The rain had been falling since early morning, turning the streets of Islamabad into glistening mirrors. The city was unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon. Even the chai stalls seemed subdued, steam rising from their kettles into the damp air.
Inside the cramped office of The Falcon Security Bureau — an organization so secret even most ministers didn't know it existed — Zayyan Khalid lounged in his chair, boots up on the desk, and a half-eaten pakora in his hand.
Zayyan was unlike the other field agents of the Bureau. Where most wore crisp suits and cultivated a serious demeanor, Zayyan favored worn jeans, sports jackets, and the permanent look of a man who'd just woken up from a nap he didn't want to end. His messy hair and lopsided grin often made superiors shake their heads in disbelief — until they saw his case record.
And right now, he was bored.
The door slammed open and Inspector Rameez — a stocky, humorless man who believed jokes were a waste of breath — stomped in.
"Zayyan! Get your boots off the desk and wipe that smile. The Chief wants you. Now."
Zayyan sighed, slowly placing the pakora in his mouth and chewing with exaggerated calm.
"Chief? You mean the very same Chief who swore I'd be suspended for 'inappropriate use of Bureau resources' after the camel incident in Bahawalpur?"
Rameez's nostrils flared. "Yes. And frankly, I still don't understand what a camel had to do with catching an arms dealer."
Zayyan winked. "Trade secret."
The Chief's Office was a different world — dimly lit, lined with shelves of dusty files, and dominated by a massive wooden desk. Behind it sat Arif Mehmood, the Director of the Bureau, a man whose mustache alone could command respect.
"Sit," the Chief said without looking up from the file in his hands.
Zayyan dropped into the chair opposite, slouching. "I hope this is about a vacation. I've been thinking Murree, maybe a little—"
"Shut up," Arif said calmly. "I've got a job for you. A serious one."
That made Zayyan sit up a little straighter. The Chief slid the file across the desk. On the cover: PROJECT NEMESIS — CLASSIFIED.
"Two days ago," Arif began, "one of our undercover analysts went missing in Lahore. Her name is Farah Noor. She was tracking a data leak from the Ministry of Energy — sensitive documents containing maps of our power grid, including vulnerabilities."
"Sounds like the sort of thing cyber thieves drool over," Zayyan said, flipping open the file. The first page showed a grainy CCTV image of a woman in a black coat, walking through Liberty Market.
"Except this isn't just cybercrime," Arif said. "We believe the leak is connected to The Black Lotus."
Zayyan whistled low. The Black Lotus was a shadowy syndicate that blended espionage, organized crime, and political manipulation. "And you want me to find Farah Noor before they do?"
"I want you to find her," Arif said, leaning forward, "and the USB drive she's carrying. On it is everything she recovered from the leak. If The Black Lotus gets it, they can cripple our infrastructure — and it won't stop there."
Zayyan studied the photo again. "Any leads?"
"Last signal from her tracker was near an abandoned textile mill in Kot Lakhpat. Then — nothing."
The room was silent for a moment, save for the ticking wall clock.
Zayyan finally grinned. "So, rescue the girl, retrieve the drive, and make sure I don't get killed in the process. Easy."
Arif didn't smile. "Zayyan — this isn't one of your comic-book adventures. If you're spotted, we can't protect you. And if you fail… there may not be a Pakistan to come home to."
Outside, the rain had stopped. Zayyan slid into his battered silver Corolla — a car that looked like it had survived three wars and a flood, which wasn't far from the truth — and called his tech assistant.
"Sameer, my genius of wires and screens," Zayyan said when the call connected. "I need you to dig into the last 48 hours of CCTV around Kot Lakhpat. Oh, and maybe run a search on anyone renting that old textile mill recently."
Sameer's voice crackled back. "Sure. And while I'm at it, should I also hack into NASA for you? Maybe steal a rocket?"
"That's the spirit," Zayyan said cheerfully, ending the call.
As he drove toward Lahore, the unease settled in. He'd dealt with dangerous syndicates before, but The Black Lotus was different. Ruthless. Patient. And always three moves ahead.
If Farah Noor was still alive, she was in more danger than she probably realized.
And something told Zayyan that finding her would only be the beginning.