> The city glittered below like broken glass when Rafeel stepped out onto the balcony. Smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers, the night wind lifting the sound of sirens and faraway laughter. > > “She’s here,” his men had told him. > > He hadn’t believed them at first. Twelve years was a long time to chase a ghost. But the name on the report—Aira Malik—stabbed through memory like a blade. The boy in him had wanted to feel joy. The man he’d become only felt hunger. > > He flicked the cigarette over the rail, watching the spark fall until it died in the dark. > > Below, headlights smeared gold across wet pavement. Somewhere in that maze of streets, she was breathing the same air, living as if the past had stayed buried. > > Rafeel smiled faintly. > > No one ever really escaped the Arman family. > > Inside, the monitor on his desk glowed—the first security footage from his building’s lobby. A young woman stepped through the glass doors, clutching a blue folder to her chest. Her hair was shorter now, her eyes darker, older. But he would have known that face in a crowd of a million. > > “Find out everything,” he said into the intercom. “Where she’s been. Who she loves. What she fears.” > > The screen froze on her image. > > “You forgot me, Aira,” he whispered. “But that’s all right. I remember enough for both of us.” **