In the upper floors of a glass skyscraper in Karachi's Clifton district, a single light glowed long past midnight.
Inside, a man in a charcoal suit stood before a massive digital screen filled with surveillance feeds — street cameras, satellite images, and scrolling data logs.
His face remained half in shadow, but his presence filled the room. Everyone called him Mr. Z. No one knew his real name.
He watched one screen closely — it showed live drone footage of Jamshed's neighborhood.
The corner of his lip twitched as he saw Jamshed step outside, gun still in hand, searching the dark alley.
"So the old lion still roars," Mr. Z murmured, his voice smooth but cold.
"He was supposed to die tonight."
A young operative beside him hesitated. "Sir, the shooter reported interference. The packet's data was partially destroyed but—"
Mr. Z cut him off with a calm gesture. "Partially isn't enough. If even one line of that file survives, everything we've built collapses."
He turned away from the screens and walked toward a metal briefcase on his desk. Inside were dozens of fake passports, a silenced pistol, and a tablet displaying a list of targets — the last name glowed red: Inspector Jamshed.
"Erase the inspector. And his children. Permanently," Mr. Z ordered.
"Make it look like an accident. No loose ends."
---
Meanwhile – Jamshed's House
Jamshed sat at the dining table, the burned remains of the chip laid out on white paper.
Mehmooda was tracing patterns on the charred surface. "Abba, look — the chip's outer layer melted, but part of the data core might still be readable."
Farooq added, "If I rebuild the circuit, we can recover fragments. But we'll need equipment from the university lab."
Jamshed nodded. "Do it quietly. No calls, no emails. Assume we're being watched."
He walked to the window. A black SUV was parked across the street, headlights off.
It hadn't moved in an hour.
"They're already watching," he said quietly.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed — a blocked number.
He answered.
A distorted voice spoke:
"Inspector Jamshed… you've opened a door you should've left closed."
Jamshed's grip tightened. "Who is this?"
"You can call me Mr. Z. The packet wasn't yours to open. Walk away — or I'll close it… on your family."
The line went dead.
For a long moment, Jamshed just stood there, his reflection staring back from the window — rain trickling down the glass like sweat.
Then he turned to his kids.
"We're not walking away. We're going to end this — whoever Mr. Z is."
Farooq's eyes burned with determination. "Then let's hit back."
Jamshed nodded slowly. "First, we find out what Operation Black Pulse really was — and why people are dying to hide it."
---
Cut to:
A dark, high-security data center on the outskirts of the city.
A guard walks his patrol route — until he stops at a flickering light. The camera pans to a shadowy figure standing behind him.
The guard's radio crackles.
Then — silence.
A few seconds later, the security feed goes dark.
On one surviving monitor, a single message appears in red:
"Phase Two Activated."