The sun was just beginning to set over Karachi, painting the crowded streets in shades of orange and crimson. Shaan Haider, still smelling faintly of jasmine-scented soap from his rushed bath, stepped out of the rickshaw and adjusted his sunglasses. He looked every bit the idle rich man—tailored kurta, expensive leather sandals, and the kind of relaxed swagger that annoyed both policemen and pickpockets alike.
Inside, though, his mind was racing. The phone call from Inspector Rafiq still echoed in his head:
"We found a body at Juna Market. And Shaan… there's a symbol carved into the wall. You need to see this yourself."
Shaan wasn't a cop. Officially, he was the "owner of Haider Exports," a vaguely defined business that seemed to deal in everything from textile machinery to importing Italian olives. Unofficially… well, let's just say he had a knack for getting tangled up in dangerous puzzles.
The Bazaar was heaving with life. Hawkers shouted about fresh mangoes, counterfeit perfumes, and "original" imported jeans that looked suspiciously like they had been stitched in Korangi two nights ago. The air was a mix of frying samosas, diesel smoke, and the faint metallic tang of old coins.
Rafiq was waiting near a tea stall, looking more uncomfortable than a vegetarian at a barbecue. His police-issue shirt was soaked with sweat, and his moustache twitched as he waved Shaan over.
"You took your sweet time," Rafiq muttered.
"I had to look good for the dead," Shaan said with a grin, stepping past him into a narrow alley.
The alley opened into the back of a crumbling warehouse, its bricks blackened by years of neglect. A small crowd of curious shopkeepers stood at a distance, murmuring like schoolchildren after a fight.
The body lay sprawled on the ground, a man in his late thirties, wearing dusty trousers and a shirt missing two buttons. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing.
But it wasn't the corpse that caught Shaan's attention.
On the wall, above the man's head, was a strange symbol drawn in what looked like thick red paint: a half-circle, intersected by three jagged lines.
"Seen it before?" Rafiq asked quietly.
Shaan crouched, studying it. "Not in person," he said. "But I've read about it. Old Sindhi folklore. They called it Nishan-e-Seher—the Mark of the Morning. Some kind of secret society used it a hundred years ago."
Rafiq frowned. "Secret society? This isn't a Dan Brown novel, Shaan. The man was a shopkeeper. Who would—"
A sudden metallic clang cut him off.
Both men turned sharply. Something had fallen from the balcony above—a small silver coin, rolling until it stopped at Shaan's foot. He picked it up. It was old, maybe British Raj-era, with faded lettering. On the back was the same half-circle symbol.
When Shaan looked up, the balcony was empty.
"Someone's playing games," Shaan murmured.
Rafiq rubbed his forehead. "I hate when you say that. It means more paperwork for me."
Shaan pocketed the coin. "Let's split up. You talk to your people. I'll… do my thing."
Rafiq groaned. "Which thing? The thing where you nearly get killed, or the thing where you disappear for three days and I find you drinking chai with smugglers in Gwadar?"
"Surprise me," Shaan said, already walking away.
The Pawnshop Lead
Half an hour later, Shaan was leaning against the counter of a dimly lit pawnshop two streets away. The shop smelled like rust and regret. Behind the counter was Nadeem "Chirya" Khan, a wiry man with sharp eyes and the posture of someone who'd never trusted a soul in his life.
"You know coins," Shaan said, tossing the silver piece onto the counter.
Nadeem picked it up, squinting. "British India, 1895. Rare minting. But…" He tapped the back. "This mark isn't original. Someone carved it recently. And whoever did it—" He lowered his voice— "is not someone you should be looking for."
"Which means I should definitely be looking for them," Shaan said, smiling.
Nadeem slid the coin back. "Last time someone came asking about that symbol, they didn't come back. Guy named Bashir. Ran a spice stall in Lyari. Disappeared last month."
Shaan's eyebrows went up. "Disappeared, or was found face-down in a river?"
"Disappeared," Nadeem said. "No body, no ransom note. Just… gone."
The Tail
When Shaan stepped back into the street, the sky had darkened, and the first call to Maghrib prayer was drifting through the air. He was about to flag a rickshaw when he caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye—a man in a grey hoodie, pretending to look at a fruit stall but clearly keeping him in sight.
Shaan strolled casually into a side lane, glancing in a shop window to confirm. Yep. Hoodie Guy was following.
He quickened his pace, turning left, right, then ducking into a small chai dhaba. He slid into a corner seat just as Hoodie Guy entered, scanning the place.
The waiter came over. "Chai?"
"Make it two," Shaan said. "One for me, one for my… friend."
When the man's eyes met his, Shaan smiled like they were old pals. "You've been following me for three streets. Let's skip the part where you pretend it's a coincidence."
The man hesitated, then sat down slowly. "You have something," he said in a low voice.
The coin?" Shaan asked.
The man's expression didn't change. "They will kill you for it. Like they killed Rashid."
"Rashid?"
"The man you found in the alley," the stranger said. "He knew too much about the Mark."
Before Shaan could ask another question, a motorbike roared up outside. Two men in black helmets jumped off, stormed into the shop, and—without a word—grabbed Hoodie Guy by the arms.
One of them slammed Shaan back against the wall while the other dragged Hoodie Guy outside. By the time Shaan got to the door, the bike was already disappearing into traffic.
He stood there for a moment, catching his breath. Karachi's night lights blinked to life around him, and somewhere far away, a siren wailed.
This was no longer just about a murder in Juna Market. The Mark of the Morning was alive again—and it had noticed him.