Chapter 5 – Azlan’s POV

(Ding… dong… ding… dong)

Ugh.

I wave my hand to the right, trying to find the alarm clock.

Thud.

There it goes—on the floor. Again.

I reach for my phone instead.

7:30 a.m.

My class starts at 8.

I sit up, adjust the blanket, and make the bed out of habit. Then I throw on a sweatshirt and head out. It’s late for a proper jog, but without it, my mornings feel incomplete. Mechanical. Stagnant.

Even peace has its routine.

---

Ahmed didn’t call to wake me today. He’s been slipping.

Then again… he did clock out at 6 a.m.

Spent the entire night helping me wrap up that intel case. He works harder than most field agents—and smarter than all of them.

This past week has been chaos. One mission after another. But if we’re lucky, this window of quiet might last two weeks.

I jog for fifteen minutes—nothing intense. Just enough to clear my head.

Back inside, I shower and get dressed. Five minutes. Efficient, as always. I’ve never understood how my sister can say “two minutes” and take two hours.

As I’m putting my watch on, I catch sight of something on the table.

A disposable plastic cup.

From that rest stop.

From that girl.

She had run off, clutching her drink and her brother’s wrist like a child afraid of being scolded.

And I—God knows why—picked up a second cup after she left.

Nostalgia, maybe. That juice was my favorite as a teenager.

I wasn’t supposed to even notice her. I was mid-operation, under strict surveillance protocol. But her voice—sharp, accusing—cut through the background noise like a blade.

That vendor’s argument with her should’ve annoyed me. Instead, I walked over. Curious.

I never get curious. Especially not about people.

But something about her… something pulled me in.

When I approached and asked what was going on, she turned to me with cat-like alertness. Her gaze was direct—defiant. She didn’t flinch, didn’t lower her eyes.

She scanned me like she was reading a book. Page by page.

Small frame. Frail build. Soft features. But her tone? Fierce. Sharp. Unafraid.

It was amusing.

Most girls, when I intervene, thank me like I handed them a crown.

She?

“You weren’t going to lower the price unless this Mr. Kora Billa showed up?!”

That caught me off guard.

Not offended—just… surprised.

“Kora Billa”

A street term I hadn’t heard since childhood. Meant for people with unusual eyes.

No hesitation. No filter.

Just irritation and honesty.

Refreshing, in a way.

Then her brother—cousin, maybe—called her name.

Miraal.

She bolted like a startled kitten. And just like that, she was gone.

I expected nothing. Maybe a thank you. Maybe curiosity.

But what I felt was instead…

Emptiness.

Why?

Maybe I wanted her to ask for my name. Or my number. Maybe, for once, I wouldn’t have turned someone down.

Not because of her face, or her voice, or the way her hair fell across her cheek when she ran.

But because she felt... different.

---

After that, I met with Ahmed. I told myself I was just curious. So I asked him to find out who she was. I had memorized the plate number of the navy SUV she climbed into.

He ran a check.

Miraal Batool.

Eighteen. Transferring from Islamabad.

To my college.

Coincidence?

Maybe.

Or maybe... destiny has a better memory than I do.

Enough thinking. More doing.

I get dressed in five minutes, grab my keys, wallet, phone, and a few files. Lock the house. Slide into the driver’s seat.

It’s early. The streets are quiet.

I live alone—not because I hate being around my parents, but because I can’t afford anyone near this double life. By day, I’m a professor. By night… I lead one of the most covert intelligence units in Pakistan.

Only one person knows both sides of me: Ahmed.

If anyone else ever finds out… they don’t get to keep their freedom. Or, in most cases, their pulse.

There are three options:

Eliminate them.

Arrest them.

Or—rarely—convert them into an ally.

Ahmed was one of those rare cases.

We were eighteen. Friends—but not close. I don’t believe in “best friends.” I never have. Trust was hard then. It’s worse now.

He found out something he shouldn’t have. And I should have reported him. I didn’t.

Why? I still don’t know.

Maybe I saw something in him. Steady hands. Quiet mind. No fear in his eyes. I asked if he understood what it meant—this life. Silence. Secrecy. Danger. The inability to tell anyone—not even his own blood.

He said: “I don’t have anyone left to tell.”

His entire family died in a plane crash.

I remember standing there, listening.

And for the first time in years, I felt something shift. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who's loved ones have died.

But I was the only one who had to watch them die.

___

I step out of the car, grabbing my keys, files, and locking the door behind me.

The campus is already alive—students everywhere, the morning air buzzing with low chatter and stress.

As I walk down the hallway, a girl darts past in a rush.

There’s something about her…

Even from a distance—her frame, the way she moves—it strikes me.

Familiar.

Of course she’s running. It’s 8:05 a.m. Class starts at 8.

Well so am i.

She looks confused, unsure of her destination.

Transfer student?

Wait.

Transfer student.

I step closer, narrowing my gaze.

It’s her.

The girl from the service stop.

The one who called me Kora Billa—and for some reason, I didn’t mind it.

I press the comm in my ear.

“Ahmed.”

“Yeah?”

“Guide her to class. She’s the transfer.”

Ahmed’s voice crackles in my ear. I can hear everything—even his nerves.

“Yeah a teacher saw you running and asked me to guide you… that you were the new transfer student…”

“A teacher predicted I was the transfer student? Just from running?”

“Well, when a transfer student’s name is on file… and she runs in like that…”

“Relax, man. I’m not an FBI agent interrogating you.”

I sigh softly.

Ahmed. What am I going to do with you?

“Did she understand the directions?” I ask.

“Yes, sir.”

Good.

Time to head in myself.

I’m late, thanks to the principal—who just reminded me that even professors aren’t above punctuality.

---

In the next chapter:

I step onto the dais.

The room quiets.

I scan the corners of the classroom slowly, carefully.

Trying to find something.

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