The black Mercedes-Maybach pulled up outside the marble gates of the Khan Estate — quiet, smooth, and deadly. No loud music, no unnecessary noise… only presence. The kind that didn't need to announce itself.
The guards at the gate stood straighter the moment they saw the license plate —MK-786.
Everyone knew what it meant.Mujtaba Aalim Khan was here.
The back door of the car opened slowly.
Polished Italian shoes hit the ground first. Black trousers, custom-tailored. A crisp charcoal suit hugged his tall frame like it was stitched by the devil himself. His wristwatch — Rolex, obviously — glinted under the sunlight, mocking the world with its silence.
And then came his face.Sharp jawline. Slight stubble. Deep-set, unreadable eyes behind dark sunglasses. The kind of eyes that didn't just look at you — they assessed you. Undressed your intentions. Calculated your worth.
He took slow, calculated steps, his presence oozing danger wrapped in elegance.
The air around him shifted, like it always did when power entered the room. Or the street. Or the country.
Behind him, two black-suited bodyguards followed without a word. Guns tucked discreetly under their coats, eyes scanning every angle.
Mujtaba didn't speak.He didn't need to.People moved out of his way like shadows retreating from light.
He had flown in from Italy just last night.For business. For blood.No one really knew which one.
And this morning — without warning, without announcement — he decided to visit the one place his enemies feared the most: his own land.
Pakistan.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Mujtaba Aalim Khan stepped into the 9th floor of MAK Enterprises — the heart of his empire. Employees froze mid-sentence, mid-sip, mid-scroll. Silence crawled over the space like a fog of fear.
He didn't look at anyone.Didn't need to.His presence alone was a reminder: one mistake, and you're replaceable.
He walked down the glass corridor, his leather shoes clicking with deadly rhythm. Security followed two steps behind — never more, never less.
As he entered the CEO's office — a luxurious blend of steel, glass, and Turkish black marble — his assistant, Zayan, stood waiting, already holding a sleek tablet.
"Morning, sir," Zayan greeted, eyes respectful, posture stiff.
Mujtaba removed his sunglasses and finally spoke, voice low and sharp like a hidden dagger."Status report."
Zayan tapped the screen. "We're up 12% in international profits. The Istanbul port deal closed successfully last night. No major discrepancies reported. Lahore branch ne thoda delay kiya tha shipment mein, lekin woh handle ho gaya. Overall, company's in profit. Strong position."
Mujtaba nodded slightly, eyes scanning the numbers on screen like a sniper looking through a scope.
"Kisi ne protocol breach kiya?" he asked coldly.
Zayan swallowed. "No, sir. Not after what happened last time."
A faint smirk touched Mujtaba's lips. The kind of smirk that said "Good. Otherwise unka janaza bhi meri company ka expense hota."
He turned to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the city."Keep an eye on everyone, Zayan. Mujhe sirf paisa nahi chahiye…control chahiye."
"Yes, sir," Zayan said, bowing his head slightly.
Mujtaba sipped his black coffee — no sugar, no softness.Just like him.