The rest of the night was a blur of security maps, data analysis on the laptop, and whispered, tense planning in the sterile, high-tech command center of the Raheel Estate. Rayyan had revealed the location of the trap: a massive, exclusive gala celebrating Raabistan's elite, precisely the kind of place Agha would operate freely. Ishaal was to be there as the event's unscheduled performer.
As dawn broke, washing the fortress windows in pale grey light, Rayyan finally closed the laptop.
"The preparation is complete," he announced, his voice rough with fatigue. "We rest for six hours. Tonight, we move."
Ishaal was exhausted, mentally drained from accepting her role as bait. But she felt a cold clarity. She had given up her life for this mission; she wouldn't surrender her voice.
"I have one condition," she said, pushing herself away from the table.
Rayyan raised a weary eyebrow. "We don't have time for conditions."
"This one is non-negotiable," she insisted, walking over to the piano that stood discreetly in the corner of the command center. She opened her mic case, which she hadn't let out of her sight since leaving the Observatory, and carefully set up the vintage microphone. "I'm performing tonight. But if I am going to draw fire, I'm performing my way."
Rayyan watched her, arms crossed, his irritation visible. "You will stick to the setlist I approve. We need to maintain control."
"Control is overrated, Rayyan," Ishaal countered with a cool, sharp smile. "You control the guns. I control the message."
She sat down and began to play. It wasn't the haunting lullaby of the dead. It was a new piece, a slow, sultry jazz composition that was instantly compelling, built on layers of dark, resonant chords.
Then she sang. Her voice, usually mournful and soft, was low and mocking. It was a bluesy lament, but the lyrics were a subversive, coolly defiant message aimed directly at the man standing across the room.
"The Devil wears a tailored suit,Says 'Stay with me, darling, I'll be your loot.'Puts a tracker on your heart and a chain around your mind,Tells you freedom's just a place that he can't find.Oh, you love the fear, and you love the war,But you're just another cage, Rayyan, nothing more."
She glanced at him, her eyes bright with challenge. The music was flawless, sharp, and utterly disrespectful. It wasn't about love or desire; it was about intellectual superiority and cool defiance.
Rayyan stood completely still throughout the performance. His initial irritation vanished, replaced by a complex expression of shock, fascination, and a flicker of amusement, a rare sight on his tightly controlled face.
When the last note faded, the silence was thicker than any tense exchange.
"That," Rayyan finally said, his voice quiet, "was a breach of contract, a blatant display of insubordination, and a profound security risk."
"And?" Ishaal prompted, not moving from the piano, her heart thumping a triumphant beat.
He walked toward her, stopping right beside the bench. He leaned in, his usual cold intensity now mixed with a begrudging respect. "And it was excellent. Change the last line; I don't appreciate the rhyme scheme."
Ishaal laughed, a real, genuine sound that cut through the Estate's oppressive silence. "Deal. But the message stays."
"The message is yours," Rayyan conceded, stepping back. He looked at her with a new depth of appraisal. He had just seen the weapon Agha was hunting: not the data, but the unyielding spirit of the woman who carried it.
"The setlist is yours, Ishaal," he stated, his voice now a low promise. "But you sing only for me tonight. You draw him in. I close the trap."