Ishq Mubarak

•6• Raziaat

" Bahar aa ja bacche"

Amir was startled by the words his boss spoke. He tried to make sense of them, but his mind was clouded with confusion. Was there really someone else? He looked around the room to see if he could spot anyone unusual, but there was no one.

Meanwhile, Abbas was frozen in his seat, his mind consumed with fear and uncertainty. He couldn't help but think about his mother, who was lying in a hospital bed, unable to fend for herself. What would happen to her if something were to happen to him?

Abbas couldn't think of anything other than feeling scared. He pondered the uncertain future ahead. Slowly, he lowered his gaze and rose from the table

Tears formed in his eyes. With his young eyes, he glanced upward at the figure standing to his right.

Amir Khan.

In the dimly lit room, the air hung heavy with tension as Abbas cautiously stepped outside. The sight that greeted him was both intimidating and enigmatic. The figures before him seemed to possess an otherworldly aura, casting shadows that danced in the flickering light.

Amir Khan, a man whose presence commanded attention. His stature exuded authority, and his eyes, though stern, revealed a depth of experience and a hint of weariness. A carefully groomed beard framed a face marked by the scars of a tumultuous past, each line telling a story etched in the canvas of his skin.

Amir's attire, a blend of traditional and contemporary. The rich fabric of his kurta contrasted with the starkness of his gaze. His hands, bearing the callouses of countless battles, remained folded as he observed the unfolding scene.

Yet, beneath the veneer of stoicism, there was a flicker of something else - a trace of humanity, perhaps, or a fleeting glimpse of the person behind the formidable reputation. It was a nuance that added complexity to the enigma that was Amir Khan.

Amir was surprised to see a small figure getting out of the table.

Amir's eyes bore questions as he addressed Abbas,

"Bacche, yaha kya kar rahe ho tum?"
[" Child, what are u doing here?"]

Before Abbas could formulate a response,
the figure standing near the window executed a deliberate act, crushing his cigarette. The sharp, echoing noise reverberated through the room, an audible punctuation that heralded a shift in the atmosphere.

Abbas turned his gaze toward the figure near the window,

Arsalan khan,

As Arsalan turned slightly, the play of shadows revealed a glimpse of his profile-a chiseled jawline, a nose that bore the imprint of countless untold stories, and the subtle arch of an eyebrow that spoke of a mind sharp as a blade.

The figure's hands, visible now, bore the weathered testament of a life led on the precipice. Scars, etched into the canvas of his skin, told tales of battles fought in the shadows, battles that forged a man capable of orchestrating both fear and respect.

The crushing of the cigarette, a seemingly mundane act, resonated with a weight that lingered in the room. Every gesture, every nuance in Arsalan's demeanor, was pregnant with unspoken authority. His presence was a tapestry woven with threads of mystery, leaving onlookers entranced and apprehensive.

Arsalan's countenance, as observed by Abbas, bore the marks of a life lived on the precipice. His face, partially veiled in shadows, held a rugged handsomeness-a testament to the trials and tribulations etched into every line and contour. Deep-set eyes, reminiscent of midnight, harbored a mysterious intensity that hinted at a wealth of experiences.