The rain made the street smell like rust and dust.
Neon signs, still dripping from a sudden downpour, flickered faintly before dying into darkness. Somewhere far off, a rickshaw rattled past, but here — on this narrow backstreet of Karachi — the world felt dead.
Zaid stood under a broken streetlight, water pooling around his shoes. He was fifteen, skinny, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a hoodie two sizes too big. The fabric couldn't hide the way his fingers trembled.
Beside him, three men in their twenties whispered to each other, their voices low and sharp.
And in the shadows across the road, leaning against a shuttered shop, the gang leader watched.
They called him Malik Bhai. His eyes were always half-lidded, but they missed nothing.
The target appeared like clockwork — a man in his late twenties, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark, his steps slow, careless. Rival crew. A name Zaid had heard a dozen times in whispered curses.
The crew stepped out first, blocking the man's path. Words were exchanged — too quick and low for Zaid to catch. Then came the shove. The first punch. The scuffle spilled into the middle of the road.
"Zaid!" Malik Bhai's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
The boy froze.
"Finish it."
Zaid's throat went dry.
The man was on his knees now, gasping, clutching his ribs. His eyes locked with Zaid's — there was anger there, but also something else. Fear.
And then it happened.
No thought. No hesitation. Just movement. A sudden, cold switch in his brain.
The weapon — he didn't even remember taking it from the man next to him — felt heavy in his hand.
A flash of steel.
A wet sound.
The man's gasp turned into silence.
The crew stepped back. Even the rain seemed to stop for a second.
Zaid stood there, chest rising and falling, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He could feel Malik Bhai's gaze from the shadows — not shocked, not angry. Approving.
The nod he gave Zaid wasn't praise. It was ownership.
Two Years Later – 2022
The sound of a phone alarm pulled Zaid from sleep.
For a moment, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to push the memory away — except it wasn't a dream. The blood, the rain, Malik Bhai's nod… all of it replayed in perfect detail.
From the kitchen came the smell of parathas frying. His mother's voice floated in from the hall:
"Zaid, jaldi karo! You'll be late for your first day!"
He swung his legs out of bed, pulling on jeans and a T-shirt. Downstairs, his father, Irfan, was already dressed for work, sipping chai with one eye on the news. His younger brother, Ateeb, sat sprawled on the couch in his school uniform, scrolling on his phone instead of eating breakfast.
"Bhai, can you drop me?" Ateeb asked lazily.
Zaid smirked. "Walk. Might burn some of that laziness off."
His mother, Nadia, placed a plate in front of him. "Ignore him, Zaid. He thinks the world revolves around him."
On the dining table was a framed photo of his sister, Irsa, beaming in front of a university building in the UK. She had called last night, telling him she was proud he'd gotten into Ziauddin University for Medical Technology – Radiation Therapy. He hadn't told her how hard it had been to leave his old life behind.
The streets outside were busy now, sunlight bouncing off the chaos — buses swerving, street vendors shouting, the smell of chai and exhaust mixing in the air.
Zaid slipped on his backpack and forced a small smile into the mirror. The mask.
By the time he reached campus, the mask was perfect.
He laughed when someone bumped into him. He held the door open for a girl carrying too many books. He even cracked a joke in line for ID cards.
But somewhere in the crowd, in the noise, in the false normalcy, he felt it again — the weight of eyes on him.
Not friendly. Not curious. Watching.
And for a split second, the streetlight flickered in his mind, and he smelled the rain again.