Her name was Rabia.
Twenty-four. Night shift nurse at the district hospital in Mansehra. She finished at two a.m., too tired to wait for the morning bus, too stubborn to ask anyone for a ride. She took her old Suzuki Mehran instead, the one with the cracked windshield and the radio that only played static after midnight.
The shortcut through the upper forest road saved her forty minutes. Everyone used it. Everyone said it was fine.
That night the moon was new—nithing but a black coin pressed against a blacker sky. Fog rose from the creek like breath in the winter. Her headlights caught pale trunks and nothing else.
She saw the figure first as a shape on the shoulder: small, standing too still, facing the wrong way.
Rabia slowed.
Instinct, not kindness.
A child alone at three in the morning is never just a child.
She rolled the window down an inch.
"Hey—kid? You okay?"
No answer.
The girl turned slowly.
Fourteen, maybe younger. Army surplus jacket swallowing her frame. Sleeves cuffed so many times the fabric bunched at her elbows. Hair dark and wet, clinging to her face. Eyes enormous. Tears streaming —steady, silent.
Rabia's stomach dropped.
She knew the stories
Everyone in the hills knew the stories.
But stories are for other people's nights.
She cut the engine. Left the headlights on. Stepped out.
" You lost?" her voice came out softer than she meant.
The girl didn't speak.
She only cried harder —shoulders shaking now, small fists clenched at her sides. The tears caughts the headlight beams and turned silver, sliding down her chin, dripping onto the cracked asphalt.
Rabia took one step closer.
That was when she heard them.
Low voices.
Male. Two, maybe three. Coming from the trees on the far side of the road. Branches snapping. Boots on pine needles. A low laugh that made her skin crawl.
They stepped into the light.
Three men.