The city of Istanbul awakened with a bruised hush the morning after the masquerade. Sunlight, dimmed by thick grey clouds, draped itself over the rooftops like a mourning shroud. The cobblestone streets, glistening from the early drizzle, echoed with the occasional squawk of seagulls and the murmur of vendors opening their stalls. The scent of fresh simit bread and roasting chestnuts drifted up through the air, warm and nostalgic, but the apartment felt cold.
Imani sat curled by the window in their cozy rental loft, her green satin robe wrapped tightly around her like armor. Her fingers, pale and trembling, clutched a steaming cup of Turkish coffee—black and bitter, untouched. Her almond eyes stared distantly through the glass, brows slightly furrowed, lips pursed into a line of silent grief. The weight of Nailah's death had settled inside her chest like a boulder. She didn't cry. Her body simply refused to expend more energy.
Omar, dressed in a charcoal hoodie and navy joggers, paced the room like a storm cloud trapped indoors. His usually calm face was now taut with unease, his eyes narrowed in focus as they darted between his buzzing phone and a manila folder filled with surveillance printouts. He occasionally raked his hand through his messy curls, muttering under his breath in Arabic.
"The security footage is clean—too clean," he finally said, pausing mid-stride. "No sign of whoever tampered with her drink. It's like someone wiped the system while it was running. Military-grade stuff."
Zara sauntered in, her hair tied in a hasty bun with flyaways framing her weary face. Dressed in an oversized black hoodie with 'Istanbul' stitched in gold and a pair of grey leggings, she looked like she hadn't slept. Her dark under-eye circles were smudged with old mascara, but her posture held an unshakable confidence.
"I know who did it," she declared, biting into a flaky almond croissant she had picked up from a café downstairs.
Imani and Omar snapped their attention toward her.
Zara leaned against the countertop, licking powdered sugar from her thumb.
"I heard them arguing on the terrace—two men," she said between chews. "One of them said, 'the girl in red is getting too talkative.' The other replied, 'Let it look like Kora's retaliation.'"
"Did you get names?" Omar asked, setting down his folder.
Zara shook her head, brushing crumbs off her hoodie. "No names. But one of them dropped this." She fished into her pocket and pulled out a small lapel pin, gold and navy, shaped like a hawk clutching a sword.
Imani's eyes widened. "That's the insignia of the D'Saif Group."
"Exactly," Zara replied. "And someone wants it to look like Kora killed her."
Imani slowly stood from her chair, her robe swishing as she moved toward Zara. "We need to talk to the killer. If Nailah was silenced, she knew something. Something they were scared would come out."
---
The Interrogation
By early evening, the rain had returned—gentle but persistent. The streets glistened with puddles that reflected the warm glow of lanterns and traffic signals. Omar tracked the killer down through digital fingerprints embedded in hotel staff logs and a series of masked email threads. All signs pointed to one man: Ilyas Derviş.
They met him in a dim garage tucked behind an abandoned bakery. The faint smell of yeast still clung to the air, mingling with gasoline and rust. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered.
Ilyas stood in the shadows, tall and thin with sunken cheeks, his sharp jaw coated in salt-and-pepper stubble. A faded leather jacket hung from his wiry frame, and his icy blue eyes scanned them calmly. He didn't fidget. He didn't blink.
"You were at the party," Imani said, stepping forward, her voice like the first crack of thunder.
Ilyas nodded once.
"You killed her," she said, her eyes narrowing.
"I followed orders," he replied. His voice was low, almost too calm.
Zara frowned, folding her arms. "What kind of order ends with a woman choking on blood in her own vomit?"
"She tried to sell information twice," he said, meeting Imani's gaze. "To two different buyers. That's a death sentence in our world."
"Who gave the order?" Omar demanded.
Ilyas exhaled, his lips barely parting. "I can't say. But I can offer you a deal."
Imani cocked her head. "A deal?"
"You want names. Paper trails. The whole web. I'll give it. In return, I want out—new ID, a clean passport, a one-way ticket out of this shadow game."
Omar leaned in slightly, a smirk ghosting his lips. "Lie once and I'll let Zara do her worst."
Zara grinned wickedly. "And I've been dying to practice my improv interrogation skills."
"Deal," Imani said, extending her hand.
Ilyas hesitated, then shook it.
---
The Real Mastermind
They returned to the loft just as the rain slowed to a mist. Omar opened a bottle of pomegranate soda and poured three glasses while Ilyas paced and talked.
"There's a woman known as Shamsa," he began, accepting a plate of lamb börek from Zara. "She's tied to everything—arms deals, information laundering, even human trafficking. But she's just a face. The person bankrolling her is hidden."
Imani sipped her soda, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach.
"And you think that person is in Kora?" Omar asked.
"No," Ilyas replied. "They're using Kora to hide the transactions. The real source is someone with top-level clearance—someone trusted."
Zara's eyes narrowed. "You mean… someone like Imani's mother?"
A long silence fell.
Ilyas didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded manifest.
"Tomorrow night. North Dock. 22 crates. Labeled S. Nurain."
Imani's breath caught. Her legs went weak, and she lowered herself into the armchair slowly. Her fingers clenched the edges of the paper.
"That's… my mother's name."
Zara sat beside her, her hand resting lightly on Imani's. "You don't have to jump to conclusions. It might be a setup."
"Or it might be the truth," Imani whispered, her voice cracking.
Omar stood by the window, watching the lights flicker across the Bosphorus Bridge. "We'll get to the bottom of it. But for now, we wait."
---
Zara's Final Clue
Late that night, Zara was going through her purse when she pulled out a crumpled napkin. Her brows furrowed. Then she remembered—the party. The terrace. The dropped napkin.
On it were hurried notes:
> Shipment: 22 crates. Port: North Dock. Secure Tag: S.NURAIN.
She rushed into the living room, still in her hoodie, her hair a frizzy halo of stress and fatigue.
"Guys," she whispered. "Imani… this napkin. This confirms it."
Imani looked up from the file she was reading, face pale under the lamplight.
"It's real," Zara said. "Someone planned this. Maybe even your mother."
Imani said nothing. Her eyes welled with unshed tears.
Omar sat beside her. "We won't say anything to your father. Not yet. We get proof first."
Imani wiped her face and looked out the window. The fog had rolled back in, and the moon was now just a faint disc above the city.
She didn't know who to trust anymore.
But she would find out.