The room sat in a low, heavy silence.

A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, its soft clicking the only thing breaking the stillness. The air smelled faintly of tobacco and paper—old conversations, old decisions, all soaked into the walls.

At the center of it all sat Rehman Dakait.

Still. Grounded. Untouchable.

Uzair leaned against the wall a few feet away, one shoulder pressed back, arms loose at his sides. He looked relaxed—almost bored—but his eyes moved constantly, taking in everything without making it obvious.

The ash in the tray. The unopened file. The man near the door shifting his weight just slightly.

Nothing escaped him.

Rehman turned a page slowly, the sound cutting clean through the quiet.

Then—

“I have a job for you.”

Uzair’s gaze lifted, subtle, immediate.

Rehman didn’t look up right away.

“Chakraborty Manor.”

That got a reaction—not visible to most, but it was there. A slight shift in Uzair’s stance as he pushed off the wall, standing properly now.

“The lawyer,” Uzair said, tone even. “Your man.”

Rehman nodded once.

“He’s holding something for us. A binder. Thick. Everything’s in it—names, accounts… details.”

His fingers tapped the file in front of him, once.

“I want it here.”

Uzair tilted his head slightly, processing—not the task, but the weight behind it.

Important enough to send him personally.

“Just pick it up?” he asked, voice casual, but deliberate. “Ya kuch aur?”

Rehman finally looked at him.

“Just take it.”

A pause.

“Clean. No noise.”

Uzair huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something close to a smirk flickering for a second.

“Yeah. Simple enough.”

Rehman slid a small slip of paper across the table. It stopped just at the edge.

Uzair stepped forward, picked it up, eyes scanning it once.

Chakraborty Manor.

The name sat there for a second.

He knew of it.

Big house. Old structure. The kind of place that looked peaceful—but never really was.

He folded the paper once and slipped it into his pocket.

“Anyone else coming?” he asked.

Rehman leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“No need.”

Another pause.

Then—

“Handle it properly, Uzair.”

Not concern.

Expectation.

Uzair gave a small nod.

“Always do.”

He turned, walking toward the door without another word. The man stationed there stepped aside immediately.

Outside, the air felt lighter.

Uzair ran a hand through his hair, exhaling before swinging onto his bike. The engine roared to life beneath him, steady, familiar.

As he pulled onto the road, the city opened up—lights flickering, distant voices blending into one continuous hum.

Chakraborty Manor.

A lawyer’s house.

A simple pickup.

Uzair’s grip on the handle tightened just slightly as he leaned into a turn, expression settling into something quieter… sharper.

Nothing in this line of work was ever just “simple.” [Uzair’s Thoughts] “Simple kaam,” he says. Haan, theek hai. Big house, important file… aur bilkul koi complication nahi hoga, obviously. Dekhte hain… kya milta hai wahan.

And if Rehman sent him personally—

→ there was more to it.

There always was. “Simple kaam,” my ass. Big house, important file… aur obviously sab seedha hoga. Haan, bilkul. Dekhte hain… kya mess hai wahan.