Location: Small City – Middle-Class Neighborhood
The three black SUVs parked again.
Kids paused their cricket game.A shopkeeper almost dropped his glass of chai.
Mujtaba Aalim Khan had entered their world.
This wasn't charity now—it was personal inspection.
He stepped down. His shoes hit the dusty road like thunder.Zayan whispered behind him, "Sir, this street is mostly middle-class—less need but still worth evaluating."
Mujtaba raised a brow.
"We'll see."
He walked ahead, scanning the homes.One house caught his eye—not broken, but worn. Faded paint. A half-torn curtain on the window. But something about it felt different.
He knocked once.
The door creaked.
A girl stepped out.
Black hijab. Plain black shalwar qameez.Fair skin that glowed without makeup. High cheekbones like carved marble.
Hazel eyes—so sharp, they could slice through silence.
She blinked, startled.
"Jee...?" her voice trembled, eyes darting behind him at the armed guards.
Mujtaba stood tall, cold, unreadable.
"I'm from Zora Foundation. We're surveying homes for aid. I need to check your house."
Noor ul Huda's heart dropped.Her breath caught in her throat.Her aunt wasn't home.
"Allah… kya karun ab? Main akeli hoon… yeh aadmi kaun hai?
She opened her mouth to decline, but her voice failed.
Mujtaba had already stepped forward, past her shoulder, inside the house.
She gasped.
"A-ap…!"
He didn't look back.
"I asked. You didn't say no."
She clenched her fists, staring at the floor as he walked around——observing the shelves, the worn-out sofa, the small fridge, the fan making weird noises.
Noor felt heat rise in her cheeks—not from shame, but from helplessness.
"Yeh koi tareeqa hai kisi k ghar anay ka?!"
She turned to him, voice shaking:
"You can't just walk in like this."
Mujtaba paused near a family photo on the wall.Noor's childhood picture in school uniform—smiling brightly.
He turned to her slowly.
"You live alone?"
"N-no. My aunt went out…"
"You study?"
"I… I've done two semesters."
He nodded once. Silent. Intense.
Then, stepping closer, lowering his tone:
"You have courage. Speaking like that to me."
Noor's fingers curled around the edge of the door as she watched the tall, well-dressed man take a step back toward the black SUV parked by the curb. He had said nothing else after inspecting the home, and she had barely managed to hide the nervous tremble in her voice. His presence was overbearing, commanding—enough to make her feel like the walls of her house weren't thick enough to contain him.
"Wait..." she said softly.
The man paused.
"What's your name?"
There was silence. A heavy, almost dangerous pause.
He slowly turned his head, eyes narrowing in surprise, as if her words had reached somewhere people rarely touched inside him. No one ever questioned Mujtaba Aalim Khan. Let alone ask for his name.
But there she stood, in her plain black shalwar kameez and hijab, her hazel eyes wide, nervous yet strangely firm.
He took two steps back inside, his shoes echoing softly against the tiled floor.
"You want to know my name?" His voice was deep, calm, but laced with intrigue.
Noor nodded, lips pressed together.
Before anything else could be said, the door opened behind him. Zayan entered, followed by two guards, all of them carrying ration bags and essentials.
"Sir, where should we place these?" Zayan asked, not even sparing Noor a glance.
"In the kitchen," Mujtaba replied absently, still watching her.
He looked at her then, head tilting slightly, that unreadable expression still carved onto his face. "Bring me a cup of tea," he said calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Noor blinked, stunned for a moment. Did he just… order her?
"Why should I?" she snapped, voice soft but sharp. "Please… just leave. If my aunt sees you here, she'll misunderstand everything."
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly—not in anger, but in pure disbelief.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Just stared.
The room felt suddenly smaller, like the air itself had frozen between them.
Mujtaba Aalim Khan was used to people bowing their heads. Used to commands being obeyed without question. No one ever challenged him—not in business, not in the streets, and definitely not in the quiet of a stranger's home.
And here she was.
A nineteen-year-old girl in a worn black scarf, her hands trembling just slightly, standing her ground.
Asking him to leave.
His silence stretched, but not out of rage. It was fascination.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, dark eyes fixed on her face as if studying something rare.
"You're afraid of your aunt," he said slowly, like he was peeling her apart with words. "But not of me?"
Noor's jaw clenched. "I'm not afraid of either of you. But you shouldn't be here. Please… just go."
Mujtaba smiled faintly—just the ghost of it.
"She doesn't know who I am," he muttered under his breath and he left.