Lahore did not sleep.
It only changed tempo.
By midnight, the city softened but never surrendered - headlights threading through Mall Road, the distant echo of a wedding band somewhere in Gulberg, vendors counting crumpled notes beneath yellow bulbs. Even in stillness, Lahore breathed.
That night, the air was swollen with waiting.The rain had not fallen that night.
It should have. The clouds hung low over Lahore like bruises, swollen and dark, but the streets remained dry, dust unmoved, air heavy with heat that clung to the skin. Neon lights from Liberty Market bled into puddles that didn't exist, reflecting off shop windows like smeared halos. The city was awake.... honking rickshaws, distant laughter, the smell of frying samosas ,unaware that something had already gone wrong.
It began with a ๐๐๐๐๐๐.
Not loud. Not sharp. A sound that fractured halfway through itself, as if the throat producing it had been crushed mid-breath. It came from behind the closed shutters of an abandoned electronics store tucked between a bridal boutique and a mobile accessories shop ......the kind of place no one noticed anymore, its name bleached into the metal sign above like a ghost of commerce.
By the time anyone thought to investigate, the sound was gone.
A call was made to investigate further.
The call reached the police at 12:43 a.m.
A security guard from a neighboring shop had reported "a strange smell" and "a noise earlier." His voice trembled when he mentioned the second part.
By 1:05 a.m., yellow tape cut across the storefront.
By 1:17 a.m., Special Officers , police hospital staff and forensic team were over there.
๐ป๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ :
The store's interior smelled faintly of rust and stagnant water, though neither was present. Broken shelves leaned against walls like collapsed ribs. Tangled wires dangled from the ceiling, some still humming faintly with stolen electricity from the neighboring shop. Dust layered everything in a gray film - the quiet of neglect.
Inside, the darkness was thick.
The body was found in the back storage room.
At first glance, it didn't look like a body.
It looked like a sculpture.
The man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties .....was seated upright against the wall, legs folded unnaturally beneath him, arms positioned at his sides with almost ceremonial care. His shirt had been removed, folded neatly beside him, unstained. His face was intact, expression frozen in something close to surprise.
But his eyes were gone.
Not torn out. Not gouged. Removed.
Cleanly. ๐จ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
Where they should have been were two dark hollows, smooth-edged, almost surgical. No blood streaked his cheeks. No splatter marked the wall behind him. The sockets were dry, the flesh around them pale and strangely unmarred, as though whatever had been done had been done gently.
Lower down, beneath the collarbone, the skin on his chest was... wrong.
Not flayed. Not sliced.
Lifted.
The epidermis had been separated from muscle in long, careful sections, peeled back and laid flat against his ribs like opened pages of a book. There was no wildness in the cuts, no desperation. Whoever had done this had not rushed. The edges were smooth, symmetrical. Intentional.
His pulse points bore tiny puncture marks - wrists, neck, inner elbows - evidence of injection. Sedation. He had not fought.
There was no weapon in sight.
No fingerprints.
No blood trail.
No sign of forced entry.
The back door was locked from the inside.
And yet, the man was undeniably dead.
Special Officer ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ arrived twenty-two minutes after the call.
The crime scene tape had already been strung across the storefront, yellow against gray, fluttering slightly in the stagnant air. A small crowd had gathered - shopkeepers, passersby, late-night vendors - whispering into phones, pointing, speculating. Some looked sick. Others looked thrilled. Lahore had seen violence before, but not this. Not this quiet.
Inside, forensic teams were already at work.
Camera flashes popped against the walls. Blue gloves glided over surfaces. A woman knelt beside the body, whispering numbers into a recorder. The air was sterile with antiseptic and sweat.
Zarar ducked beneath the tape without acknowledging anyone.
Zarar wasn't the kind of man who drew attention by smiling or speaking. He commanded it in silence.
He was twenty-eight almost going to be 29, ๐๐๐๐๐-๐๐๐๐ sharp-eyed taut body of someone who had spent years training... not just muscles, but reflexes, control. His movements were precise, deliberate, as if every step, every gesture was premeditated, measured, purposeful. He had a natural elegance that was almost predatory: the kind that made people unconsciously give him space, even without realizing why.
His face was sharp and defined. A strong jawline that could seem cold, cheekbones that caught shadows just right, lips that rarely smiled but could curve in a way that left people guessing if it was amusement or danger. His eyes, though, were what left everyone unsettled - dark, intelligent, calculating, yet somehow vulnerable when no one was watching. They were the kind of eyes that seemed to look straight into someone's soul, unafraid to confront what most people tried to hide.
Zarar's hair was always neatly cropped, practical, yet enough strands fell over his forehead sometimes to hint at a subtle rebellion against order.
His presence alone suggested control..... a mind that never stopped, always calculating, always anticipating. Every case he handled, every crime scene he approached, he carried the weight of experience without ever showing fatigue.ressed in plain clothes that never quite disguised the stiffness of someone trained in uniforms.
There was danger in Zarar, but it wasn't loud. It was a quiet, simmering heat, the kind that made people take note without knowing why. Women, men, even criminals..... he didn't intimidate with force; he enthralled with intensity. Some nights, his own reflection haunted him. The man staring back seemed almost as dangerous as the criminals he hunted.
Yet, behind the cold efficiency, Zarar carried a secret: ๐๐๐จ๐๐จ๐จ๐๐ค๐ฃ He noticed the smallest inconsistencies, the tiniest clues. His mind was like a steel trap. Once something or someone captured his attention, he couldn't let it go. It wasn't violent. It wasn't emotional. It was relentless. He pursued, quietly, deliberately, like a shadow that followed without warning.
Despite his intensity, he had charm, subtle and lethal. A raised brow, a smirk caught at just the right moment, a pause in conversation that left someone leaning in without realizing it. He was dangerous, yes, but dangerously magnetic. The kind of man people might groan over, the kind they can't stop imagining after he disappears from the scene.
and one more thing that make him more desirable more demanding a แดสแดสสแดษดษขแด that he have :
"๐ฏ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐"
a fear of touch
He moved through the crowd with careful precision, never brushing against anyone, never letting a hand linger near a stranger. There were rules no one could see, boundaries no one dared to cross.
Haphephobia.... a fear of touch
that kept him distant, untouchable, almost painfully magnetic.
Zarar stopped at the doorway to the storage room.
He stared.
Not because he couldn't process what he was seeing - he'd seen death before. Shootings. Stabbings. Explosions. Accidents. Executions. But this was... curated. The body wasn't discarded. It had been arranged.
"Cause of death?" he asked. Zarar glanced at Officer Tariq, noting the thick, proud mustache that stretched across his upper lip like a bridge - broad enough to carry the weight of every crime in Lahore, yet somehow still managing to twitch at the smallest hint of absurdity.
The forensic lead didn't look up. "Sedative overdose combined with blood loss. No defensive wounds. The victim was alive when the skin separation began."
Zarar's jaw tightened.
"And the eyes?"
"Removed post-mortem. No tearing. No crushing. We believe a blade was used, possibly surgical."
Zarar stepped closer.
The man's lips were slightly parted, as though he'd tried to speak or scream__after waking. His eyelashes were still intact, casting faint shadows over emptiness. There was no expression of pain etched into his features, only something eerily close to peace.
Zarar didn't believe in peaceful deaths.
He scanned the room.
Nothing was overturned. No signs of struggle. No drag marks. The man hadn't been moved after death - this had happened here. On this concrete floor. In this forgotten room behind a market where brides bought bangles and children begged for ice cream.
"Identity?" Zarar asked.
"Wallet was missing," officer Tariq replied. "But the phone recovered in his pocket. No SIM. We're running facial recognition."
Zarar knelt beside the body, careful not to touch. The incisions along the chest were... beautiful. Horrible, but beautiful in their precision. Almost symmetrical, the skin lifted in overlapping arcs like petals.
Petals.
The thought came unbidden - and vanished just as quickly.
He stood.
"This isn't rage," he said quietly. "This is... preference."
The forensic lead frowned. "Preference?"
"No hesitation marks. No frenzy. No overkill. Whoever did this didn't lose control." His eyes drifted back to the empty sockets. "They wanted something."
"Souvenir-taking?" she suggested.
"Maybe."
But something felt off.
Most killers who took trophies did so chaotically - hair ripped out, fingers severed, teeth shattered from jaws. This... wasn't that. The removals were clean, almost reverent.
Like theft from a museum.
"Bag the eyes?" Zarar asked.
"They're not here."
Silence thickened.
"They weren't discarded?"
"No."
Zarar stared at the hollow sockets again.
"Then they were kept."
By morning, the news had spread.
A man was found dead near Liberty Market. Eyes removed. Skin mutilated. No suspects. No motive. No identity.
Headlines used words like gruesome, inhuman, ritualistic.
Social media called it a monster.
Zarar called it the beginning.
He stood in his office, staring at the crime scene photos pinned to a board the body, the room, the wounds while an officer Tariq briefed him.
"No prior record. No reported threats. No enemies we can find yet. He worked as an IT, freelance consultant. Lived alone."
"Any CCTV?"
"Outside shops. Nothing inside. A hooded figure passes by the storefront around midnight, but the face is obscured. Build indeterminate."
Zarar exhaled slowly.
Tariq scratched his head at the files. "Sir... if the killer wanted to scare me, they could've just sent a WhatsApp forward. Much less paperwork."
Zarar's lips twitched. "And miss this fun?"
"Fun? Fun? Sir, my eyebrows are recovering from last week's case! Fun is not on my agenda."
"Run missing persons for eye conditions. Rare eye pigmentation. Cosmetic procedures. Anything unusual."
"Sir?"
"The eyes weren't taken randomly," Zarar said. "They were chosen."
๐๐๐ซ๐จ๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ข๐ญ๐ฒ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐:
Across the city, life continued.
University campuses buzzed with late-semester stress. Cafรฉs filled with laughter and clinking cups. Mothers yelled at children for running too fast near traffic. Fathers bargained with fruit vendors. The city moved forward always forward unaware it had already been marked.
At Punjab University's science block, ๐๐ง๐๐ฒ๐ was arguing with her friend group over chai.
"I'm telling you," she said, grinning, dimples deepening, "you can't fail organic chemistry if you bribe your brain with sugar first."
"That is not how neuroscience works," Hina laughed.
"It absolutely is," Anaya replied confidently. "My neurons respond to motivation."
She sat cross-legged on the bench outside the lecture hall, red notebook balanced on her knee, pen tapping against her bottom lip in thought.
Her dupata was loosely set on her head. Strands of glossy black hair escaped along her cheeks, which glowed pink when she laughed or felt overwhelmed .....a mild rosacea that her friends considered a blessing, making her more beautiful.
Sunlight caught the moles scattered across her face one on the tip of her nose, one near her eye, one beneath her lower lip like constellations only she carried. Soft dimples appeared on both sides of her cheeks with a delicate golden nosering shining on the left side of her nose .
she was a slim girl almost weighing around 40kg with 5'4 height something she has genetically making her appear more delicate .
Her smile was soft. Warm. Unthreatening.
She laughed easily.
People liked her instantly.
Across the courtyard, ๊ฑแดแดแดแดษดแด stood half-hidden behind a tree, pretending to scroll through แดสแดษชส phone.
แดสแดษชส glasses slid down แดสแดษชส nose.แดสแดษชส hoodie was two sizes too big. แดสแดษชส shoulders curved inward, as if bracing for impact that never came. Dark hair fell into แดสแดษชส eyes, hiding their unnatural colors beneath tinted lenses.
แดสแดส wasn't looking at แดสแดษชส phone.
แดสแดส was looking at her.
Anaya leaned forward as she spoke, hands animated, fingers long and expressive. When she laughed, her shoulders shook slightly. When she listened, she tilted her head, eyes soft with attention. Everything about her felt... open. Accessible.
แดสแดแด แดแดส๊ฑแดษด knew better.
แดสแดส had been watching her for years.
She stood up suddenly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I'm late for the lab," she said. "Text me your notes, yeah?"
"Always," สษชษดแด replied.
Anaya jogged toward the building,loose and extremely long braid covered with dupata swinging, unaware of the eyes following her - just as she was unaware of so many others who adored her, trusted her, and felt safe around her.
Elsewhere, at Jinnah Hospital,๐๐๐ซ๐ ๐ค๐ก๐๐ง stood over an operating table, gloved hands steady as she worked.
"Scalpel."
The instrument was placed in her palm without hesitation. Her movements were fluid, precise, almost graceful..... skin parted under her blade like silk beneath scissors. She didn't rush. She never did. Every incision was deliberate, every stitch exact.
"Graft positioning perfect," the nurse murmured.
Sara didn't respond.
Her hair cut into a sharp wolf cut that brushed her shoulders was tucked beneath a surgical cap. Sweat beaded at her temples, but her expression remained calm, distant, focused. Her eyes, an unusual mix of blue and brown, reflected the surgical lights like glass. She had androgynous features almost making her more appealing then a man and desiring then a woman .
Being a child of a russian mixed pakistani give her a privileges over other . Having green eyes almost making people captivated .
Almost having a lean built having muscles and all due to being a underground fighter for almost 2 years.
๐ ๐๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ๐๐ซ | ๐ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ฏ๐ข๐ฏ๐๐ซ | ๐๐ง ๐จ๐ซ๐ฉ๐ก๐๐ง | ๐ ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ซ
at the height of 5'11 and the age of 24 giving competition to many men.
The patient beneath her had suffered severe burns. Skin destroyed. Tissue ruined.
Sara rebuilt what others could not.
She always did.
After the surgery, she scrubbed her hands raw at the sink, watching blood spiral down the drain and vanish. Her reflection in the mirror looked hollow tired eyes, sharp cheekbones, mouth pressed into a line that never quite softened.
Her phone buzzed.
๐๐ฎ๐ง๐ง๐ฒ ๐: You alive?
Sara smiled faintly.
Sora: Barely. Surgery ran long.
๐๐ฎ๐ง๐ง๐ฒ๐: Come over later. I made daal. And JD stole my biscuits again.
Sara snorted.
Sora: That kid is a menace.
๐๐ฎ๐ง๐ง๐ฒ๐: He's eight.
Sora: Menace.
Sara pocketed her phone and leaned her forehead briefly against the cool tile. The hospital hummed around her machines beeping, shoes squeaking, voices murmuring but for a moment, all she could think about her ๐๐ฎ๐ง๐ง๐ฒ'๐ฌ smile.
The way she said her name.
The way she trusted her.
Sara didn't know why that mattered so much.
She just knew it did.
Back at the crime scene, the body had been bagged.
Evidence sealed.
Questions multiplied.
Zarar stood alone in the storage room long after the others left, staring at the stain on the floor where the man had died. The concrete was darker there, soaked into itself, refusing to forget.
He crouched and traced the outline of where the body had been with his eyes.
"Why here?" he murmured.
Liberty Market wasn't secluded. It wasn't hidden. It was loud. Alive. Chaotic.
Whoever had done this hadn't wanted privacy.
They wanted proximity.
"Sir?" a voice called from the doorway.
Tariq was looking at something .
Zarar stood. "Yes?"
"We found something."
He followed the officer to a small evidence table. On it lay a thin, nearly invisible strand of hair long, dark, glossy. No root attached. And specifically silver that was weird and rare
"Not the victim's," Tariq said. "Different texture and extremely long to be of a male"
Zarar studied it.
Long hair.
He didn't know why, but something about that unsettled him more than the empty eye sockets.
Bag it, he thought.
Everything leaves something behind.
That night, Anaya lay on her bed scrolling through her phone, one sock half-off, hair loose around her shoulders.
Her room was soft fairy lights along the headboard, books stacked on the floor, prayer mat folded neatly in the corner with quran and tasbeeh on side .A small indoor library keeping her all book collection or should i say
๐ฏ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ : ๐๐๐ง ๐จ๐ฉ๐๐ฃ๐๐๐ง๐๐จ ๐๐ค๐ง ๐ข๐๐ฃ ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐๐๐ง ๐๐ง๐๐๐ข ๐๐ช๐จ๐๐๐ฃ๐ .
The walls were pale lavender. The air smelled faintly of ๐๐ค๐๐ค๐ฃ๐ช๐ฉ ๐๐๐จ๐ข๐๐ฃ๐ ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐จ๐ค๐ข๐๐ฉ๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ก๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ค๐๐ค-๐๐ช๐ฉ๐ฉ๐๐ง.
her younger brother burst into the room without knocking. "Apa! Ammi said dinner in five!"
"Tell her I'll be there in ten," Anaya said, not looking up.
"Five," he corrected smugly.
She rolled her eyes. "Traitor."
He grinned and ran off.
Her phone buzzed.
Breaking News: Mutilated Body Found Near Liberty Market Police Suspect Serial Offender
Anaya paused mid-scroll.
She tapped the headline.
The article was brief. A man. Eyes removed. Skin mutilated. Police investigating. No suspects.
Her eyebrows knit together.
"That's awful," she murmured aloud.
She imagined the fear. The pain. The confusion.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
Then loosened.
she put the phone away while going toward the washroom to perform ablution (wudu) to offer prayer and ask for Allah pak's guidance and peace for the heart.
๐๐ฅ๐ข ๐๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐ช๐ฎ๐'๐ฌ:
Elsewhere in Lahore, in a quiet neighborhood near the edge of the city ๐ข๐ง ๐๐ง๐๐ซ๐ค๐๐ฅ๐ข, Uncle Ali unlocked the door to his antique shop and frowned.
There was a parcel on his doorstep.
No return address.
Wrapped neatly in brown paper, sealed with clear tape.
He sighed.
"Again?" he muttered.
It wasn't unusual anymore.
Ever since a customer... a young woman with short hair and tired eyes has brought a globe from him .People wanted oddities now. Strange things. Dark things. Items that felt like stories.
He picked up the parcel and brought it inside.
Behind the counter, he sliced it open.
Inside lay a wig.
Long. Silver. Thick. Glossy.
So realistic it made his fingers itch.
"Good quality," he muttered, lifting it. The weight felt wrong than synthetic, lighter than human but he dismissed the thought. Props have gotten better these days.
Beneath it lay a folded red dress.
Deep crimson. Almost wine-colored. The fabric shimmered under the fluorescent light silk, maybe.
Something dark stained the hem.
He sniffed it.
Metallic.
He frowned, then shrugged.
"Probably dye."
He folded the dress carefully and placed it on a hanger.
Outside, the city moved on.
Zarar didn't sleep that night.
He stared at the ceiling of his apartment, mind replaying images - hollow sockets, lifted skin, clean incisions.
Most killers were messy.
This one wasn't.
Most killers escalated.
This one felt...curated.
He rolled onto his side, jaw clenched.
"Who are you?" he whispered to the dark.
At exactly 2:17 a.m., in a quiet residential street far from Liberty Market, a bedroom light flicked on.
Anaya sat at her desk, red notebook open, pen resting between her fingers.
Her room was silent.
She hummed softly tuneless, gentle as she wrote something small and neat on the page, then closed the notebook and slid it into her drawer.
Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye.
She tilted her head, studying herself.
Her lips curved.
A soft knock came at her door.
"Anaya?" her mother's voice. "Why are you awake?"
"Studying," she called lightly.
Her mother smiled through the door. "Don't stay up too late."
"I won't."
The footsteps retreated.
Anaya stood and crossed to her window, pushing the curtain aside slightly.
The street below was empty.
Quiet.
Perfect.
She inhaled deeply.
Then smiled again.While closing her books turning of the light and going toward her bed to sleep without being unaware of some watch-ful eye
By morning, Lahore would call it the first killing.
Zarar would call it a pattern.
The media would call it a monster.
No one would call it what it truly was.
Not yet.
And not ever.