The rain began as a soft drizzle, but within minutes it had graduated into heavy sheets that hammered against the narrow cobbled streets of Istanbul. Imani stood beneath the awning of a worn-out spice shop in Fatih, the key Hussnain, her father, had given her clenched in her palm. Every sound was sharper in the rain—horns, voices, footsteps—and the city seemed to breathe heavier, denser, like it, too, had secrets soaked deep into its skin.
She wore a navy trench coat buttoned all the way up, a black turtleneck underneath, and slacks tucked into waterproof boots. Her scarf was grey silk today, clinging slightly to the damp air, her curls tucked meticulously beneath it. Zara walked beside her in a beige hoodie beneath a cropped leather jacket, black cargo pants, and sneakers that squeaked slightly with every step. Her umbrella was red and slightly lopsided, threatening to flip every few seconds.
"This better be the real vault," Zara muttered, watching her step. "I didn't fly halfway across the world for an antique clock and another poem."
Imani exhaled. "It's not just about the files. If I see her face in those tapes, I'll know."
They arrived at the madrasah's main gate. Once a proud institution of Islamic scholarship, the stone building had faded over time—like a memory rewritten by too many hands. The third floor housed a barely maintained library that smelled of parchment and long-extinguished incense.
Idris was already there, posted near the stairwell with Omar. The two had taken to avoiding eye contact since their last heated discussion.
Omar wore an ash-green hoodie with the hood up, face expressionless, but his eyes tracked every corner of the room. "You sure about this place?"
"Positive," Imani said.
The librarian was an elderly man with a face as wrinkled as the spines of the books surrounding him. He gave a nod and slid a laminated key tag toward them. No questions asked. He had clearly been instructed.
The room at the end of the hall had no label. Imani inserted the key and felt a strange stillness when it clicked open.
The safe was behind a loose bookshelf panel, covered in dust and barely visible.
Inside, wrapped in aged cloth, were five tapes. Actual VHS tapes.
Zara groaned. "Who still uses these?"
Omar pulled out a portable player from his backpack. "Smart people who want to keep analog files away from digital eyes."
They inserted the first tape. Static.
Then: grainy footage of a dimly lit room. A long table. Seven people seated. Faces barely visible. But one... unmistakably clear.
Imani's breath caught.
Her mother.
Younger, quieter, but determined. She was speaking in a hushed tone, gesturing to a map on the wall.
"She knew from the beginning," Imani whispered.
The others listened to her mother speak about geopolitical destabilization, silent takeovers, replacement diplomacy—terms that sounded straight out of a conspiracy novel.
"She's not just part of Kora," Idris said slowly. "She helped design the blueprint."
Zara's eyes stayed glued to the screen. "She was leading that meeting."
The second tape was even more unsettling. It detailed what they called Project Canaan, a multi-decade plan to place key operatives into national infrastructures, hospitals, religious institutions, charities.
"She created the program I now work under," Imani said, dazed.
Omar had been watching Imani more than the screen. "You still think she's redeemable?"
"She used my father as bait. She let us think he was dead."
A heavy silence followed.
Idris broke it. "There's a risk in confronting her now. She might know we have these."
"Then what do we do with the truth?" Zara asked.
Imani stood, arms folded, shoulders taut. "We plan. Quietly. She's not just any enemy—she's family."
Zara nodded. "What's our next move?"
"We follow her," said Imani, voice level. "Every fundraiser, every prayer circle, every seemingly innocent trip to the mosque. We map out her network. Find out who's still loyal."
Omar pulled out his phone. "I'll clone her signal."
Idris looked at Imani. "You okay leading this charge?"
She looked back, voice steady. "I have no other choice."
They gathered the tapes, sealed the safe again, and walked back into the storm.
---
Hours later, Imani stood at the window of their rented flat. Rain painted the glass in erratic streaks. Her mind spun.
Her mother.
Her mother who had taught her to pray.
Her mother who kissed her forehead before every exam.
Her mother who sat in the front row during her medical school graduation.
Her mother who was the kindest woman she'd ever met. Her own prayer warrior.
All a facade?
Her phone buzzed.
A message.
"Come home. We need to talk."
From her mother.
Imani stared.
Had she been found out?
Was this a trap?
Or… was the truth ready to meet her halfway?
---
To be continued...