26th March – 8:09 AM – University of South Asia, Cantt Campus
The sun was out, but the campus felt cold.
Not the kind of cold that came with wind or weather—this was the kind that crept into your skin, behind your eyes, into your breath. A kind of silence hung in the corridors, even though classes had resumed and laughter still dared to float from the canteen in short, awkward bursts.
Ayla Iqbal stood near the edge of the yellow police tape that now roped off a patch of lawn near the Fashion Design department. Her dark hair was tied back, her journal clutched tight under one arm. She hadn't slept much. Not after seeing the news alert.
Farzeen Arif. 21. Final-year design student. Found unconscious. Bruised. Bleeding.
Ayla's fingers tightened around her pen. The last time she'd seen Farzeen was three weeks ago, both of them waiting in line at the photocopy shop. She remembered how Farzeen had smiled without her eyes. A tired girl with too many sketches and not enough time.
Now she was in the hospital. Cracked ribs. Internal bleeding. Traumatized and silent.
And no one knew who did it.
Except Ayla had a guess.
Or rather, a gut.
"You shouldn't be here."
The voice pulled her out of her thoughts.
Officer Haroon, mid-40s, thick mustache and thicker suspicion in his eyes, walked toward her with the slow impatience of someone used to cleaning up messes no one wanted cleaned.
"I'm not trespassing," Ayla replied, stepping back. "I'm a student."
"Students don't take notes beside active crime scenes."
She raised a brow. "Is it a crime scene?"
He stopped. "You should go to class."
Ayla didn't move. "Was it the same as the others?"
Haroon's face changed just enough. Not confusion—recognition. But it was gone in an instant.
"There are no 'others,'" he said firmly, before turning his back and muttering something into his walkie.
Ayla let him walk away. She already had what she needed.
9:14 AM – Campus Library – Basement Archive Room
It was the only place on campus colder than the silence outside.
Stacks of old university newsletters, digitized reports, and dusty yearbooks were crammed into shelves with little order and less care. Ayla hunched over her laptop, one hand flipping through a printed folder of campus security incidents. Most were mundane—stolen bags, dorm noise complaints, lost ID cards.
Then she found the first one.
"7th October – student found unconscious near sports complex. Light bruising. No memory of the incident."
She underlined the date.
Her screen already had a spreadsheet open.
3rd. 7th. 12th. 16th. 21st. 25th.
Different months. Different universities.
Always a girl.
Always silence after.
Ayla scrolled to the line she had added that morning.
25th March – Farzeen Arif – Fashion Dept. – Park Area – Major injuries.
Her pen tapped against her journal.
Six dates. Six entry points. It was a pattern. A sick, bloody calendar. And no one seemed willing to say it out loud.
10:30 AM – Cafeteria Balcony
The table was crowded but quiet. Three students from the Fashion Department sat close, whispering between bites of toast and sips of chai. Ayla approached carefully, her press badge hidden, notebook tucked away.
"Excuse me… you're friends of Farzeen, right?"
The girl in the center—black lipstick, tear-lined eyes—stared at her with the weight of suspicion.
"Why?"
"I was with her in a workshop last semester. I just wanted to check how she's doing."
The girl nodded, slow. "She's not doing. That's the point."
Silence.
Another girl leaned in. "She hasn't spoken. At all."
"Do you think she knew who it was?" Ayla asked gently.
Black Lipstick laughed bitterly. "If she knew, do you think they'd still be out there?"
There was a beat of tension, then a whisper:
"She had a sketchbook with her that day. She never went anywhere without it. It's gone."
Ayla felt the cold again.
"Are the police looking for it?"
"They don't even believe what happened. They think she fell. Slipped. One of them said maybe it was stress."
That same bitter laugh. Bitter because it was real.
"They didn't see the blood."
1:11 PM – Outside the Park Fence
Ayla stood again where Farzeen had been found.
The ground was still disturbed—mud uneven, small crushed flower petals where her body had fallen. There was a tree trunk with what looked like a faint smudge—maybe dirt, maybe blood. A park bench stood nearby, innocuous and painted a dull green.
And then she saw it.
Under the bench, barely visible, wedged between the frame and the grass—
A torn piece of sketchbook paper.
She reached for it, heartbeat stuttering.
It was a half-drawn figure. A faceless man in a long coat. No color. No detail. Just red ink dripping in small streaks from where the eyes should have been.
Her breath caught.
In the corner of the page, scrawled hastily in Farzeen's shaky hand:
"I saw him."