EPISODE - 01
The neon-drenched streets of the city, its Sydney. The city Sydney lived in fear of two names: the iron-fisted Nawsherwan Ghaznavi and his rival, the second most powerful Don in the underworld, Bhang Jae-Sang. For thirty-four blood-soaked years, a relentless war of shadows had frozen their clans in a cycle of hatred, a generational war that turned the two clans into shadows of death.
YARA GHAZNAVI'S P.O.V.
Rhythm Blood Bank & Donation Centre
The sterile, antiseptic smell of the place was oddly comforting. Or maybe it was the thrill of finally being here without my body staging its own monthly rebellion.
Across the neat row of chairs, my friend Samiya Joynal and I hunched over the donor forms, filling in details with the focus of students taking a final exam. My pen hovered over the medical history section.
Samiya didn't even look up, her sigh long-suffering and practiced. "And I," she announced to the form in front of her, "was , conveniently, already on my period."
I finally looked up, a slow, victorious smirk spreading across my face. "But not this time, my friend. Not today." I tapped my temple. "This time, I came prepared. I strategized. I tracked."
"Hah!" I did a little shoulder shimmy right there in the plastic chair. "Recovered a full week and a half ago. My iron levels are glorious. My hemoglobin is basically doing a victory lap." I couldn't help it; I broke into a tiny, seated happy dance, my shoulders bouncing.
Hip-hip (hooray) [CEREMONY OF SKZ]
Hip-hip (hooray)
Hip-hip, hip-hip
Yuh, yuh, yuh, yuh
We're moving forward with maximum power
And we're gonna dominate, pop it
장식하지, big news topic, 경험치는 수많은 TROPHY
NO ONE, NOBODY CAN STOP ME!!!
Allah Mian," I whispered-grinned skyward, "You're going to be so proud of me up there."
Samiya watched my ridiculous display, her stern facade melting into a warm, amused smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She shook her head, that familiar "there she goes again" look plastered on her face.
As we entered the donation room, I noticed another girl already lying on the bed, calmly donating blood like a warrior.
One of the doctors looked at us and asked,
"Have either of you had breakfast?"
Both of us shook our heads in perfect synchronization.
The doctors immediately handed us green coconut water, oral saline, and some biscuits.
"Girls," the doctor said firmly, "you cannot donate blood on an empty stomach."
After finishing those liquids and biscuits, it was my turn first.
With all the gravity of a martyr approaching the executioner's block, I lowered myself onto the crisp, paper-covered bed. I took a deep, theatrical breath, screwed my eyes shut so tightly.
The doctor's voice was calm. "A small prick, okay?"
I braced for the sting, the burn, the invasive pressure. Instead, there was… nothing. A faint, cold swipe of antiseptic, then a vague, distant pressure. No pain. No drama. Absolutely nothing.
My grand, silent suffering was entirely wasted.
Meanwhile, my audience of one was having a far more visceral reaction. Samiya, who had been standing beside me, let out a tiny, strangled gasp. I cracked an eye open to see her staring, wide-eyed and pale,at the procedure. Her hands began to flutter erratically at her sides.
"Ya Allah!" she yelped, her voice jumping an octave. In one frantic motion, she snatched her donor form from the clipboard and ripped it clean in half. "Look at that needle—it's a straw! A metal straw for my bones! I'm done. Finished. I do not consent to this vampire activity!"
I turned my head on the stiff pillow, the needle taped securely in my arm. "Samiya, don't give up now, Allah Mia will reward you for this. Think of the good deed!"
She shook her head so violently her ponytail whipped her own cheeks. "No! 😭 I'll pray an extra two rakat Salah and beg for the reward. I'll fast on Mondays and Thursdays for a year! Anything but this." Her eyes, pools of genuine terror, met mine. "Yara, I'm not as brave as you. I surrender to the cowards' union."
And with that declaration, she took a decisive step back from the bed, clutching her torn form to her chest like a shield
I stared at her for a moment, slightly annoyed, then sighed.
"Fine. You don't have to donate blood. Take my bag and go sit over there quietly."
A few minutes later, a phone suddenly rang.
And not just any ringtone.
'Mingle Mingle' blasted through the room.
Everyone turned to look at the source of that ridiculous sound.
Samiya panicked.
"Yara—it's aunty. Your mom is calling."
Of course she was. My mother was always paranoid about me.
I facepalmed. "Pick it up. Please."
Samiya swallowed nervously and answered,
"Assalamu alaikum, aunty!"
My mother's voice came sharp and concerned,
"It's almost 11:30 a.m. Where is Yara?"
Samiya hesitated.
"Actually, aunty… Yara is donating blood."
"Since when does she need anyone's permission to go play the hero and donate blood?" she snapped, the words sharp and hot. "Did she bother to ask her father or me? Even once? Does she think she's 20 years old,she's so grown up now? So independent?"
She didn't wait for an answer, steamrolling ahead with the fury of someone connecting damning dots. "You know, just the other day, this grown-up woman of hers went and cooked up her own little drama— chopped her own hair off in some messy, defiant ritual. All by herself. She's learning to be wonderfully, terribly stubborn all on her own."
A heavy, charged silence hung for a beat, thick with unspoken worry beneath the anger. Then came the final, maternal decree, an order wrapped in sheer frustration.
"Tell her. Tell her to stop this wandering and come home. Now!" And with a click that echoed like a full stop to her tirade, she hung up.
The second samiya ended the call with Mom, a cold knot twisted in my gut. My mind screamed only one silent prayer: Please don't let them know. Please don't let Ma or Baba find out about the blood.
The donation chair felt like a trap. I watched as the doctor detached the bag—my blood, my secret, my tiny act of defiance. He gave me that familiar, tired smile.
"You've just donated a unit," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You might get dizzy. Rest here for thirty minutes, then you can go home."
Home. That word was a gunshot. I sat up straight, the room spinning for just a heartbeat before I forced it still. "Doctor, I'm completely fine. I feel strong. I need to get home."
"Fine, go. But first," he said, thrusting the cold can of fruit juice into my hand, "you finish this. All of it. Then you can leave."
I popped the tab, tipped my head back, and chugged the sickly-sweet juice in one go "Done," I announced,"Thanks."
I didn't wait for approval. I was out the door.
I returned home within 20 minutes.I rushed into our sprawling, marble-cool mansion. There I found him in the grand living room, a king on his throne of Italian leather. My father, Nawsherwan Ghaznavi. To the city, he was the undisputed Top Don, a name whispered in fear, a man whose shadow could eclipse the sun. To me, he was just Baba—the man whose stern resolve I had learned to melt with a single, strategically deployed teardrop.
He was on the phone, his voice a low, commanding rumble discussing logistics.
The mere mention of an event—a glimpse of the outside world—sent a jolt of electric excitement through me.
I didn't walk; I practically floated to the sofa and plopped down beside him, invading his formidable personal space without a second thought. Then, I threw my arms around his neck in a dramatic, clinging embrace.He ended the call without ceremony. "Hold on, I'll call you back," he said into the phone, his voice softening just for that moment before he hung up.
One strong arm wrapped around me, returning the hug with a solid, grounding warmth. When he pulled back slightly, I looked up at him, deploying my most potent weapon: wide, guileless eyes brimming with manufactured innocence.
"Baba," I began, my voice a sweet, pleading melody. "Are you going to an engagement ceremony?" I didn't wait for an answer. I clasped my hands together, my whole being vibrating with desperate hope. "Please, please, please take me with youuuu. I'll be so good! I'll stay right by your side! Pleeease, Baba?"
"Baba," I began, my voice a sweet, pleading melody. "Are you going to an engagement ceremony?" I didn't wait for an answer. I clasped my hands together, my whole being vibrating with desperate hope. "Please, please, please take me with youuuu. I'll be so good! I'll stay right by your side! Pleeease, Baba?"
Baba's voice didn't just decline—it erupted, a controlled detonation of paternal fear.
"Absolutely not, Yara."
The words weren't just spoken; they were decreed, the same tone he used to call off deals or silence boardrooms. But beneath the steel, I heard it—the faint, unfamiliar tremor. The Don was afraid… for me."It is not some fairy-tale ball," he continued, his hands gesturing as if pushing danger away from me. "It is a den of wolves, Yara. A room full of smiles that hide knives. It is no place for my child."
But I was twenty, not twelve. And years of being his daughter had taught me his greatest weakness: he could handle rebellion, but he couldn't survive my heartbreak.
So, I didn't argue. I performed.With a gasp of pure devastation, I collapsed onto the plush velvet sofa, burying my face into the silk cushions. Then came the sounds—not quiet tears, but full-bodied, soul-wrenching sobs, the kind you'd expect from a toddler denied her first ice cream.
"You… you never let me go anywhere!" I wailed, my voice muffled by fabric. "I'm just a forgotten flower in a gilded vase! Withering! Alone!"
I peeked through my fingers, just enough to see his stern posture falter. His jaw tightened, but his eyes… they softened.
My mother, the silent strategist in our family wars, watched from her armchair, a porcelain teacup poised near her lips.
"Let the girl go, Nawsherwan. Unless you want her to drown these marble floors in a sea of tears. She has your dramatic genes, after all."
Baba's gaze shot to her—a look of utter betrayal. He was surrounded.
He ran a hand over his face, the gesture of a man who commanded empires but was helpless against the two women in his living room. The mighty Don, outmaneuvered by love and theatrics.
Finally, a long, surrendering sigh escaped him.
"Fine."
The word was heavy, resigned. He pointed a finger at me, his eyes sharpening back into that familiar, protective command.
"But you stay at my side, Yara. Every second. You do not wander. You do not speak to anyone I haven't approved. Not a single step away. Do you understand?"
I sat up, the tears evaporating as if by magic, replaced by a radiant, triumphant beam.
"I promise, Baba! Not a step away!"
I threw my arms around him again, feeling the tension in his shoulders. He hugged me back, tight—a embrace that felt less like celebration and more like an anchor.
I flew back to my room, my heart a hummingbird against my ribs.I tore through my wardrobe, a blur of silk and chiffon, until my fingers closed around the one. The perfect armor for a daughter stepping into her father's world.
As evening draped its dusky gold over the city, I stood before the full-length mirror, my breath catching. The deep maroon Anarkali was more than a dress.The heavy silk fell in perfect, liquid folds, shimmering like a captured sunset or a rare, dark ruby. Intricate gold zari embroidery—vines of peacocks and lotuses—snaked across the bodice and hem, catching the light with a regal, whispered gleam every time I moved. My hair was a soft, loose braid over one shoulder, by a delicate matha patti of pearls that trailed down to meet the tiers of my matching jhumkas. I looked every inch the Ghaznavi heiress: elegant, untouchable, a masterpiece of tradition.
Satisfaction bloomed in my chest. I was ready.
Gathering the heavy silk of my lehenga, I rushed downstairs,
I found Amma and Baba in the grand foyer, haloed by the crystal chandelier's light. I did a slow, deliberate twirl, the fabric flaring around me. "Well?" I asked.
A slow, warm smile spread across his face. "My little butterfly," "My daughter even can outshine the moon. Everything becomes beautiful on her." Baba reached out, adjusting a stray pearl on my headpiece with a tenderness that contradicted his calloused hands.
Then suddenly he leaned imperceptibly toward Amma, his voice dropping to a hushed, urgent whisper I was just meant to overhear. "Masha'Allah, she looks too beautiful. People will stare with envy. Dua jao, uski nazar utarwao. We must protect this sight"
Before Amma could move, the sound of polished shoes on marble echoed from the staircase. My brother, Shahnawaz Ghaznavi descended. His usual sharp, business-like demeanour—the one he wore like a second skin—faltered the moment his eyes landed on me. His gaze softened. "Bhai!" I beamed, launching myself toward him.
He caught me effortlessly, I buried my face in his chest.
I pulled back, looking up at him with hopeful, wide eyes. "So? Tell me, how do I look?"
He held me at arm's length,A thoughtful pause. Then, a smirk—tugged at his lips. He leaned in, pressed a quick, soft kiss to the top of my head, and whispered, "Honestly? Like a very fancy, over-dressed little piglet. Ready for the market."
A beat of stunned silence.
"SHAHNAWAZ BHAI !" I shrieked, my voice hitting a decibel that likely rattled the chandelier above. I swatted at him, but he was already gone, With a final, devastatingly mischievous grin,he vanished down the corridor toward his office.
TIME SKIP 2 HOURS
As we reached The Melbourne ballroom was a glittering cage of gold leaf and hushed threats. As soon as we crossed the threshold, my eyes darted toward the only sanctuary I recognized: the lavish dessert buffet. My father, Nawsherwan Ghaznavi, kept his hand firmly on my shoulder, his gaze sharp and scanning the room for any sign of a Bhang clan ambush. "Stay close to me, Yara Jan," he whispered, his voice like grinding stones, heavy with the weight of thirty-four years of war. "This is a den of wolves, and I will not have you wandering."
I turned to him, softening my expression into the one look I knew he couldn't resist. I gently placed my hand over his, my tone respectful yet playful. "Baba, please don't worry so much. You are the most feared man here; who would dare even look at me?" I gave him a reassuring smile. "I promise, I will sit right there in that quiet corner like a good daughter. I shall enjoy my favorite desserts and stay out of the way while you attend to your important matters. You know I am safe within your sight, and I won't move an inch—I'll be as still as a painting."
Reluctantly, his stern face softened, and he gave a slow, hesitant nod. "Very well. But do not leave that seat, Yara. My eyes will be on you."
"I understand, Baba," I replied with a graceful tilt of my head.
As soon as he stepped away to greet a fellow kingpin, I practically glided to the food station. I perched myself on a plush velvet stool, tucked away from the prying eyes of the underworld, and began my "secret mission" with a giant bowl of triple-chocolate ice cream. I sat there, swinging my legs in silent joy, lost in the sweetness of the cream, when the atmosphere in the room suddenly turned ice-cold.
The heavy oak doors groaned open, and the chatter died into a suffocating silence.
He walked in like he owned the oxygen in the room a tall striking figure with Sharp Korean Features. He was dressed in an impeccable black-on-black suit, the dark fabric broke only by a small, crimson velvet pocket square. A small fleet of bodyguards trailed behind him,as they were just shadows-he was the eclipse .
He was walking towards the host,his movements fluid and predatory. I should have been terrified. I should have recognised the Bhang clan crest on his ring. Instead, I stopped my spoon halfway to my mouth, my eyes wide in awe. My brain, currently clouded by a massive sugar high, came to a very dangerous conclusion:
"Oh my god, he looks like a grumpy, high-fashion cat. He is... absolutely adorable."
Does that matter he's the 2nd most powerful Don in Sydney ? I just saw him as a "Cute Car" in a tuxedo, and suddenly, my ice cream didn't seem like the most interesting thing in the room anymore.
His sharp, cat-like eyes suddenly flicker towards you, as if sensing your gaze.He raises an eyebrow, intrigued by your blatant lack of fear. His lips twitch, dangerously close to a smirk.
Bhang Jae-Sang (voice smooth but edged with warning):
"Did no one teach you it's rude to stare, little dove?"
His tone is laced with amusement, but his gaze is calculating, dissecting your every reaction.
I blink innocently, tilting your head.
"Did no one teach you it's rude to interrupt a woman's dessert?"