Location: Jinnah Road, Quetta. Date: October 13, 1999. 11:00 Hours.
Quetta was a city of dust and spies, but inside "Karim & Sons Bespoke Tailors," the air was cool and smelled of lavender steam.
Aryan stood on the plush Persian rug in the center of the fitting room. The noise of the coup—the military trucks rumbling outside, the sirens, the panic—felt a million miles away.
An old man with measuring tape draped around his neck circled Aryan like a vulture. This was Mr. Karim. To the locals, he was the best tailor in Balochistan. To Aryan, he was the "Incubator."
"Shoulders, seventeen inches," Karim muttered, scribbling in a notebook. "You have lost weight, Beta. The journey from Kabul was hard?"
"The flight was delayed," Aryan corrected, his tone bored. "And the service was terrible."
It was the code. Flight meant the border crossing. Delayed meant he had been stopped but not compromised.
Karim hummed, measuring Aryan's inseam. "We will fix you up. A double-breasted navy blazer. Gold buttons. Imported Italian wool. You cannot walk into Aitchison College looking like a refugee. You must look like a Prince."
Karim walked to a heavy oak cabinet behind the counter. He unlocked it, not with a key, but with a specific sequence of knocks on the wood panel. A false bottom popped open.
He pulled out a thick Manila envelope and a leather wallet. He placed them on the counter next to a bolt of silk.
"Aryan is dead," Karim said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
He slid the wallet across the glass.
Aryan opened it. Inside was a crisp, green Computerized National Identity Card (CNIC). The lamination was still warm. The photo was him, but the name was different.
Name: Daniyal Sher Khan Father's Name: Late Haroon Sher Khan (Industrialist) Address: 44-B, Defence Housing Authority, Lahore.
"Daniyal," Aryan tested the name. It rolled off the tongue. Soft. Aristocratic.
"Your father died of a heart attack in Dubai last month," Karim recited the lie as he began cutting the fabric. "He was a patriot who wanted his son raised in the Motherland. He left you a substantial trust fund at MCB Bank. The account is active. The house in Lahore is furnished and waiting. The servants have been hired; they think you are arriving tomorrow."
Aryan ran his thumb over the ID card. It was perfect. The NADRA watermark was genuine.
"And the admission?" Aryan asked.
"Done. Aitchison College, Kelly House. You start next week. Your grades from the 'American School of Dubai' have been transferred. You are a straight-A student, captain of the debate team."
Karim stopped cutting. He looked up, his eyes hard.
"But you are not going there just to study, Daniyal."
The old tailor reached into the envelope again. He pulled out a photograph. It was a candid shot of a boy, roughly Aryan's age, laughing while holding a polo mallet. He was handsome, arrogant, and looked like he owned the world.
"Who is he?" Aryan asked.
"This," Karim said, tapping the photo, "is Rohail Aslam."
Aryan studied the face. "A target?"
"A ladder," Karim corrected. "Rohail is the only son of Lieutenant General Aslam Beg. As of this morning's coup, General Aslam has just been named the Corps Commander of Lahore. He is now one of the three most powerful men in this country."
Karim leaned in close.
"Rohail is failing his classes. He is lonely. He has no real friends, only sycophants who fear his father. He needs a brother, Daniyal. He needs a mentor."
The objective was clear. Aryan wasn't just infiltrating a school; he was infiltrating a family.
"You will become his shadow," Karim ordered. "You will help him pass his exams. You will defend him in fights. You will make him dependent on you. Because in twenty years, Rohail will inherit his father's seat at the table. And you will be sitting right next to him."
Aryan picked up the photo. He looked at the smiling boy—the boy whose life he was about to hijack.
"Does he have any weaknesses?" Aryan asked.
Karim smiled, a dry, cruel twisting of lips. "He loves cricket. And he hates being second best."
Aryan slipped the photo into his pocket, right next to his new ID.
"Then I'll let him win," Aryan said, checking his reflection in the mirror.
The boy staring back wasn't Aryan anymore. The dust was gone. The fear was gone. In the reflection stood Daniyal Sher Khan—wealthy, entitled, and dangerous.
"Make the suit tight, Uncle," Aryan said, turning to leave. "I have a best friend to meet."