Rain lashed against the streets of Karachi that night — the kind of cold, persistent rain that turns neon lights into blurry streaks. Inside a half-lit café near Saddar, a man sat alone in the corner booth, his face hidden beneath the hood of a damp jacket.
He checked the door every few seconds, fingers trembling around a small brown envelope — the packet.
He looked like he hadn't slept for days. Every few moments, he whispered to himself, "They can't find me… not before he gets it."
The door chimed. A woman entered, umbrella dripping, scanning the café. Their eyes met for a split second — just enough. He stood, placed the packet under the table, and whispered,
"Tell Inspector Jamshed… he'll know what to do."
Before she could reply, the front window shattered — a bullet zipped through the air and buried itself in the man's chest. He collapsed, blood mixing with spilled coffee.
Screams erupted. The woman ducked under the table, heart pounding, clutching the packet. But when she looked up again — the shooter was gone.
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Next Morning – Inspector Jamshed's House
Jamshed stood by the window of his modest home, sipping black coffee as dawn painted the sky. His phone buzzed.
"Sir, there's been another hit. Saddar Café. Victim mentioned your name before dying."
Jamshed's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened. "I'll be there in ten."
By the time he arrived, the café was sealed off with yellow tape. His teenage daughter Mehmooda was already there — camera around her neck, recording clues. His son, Farooq, was scanning the street on his drone feed.
"Dad," Farooq said, "whoever did this was a pro. Silencer, clean getaway."
Jamshed crouched near the table, lifting the brown packet that had somehow survived the chaos.
It was sealed with red wax and a single letter — 'Z' — stamped across it.
He whispered, almost to himself,
"Zafar Group… or someone using their name."
He slipped the packet into his coat pocket.
"Kids," he said, straightening up. "We're not dealing with street thugs. This is bigger — and darker — than anything we've seen before."
Farooq frowned. "What's in the packet, Abba?"
Jamshed glanced toward the rain-soaked street, where the sound of sirens faded into the distance.
"That," he said quietly, "is what we're about to find out."