The night in the northern suburbs of Tehran carried a stillness akin to death.
Zahedi's residence was nestled within this so-called "slightly upscale" neighborhood—a stand-alone villa with an independent courtyard, featuring Arabic architecture.
Moonlight grudgingly spilled over the sand-colored walls and meticulously trimmed low shrubs, outlining a silent and harsh silhouette.
The convoy slid ghost-like to a nearby street, silently pulling over to the side.
Once the engines shut off, the profound silence wrapped around them instantly, accompanying the scent of metal and dust.
