on his right.
"Bye, baba! jaldi aana picking karne!" Ishmir said,
Hamza set the boy down gently at the sheltered entrance of the school, watching as a teacher took Ishmir small hand. With one final, enthusiastic wave of his little hand, Ishmir turned around and walked through the doors, stepping into the warmth of the school building. Hamza stood there for a moment under the rain, the warmth of his son's kisses the only thing keeping the cold at bay.
Hamza got back into the car, the engine humming to life just as the sky finally broke completely, the gentle drizzle turning into a heavy, relentless downpour. He drove through the blurred streets of Ridder, the rhythm of the wipers doing nothing to clear the fog settling inside his mind.
When he reached home, the emptiness of the house hit him before he even stepped inside. Unable to face the quiet walls just yet, he walked out to the shaded veranda. He sat down on the outdoor sofa, shielded from the downpour but close enough to feel the cool, damp mist on his skin. He opened his laptop, intending to distract himself with work, but the silence was too loud. He reached over and turned on the radio, looking for any background noise to drown out his thoughts.
Instead, the soft, agonizing notes of a familiar melody began to float through the air. The speaker played Piya Tora Kaisa Abhiman.
Piya tora kaisa abhiman
Sagan sawan layi kadam bahar
Mathura se doli laye charo kaha
Nahi aaye, nahi aaye
Keshriya balama hamar
Angana bada sunsan
The raw, soulful words pierced through the cool air, hitting the exact bruise in his heart. Hamza stared blankly at the bright screen of his laptop, but the words and files blurred into a smear of light as his eyes slowly filled with tears. He felt the familiar, suffocating tightness in his throat. He hated this. He hated how vulnerable the silence made him.
With a trembling hand, he reached for the small bottle of medicine sitting on the side table. He quickly popped the pills, swallowing them dry, desperately hoping they would numb the ache before it completely consumed him. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, angry at his own weakness. He didn’t want these tears to fall again. He had to be strong. He had to be whole for Ishmir.
But the music kept playing, weaving through the sound of the falling rain.
A ragged breath escaped his lips, and despite every ounce of his willpower, his shoulders began to shake. The dam broke. Before the medicine could even begin to work, the first sob tore through his chest, lost entirely to the sound of the rain.
The warmth of the tears running down his face stood in sharp contrast to the dead, icy coldness in his eyes. Hamza leaned his head back against the sofa, staring blankly up at the ceiling of the veranda as the rain poured on, completely defenseless against the storm inside his own head.
He closed his eyes, but the darkness offered no escape.
Instead, a chaotic flood of memories crashed through his mind, sudden and violent. Voices he hadn't heard in ages echoed in his ears, overlapping and distorted. Blurred faces and forgotten moments flashed behind his eyelids, spinning faster and faster until a sharp, blinding ache throbbed behind his temples.
“Jaan…”
“Mmm… Uzair…”
“Hamza… Hamza…”
The voices felt so real, so loud, that they choked the air right out of his lungs. A wave of nausea hit him , Hamza’s eyes snapped open wide panicked. His breath caught in his throat, he gripped the arm of the sofa, His stomach violently churned, a bitter taste rising instantly. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his chair back as he stumbled blindly toward the bathroom, desperately needing to puke.
Karachi jail, Pakistan
Thousands of miles away, beneath the heavy, humid sky of Karachi, Pakistan, the massive iron gates of the central jail groaned open.
Today was the release day of Uzair Baloch.
He stepped out into the blinding sunlight, there was no relief on his face, no triumph. His eyes were entirely dead—numb, hollow pools that held absolutely no emotion, as if the man who had entered that cell eight years ago had long since been hollowed out. A crowd of his loyal gang members immediately swarmed him, their voices thick with emotion, some of them openly crying as they threw their arms around him Uzair stood rigid within their embrace, barely anchoring himself to the ground, his arms hanging limp. He was present in body, but his spirit was trapped somewhere deep in the dark.
The convoy of black SUVs tore through the chaotic streets of Lyari, finally pulling up to the grand gates of the Baloch Haveli.
As he stepped out of the car and paused, looking up at the massive structure. A suffocating, dead silence hung over the estate. It was a haunting contrast to the past—this very haveli used to echo with endless noise, celebrations, and so much vibrant laughter.
But as Uzair stared at the cracked marble floors, only one specific laughter echoed in the chambers of his mind. A familiar giggle that he hated so intensely, so deeply, that even death itself would kneel down before the sheer magnitude of that hatred. It was the same beautiful sound that broke into his dreams every single night, torturing him.
He walked past his men, ignoring their chatter, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. After spending eight long years confined to a concrete floor and iron bars, he had completely forgotten what a proper room even felt like.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, expecting to feel a sense of ownership, a return to his kingdom. But the moment the door closed behind him, the air hit him.
He didn't smell the dust of eight years of abandonment. He didn't smell the old wood. In every single corner of the room, clinging to the heavy curtains, embedded in the mattress, and drifting through the stagnant air, Uzair could smell that scent. The unmistakable, lingering fragrance of the one person he wanted to erase from existence.
Clenching his fists until his veins bulged against his skin, Uzair closed his eyes,
"Aath saal... aath saal us jahannum mein kaat diye tumhare wajah se. Par tumhara khushboo aaj bhi meri saans ko gulam banaye baithi hai."
The silence of the bedroom was suddenly broken by a knock. The door creaked open, and two of Uzair’s most trusted gang members stepped inside, keeping their heads low out of pure reverence for the man who had just returned from the ashes.
One of them approached silently, holding out a crisp, black leather folder. Inside it was a brand-new passport, alongside a set of pre-booked flight tickets. They had anticipated his every need; the groundwork had already been laid while he was still behind bars.
Uzair didn't look up immediately. His dead gaze remained fixed on the empty bed before he slowly reached out and took the passport, his fingers tracing the gold emblem on the cover.
The older man among them cleared his throat, his voice low and gritty. "Sab taiyyar hain bhai"
Uzair opened the passport, staring at his own eyes in the photograph. A cold, menacing smile slowly cut across his face—the first expression to touch his features since he walked out of the prison gates.
"Kazakhstan..."
The name of the distant, frozen country tasted like venom on his tongue. Ridder. That was where the trail ended. That was where the ghost was hiding.
He snapped the passport shut with a sharp, decisive click.
"Bohat lamba udhaar hai... aur Baloch apna karz kabhi nahi chhodta. Bohot saal sukoon ki saans le li usne, ab hisaab barabar karne ka waqt aa gaya hai."
He turned his back on his men, looking out the window at the dusty Karachi heat,
"Taiyaar rehna...aa raha hoon."
Night fell over the haveli, bringing with it a darkness. In the dining hall, a lavish feast had been laid out in front of him. The table groaned under the weight of rich dishes—tender mutton glistening in spices, warm naan, and everything a man fresh out of prison should have starved for.
Uzair just sat there, staring blankly at the spread.
For eight long years, he had survived on prison rations, but looking at this feast, he felt absolutely no appetite. His stomach turned. It didn’t matter how much food was placed in front of him, or how beautifully it was prepared—it was never the same. It could never be the same.
A question clawed at the back of his mind, one he hated himself for even thinking. Was he craving the food itself... or was he craving the specific hands that used to make it for him? The hands that knew exactly how he liked his spice, the hands that used to serve him with a quiet, hesitant smile.
Disgusted by his own train of thought, Uzair pushed the plate away, the metal scraping harshly against the table. He didn't touch a single bite. He reached out, took a sip of water just to clear the dryness in his throat, and stood up.
Leaving the feast to go cold, he turned on his heel and walked back into the dark solitude of his bedroom, shutting the door against the world.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
Back in the freezing quiet of Ridder, the afternoon had bled into a dark, rainy evening. Hamza had driven through the downpour to pick Ishmir up from school, the sight of his little boy running toward him with a wide grin being the only thing that could piece his shattered day back together.
Now, the kitchen was filled with the warm, rich aromas of home. Hamza stood by the stove, his movements mechanical yet precise. On the counter sat a plate of hot, flaky paneer parathas, and beside it, a small bowl of mutton curry—cooked exactly the way *someone* used to love it. It was a recipe burned into his muscle memory, a dish he couldn't stop making even when the person it was meant for gone.
Hamza carried the food to the dining table and sat down, immediately lifting Ishmir onto his lap. The boy didn't care about the rain or the silence of the house; he was a burst of pure, chaotic energy, swinging his small legs and talking non-stop about his day at school.
"And phir baba, ma'am gave me a star! See, haath par!" Ishmir babbled, proudly thrusting his small palm into Hamza’s face to show off a fading ink stamp. "And then we played with blocks, but Ali broke my tower. Maine usko daanta!"
Hamza let out a soft laugh, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a bit. He tore a small piece of the soft paratha, dipped it lightly into the curry, and brought it to Ishmir’s mouth.
"Achha? daanta use? Chalo, ab jaldi se ek bite khao, baatein baad mein."
Ishmir took the bite, chewing happily while leaning his head back against Hamza’s chest, completely content. He swallowed and looked up at his father, his eyes bright. "Baba, yeh mutton bohot tasty hai. Aapne bilkul... umm, restaurant jaisa banaya!"
Hamza’s hand froze for a split second, a sharp, familiar ache piercing his heart at the compliment. He forced a gentle smile, kissing the top of Ishmir's head to hide the sudden glaze of tears in his eyes.
"Haan jaan... kisi ne sikhaya tha baba ko ye banana. Unhe bhi bohot pasand tha."
"Who, baba?" Ishmir asked, his mouth already open for the next bite.
Hamza swallowed the lump in his throat,
"Koi thha... jo ab bohot door chala gaya hai. Tum bas aaraam se khao, thik hai?"
Ishmir nodded, entirely oblivious to the ghost sitting at the table with them, and went right back to babbling about his school friends, his innocent voice the only shield protecting Hamza from the cold world outside.
The kitchen grew quiet after dinner, the only sound being the distant murmur of Ishmir in the bedroom, diligently humming to himself as he finished up his homework.
Hamza sat alone at the empty dining table. In front of him sat his own plate—just a plain, dry paratha. He hadn't touched the mutton curry. He couldn't. He just stared at the rich, spiced gravy sitting in the bowl, his throat tight and his appetite entirely gone. Every line of that recipe belonged to a past life, to memories that felt more like open wounds.
He tore a small piece of the dry bread, chewing it mechanically, tasting absolutely nothing.
And then, the first tear fell, hitting the edge of the plate with a quiet splash.
Hamza immediately raising his hand to wipe his cheek He swallowed hard, forcing another piece of food down.
second after second, the tears kept coming relentless, rolling down his face in a silent stream. He wiped them away again, his sleeve damp, but it was a losing battle.
How many times had he told himself to be strong? How many times had he sworn to himself, looking in the mirror, that he wouldn't do this anymore? He had a son to raise. He had a life to build here in the cold quiet of Ridder. He had to be whole.
But these tears didn't listen to logic. They didn't care about his promises. Every drop carried the weight of eight years of suffocating silence, of a name he couldn't speak aloud, and a ghost he couldn't seem to leave behind. He sat there in the dim light, silently sobbing into the empty space of the kitchen, desperately wiping his face before Ishmir could walk through the door.
Hamza stood up from the table, taking a deep, shuddering breath to clear the heaviness from his chest. He turned on the tap, focusing entirely on the rhythm of washing the dishes and wiping down the kitchen counter—anything to scrub away the lingering ghosts of the evening.
Once the kitchen was restored to a quiet neatness, he walked softly down the hallway to the bedroom.
Pushing the door open, his heart melted at the sight. Ishmir was sitting at the small desk, clutching a pencil in his tiny fist, trying his absolute best to finish his homework. His little shoulders were hunched, and his eyelids were dangerously heavy, fluttering shut for seconds at a time before he would violently jerk himself awake to scribble another crooked letter. He was fighting a losing battle against sleep.
Hamza approached the bed quietly, carefully rubbing his own face one last time to ensure all traces of his tears were completely gone. He didn't want a single shadow of his grief to touch ishmir.
The slight creak of the floorboards startled Ishmir, who hurriedly sat up straighter, blinking rapidly to look alert. "Baba! Main... main jag raha hoon! Bas thoda bacha hai."
Hamza let out a chuckle. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened his arms.
"Aao idhar, mere thake hue sipahi. Bohot mehnat kar li tumne."
Ishmir didn't hesitate; he abandoned his pencil and crawled straight onto Hamza’s lap, letting his small body lean completely against his father’s chest. Hamza wrapped one arm securely around the boy's waist to hold him up, while his other hand gently took the pencil, placing it back into Ishmir's tiny fingers. Guiding his son's hand with his own larger, warmer one, Hamza began helping him trace the final remaining lines of the assignment.
"Chalo, jaldi se ye last line khatam karte hain"
Ishmir let out a contented sigh, his small hand relaxing under Hamza’s gentle guidance as they finished the work together, the warmth of the room shielding them from the relentless storm outside.
With the homework finally completed, Hamza set the pencil down and gently lifted a completely exhausted Ishmir in his arms, carrying him over to the bed. He tucked the boy under the heavy duvet for just a moment while he stepped out into the quiet kitchen.
He returned a minute later, carrying a warm glass of milk. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he lifted Ishmir’s head slightly, resting it against his arm. "Chalo, jaldi se ye doodh pee lo, jaan. Phir pyaari si neend aayegi."
Ishmir, half-asleep and eyes barely open, obediently sipped from the glass until it was completely empty. He let out a tiny, milky sigh, his head rolling back onto the pillow the second Hamza set the empty glass on the nightstand.
Hamza smiled pulling the soft blanket all the all the way up to ishmir chin, shielding him from the chilly draft filtering through the room.
He slid into bed beside him, turning onto his side to face the boy. He placed hand on Ishmir's back, beginning a slow, rhythmic patting motion.
In the dim, shadows of the room, Hamza closed his eyes and began to hum softly. The tune was low, raspy—an old, familiar lullaby that seemed to vibrate straight from his chest into the boy's quiet soul.
Under the steady rhythm of his father's hand and the soothing sound of his voice, Ishmir’s breathing slowed, his tiny fingers loosening their grip on Hamza's t-shirt as he drifted into a deep, peaceful slumber, completely safe from the ghosts that haunted the dark.
The rhythm of Ishmir’s steady, quiet breathing filled the room, but the peacefulness didn't reach Hamza. The phantom ache in his chest was returning, tighter and sharper this time. Moving like a shadow so he wouldn't disturb his son, Hamza carefully slid out of bed and walked over to the nightstand. His hands shook slightly as he reached for his medication, popping the pills and swallowing them down with a desperate hope that they would finally bring a numb, dreamless void.
He crawled back under the blankets, shifting closer to Ishmir, and tightly closed his eyes, pleading for sleep.
But the medicine was too slow, and the darkness behind his eyelids was never safe. The moment he shut his eyes, the silence cracked open, and a violent wave of memory came rushing back. Voices loud, echoing, and dripping with the humid heat of Lyari—shattered his mind.
“Qubool hai… qubool hai…”
Then, the rough, gritty murmurs of Lyari’s streets cut through the memory.
“Arre, ye kaun hain? Arre, ye pata nahi? Ye toh humare Lyari ke shehzade ke dil pe raaj karte hain! Bhai ke khaas hain!”
And finally, a voice that made his entire soul shatter—a voice filled with an absolute, unwavering trust that Hamza had utterly destroyed.
“Khuda mujhe dhoka de sakta hai… Hamza nahi.”
Hamza gasped, his eyes flying open as he violently snapped out of the memory. He sat up, his breath hitching painfully in his throat as a cold sweat broke across his forehead. His eyes were already overflowing, a pool of tears spilling over his lashes and running down his cheeks. He gripped the edge of the blanket, his whole body trembling in the dark room as the phantom echoes of Pakistan slowly faded back into the freezing silence of Ridder.
With his heart hammering violently against his ribs, Hamza collapsed back onto the mattress, sliding down. His whole body was trembling, the icy grip of a panic attack tightening around his chest, making every breath feel like he was swallowing glass. He knew this monster all too well. The walls of the room felt like they were crashing inward, and the phantom echoes of Lyari refused to leave his head.
Desperate for an anchor, he reached out with shaking, unsteady hands and gently pulled Ishmir’s small, sleeping body into his arms. He tucked the boy tightly against his chest, burying his face into his ishmir soft hair, trying with every ounce of his remaining strength to muffle the ragged, broken sobs tearing out of him.
He didn't want to wake his boy. He couldn't let Ishmir see him like this.
He held on to the child as if he were a lifeline in a stormy sea. Ishmir’s skin was warm, his breathing steady, slow, and completely peaceful. Slowly, the rhythmic rise and fall of the boy’s tiny chest began to press against Hamza hammering heart. The innocent, pure scent of milk and baby powder filled Hamza's senses, gradually cutting through the suffocating smoke of his past.
There was no medicine in the world, no therapy, and no distance far enough to heal the damage inside him. In his fractured world, only Ishmir could pull him back from the edge.
Hamza closed his eyes tightly, focusing entirely on the warmth of the child in his arms. He let his tears flow silently into the boy’s curls, his breathing gradually slowing down to match the calm rhythm of his son's sleep.
"Tu hi toh meri bachi-kuchi jaan hai,... Agar tu na hota, toh kab ka is bikhri hui dunya ko chhod jaa chuka hota."
ᯓ★
Meanwhile, beneath the oppressive heat of the Karachi night, Uzair lay entirely motionless on his bed. His eyes were closed, but sleep was miles away. His mind was a chaotic, bleeding battlefield, the silence of the room only amplifying the memories that had been clawing at the inside of his skull for eight long years.
Suddenly, the darkness behind his eyelids fractured, and a harsh, mocking voice from his past echoed through the shadows—a warning he had brutally ignored.
"Uzair... itna mohabbat raas nahi aayega tujhe, dekh lena. Aisa dhoka milega ek din ki mohabbat ki galiyon se guzarne mein bhi tujhe Rab ki bad-dua lagega. "
The memory shifted violently, cutting like broken glass to a younger, desperate version of himself. He could see his own past self standing defiant, his voice dripping with a dangerous, blind conviction as he shouted back against the world.
"Bhai, nahi! Mujhe Khuda, aap, ya saari duniya dhoka de sakta hai... par Hamza kabhi nahi! Mohabbat us se ki hai, toh nikah bhi ushi se karunga!"
Uzair’s eyes snapped open in the dark, flashing with a sudden, lethal coldness. He stared up at the ceiling, his breathing shallow and dangerous as the phantom echoes of his own foolish devotion suffocated him.
Every promise made in that past life had turned into venom, and the very name he had once sworn by was now the fire fueling his hatred. The debt wasn't just about betrayal anymore—it was about erasing the ghost that still ruled his mind.
Uzair slowly sat up in the dark, the sheets falling away as he ran a rough hand over his face. The absolute certainty in that voice from the past didn't soften him; it only fueled the roaring fire of vengeance that had kept him alive inside those prison walls.
"Khuda ne dhoka nahi diya... par usne mera poori duniya ko aag laga di."
He stood up, walking over to the window, staring out at the dark courtyard of the haveli. The betrayal hadn't just broken him; it had killed whatever humanity he had left.
"Mohabbat ki galiyan? Ab usi gali mein maut khadi milunga use. Bohot jald, Hamza... bohot jald."
Uzair didn't look at the sky. He stood in the courtyard of the Baloch Haveli, wrapped in the suffocating stillness of the Karachi night. He was dressed in a crisp, black coat and trousers a monochromatic silhouette that seemed to absorb what little light escaped the shadows around him. His men stood in a silent, disciplined semi-circle, their heads bowed and eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Nobody dared to breathe too loudly.
The older gang member stepped forward, breaking the heavy silence. His movements were cautious, filled with deep reverence as he held out a sleek, black satellite phone and a heavy bag.
"Airport par sab clear hai, Bhai. Private charter bilkul taiyaar karke khada hai. Aaj raat tak aap Almaty land kar jaayenge... aur wahan se humare bande aapko seedha East Kazakhstan ki us baraf-baari ke jahannum mein le jaayenge."
Uzair took the bag, his dead unblinking eyes shifting down to the passport in his hand. He flipped it open, the crisp pages rustling softly in the humid air. He looked at the visa stamp that marked his entry into a world completely alien to him—a bleak landscape of endless ice, isolation, and hidden ghosts.
A slow, terrifying smile crept onto his face, cutting through the darkness like a blade, though his eyes remained as hollow and cold as the graves he was traveling toward.
" badshahon ko jahannum se darr nahi lagta. Main apni jannat dhoondne aa raha hoon, aur jab use tabah karunga, toh Khuda bhi kaanp uthega."
With a final, decisive nod to his men, Uzair turned on his heel, his heavy boots crunching against the stone. He walked toward the waiting convoy of black SUVs, the heavy iron gates of the Haveli slamming shut behind him with a metallic groan.
The hunt had officially begun.
The sleek, black SUV pulled right onto the tarmac of the private terminal, bypassing the chaotic crowds of the main airport. The engine cut out, and the sudden silence inside the vehicle was deafening.
Uzair didn't waste a second. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the humid Karachi night air one last time. Without a backward glance at the city he had ruled and bled for, he walked with grounded, predatory strides toward the sleek private charter plane gleaming under the harsh runway floodlights.
As he crossed the threshold and stepped inside the cabin, the heavy pressure of the outside world seemed to vanish, replaced by the humming chill of the aircraft’s air conditioning. The flight attendant bowed her head Uzair completely ignored her, his dead eyes fixed straight ahead. He tossed his bag into the seat beside him and sat down by the window, strapping himself in.
Through the glass, he watched the lights of Karachi blur as the plane began to taxi down the runway. With a roar, the aircraft lifted off, tilting sharply as it climbed into the dark, cloudy sky. Uzair leaned his head back against the leather seat, staring out into the empty blackness. Every mile the plane flew was a mile closer to the freezing winds of Kazakhstan—and a mile closer to the man who thought he had escaped.
The heavy wheels of the private charter struck the runway with a sharp, violent jolt, the screech of burning rubber echoing through the cabin as the brakes fought the slick tarmac.
Five hours of flight are over. The plane slowed to a smooth taxi, finally pulling into a secluded, dimly lit hangar at the Almaty International Airport.
Inside the cabin, the sudden change in temperature was immediate. The humid, heavy air of Karachi was a distant memory, replaced by a biting, razor-sharp chill that seeped through the aircraft's fuselage. Uzair didn't move for a moment. He sat in the dim cabin light, his dead eyes watching the thick frost rapidly crystallizing on the outside of his window.
He unbuckled his seatbelt with a click stood up, and grabbed his bag.
When the cabin door groaned open, a violent gust of freezing wind rushed inside, carrying with it the scent of fresh snow and jet fuel. Uzair stepped out onto the metal stairs, the sub-zero air hitting his face like a physical slap. He didn't even flinch. He drew the icy air deep into his lungs, his breath instantly blooming into a thick, white cloud in front of him.
Down on the snow-dusted tarmac, parked right beside the stairs, a massive, matte-black SUV was idling, its exhaust pipes spitting heavy plumes of white smoke into the freezing night. Two burly men in heavy, dark parkas stood by the doors, their hands crossed in front of them, waiting like shadows in the blizzard.
Uzair walked down the steps, his boots crushing the thin layer of ice beneath them. The hunt had officially left the desert; he was now standing on the threshold of the frozen world where Hamza was hiding.
❤︎
The morning sun in Ridder offered no warmth, casting long, pale shadows across the wooden floor of Hamza's quiet house. He had dropped Ishmir off at school an hour ago, ensuring his boy was safely inside before heading back to the quiet sanctuary of his home office.
Now, Hamza sat at his desk, a steaming mug of black coffee cradled in his hands, his eyes focused on his laptop screen. He was currently on a secure video call with Ajay Sanyal, his analytical and sharp-witted boss.
"The intelligence reports from the border are shifting, Hamza," Ajay’s voice crackled through the speaker, his expression serious on the screen. "We’ve got a new asset on the ground. A deep-cover spy who just crossed over. We need to sync your logistics with their tracking data before things get messy."
"I've already mapped out the transit corridors, sir," Hamza replied softly, taking a slow sip of his coffee. He tapped a few keys, bringing up a split-screen layout. "If the asset follows the designated safe-houses, we can—"
Hamza’s voice trailed off.
Out of the corner of his eye, just past the edge of his laptop screen, a shadow shifted in the dim hallway leading to the living room.
He paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His heart gave a slight, instinctive thud, but he quickly forced himself to relax. It’s nothing, he reasoned with himself, swallowing hard. Just a stray cat on the porch window, or the old house settling in the cold.
"Hamza? You still with me?" Ajay asked on the screen, noticing the sudden break in his tone.
"haan sir sorry sorry ," Hamza blinked, pulling his gaze back to the glowing monitor. He cleared his throat and took another sip of the hot coffee to steady his focus. "As I was saying, the safe-houses are secure. We just need to ensure the communication lines don't—"
Creak.
It was a microscopic sound, but to Hamza's highly trained, hyper-vigilant ears, it sounded like a gunshot. The floorboards near the kitchen had groaned under a distinct, heavy weight. Something—or someone—had definitely shifted positions. And it wasn't a cat.
Hamza’s eyes slowly drifted away from the screen again, staring into the dark mouth of the hallway, his breath catching silently in his throat.
Hamza’s blood turned to absolute ice. The warmth of the coffee mug in his hand suddenly felt like a distant memory as a cold dread paralyzed his spine. Years of survival instinct kicked in, forcing his voice to remain steady, though his heart was hammering violently against his ribs.
"Sir... main aapko thodi der baad call karta hoon," Hamza whispered, his eyes never leaving the dark hallway.
Ajay frowned slightly on the screen, picking up on the sudden, rigid tension in Hamza’s posture, but he simply gave a firm nod.
The moment the video call cut to black, the silence in the house became suffocating. Hamza quietly set the coffee mug down on the desk, his hand trembling slightly. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, his fingers wrapping around the cold, familiar grip of his loaded pistol. He pulled it out, checking the chamber with a practiced, silent motion, and took a deep, shuddering breath.
Step by step, he crept out of the office. He moved like a ghost, keeping his back pressed against the wall, his gun raised and ready. Every instinct told him an intruder had broken in—perhaps a local thief, or an operative sent by an old adversary.
He slowly rounded the corner into the living room, clearing the angles, his finger tightening on the trigger.
But what he saw sitting in the dim light of his home was something he had not anticipated in a hundred years of his worst nightmares. The breath completely left Hamza's lungs, and his vision blurred for a split second as the entire world seemed to tilt beneath his feet.
Sitting casually on the plush fabric of the sofa, looking entirely at home in the middle of the frozen wilderness of Ridder, was Uzair Baloch.
He was still wearing the crisp, dark coat, a striking contrast to the pale room. In his rough hands, he casually turned a sleek, lethal hunting knife, the blade catching the morning light with a silver flash. Uzair looked up. A small, slow, devastating smile spread across his face—a smile that looked like an open grave.
The silence between them stretched, heavy with eight years of prison bars, unpayable debts, and a hatred so violent it could burn the snowy hell around them to ashes.
"Bohot door bhaag gaye thhe, Hamza..." Uzair spoke, his voice a low, gravelly purr that shattered the quiet room. "Lekin Baloch apna karz aur apni jaan... kabhi nahi chhodta."