Scene 1 — The Funeral Ground
The morning sun sat heavy over the Police Lines, turning the freshly dug earth a dull ochre. A long green tent had been raised to give shade to the families; the wind moved the canvas like a slow, sorrowful breath. Coffins lay in a row, draped in flags. Men in uniform stood shoulder to shoulder; civilians clustered nearby with red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands. The air smelled of incense and hot dust.
DSP Farooq moved with the solemn steadiness of a man who had given far too many farewells. Inspector Haroon walked beside him, cap in hand, face fixed, the lines around his eyes deeper than the morning. Families huddled at the edges: mothers in black, widows with scarves clutched to their mouths, small children clutching the sleeves of the dead.
A bugler played taps; the note trembled through the field. Haroon watched as soldiers carried the first coffin, the cadence of their steps like a metronome counting finality. He kept his hands folded, but his whole body felt like it wanted to kneel.
Near the front, a woman held a toddler at her hip and wouldn't let go of the folded uniform placed on the coffin. Her face was a raw, open thing.
Haroon stopped in front of her. For a second there was no rank, no title — only a man trying to give an answer to a grief that had none.
"Be fikr mat kijiye," he said, his voice low and steady. "Aapka haq hum se poochiye—hum tak pahunchayenge. Aap ke zaat ka badla hum leinge."
(Don't worry. Ask anything you need. We will get justice. We will make sure their sacrifice is not in vain.)
The woman's fingers tightened on his sleeve so hard they left a white mark. She didn't speak. Around them people sobbed; someone's small child cried out a name and the sound tore at Haroon's throat.
After the formalities ended, DSP Farooq drew Haroon aside. He lowered his voice.
"Media bahar intezaar mein hain. Hum aaj koi zabaani bayan nahi denge. Investigation chal rahi hai."
(The media is waiting. We won't give any public statement yet. The investigation is ongoing.)
Haroon nodded. "Jab tak humare paas saboot nahi, hum kisi ko bhooltay nahi. Aur agar kisi ne humare mardon ka khoon bahaaya, unki khair nahin denge."
(We don't forget our own until the truth is known. Whoever shed our men's blood will not go unaccounted.)
They watched the last coffin lower into the ground. Haroon stood like a statue until the dirt muted the world and the bugle's last note dissolved into the sunlit air.
Scene 2 — The Day Drags, Questions Grow
Back at the station the mood was brittle. Case files filled the desks; officers moved between rooms with the strained efficiency of people who sleep in short bursts. The interrogation wing drew a line between the routine hum of administration and the raw business of extracting truth.
Rehan and Qamar sat in adjacent cells beyond the observation glass. Rehan's clothes were dirty, his eyes hollow with sleeplessness. Qamar held himself like a man who had been told the world was his and refused to accept anything else.
Hours of questioning had passed without breakthrough. Both men gave rehearsed answers; Qamar was stone-faced, polite when it suited him and cold the rest of the time. Investigators rotated, tried threats, baited with promises, but the two remained locked in silence or half-truths—coiled, guarded, dangerous.
Haroon walked in just before lunch. He watched as DSP Farooq and Inspector Saleem argued softly over a printout of phone records.
"No clear chop," Saleem said. "They're speaking on short-burners, cash boxes, dead drops. It's like trying to hold water."
Farooq tapped a pen against the table, thinking out loud. "Keep pressing. Gut-checks. Somebody will break. People always do."
Haroon looked at Rehan through the glass. Up close the younger man's bravado had given way to something rawer. Haroon set his jaw. "Keep him in the cold," he said to the sergeant. "Rotate him. Play for time."
Scene 3 — The Quiet Before the Confession
By late afternoon the station hummed in a different key: anticipation. Officers checked cell doors, fueled their coffee, and kept watch on the two men who now held the key to the chain of darkness. Hours stretched. Files accumulated. Leads were chased, then chased again.
Rehan had been silent for most of the day. He answered questions in staccato sentences, never volunteering, walls up. But when Saleem left for a call and the room thinned, Rehan's eyes met Haroon's through the glass and something in him cracked.
Haroon instructed the duty team to bring Rehan into the small interview room alone for a while — a change of scene, a soft light, a slow clock. The idea was simple: change the rhythm and make the suspect disorientingly human for a moment. They led him in; the metal chair creaked as he sat.
Haroon closed the door and sat across from him. He did not yell. He made no grand threats. He put a glass of water on the table and spoke in a voice that carried exhaustion and patience.
"Rehan," Haroon said quietly, "ab chalo. Tumne bohot cheezen chupayi hain. Tum bataya karo. Hamain andar tak jana hoga."
(Rehan, come on. You've hidden too much. Tell us. We need to get to the heart of this.)
For a long minute Rehan said nothing. His thumbs rubbed the cuff marks on his wrists. Then, as if surrendering to a truth he had carried too long, his shoulders slumped.
"Thik hai, sir. Main sab bata dunga."
(All right, sir. I will tell everything.)
Haroon leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Aap jaise seedhe raaston pe wapas aa sakte hain. Sach bolo."
(You can come back to the straight path. Tell the truth.)
Scene 4 — The Chain: How Sara Became a Bargain
Rehan's voice was flat at first, then sharper as guilt uncoiled from his throat.
"Woh… woh Noman ka naam pehle aaya tha. Noman, jo Amana Superstore ka ground-floor manager hai. Noman ne mujhe bataya—ek banda aaya tha, bada, naam Qamar. Qamar kehte the 'business.' Jo order hain, woh Raheel ya Bilal ko de do. Main bas packet deliver karta tha."
(Noman's name came up. Noman, the ground-floor manager at Amana Superstore. Noman told me: a big man came, named Qamar. Qamar called it "business". I would give orders to Raheel or Bilal. I just delivered packets.)
Haroon watched him quietly. He had already suspected the link; now he needed the shape and the reason.
Rehan swallowed. "Lekin jo sab se bhari baat thi… woh thi Sara. Noman ki behen Sara." He hesitated. "Qamar ne Sara ko liya. Noman kehte the agar main sahara doon to usse chhod denge. Par… phir Qamar ne Sara ko bech diya. Lahore mein Najma Khatoon ko."
(But the heaviest thing was Sara. Noman's sister Sara. Qamar took Sara. Noman said if I cooperate, they would release her. But Qamar sold Sara. To Najma Khatoon in Lahore.)
The room went still. Haroon felt the air thicken.
"Najma Khatoon?" Saleem echoed, incredulous. He dug his phone from his pocket. "Kya? That woman? Her name's been in fringes before—crime ring, trafficking. Are you sure?"
Rehan's lips quivered. "Haan. Main ne uss ka phone number dekha. Woh apne house chala rahi hai—brothel, they called it. Qamar sold Sara like a piece of property. Noman begged. He begged Qamar for her back. Qamar laughed and said he'd make more money that way." Rehan's voice split. "I saw Noman… he cried. He was being forced to help. They had his sister."
Noman's name hung in the air with two separate weights: the man behind the Superstore's polite counter and a brother who had been dragged into something monstrous.
Scene 5 — Noman in Custody, the Sister He Loved
Word came through that Noman, in his cell, had heard bits of the confession — either through inner channels or because he'd pleaded earlier that his sister was missing. When Haroon walked out of the interview room, he found Noman in a small holding area, his face ashen, his eyes red.
"Noman," Haroon said simply.
The younger man didn't protest when Haroon sat. The bravado had bled away; there was only the rawness of a brother who had failed a promise.
"Main ne kaha tha—main ne kaha tha main uske liye sab kuch karunga," Noman said, words tumbling. "Qamar ne kaha agar main help na karunga to Sara ko marega. Main ne… I did what he told. I thought—sir, I thought he would only scare her. I didn't know he would sell her." He pressed his palms to his face. "Main maaf kardo. Mujhe maaf kardo. Sara meri chhoti behen hai."
(I told them—I'd do anything for her. Qamar said if I didn't help, he would kill Sara. I thought he would only scare her. I didn't know he would sell her. Forgive me. Sara is my little sister.)
Haroon said nothing for a long beat. He'd seen many kinds of collusion — some born of greed, some born of fear — and this now wore both masks. He looked at Noman without softening.
"You should have come to us," Haroon said, voice quiet but hard. "There was a way. You could have trusted us. But we will do what we must now." He rose. "Keep him secure. No visitors. Not until we know Sara's location."
Noman nodded like a man who had been stripped to his bones.
Scene 6 — Lines to Lahore
Haroon ordered the details transcribed and sent to Lahore within minutes: the name Najma Khatoon, the number Rehan remembered, the description of the house and any ledger notes recovered from the compound. Officers in the cyber cell and communications room worked fast, sending secure messages to Lahore CID and the vice units that specialized in trafficking.
Hours crawled. Each minute was a weight. Investigators cross-checked numbers, pored over phone records, and pinged social accounts. Someone dug into the shadowy corners where Najma's name flickered like a bad light: aliases, known hideouts, support networks.
Haroon didn't sleep. He moved between rooms—talking quietly with Farooq, pushing for resources, calling commanders in Lahore, and coordinating transport if needed. His world had narrowed to one thing: find Sara and bring her back.
Scene 7 — The Call That Breaks
Around eight that evening the phone on Haroon's desk rang with a Lahore prefix. Haroon snapped it up.
"Inspector Haroon?" the voice on the other end was crisp, but it carried exhaustion. "This is Inspector Ahsan from Lahore. We've found a girl who matches the description you sent. She's at Services Hospital."
Haroon's hand tightened on the receiver as if he could physically squeeze more information from the line.
"What condition?" he asked, his voice surgical, trying to pin the truth.
There was a pause, then a brittle intake of breath on the line.
"She's in critical condition. Severely assaulted. We're treating her now. A private individual was brought in and then the hospital notified the police. Our forensics team is on site. She is unconscious. We're securing the area. We need your confirmation before we move further." The officer's words were professional, but they couldn't hide the human horror behind them.
"Where exactly?" Haroon asked.
"Services Hospital. We have her under watch. We've cordoned the ward. There are injuries consistent with assault. She's under sedation. We've started documentation. If you want to come, we will prepare the report and transfer paperwork." The voice slowed. "I'm sorry, Inspector."
Haroon felt the ground shift beneath him in a way that had nothing to do with physical balance. The image of Sara — Noman's sister, whose face he'd never seen — lying in a hospital bed, assaulted and unconscious, was a gut-level blow.
"I'll be there first thing tomorrow morning," Haroon said. "Keep her secure. Do not allow any unauthorized people near her. Preserve the evidence."
The line crackled as the call ended. Haroon sat for a long moment, the hum of the station like a distant tide. Farooq came to his side.
"They found her," Haroon said. He didn't mention the hospital's words aloud. He didn't need to. Farooq's face tightened in understanding.
"We'll go," Farooq said simply. "At first light. Get some rest if you can. You'll need it."
Haroon closed his eyes for a moment and thought of his own home: Maryam, Ubaid at school, little Irfan asleep in his crib. The difference between the household he could touch and the life he'd just been handed in small, terrible notes was a chasm he had to cross.
Scene 8 — The Quiet Night Before
Officers locked down the interrogation wing. Rehan lay in his cell, quiet now and braced for the consequences of his words. Qamar sat with a defiant air that had begun to crack at the edges. Noman pressed his palms flat to the metal rail as if he could bridge the distance with hunger.
Haroon gathered the team for a short debrief. He moved through the motions of orders and logistics—flights, vehicle manifests, liaison contacts in Lahore—but there was a personal current pulling at the edges of every sentence. This case had become a human disaster: a missing sister, a sold life, the blunt reality of trafficking and abuse.
"Tomorrow, we go to Services Hospital," Haroon told them. "We'll coordinate with Lahore CID, secure the scene, and get statements. We will also follow every thread of Najma Khatoon's network. No mercy. No compromise."
They nodded. The room hummed with purpose and grief. Outside, the night thickened; inside, lights glowed over files and maps. Haroon sat alone for a moment longer, looking at a photo printed earlier from the evidence board — a satellite shot, a ledger page, a phone number. He folded his hands and, silent, made a promise he would keep: find Sara, make the guilty account for what they had done, and bring some narrow justice for the men they had buried that morning and the woman who lay fighting for her life in a hospital bed.
The next day would move fast. The story would shift from confession to rescue, from accusation to proof. For now, the city slept beneath the same stars that had watched the raid; tomorrow those stars would witness other things — a hospital ward, a family's arrival, and a line of officers determined to pull a life back from the dark.