The dockyard crime-scene lights flickered in the predawn haze. Uniformed officers cordoned off the rusted container while technicians photographed every inch of it. The air smelled of sea-salt, diesel, and rusted secrets.
Inspector Jamshed crouched beside the wall where the arrow had struck. It wasn't random. The shaft had been fired at a precise forty-five-degree angle; whoever shot it knew physics—knew him.
He traced the red ink letters with a gloved finger. Beneath the drying streaks of crimson paint, he spotted something etched in metal: a faint triangle intersected by three parallel lines.
Sub-Inspector Ahmed leaned closer. "Sir, that's not gang graffiti."
Jamshed's eyes hardened. "No. It's a military cipher mark. And only one man ever used it—Professor Dawood."
---
The Professor Returns
By sunrise, Jamshed was parked outside a quiet colonial bungalow in Clifton.
Professor Dawood, gray-bearded but sharp-eyed, opened the door before the bell rang.
"I saw the news," Dawood said, ushering him in. "You found the symbol again, didn't you?"
Jamshed placed the photo and the arrow on the table.
Dawood studied them under the glow of a desk lamp.
"This was meant for you. The triangle with lines—it's the old Triad Seal. It marked classified operations we ran during the insurgency. Three officers knew its meaning."
Jamshed: "You, me, and Major Rehman."
Dawood nodded slowly. "And if it's resurfaced… someone wants to reopen that file."
---
The Major's Shadow
Meanwhile, at a deserted shooting range outside the city, Major Khan Rehman stood surrounded by target boards riddled with holes. His hands were steady, his stance disciplined. When he heard approaching footsteps, his pistol was already raised.
"It's me," Jamshed said, stepping into view.
Rehman lowered the weapon, eyes narrowing. "Didn't think I'd see that mark again."
"Neither did I," Jamshed replied. "But someone's pulling strings from the dark. They left my photo—our old operation photo."
Rehman's face hardened. "Then it's started. The Triad's leak."
He turned to a locked chest, opened it, and pulled out a weathered dossier stamped ARCHIVED—PROJECT SAFIR.
"This," he said, tapping the folder, "was never supposed to see daylight. Someone wants revenge for what happened in 2005."
---
Threads of the Past
Back at headquarters, the family had gathered again.
Mehmood mapped out possible connections on a digital board: old case names, coded symbols, military project titles.
Farooq cross-referenced them through dark-web archives.
Farzana stood by the window, watching the city's reflection ripple in the rain.
"Abbu," she said softly, "the arrow wasn't meant to kill—it was meant to remind."
Jamshed nodded. "Remind us of what we buried."
The data on Mehmood's screen glowed with a final match—a logistics company at the docks named Safir Exports. The same name on Rehman's folder.
Ahmed muttered, "Safir Exports went bankrupt ten years ago. Now someone revived it last month under a fake owner."
Jamshed's pulse quickened. "Then that's where our arrow points next."
---
End of Chapter 2 — The Steel Remembers
Outside, thunder rolled across Karachi's sky.
From a nearby rooftop, a figure watched Jamshed's car drive away—gloved hands gripping a high-tech crossbow.
The masked observer whispered into a comm device:
"Phase One confirmed. The Triad is awake."
The rain drowned the rest of his words.