Veil

Umer’s eyes snapped open. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table and swore under his breath. Eleven minutes late. Again. He threw on his clothes and rushed to the front gate, but he was already too late. Just like every other morning, an envelope was tucked neatly inside the letterbox.

He knew he would never catch the person who left it.

He lived a solitary existence, deliberately indifferent to the world outside his door. No one visited, and he never left. Three years ago, he had moved into this house overnight, a ghost taking up residence. The paper inside the envelope had details written in different colored inks, a language only he understood. He hated this routine, this self-imposed prison, but most of all, he hated that he couldn't stop it.

Talha Javed was, by all accounts, a brilliant police officer. His name was etched in the department’s good books, his office lined with awards and honors. But lately, his focus had dulled, a fact not lost on his colleagues. Only those closest to him knew the reason: a three-year-old case that had burrowed into his soul like a parasite, a complicated and ugly case that refused to die.

It began in the second week of March. An anonymous call came into the Nazimabad police station, reporting a man with a gun moving suspiciously in the Sir Syed Urdu Bazaar. An officer and two juniors were dispatched. An hour and a half passed with no updates. When backup arrived, they found the bodies of the three officers lying just outside the main gate of Sir Syed College. Their bodies were posed, fingers brushing their foreheads in a ghastly, final salute.

The forensics report was a nightmare of contradictions. The officers had been beaten viciously, their bodies covered in marks from a rare, heavy tool. Yet, the cause of death was a fast-acting and even rarer poison. More baffling still, medical staff estimated the time of death coincided perfectly with the escape of three death-row inmates from Karachi Central Prison.

The news spread like a wildfire through every avenue in Karachi. The Commissioner called an urgent meeting, assembling the city's best officers. The three killings weren't just murders; they were a declaration of war. They feared a new kind of serial killer was on the loose, someone both psychological and ruthlessly intelligent. Two decisions were made: first, all future executions would be reinforced with heavy police presence. Second, the media was to be told nothing. This operation had to remain secret.

Talha Javed, the most capable officer in the Criminal Investigation Department, was put in charge of the investigation.

Three years ago, Umer had worked for a clandestine agency that used astronomical models to predict large-scale disasters for the government. His predictions were over ninety percent accurate, a unique ability that required access to highly sensitive information. It was a life of purpose, a life he missed dearly.

The killings escalated. The next day, a report came from Peshawar: five officers dead, murdered in the exact same way. Two more prisoners had escaped. The Sindh police issued a nationwide alert to all law enforcement agencies, stressing the importance of absolute secrecy.

Talha formed a secret investigation team of his most trusted officers. He assigned them tasks, demanding speed and discretion, while he pursued his own leads, feeding his assistants information and new orders only when necessary. He assigned his juniors to track suspicious phone calls, while he personally observed the hangings of death-sentenced prisoners.

A letter arrived for Umer. It was from Ali, an old colleague from the agency, his only friend. For three years, Ali had sent messages, begging him to return. 'Please help us, Umer! We haven't made a single correct prediction since you left. The government is furious, they're firing everyone. For God's sake, help us!' Umer read the letter with a familiar ache of regret.

He couldn't go back, even if he wanted to. He looked at his alarm clock, the one that always woke him up eleven minutes late. He had set it that way himself. He didn't want to catch Ali leaving the letters. He hated this veil of anonymity, this stranger he had become, but he had no choice.

The killings went on for a year and a half. Sometimes the method changed, sometimes the location. A minor convicted prisoner would escape, and another law enforcement employee would be found dead. Talha’s investigation seemed to go nowhere. He questioned jailors, executioners, and even fellow officers, but found no solid evidence.

The toll was staggering: 257 murders and 500 escaped prisoners. The police could no longer contain the story. The dam of secrecy broke, and a flood of public outrage followed. The families of the slain officers gave heartbreaking interviews to the media. Public faith in the police force evaporated, replaced by accusations of corruption and incompetence. Violent protests erupted. For a few days, Karachi became a battlefield.

Then came the shocking news. The DIG and Talha had been found in the DIG's home. A shattered vial of poison lay on the floor. It was reported as a double suicide attempt. The DIG was dead, but Talha was rushed to the hospital, fighting for his life. The incident changed the narrative. The public saw the immense pressure the police were under, and Talha became a tragic hero, a man who nearly gave his life in pursuit of the case.

Six months later, the police announced a breakthrough. They arrested a man named Ashal, from whom they recovered prison maps, inmate data, and a cache of weapons. The force celebrated the arrest, using it to rebuild its shattered reputation. The nation was told that Talha, recovering from his ordeal, had never given up and had finally solved the case. He was given the title "Pride of the Nation."

Only a handful of officers knew the truth; Ashal had escaped from a secure facility just two days after his arrest.

Umer stared at old photographs of his office, tears tracing paths down his cheeks. He remembered his life before, a life of brilliance and promise. He remembered his final year of college, when he’d built a working pistol from scavenged parts for an engineering competition. He remembered them calling his name and the look of pride on his father’s face as he accepted the trophy.

A message vibrated on the burner phone he kept hidden. ‘Ashal, we know where you are. Fulfill your father's wish. Tell us where he hid the weapons. Fulfill his destiny. Destroy Karachi!’

He ignored it. He pulled out his father’s diary, its pages filled with cryptic research. His father, Ahmed, had been a brilliant but controversial researcher, obsessed with concepts his peers called pseudoscience. Umer turned to a marked page, the title scrawled at the top: 'How to Enter A Dream and reverse Coma.'

He read the decrypted notes below: '1. Three candles melting in the wind's direction for two and a half minutes. 2. Three and a half Neem leaves in lukewarm blue water for three minutes. 3. Four thick almond branches, tangled to cage three live eagles. 4...'

Umer slammed the diary shut without reading the fourth point. He went to his room, turned off the lights, and pulled the mattress off his bed. He lifted a trapdoor and descended into the darkness of the basement below.

"Sir, we need to talk about the Ashal case," Inspector Hammad said, standing before the IG with his partner, Wasit. "We don't believe it was solved correctly."

"Are you questioning Commissioner Talha's performance?" the IG asked, his tone sharp.

"Not at all, sir. But we have some information you need to see. We just need forty-five minutes."

"I have a meeting," the IG dismissed them. "That case is closed. Prepare for the award ceremony."

Outside, Wasit paced. "I don't get it. How could Talha ignore so many obvious clues?"

"Leave it, man," Hammad said, pulling him away. "We'll corner him after the ceremony. He has to listen."

Across town, a nurse checked on Assistant Commissioner Abdullah. He had been a sharp, competent officer, one of the brightest young minds in the department before a tragic road accident put him in a coma six months ago. His absence at the upcoming ceremony would be felt by everyone.

The day of the ceremony arrived. As the Expo Center filled with dignitaries, Hammad and Wasit stood outside.

"Not a single man from Talha's original investigation team has been seen in two and a half years," Hammad said quietly. "Their families told me they vanished. Talha shows no interest in finding them."

"I found something too," Wasit replied. "Our intelligence informed Talha about the time and place of an upcoming murder six months into the investigation. The murder happened exactly as they predicted. After that, the killer's entire method changed."

"Someone tipped him off," Hammad breathed. "And I know something else. Talha claimed the killings were nationwide. It was a lie. Every single murder took place here, in Sindh, under his jurisdiction."

A phone buzzed. An officer ran up to Talha inside the hall. "Sir! We just got a call from the same number that reported the first Nazimabad incident. Same address, same complaint!"

Just then, Talha’s name was announced for the Medal of Courage. The IG saw the look on his face and gave a subtle nod. "Go."

Talha and two officials ran for his car. Hammad and Wasit saw them leave and, without a word, jumped into their own vehicle and followed.

"Look," Wasit said, pointing at a faded photo on the dashboard of Talha's car. "His parents. They were servants in the DIG's house. Talha told everyone they died in a car accident, but I never believed it. I doubt they had enough money to even own a car. I always suspected the DIG."

Hammad's mind raced. "Wait. If the DIG killed Talha's parents... and then the DIG 'committed suicide' with Talha... it wasn't a suicide!"

They looked at each other, the horrifying truth clicking into place. "It was a murder!" Wasit yelled, slamming his foot on the accelerator. "It was always Talha!"

Umer shed his three-year-old skin. He slung a heavy bag over his shoulder and slipped into a waiting rickshaw.

"Sakhi Hassan," he said. The rickshaw pulled into traffic.

The driver kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "I've seen you somewhere," the driver said, squinting. "Your face... it's familiar."

"Just a face," Umer replied, his voice flat.

"No, no... I don't remember where... somewhere in the newspaper, maybe? A long time ago."

The driver looked up, saw a massive billboard featuring a portrait of Talha with the words "Pride of the Nation," and then looked back, The seat was empty. His blood ran cold. "Ashal Ahmed!" he whispered in terror.

Ali watched in silence as the office furniture and computers were dragged out and dumped unceremoniously on the pavement. He sank onto the bench beneath the old tree where he and Umer had once spent countless evenings. The wind stirred, and an envelope fluttered down into his lap. He tore it open with trembling hands. Inside, in familiar handwriting, were the words: In the name of my only friend.

Ashal moved with cold precision. From his bag, he unspooled a thick, braided cable, laying it on the pavement in a wide circle around a humming cylinder. He stepped back, pulled a small remote from his pocket, and pressed the button.

There was no sound, no explosion. Only a silent, blinding pulse of invisible energy. An EMP. Traffic lights died. Car engines sputtered out. Every phone and computer in a two-kilometer radius went dead. At the city's technological heart, he had created a zone of utter chaos.

At the Expo Center, the screens went to static. The lights died, then roared back to life on emergency power. Then, one screen flickered on. It wasn't a tribute video. It was a grainy recording of a death-row inmate.

"Ashal Ahmed is innocent," the man said, his voice echoing through the stunned hall. "Talha Javed is the killer. He used us. He tortured and killed the DIG to avenge his parents, making it look like a suicide..."

The video switched to another prisoner, then another. The mask of heroism on Talha's face disintegrated.

"The EMP wasn't an attack," Hammad realized aloud. "It was a key! It disabled security so this video could get through!"

“What else did you learn?” Wasit asked roughly as they both raced behind Talha’s car.

“Every murder occurred in Karachi. Talha made it look nationwide.” Hammad yelled.

They reached the house. Talha hesitated but entered. Upon entering the house, they fell into the basement. In the dark, candles lit up. They saw wax from melting candles flowing, leaves in blue water splashing the whole basement, eagles screeching in tangled almond branches.

Talha picked up a note: Fourth… You have to die!

"The chain is rusted," said the soldier to the executioner in Karachi Jail. The silence in the execution room was killing. The only candle lit was about to dim, its wax pooling like blood beneath it. Even the walls seemed to hold their breath. The sword was brought.

On the screen, prisoners from a deserted cell block spoke one after another, “Ashal Ahmed is innocent. Talha killed the DIG, his parents’ murderer, and framed Ashal”, Another video began. ‘Talha’s father designed the map of Karachi prison but after the construction completed, DIG came to know about the secret path from which prisoners could escape, He killed his parents, Talha’s men made marks of the punches on the bodies, Ashal is innocent’.

Talha read the note, his breath hitching. On his very next step, he stumbled down into an underground chamber. As he vanished into the darkness, his voice echoed behind him.

Abdullah’s fingers moved. He picked up a pen.

The videos played at the ceremony. The entire police force sat frozen in their seats, stunned into silence, as if they had been summoned only for this moment.

The prisoner laid his head on the block. The sword rose. From a shadowed corner, blue drops dripped steadily. Suddenly, a loud crash shattered the silence, the old door to the execution room broke loose and slammed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of sand and dirt. Talha raced through it, uncontrollably, from that broken doorway, sand trailing behind him, just as the blade began to fall.

In that split second, the prisoner rolled himself away. The executioner, jolted, brought the sword down in a reflexive arc, deadly and unstoppable. But the block was empty.

Talha was left in its path. The steel met flesh. Silence followed. Talha collapsed, severed clean in half.

In a hospital across the city, Abdullah’s hand twitched. He reached for a pen and a pad. The nurse rushed in, he found him awake, his eyes clear. On the pad, a note was scrawled in a weak but steady hand.

"5/E, 15/17, Nazimabad No. 2.

This is the address where you will find the weapons my father stockpiled. He had militant plans for this city.

I have torn the veil from Talha’s face. But you must tread carefully. This veil must remain in place before the people of Karachi. To them, Talha is an idol, and the entire police force must continue living under this lie.

Ashal Ahmed"