Uzair’s jeep rolls into the godown, gravel crunching as the engine dies. The space tightens; a few men straighten. He steps out, adjusts his cuff, and scans once—quick, precise, controlled.

Hamza runs up, breath uneven. Uzair turns just enough to face him, gaze locking in. He takes a slow step forward, closing the distance without hurry.

“Kya hua… itni phati kyun padi hai teri?” “Seedha bol, kya scene hai?” “Bakwas mat ghuma… point pe aa.”

Uzair’s fingers tap once against Hamza’s shoulder—light, but firm—holding him there.

“Rehman ko pata hai ya nahi?” “Time waste mat kar… clear bol.”

He stills, eyes steady, waiting.

[Uzair’s Thoughts] He’s rattled. Whatever it is, it’s not small.