The sun was just beginning to dip below the crowded skyline of Lahore, painting the sky in shades of burnt orange and fading blue. The city was alive with its usual evening hustle — car horns, rickshaw engines coughing smoke, vendors shouting about fresh guavas and roasted corn. But somewhere inside this chaotic melody, Zameer Khan knew danger was hiding.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Unknown number: "Come to Liberty Market. Green shawarma stall. 6:15 PM. Come alone."
Zameer didn't believe in coincidences. Only hours ago, he had been in the underground cyber-café in Anarkali, breaking through the encrypted firewall of The Syndicate — and he was sure no one had seen him leave. Yet here was a message, too precise to ignore.
He zipped up his weathered leather jacket, slipped a small pistol into the inner pocket, and made his way towards Liberty. As he reached, the smells of grilled meat and fresh naan filled the air. Women in bright shalwar kameez haggled over scarves, teenagers laughed while sipping chai in paper cups, and in the middle of it all was the green shawarma stall.
The man behind the counter — middle-aged, with a moustache thick enough to hide secrets — handed Zameer a folded paper bag without a word. Zameer took it casually, pretending to be just another hungry customer. Inside was not food but a USB drive, wrapped in a scrap of newspaper that smelled faintly of cardamom.
He didn't have time to process it.
"Zameer Khan?" a voice called from behind.
He turned to see a tall man in a fitted grey shalwar kameez, sunglasses perched low despite the fading light. The man smiled, but it wasn't a friendly smile, it was the kind you see before a blade is drawn.
"Walk with me," the stranger said, and without waiting, began heading toward the darker side of the market.
Zameer followed, keeping his movements loose, his senses sharp. They weaved past spice stalls and into a narrow alley where the smell of frying pakoras was replaced by the damp scent of trash. Three more men were waiting there, their postures relaxed but their eyes sharp.
"You've been asking too many questions," the grey-clad man said. "And now, you've taken something that doesn't belong to you."
Zameer raised an eyebrow. "You mean this?" He lifted the paper bag slightly. "I was told it's dinner."
One of the men chuckled. Another moved a step closer.
Zameer's heart rate didn't change. He had been in tighter corners before. His fingers brushed the grip of his pistol under the jacket. "If this was meant to be a warning," he said, "you should've brought more people."
The man in grey's smile widened just as a faint buzzing noise filled the alley — the sound of a drone overhead. Everyone's eyes flicked upward. In that split second of distraction, Zameer moved. He slammed his shoulder into the nearest thug, drew his pistol in one clean motion, and kicked over a stack of empty crates to block the path.
The drone dropped something small ,a flash grenade. The white light was blinding, the sound deafening.
By the time the attackers recovered, Zameer was gone, melting back into the market crowd like smoke.
In his jacket pocket, the USB felt heavier than gold. Whatever was on it, people were willing to kill for.
And in Zameer's world, that only meant one thing: it was worth finding out.