The streets of Gulberg, Lahore were unusually quiet for a Thursday night. The neon signs of cafes and boutiques still glowed, but there was an unspoken tension in the air. Somewhere, far above the traffic, in a top-floor apartment of a newly built luxury complex, Rayan Zafar was staring at his laptop screen, his brow furrowed.
For the past two days, Rayan had been digging deeper into the mysterious "Blue Ledger" — the document supposedly containing coded entries about high-profile money laundering in Pakistan. He had already decrypted enough to know that this wasn't some petty crime; the names involved were powerful, untouchable. Some were politicians, others businessmen with enough influence to make police investigations vanish overnight.
His fingers paused on the keyboard when he heard a faint tap on his apartment window. Rayan froze. He lived on the eighth floor. Slowly, he moved toward the window and pulled the curtain aside — nothing but the glittering city lights stared back. He exhaled, shook his head, and returned to the desk.
That's when his phone buzzed.
A WhatsApp message appeared from an unknown number:
"Stop digging into the Blue Ledger. This is your only warning."
No profile picture, no status, nothing. Rayan's pulse quickened. He typed back:
"Who is this?"
Three dots appeared — then vanished. No reply.
Meanwhile, across the city in Shadman, Saira Qureshi was waiting at a roadside tea stall. She was dressed casually in jeans and a long black coat, blending in with the late-night crowd. Her informant — a street-smart bike mechanic named Danish — had promised to meet her with critical intel.
She checked her watch. 10:45 p.m.
A motorcycle finally pulled up, and Danish removed his helmet, looking nervously over his shoulder before speaking.
"Baji, they know about you," he said in a low voice. "Someone's been following me for two days. They think I'm working for you."
Saira's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"I don't know their names, but… they have government plates. Black Prado. Same guys who were asking questions about Rayan Zafar."
Saira's mind raced. She handed Danish an envelope. "Disappear for a week. I'll handle it."
Back in Gulberg, Rayan decided he needed to meet Saira in person. He encrypted the Blue Ledger files, stored them in a hidden folder, and shut his laptop. Just as he grabbed his jacket, there was a sudden buzz at the door.
"Room service," a muffled male voice called out.
Rayan frowned. This wasn't a hotel. He approached the door cautiously and looked through the peephole — no one was there.
The lights flickered.
A second later, the fire alarm blared.
Downstairs in the parking lot, a black Prado waited with its engine running. Inside, a man wearing dark glasses at night — Khalid Bashir, known in certain circles as "The Fixer" — checked his watch impatiently.
Through his earpiece, a voice crackled:
"The target is moving. Wait for my signal."
Khalid smirked. "Don't worry. He won't get far."
By 11:15 p.m., Saira and Rayan were both headed toward a pre-arranged safe house in Ichhra — unaware that multiple cars were tracking their movements through the city's backstreets.
Somewhere above them, on the rooftop of a half-constructed building, a man in a hood adjusted his night-vision binoculars and whispered into his radio:
"The game begins tonight."