**Episode 7: Into the Lion's Den**
The wind was sharp that night. Cold. Unusual for this part of the country.
Ayaan stood across the street from the abandoned bank, dressed in dark clothes, cap pulled low. The building loomed like a forgotten monument — quiet, hollow, but hiding something alive within.
He checked the time: **2:41 AM.**
The tracker showed the black car had arrived 20 minutes ago. It was still parked around back, half-hidden in the alley.
Ayaan crossed the street quickly and slipped behind the gate. He moved with the caution of someone who'd done this before — which he had, during a few "off-the-books" crisis drills arranged by his grandfather.
*"Every empire has enemies," Ziaul Ahsan had once said. "Learn to think like one."*
Now, those lessons were a lifeline.
Ayaan scaled the side wall using a rusted pipe and slipped through a broken window on the second floor. Inside, the air was musty, thick with dust and old concrete. But it wasn't empty.
There were **voices** downstairs. Muffled, but real.
He moved silently through the corridors, careful not to disturb the layers of dust that hadn't been touched in years — except for a clear path that had been recently cleaned and used.
It led to the basement.
He crept down the staircase, each step creaking slightly. And then he saw it:
**A surveillance hub.**
Not massive, but enough to track someone — a few monitors, a signal interceptor, photographs, a whiteboard with diagrams.
At the center, pinned with a red string, was **his face.**
Not as *Rayhan Karim*. As *Ayaan Ahsan.*
He scanned the board. There were **photos of Elina**, too — mostly recent. One even showed her entering a women's shelter. Another had her speaking to a man in a police uniform.
Then he heard it — the unmistakable *click* of a handgun cocking behind him.
"Nice of you to finally drop by," said a voice.
Ayaan turned slowly.
A man in his early fifties stood there, lean, dressed in black, gun steady.
"I was wondering how long you'd take the bait," the man said, smirking. "Your grandfather taught you better than this."
Ayaan narrowed his eyes. "Reza Murad."
The man's smirk faded.
"So you do remember."
"What do you want?"
Reza lowered the gun slightly. "What I'm owed. What was taken from me. The Ahsan name crushed my family… and now, your family's going to watch you fall."
"You're watching the wrong person," Ayaan said, stepping forward slightly. "I'm not just the heir. I'm the one who's going to end this."
Reza laughed — a slow, bitter sound.
"Good luck," he whispered. "The war's already started. You just stepped onto the battlefield."
Suddenly, a loud noise erupted upstairs — a shattering window. Footsteps. Yelling.
Ayaan seized the moment — he shoved a rack into Reza, knocking the gun away, and ran.
Sirens wailed outside. Blue lights flashed through the cracks in the windows.
**Someone had tipped off the police.**
Ayaan didn't wait to find out who. He escaped through the service tunnel just as officers stormed the building.
Heart pounding, he emerged two blocks away.
He didn't know who had saved him — but one thing was now clear:
**He was in a war. And Reza Murad wasn't working alone.**
**To be continued…**