The rain hadn't stopped. Karachi's sky hung low and heavy, as if even the clouds were holding their breath.
Inspector Jamshed sat at his desk, the mysterious packet lying in front of him like a sleeping bomb. His children, Farooq and Mehmooda, stood on either side — both restless, curious, and a little scared.
"Whoever died for this," Jamshed said, turning the packet slowly in his hands, "thought it was worth his life."
He peeled back the red wax seal with a knife. Inside was a folded sheet of thick paper, slightly burned at the edges, and a tiny black microchip no larger than a fingernail.
Farooq leaned closer. "That's not just a chip, Abba… that's a data drive — probably encrypted."
"Can you open it?" Jamshed asked.
Farooq grinned slightly. "If they built it, I can break it."
He slid the chip into his laptop. The screen blinked, flickered — then filled with static and strange symbols. For a moment, it looked like gibberish. But Mehmooda noticed something the boys missed.
"Wait — those letters… they repeat every few lines. It's a cipher."
Jamshed nodded approvingly. "Good eye."
The three of them got to work, decoding the strings of text. Slowly, words began to appear. Names. Dates. Account numbers. And then — one word that froze them all:
"Operation Black Pulse."
Jamshed's jaw tightened. That name hadn't surfaced in years. It was a covert cyber program the government shut down after rumors of internal sabotage — the kind of secret people died to bury.
Suddenly, the room went dark. The power flickered off, leaving only the laptop's dim glow.
"Load-shedding?" Mehmooda whispered.
Farooq shook his head. "No. This is a signal jam. Someone's remotely blocking our connection."
A faint sound came from outside — the creak of footsteps in the alley behind their home.
Jamshed drew his pistol. "Stay behind me."
They moved toward the back door. The rain had turned into a thin mist. From the shadows, a red laser dot glided across the wall — stopping right on Jamshed's chest.
Farooq shouted, "Get down!"
A shot rang out. Glass shattered. The laptop screen exploded in sparks — and the microchip, the only copy of the data, burst into flames.
When the smoke cleared, the shooter was gone. All that remained was a single calling card pinned to the doorframe:
A blood-red letter Z.
---
Jamshed picked it up silently, eyes burning with controlled rage.
"They know we opened it. The game has begun."
He turned to his children. "From now on, no one — not even the police — can be trusted."