Rain swept across Karachi's midnight skyline, turning the streets into mirrors of neon and fog.
In the distance, a police siren wailed — faint, like a warning from a city that never slept.
Inspector Jamshed Khan stood by his office window, the faint glow of his desk lamp cutting across his tired face. The rain didn't bother him — it helped him think. On his desk lay a file marked "CLASSIFIED – INTERNAL AFFAIRS".
It had arrived an hour ago.
No sender. No return address.
Just a single USB drive taped to the cover… shaped like a silver arrowhead.
Jamshed plugged it into his laptop. A black screen appeared — no data, no folders, only a single looping video clip.
It showed a man in a mask, standing beside a flag half-burnt to ash.
A distorted voice spoke:
> "Every arrow has a target, Inspector. You've forgotten where yours began."
Then — static.
And a GPS coordinate flashed briefly before the screen went dark.
24.8239° N, 67.0336° E — near the old Karachi dockyards.
He leaned back, jaw tightening.
It had been ten years since anyone taunted him with something this personal.
---
At Home — The Calm Before the Storm
Back home, Halima was waiting with tea — as always, calm but watchful.
"Work again?" she asked, softly.
"Something strange came in," he replied, loosening his tie. "Feels like the start of something old… and unfinished."
Mehmood, sitting quietly at the dining table, looked up from his laptop.
"You'll need help, Abbu. If someone's reaching out with coordinates, it's a trap or a message."
Farooq grinned, leaning against the counter.
"Or both. I can trace the GPS, get a satellite overlay. Might tell us who's watching you."
Farzana, from the sofa, added in her soft tone, "Sometimes people send warnings before the storm comes. Not threats."
Jamshed smiled faintly. "Then let's hope this one's a warning."
---
Chapter End: The Arrow Begins Its Flight
By dawn, Jamshed and Sub-Inspector Ahmed were driving toward the coordinates, the rain easing to a mist.
At the docks, they found a rusted container. The door was half-open, creaking in the wind.
Inside — a chair.
A single photo pinned to it.
And next to it, a real arrow, embedded in the wall.
Ahmed whispered, "Sir… that's your picture."
Jamshed stepped closer. The photo showed him — younger, in uniform — standing with Professor Dawood and Major Rehman, years ago during an operation long buried in classified files.
Below it, in blood-red ink, someone had written:
"What you buried will return. Arrow of Conspiracy begins."
The rain began again, heavier this time.
And Jamshed knew — the past he thought dead had just drawn its first breath.