The evenings in Lahore were always deceptive.
From a distance, the city looked golden — lights blinking alive one by one, the Canal Road shimmering beneath streetlamps, tea stalls steaming under sodium glow.
It felt peaceful. Domestic. Safe.
Inside Anaya's home, it was peaceful.
The dining table was already set. Steel cutlery reflected the warm overhead light. A pot of chicken pulao rested in the center, steam rising gently.
There was daal simmering, thinly sliced cucumbers arranged in a perfect circle on a plate — Anaya's mother always did that — and fresh rotis wrapped carefully in a white cloth.
Her father adjusted his glasses while reading the newspaper for the third time, though he wasn't actually reading anymore.
Headlines about the recent murders covered half the front page.
Anaya watched him from the kitchen doorway.
"Abu," she said gently, "you'll wrinkle the paper if you keep folding it like that."
He gave a tired smile. "Maybe I'm trying to wrinkle the news instead."
Her mother sighed. "Bas karo, both of you. Don't bring that into dinner."
Her father adjusted his glasses and glanced at the clock.
"She'll be here," Anaya said from the kitchen doorway.
"Sara never forgets."
As if on cue, there were two firm knocks on the door.
Not a bell.
Never a bell.
Anaya opened it.
Sara stood outside — dressed in a deep maroon kurta, hair tied in a low bun, posture straight as always. There was something about her that always felt older than her age. Controlled. Structured. As if life had carved sharp edges into her early.
"You're late," Anaya said lightly.
"You're dramatic," Sara replied, stepping inside. "I finished a surgery late."
Her voice carried that clinical steadiness — not cold, but precise.
Anaya's mother immediately
appeared. "Sara beta, come in, come in. You look tired."
"I'm fine, Aunty."
But she wasn't.
Her shoulders were slightly tense.
Anaya noticed.
She always noticed.
Sara gave Anaya a small nod. "You look tired."
"I have an 8 a.m. lab tomorrow," Anaya replied lightly. "You look like you've been cutting people."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "Skin grafting, not murder."
They both smiled.
The irony lingered invisibly.
They settled around the table.
Sara, the orphaned neighbor who had grown up practically inside their home, was treated less like a guest and more like an elder daughter. Anaya's mother served her first, insisting as always.
"Eat properly," she said. "You're too thin."
"I work with skin, Aunty," Sara replied calmly. "Not bones."
Her father chuckled.
For a few minutes, the house felt normal.
Until the news channel running in the background shifted tone.
A red banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
BREAKING: POLICE INVESTIGATE POSSIBLE MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL IN SERIAL MURDERS
The room quieted.
Anaya's father lowered his spoon.
"They're saying now…" he began carefully, glancing at Sara, "…that the killer might be a doctor. Or someone medically trained."
Sara didn't flinch.
She finished chewing before responding.
"That's speculation."
"They said the incisions were precise," he continued. "Too clean. Too confident."
Sara wiped her hands with a napkin.
"Precision isn't exclusive to doctors," she said evenly. "Anyone trained in anatomy can cut cleanly."
Anaya tilted her head slightly. "But surgical skill takes years."
Sara looked at her.
"So does obsession."
The word hung in the air longer than expected.
Anaya's mother quickly intervened. "Bas, enough of this at dinner. Allah khair kare."
They returned to eating.
But the warmth had thinned.
The knock of normalcy ended with a vibration.
Sara's phone buzzed again just as Anaya's mother began serving kheer.
The sound was soft.
But in a quiet room, it felt loud.
Sara glanced at the screen this time instead of ignoring it.
Her expression didn't change.
But her eyes sharpened.
Hospital Residents Group – 12 new messages.
She didn't open the chat fully. The preview was enough.
"Another body near Canal Road. Police presence heavy. Possibly the same case."
Anaya noticed the micro-shift in her posture.
"What happened?" she asked gently.
"Probably nothing confirmed," Sara replied, placing the phone face down. "News travels faster than facts."
Her father frowned. "Canal Road? That's near the university, isn't it?"
Anaya's hand paused mid-air.
Punjab University New Campus.
Near the canal.
Close.
Too close.
Sara stood up slowly. "I should head home. If this becomes a hospital consult case, they might call for surgical opinion."
"You're not forensic," her father said quickly.
"No," she replied calmly. "But when police suspect a doctor, they consult specialists."
The sentence landed heavier than she intended.
Anaya walked her to the door.
The hallway light flickered faintly.
"Do you think it's really a doctor?" Anaya asked.
Sara adjusted her shawl while softly tucking her some random hair strands behind her air and softly peeking her cheek.
"I think," she said carefully, "that people like easy explanations."
Her gaze lingered on Anaya's face for a second longer than usual.
Then she left.
Meanwhile — Canal Road
The night air near Punjab University's New Campus was colder than usual.
The Canal stretched beside the road, reflecting moonlight like broken glass. Police barricades had been set up quickly. Yellow tape fluttered under the wind.
Students gathered in clusters behind the barricades, murmuring, recording, whispering theories that would mutate by morning.
Deputy Superintendent Zarar stepped out of his vehicle slowly.
He didn't rush.
He never rushed.
His coat moved slightly with the breeze. His expression remained unreadable.
"Location?" he asked calmly.
Officer Tariq hurried toward him, mustache shifting as he spoke.
"Behind an abandoned snack vendor shed near the Commerce Department boundary wall, sir. Students found the generator running."
"Generator?" Zarar's gaze sharpened.
"Yes, sir."
"Generator found running behind abandoned snack vendor shed. Students thought someone left equipment behind. One of them opened the freezer lid before realizing."
Zarar's expression hardened slightly.
"Seal the immediate perimeter."
"Yes, sir."
They walked toward the shed.
A portable freezer stood plugged into a small generator, humming faintly.
Zarar crouched beside it.
The generator hummed softly beside a chest freezer — old but functional. Extension wires ran to a temporary power source.
Planned.
Not improvised.
Zarar approached slowly.
"Open it."
The forensic technician lifted the lid.
Cold vapor spilled outward, rolling across the ground like low fog.
Inside lay a young woman.
Her body positioned carefully.
Arms aligned. Legs straight. Hands resting on her abdomen.
No distortion.
No haphazard dumping.
Arranged.
Zarar stepped closer.
He did not touch.
He observed.
The scalp was completely shaved.
Smooth.
Even.
No uneven patches. No hurried cuts.
The hair had not been torn or roughly removed.
"Time of discovery?"
"Approximately 8:40 p.m., sir."
He nodded.
It had been methodically taken.
"Bag and photograph before anything else," he instructed.
The forensic team began documenting angles, lighting reflections, the freezer interior, the generator wiring.
Zarar leaned slightly forward and inhaled.
Cherry blossom.
Faint, but present.
Not from the surrounding trees.
Placed.
He turned to Tariq.
"Do you smell that?"
Tariq hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. Sweet."
"Collect air samples from inside the freezer. Swab interior surfaces."
"Yes, sir."
Zarar's gaze shifted to the girl's scalp again.
"Identity?"
"Preliminary ID from students. Commerce Department. Known on campus."
"Known for what?"
Tariq glanced at his notes. "Unusual hair, sir. Natural silver-blonde. Genetic trait. She stood out."
Zarar looked down at the shaved scalp.
So that was the feature.
Removed.
No loose strands inside the freezer.
No clumps.
Which meant:
It had been shaved somewhere controlled.
Cleaned.
Then the body placed here.
He scanned the visible skin.
No obvious defensive wounds.
Minimal bruising.
No visible binding marks on wrists or ankles.
Likely sedated.
But that would need toxicology.
"Cause and time of death?" he asked.
The forensic officer shook his head.
"Too early to determine on-site, sir. We'll need a full autopsy. There appears to be a deep incision similar to the Liberty Market case and also this body almost looks a week or days old , but we can't confirm anything until examination."
Zarar nodded once.
He expected that answer.
Field assessments were limited.
Time of death, exact cause, internal hemorrhaging — those required controlled environment and lab analysis.
He stood and looked around the area.
The freezer was not hidden well.
Which meant the killer wanted it found.
But not immediately.
The generator had enough fuel to run several hours.
This was staged timing.
Carefully calculated discovery.
He crouched near the base of the freezer and examined the ground.
No obvious drag marks.
Likely transported by vehicle.
"Check CCTV from Canal Road entrances," he said. "A week , a month if possible. Especially vehicles parked briefly."
"Yes, sir."
"Expand missing persons with unusual physical traits."
Tariq blinked again. "Unusual, sir?"
"Distinctive features," Zarar clarified. "Anything rare. Not random."
Tariq nodded slowly.
The pattern was forming.
But not fully visible yet.
the body was carefully lifted from the freezer and placed into a sealed bag, Zarar stepped aside.
He replayed both crime scenes in his head.
Liberty Market victim — distinctive eyes.
This victim — rare natural hair.
Both removed.
Both arranged.
Both deliberate.
This was not impulsive violence.
This was a selection.
He glanced at the freezer one last time before it was loaded into the van.
Cherry blossom again.
A signature.
But soft.
Almost delicate.
That disturbed him more than blood would have.
11:07 p.m. — Back at the Street Near the Canal
Anaya stood by her window in darkness.
The flashing lights near Canal Road flickered faintly in the distance.
Her phone screen illuminated her face.
News alerts.
Speculation.
Fear spreading across student groups.
She inhaled slowly.
Sweet smell.
Soft.
Comforting.
She looked at the lights ahead of her briefly.
Then looked away.
Across the street, Sara's porch light flicked on as she returned home.
Anaya watched her unlock the gate.
For a moment, their eyes almost met across the distance.
Almost.
𝙀𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙮 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 __ 𝙋𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙦𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨
By 3:15 a.m., Zarar sat in his office reviewing preliminary field notes.
The autopsy team had not completed the full examination yet.
Time of death could not be confirmed at the scene — refrigeration
complicates estimation.
Freezing preserves tissue. Alters decomposition markers. Distorts lividity patterns.
Any accurate timeline would require internal organ examination and temperature differential analysis.
He leaned back in his chair.
If the body had been frozen for days, the actual death might have occurred earlier than the initial visual assessment suggested.
Which meant—
The killer was operating parallel to the first case.
Not reacting.
Planning.
At 4:02 a.m., his desk phone rang.
Autopsy preliminary update.
He listened without interrupting.
"Yes."
"Understood."
"Send a full report when finalized."
He hung up.
Then stared at the wall for several seconds.
Preliminary forensic findings indicated:
The victim had likely died approximately five days prior to discovery.
Exact time pending toxicology and internal examination.
Cause of death consistent with controlled incision and
exsanguination — similar pattern to the Liberty Market victim.
Sedative traces suspected but not yet confirmed.
Five days.
Before the first body had even made headlines.
This wasn't escalation.
It was a system already in motion.
Zarar closed the file slowly.
Two victims.
Distinctive traits removed.
Cherry blossom scent.
Calculated storage.
Academic proximity.
He didn't yet know that somewhere within walking distance of that canal, someone had already moved on from grief to planning again.
Lahore slept uneasily.
But the pattern was no longer accidental.
It was deliberate.
And it was ahead of them.