The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the city had started to stir — restless vendors setting up carts, muezzin voices weaving into the air, and Lahore’s usual morning chaos trying to reclaim its territory.
But Alishba wasn’t in the city anymore.
She stood outside a crumbling mansion near the Ravi River, in a place even Google Maps refused to label properly. Locals called it "Andhera Bungalow." The house had once belonged to a collector — someone obsessed with war, history, and power. Now it stood abandoned, fenced by wild bougainvillea and guarded by silence.
Alishba had been here once before.
Years ago.
With Daniyal.
Back then, it had been locked.
Today, the door creaked open with a single push.
She stepped inside.
Dust rose like ghosts. Sunlight filtered through broken stained glass, painting the hallway in deep reds and greens. Shelves were toppled, walls cracked. But nothing was touched by time quite like the portraits hanging across the main room — framed faces, cold eyes.
Men in uniforms.
Some laughing.
Some… dead.
And then she saw it.
On the far wall — tucked into the back row of dusty portraits — was a photograph that shouldn’t have been there.
A black-and-white shot.
A boy, perhaps eighteen, wearing a pilot uniform too crisp to be real.
Daniyal?
No.
Her heart skipped.
It wasn’t her brother.
It was Reyan.
The photo was real. Authentic. She could tell by the paper texture, the exposure, the angle. It was taken years ago — long before he met her. Yet he never spoke of being in official military circles. Never mentioned his rank. Never showed medals.
And yet here he was — framed on a wall with traitors and warlords.
Her hands trembled slightly. She took a shot of the frame and pulled the photo out. Behind it, a scribbled note in Urdu:
"Only the loyal get to fly.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYzJhTry9r0
The free ones are shot first."
A sudden rustle in the hallway.
Alishba turned sharply, camera swinging against her chest.
“Who’s there?”
No reply.
She moved carefully, past the fallen chandelier, through the arch that led to the old kitchen.
Then she saw him.
A man.
Middle-aged. Scar over his temple. Wearing an old police inspector’s coat, even though the badge was missing.
“I was told you’d come,” he said.
Alishba raised her camera like a weapon. “By who?”
He smiled, sad and slow. “The boy who never stopped looking for you.”
She froze. “Daniyal?”
“I worked with him. Years ago. He was investigating the Ghost Flight case. Your brother dug too deep. Reyan flew the last known bird out of Base-17. The logs disappeared. So did the passengers. Daniyal found out… and then vanished.”
Alishba’s mouth went dry. “And you? What happened to you?”
“They took my badge. Burned my files. Left me with a bullet in the knee. But I survived.”
He pulled something from his coat — a dog tag.
Scratched and faded.
Daniyal’s.
“I kept this. In case one day… his sister came back.”
Alishba reached for it, her fingers barely grazing the cold metal when the window shattered.
Gunfire.
She dropped to the floor, the man grabbing her wrist and pulling her behind the stone counter.
More shots. Silent. Professional.
Alishba ducked and rolled behind a broken pillar, her breath ragged.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDkRDxHtLxH
“Who are they?”
“Not who — what. Black birds,” he muttered. “People who erase problems. Reyan would know them well. He used to fly for them.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Used to?”
The man didn’t answer. Because a bullet found his chest.
He slumped forward, blood soaking through the old coat, lips still forming the word:16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiRRXgbrRkB
“Run.”
Alishba didn’t scream.
She ran.
Through the back passage, through thorned vines and broken bricks, camera clutched tight, Daniyal’s dog tag in her hand.
Behind her, the house crackled with fire.
By the time she made it to the nearby truck station, she was covered in cuts, soaked in sweat, and burning with rage.
She’d seen enough.
By the time Reyan returned to his private safehouse in Model Town, he already knew she was gone again.
He stepped inside the dim room, clicked the switch on the wall. The lights flickered to life, revealing a familiar silhouette on the couch.
Not Alishba.
A woman.
Sharp-cheeked. Hair tied in a braid like a whip.
“Hello, Reyan,” she said.
He stiffened. “Zahra.”
“You still fly like a ghost?” she asked, lazily cleaning her pistol. “Or are you grounded now that she’s back?”
Reyan ignored her. Poured himself water. “Why are you here?”
“Because the girl just poked a hole in a wall we spent ten years building.” Zahra leaned forward. “Your little photographer knows too much. She needs to be silenced.”
Reyan placed the glass down. Carefully.
“You touch her, and you won’t leave this room breathing.”
Zahra smiled. “Still possessive, I see.”
“She’s not just a girl with a camera.”
“No,” Zahra said, eyes narrowing. “She’s a fire waiting to burn down your wings. And mine.”
She tossed something on the table. A USB.
“From the airstrip. Your voice is in the background of her photos. The others want her eliminated.”
Reyan didn’t respond.
Zahra stood, pulled her braid over her shoulder.
“Decide quickly, Reyan. You either fly for them… or fall with her.”
She walked out, boots clicking softly on the floor.
Reyan stared at the USB. Then at the window.
Somewhere, out there, Alishba was holding onto a ghost’s memory and chasing a war she didn’t even understand yet.
But he did.
He understood it far too well.
Because once — long ago — he’d been the one sent to erase her brother.
ns216.73.216.224da2
然後按「加至主畫面」