Elaya's parents were from Seoul — born and raised in the city, both of them rooted in its streets and its seasons. Iliana Mohammadi and Jeon Syed Adan were renowned across South Korea, known not just for their success but for what they had done with it. Together they had dedicated their lives to creating a cancer medication — a journey built on hardship, sacrifice, and an unshakeable sense of purpose. They faced resistance at every turn, but they kept going. And eventually, they released it.
Iliana had once faked her own death to rise up for those who needed protection — she was known for her precision, her drift skills, her ability to move through systems unseen. Adan had a different kind of grace — a footballer, composed and sharp. They met at a conference, exchanged words across a table, and from that moment their story began.
It was a love built on faith and trust and difficulty. But eventually things settled — until fate had different plans.
Iliana's brother, Mohammad Ayaan, was killed alongside Elvin, who had loved him like his whole world. Both taken by mafia. Iliana had already lost her parents young, and Adan's parents had been killed too — hunted by the same forces that had once been after Iliana's family. Adan fell into depression for a year and a half. Iliana spent four years trying to find solid ground beneath her feet again.
Then Elaya was born.
She arrived four years after Mohammad Ayaan and Elvin were taken, and with her came something neither Iliana nor Adan had expected to feel so completely again — joy. Pure, overwhelming joy. She was their first child. Their gem. The soft spot of both their hearts. They refused to let their grief cast shadows over her early years and so they loved her with everything they had — they made her live like a queen, in their home and in their hearts.
They kept thanking Allah. They returned to Salah and Quran with renewed depth, tawakkul and sabr woven into the fabric of how they lived. They trusted their Rabb in every hardship and every happiness and never missed a chance to express that gratitude.
Iliana used to recite Quran for Elaya whenever she cried. Adan would shower her with kisses and made sure the very first word she ever said was Allah — not mama, not appa. Just Allah.
For five years, Elaya knew nothing but warmth.
Then her birthday came. The 30th of March.
Iliana and Adan woke to find people gathered outside their home — men with guns and sharp, terrifying things, arriving in numbers that swallowed the street whole. Every guard had been killed. The police officers in that area were gone. The entire neighborhood surrounding their home had been surrounded.
And standing in the middle of it all — Emris's parents, masks on, giving orders.
At the same moment, the people of the Ahad Agency arrived and the fighting began. Their head, Hashim Mahmood Khan, had come personally — he and Adan knew each other well, trusted each other, and Hashim had come to protect them.
In the chaos, somehow, Adan found Hashim in the backyard — alone for just a moment, the noise of the fight all around them. He placed Elaya into Hashim's arms.
"Take care of her. For Allah's sake — please. I am requesting you."
Both of them pleaded. Hashim's eyes went glassy as he looked between Adan and the child in his arms.
"I cannot leave you both like this," his voice broke.
Then Emris's parents appeared — masks still on. Two shots each. Three bullets in the back.
Hashim ran.
Elaya looked back twice as he carried her away, her eyes wet and desperate, reaching toward what she was being taken from.
"Mama — Appa—"
Hashim wore a mask and lenses so no one could identify him. He moved fast and did not stop.
Iliana and Adan were killed because they had helped people dying of cancer. Their medication was pulled from existence shortly after — by the same long chain of people who had been eliminating anyone who came close to a cure. Emris's parents sat at the center of that chain.
They gave their lives for the lives of others.
And Allah sees everything. He is the best of planners.
Hashim gave Elaya everything he could. Expensive schools, careful education, gifts and dresses and people who watched over her constantly. Even in his busiest seasons he checked on her — personally, regularly, without fail. He did not sleep until she did. Every man in the agency treated her like their own.
But no amount of provision could fill the shape that a mother and father leave behind.
She cried for years — every night, quietly, without letting anyone see. She had friends, she had tutors, she had a warm place to sleep and everything material she could need. But her heart held an emptiness that none of it could reach. The longing for parents is its own particular grief — one that does not announce itself loudly but simply lives there, constant and patient, in the background of everything.
Hashim had never married. He had always loved children deeply, and he loved Elaya as though she were his own — genuinely, not as obligation. She knew the difference. She was grateful for it, even as she quietly grieved what could not be replaced.
When she turned twenty, she came to him and told him she wanted to help — to repay what he had given her. He declined at first. But Elaya was too dear to him to refuse for long.
He said yes.
And she stepped forward into the work her parents had once given everything for.