Bilal had two problems in life.
The first was his motorcycle. It rattled like a dying goat, smelled like burnt plastic, and refused to start unless Bilal kicked it exactly twelve times while whispering motivational poetry under his breath. The second problem was his job: delivering pizzas for a shop called Pizza-e-Azam.
Now, Bilal wasn't bad at delivering pizzas. He was actually very fast. The problem was that Bilal had the directional sense of a potato. He once got lost delivering a pizza two streets away and somehow ended up at the airport. Another time, he confused "Street 12-A" with "Street 21-A" and delivered a large chicken tikka pizza to a dentist in the middle of a root canal. The dentist didn't complain—he paid full price and ate it with bloodstained gloves.
But on this particular Tuesday afternoon, Bilal's bad luck decided to go for an Olympic gold medal.
The order was simple: one large Triple Cheese Overload, extra olives, no onions. Address: "House 16, Gulshan Colony." Easy. Bilal balanced the pizza box on his motorcycle, kicked the engine twelve times (while whispering, "Chal ja, meri jaan"), and sped off.
Half an hour later, Bilal was still lost. He had asked for directions from a rickshaw driver, two shopkeepers, and a small child eating ice cream who told him confidently, "Uncle, straight jao, phir left, phir thoda aur straight, phir dusra left, phir… actually mujhe pata nahi."
By the time Bilal finally spotted a house numbered "16," he was drenched in sweat, his motorcycle was smoking, and the pizza smelled less like cheese and more like melted rubber.
He pushed open the rusty gate and stepped inside.
That was his first mistake.
The second mistake was not noticing that the "house" looked more like a haunted warehouse, with broken windows, flickering yellow lights, and men in black coats standing around like security guards for Dracula.
"Uh… hello?" Bilal croaked. "Pizza delivery?"
Every single man turned. Silence filled the air.
A tall, bald man wearing sunglasses indoors stepped forward. He had a scar across his cheek and a tattoo of a snake curling around his neck. He leaned down, sniffed the pizza box, and muttered, "The signal has arrived."
Bilal blinked. "Excuse me?"
Another man gasped. "Boss, it's him. The undercover agent. Agent Cheese."
Bilal's knees almost gave out. "No, no, bhai, I'm just Bilal! I deliver pizza! Cheese toh bas topping hai!"
But the men didn't listen. The scarred boss opened the pizza box dramatically, as if revealing a treasure chest. "Yes. Triple Cheese Overload. Extra olives. Just as planned."
They surrounded Bilal. One of them whispered, "Welcome, Agent Cheese. The mission begins tonight."
Bilal's helmet slipped from his hands and clattered on the ground. He had no idea what mission they were talking about, but one thing was clear: somehow, he had just been recruited into the mafia.
And the worst part? They still hadn't tipped him for the pizza.