It was just past midnight when Arsalan heard the sound.

A light thud. Barely noticeable—except to someone trained to notice everything.

He was at home, sitting on his sofa, scribbling thoughts from his latest case. The gallery theft was growing far beyond a stolen painting. It had connections. Names. Money. And secrets no one wanted exposed.

He moved silently to the window and peeked through the curtains.

No one outside.

But when he returned to his desk, something had changed.

His case file—open. A folded piece of paper now lay on top of it.

He hadn’t left it there.

His heart beat faster. He slowly unfolded it.

In neat, cold handwriting:

“Back off. Or next time, we won’t be quiet.”

No name. No signature. But it was clear—he was being watched.

He scanned the room again. No broken locks. No sign of entry.

Someone had been inside.

And they wanted him to know it.

---

At Shah Holdings, Tahir had arrived earlier than usual.

The office was quiet, but he didn’t head to his own desk.

He went to the finance floor—specifically to Farooq’s office, the man who handled external investor reports.

Farooq looked up from his laptop. “Sir? You’re here early.”

“I need to talk,” Tahir said, shutting the door behind him. “About the Qasim Project.”

Farooq stiffened slightly.

Tahir stepped closer. “There’s a leak. A report was sent to a rival company—weeks before we finalized it.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Farooq said quickly.

“Strange. Because your system ID logged in at 2:13 a.m. the night the document was copied.”

Farooq stood up, his face pale. “I—I was told it would only be used to push pressure on you. To make you step down.”

“By who?”

Farooq hesitated. Then whispered, “One of the board members. But I don’t know who. They used a third-party contact.”

Tahir clenched his jaw.

The betrayal wasn’t just external—it was inside his own circle.

And it wasn’t about the project anymore.

It was about removing him.

---

Arsalan drove through the narrow back streets of Saddar, following the trace of a lead his agency had dropped on him—unofficially. He couldn’t involve them fully. The case was too messy now.

He parked near an abandoned textile mill. The contact had said the painting—the real one—was being moved tonight.

He stepped inside, the air thick with dust and silence.

Then, footsteps.

He turned sharply—but it was too late.

A hooded figure stepped out from the shadows. Tall. Calm. Confident.

“You were warned,” the man said. “This isn’t your world.”

“I make my world,” Arsalan replied quietly.

“Then protect it. Starting with the girl.”

Arsalan stiffened. “Emily has nothing to do with this.”

The man smirked. “You think secrets don’t bleed into love?”

Before Arsalan could move, the figure disappeared into the dark, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind.

---

The next morning, Emily was at the café early, sketchbook in hand.

Arsalan arrived, a bit more serious than usual.

“You okay?” she asked.

He paused before sitting. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

She watched him for a moment. “You seem different today.”

He tried to smile. “Maybe the coffee’s weaker.”

She closed her book. “Arsalan, you’re hiding something.”

His heart skipped slightly, but he kept his tone light. “I’m hiding many things. Like how I once ate six burgers in one sitting.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. They were delicious.”

She laughed, but her eyes stayed on him—sharp, but not unkind.

“You don’t have to be someone else around me, you know,” she said softly. “Even if your life is… complicated.”

He looked at her then—really looked.

And for the first time, he wanted to tell her everything.

But not yet.

He nodded. “I know.”

---

Later, Tahir sat in his office alone, staring at a single folder on his desk: employee records, investor logs, and suspicious transfers.

He had a list of five names.

One of them was trying to take him down.

And whoever it was—wasn't acting alone.

His phone vibrated.

Naima:

“We’re having a community health drive next week. Want to help out? I think the kids would listen to someone in a suit.”

Tahir:

“Only if I get to hold a clipboard and pretend I’m important.”

Naima:

“Deal. But you’re not allowed to fire any volunteers.”

He smiled to himself, then looked back at the list of names.

And the smile faded.