She had moved away, swiftly walking toward a handbag shop, as if she needed any more. Her cousins were beside her, one searching for a chapstick in her bag, and the other resting her hand around Laiba's arm, talking to her, faint smiles on their faces.
She had moved away, swiftly walking toward a handbag shop, as if she needed any more. Her cousins were beside her, one searching for a chapstick in her bag, and the other resting her hand around Laiba's arm, talking to her, faint smiles on their faces.
"Bashir...kisi bhi masoom ki jaan nahi jaani chahiye. Understood?" Zain's voice was firm over the phone, his claim solely meant only for her.
Suddenly, Laiba felt a subtle tension in the air. The hum of the bazaar shifted—voices lowered, steps quickened, and a nervous energy rippled down the lanes.
She turned to Aiza and Sana, who had both fallen silent, their eyes darting across the crowd.
"Kya hua?" Laiba asked quietly, sensing their unease.
Aiza swallowed, glancing over her shoulder. "Laiba... mujhe nahi pata... log bhaag kyun rahe hain?"
The shopkeeper who had been showing them earrings suddenly dropped the plastic basket and ducked behind the counter. A woman shrieked somewhere near the fruit stalls.
Zain's earpiece crackled. "Zain, Akhtar group confirm ho gaya—do aadmi bazaar mein ghus gaye hain. Arms visible. Should we take action?"
He lifted his gaze just in time to see a man in a grey shalwar kameez moving fast down the main lane, one hand tucked beneath the folds of his kurta, gripping the cold metal of a hidden weapon.
Zain spoke low into the comm: "Nahi! Abhi koi guns nahi nikale ga, agar need nahi hai, toh bus fight karo. Sab alert ho jao. Awam ko hatao. Main target pe nazar rakhta hoon."
He stepped into the open, blending seamlessly with the fleeing crowd as he moved closer to Laiba and her cousins. His heart thudded with controlled urgency.
Ya Allah, isse kuch nahi hona chahiye, he prayed under his breath.
Just ahead, the attacker pulled the gun free, raising it toward a young man who had tripped near a stack of baskets.
"Laiba, chalo! Jaldi!" Sana clutched her arm. Aiza was already tearing up.
Laiba's eyes lifted in the same instant the gun came level with the young man's head. Before she could process it, Zain closed the distance in two strides.
A precise motion—one he had practiced a hundred times—his hand locked around the attacker's wrist, forcing the weapon down. A muffled shot cracked into the ground, sending a cloud of dust and startled shouts around them.
People scattered in a wave of panic. Aiza let out a strangled cry, clutching Laiba's dupatta.
Zain's other hand struck the man's shoulder with controlled force. The attacker staggered back, the weapon knocked from his grip.
Zain addressed the crowd, his voice steady but hard. "Yahan se niklo. Abhi!"
His eyes swept the lanes, searching for the second man. His pulse thrummed hot in his ears, but when he looked back, he found Laiba standing utterly still—her hand pressed to her chest, her breath trembling.
For a second, time seemed to pause.
Their eyes locked. Hers were wide, uncertain, but she didn't look away.
Zain felt the noise of the bazaar fall away again. He had seen fear on countless faces—this was different. There was fear, but also something unshaken. A quiet faith he recognised in himself.
He inclined his head to her, a small, grave gesture—you are safe.
"Laiba, chalo!" Aiza pleaded, tugging her arm. Laiba blinked and tore her gaze away, moving back with her cousins behind a cart for cover.
The second attacker burst from between two stalls, a blade drawn. Before he could lunge, Bashir caught his arm mid-swing. The man snarled, but Bashir forced his wrist to the side, disarming him with the same precise control.
He turned to the crowd, voice raised so they would listen. "Suno! Sab log peeche ho jao, bazaar khali karo! Jaldi!"
Men and women stumbled back, pulling children along.
Zain could feel Laiba's gaze on him even as she crouched behind the cart, her dupatta clutched tight around her. He didn't look back yet—he couldn't.
When the attackers were secured, his team moved in from either end of the lane, weapons hidden but ready if needed.
Zain finally exhaled and turned to where she stood, her breath still unsteady.
For a moment—only a moment—he allowed his eyes to meet hers again. As if a second longer would be dangerous. Neither of them spoke. There was no space for it. But something in that look said more than any words.
A witness to something terrifying. A silent gratitude. A mutual recognition of how fragile every breath really was.
Just as Zain felt the pressure in his chest begin to ease, the window of a jewellery shop shattered across the floor. A group of men—more than Zain's team—erupted into the location. Weapons only used for war in their arms, masked faces, built and purposeful, just like Zain and his men.
Zain's jaw clenched. He looked up sharply. His team was still securing the first two attackers, unaware this second wave had slipped past. The bazaar, already in chaos, became a swarm of confused, running bodies.
"Laiba, chalo!" Aiza was crying now, her hand shaking as she clutched Laiba's arm.
"Laiba! Bhaago!" Sana gasped, pointing behind her.
Zain's heart stilled when he saw one of the masked men break away from the group and rush toward the women, his arm swinging up—and in his fist, the unmistakable glint of a knife.
Zain didn't think. He didn't weigh strategy or caution. His body moved before his mind could.
He sprinted, closing the space in seconds. He heard someone scream—he thought it was Aiza—but everything sounded distant under the roar of blood in his ears.
As the man lunged, blade aimed for Laiba's shoulder, Zain's left arm came up in a single, decisive motion. He caught the attacker's wrist, forcing the blade away from her body. But the man was stronger than he looked, and he jerked violently sideways—just enough for the tip of the knife to rake across Zain's forearm.
A white-hot pain seared through his skin. He grunted, but his grip never loosened.
Laiba's eyes went wide. Her hand flew to her mouth, a soundless gasp.
Zain's voice came out rough but steady. "Hilna mat," he whispered to her, eyes locked on hers. Through his gaze—steady, unwavering—he gave her a trustable look, as if saying bharosa rakho, kuch nahi hoga.
He twisted the attacker's wrist hard until the blade clattered to the ground. The man tried to punch him with his free hand, but Zain's palm caught it mid-air. In the same movement, he pivoted behind the man's shoulder, locking both arms in a tight hold. The attacker struggled, but Zain forced him to his knees, breathing hard, blood already soaking the cuff of his sleeve.
Laiba couldn't look away.
Everything around them blurred into running footsteps, shouts, the crackle of radios. But in the center of the chaos was this one moment—a man standing between them and violence, without a word, without hesitation.
Zain finally looked up, meeting her eyes as he pressed the attacker's head forward, subduing him fully.
Their gaze locked—steady, wordless.
Her chest was heaving. Her hand clutched her dupatta tight to keep it from slipping. But her eyes were calm in a way he hadn't expected, even now.
Something unspoken passed between them. Gratitude. Respect. The knowledge that no matter how terrifying the world could be, there were still people willing to bleed so someone else didn't have to.
He held her stare for just a breath longer, then shifted his focus to Bashir, who was about to pull out his gun. "Bashir!" he roared, his bloody palm rising to stop him. He nodded his head in a no, intensity flashing in his eyes.
Laiba's cousins were crying softly now, half-shielded behind her, clutching each other.
She looked down at Zain's arm—at the thin line of red darkening the fabric—and her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something.
But the words didn't come.
Instead, she only inclined her head, a silent, grave acknowledgment of what he had done.
Zain exhaled slowly. He released the attacker to Bashir's hold and stepped back. His arm throbbed, but he barely felt it.
All he knew was the weight of that moment—her gaze, her quiet composure, and something inside him he didn't yet have the name for.
She wiped Aiza's tears away and hugged her, Sana beside her. "Thank you," Laiba said softly, her gorgeous eyes had now softened. Slight tears had formed in them, but she didn't let them escape.
His usual frown always turned into a softer expression whenever she was near him, but today, it expressed a slight smile—a comforting one, not worrying about the dripping blood on his shoulder.
Bashir, along with the rest of his team, rushed over to him. "Pagal hai tu, goli kyun nahi chalane di? Chal ab, isse clean karwana hoga," Bashir said, noticing his intense expression toward a girl but dragging him away anyway.
"Ghar chalte hain, Zeeshaan ko call karo," Laiba said, still comforting Aiza.
"Tum karlo, mera phone dead hai, aur waise bhi woh sirf tumhari aur mama ki call uthata hai," Sana said, showing her phone's black screen.
This claim caught Zain's attention. But he didn't look back. He didn't want to.
"Acha, koi bhi ghar main kuch nahi bolega, thodi der main dholki hone waali hai, sab pareshaan ho jayenge," Laiba told them, walking toward the exit—coincidentally closer to Zain's men, earning nods of quiet respect.
She glanced at Zain once again, his expression blank, his gaze lowered as if he didn't want to look back at her for an unfamiliar reason.
...and when she looked up after grabbing her phone from her bag, he had disappeared.
TO BE CONTINUED...