Part 1: The Girl Who Went to a Wedding
The university campus looked almost deceptively peaceful in the late morning light.
Tall neem and gulmohar trees lined the pathways, their shadows stretching lazily across the pavement as students moved between departments with books pressed against their chests. Conversations, laughter, the occasional honk from the main road outside—everything carried the careless rhythm of ordinary life.
Zarar stepped out of the black police vehicle and studied the campus gate for a moment.
Large metal letters spelled the university's name above the archway.
A place where futures were built.
Where ambitions began.
And somewhere inside this same campus, a girl had quietly disappeared five days ago.
His gaze hardened slightly.
"Sir?" Officer Tariq asked from beside him.
Zarar adjusted the cuff of his shirt before replying.
"The Canal Road victim studied here."
"Yes, sir."
"A hostel student."
Tariq nodded.
"Second year. Literature department."
Zarar glanced toward the long academic buildings visible beyond the trees.
"Let's start with the hostel."
---
Girls' Hostel — 11:45 a.m.
The hostel building stood near the far corner of the campus, away from the main academic blocks.
Three floors of pale yellow concrete.
Balconies with drying clothes.
Flower pots placed randomly near staircases.
At first glance, it looked like any student residence—alive with routine.
But today there was tension in the air.
A few girls stood near the entrance whispering among themselves. Some glanced nervously at the police vehicle parked outside.
News traveled quickly on campuses.
And the discovery of a murdered student traveled even faster.
Inside, the warden's office smelled faintly of old files and tea.
The hostel warden, Mrs. Shagufta, sat stiffly behind her desk.
She was a woman in her late fifties with carefully pinned hair and a serious expression that looked permanently tired.
Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her glasses.
"I still can't believe it," she said quietly.
Zarar sat across from her, calm and attentive.
"Please start from the beginning."
The warden nodded slowly.
"The girl… her name was Hira Imtiaz."
Zarar noted it in his file.
"Hira lived in Room 212 on the second floor," the warden continued.
"She had been staying here for almost two years."
"Any disciplinary issues?"
"None," she replied immediately.
"In fact… she was one of the quieter girls."
Tariq leaned forward slightly.
"Describe her routine."
Mrs. Shagufta exhaled slowly.
"Hira was very focused on her studies. Most evenings she stayed in the library or the zoology labs."
Zarar listened carefully.
"She had a small group of friends but wasn't very social," the warden continued.
"Mostly she stayed in her room reading."
"Family?" Zarar asked.
"She was from Sialkot."
The warden opened a register and slid it toward him.
"Father: Imtiaz Ahmad. A school teacher."
"Mother: homemaker."
"Two younger siblings."
Zarar scanned the information.
Normal background.
Ordinary family.
Nothing unusual.
Which made the murder even colder.
"When was she last seen?" he asked.
The warden hesitated.
"Five days ago."
Zarar's pen stopped moving.
"Time?"
"Evening. Around 7:30 p.m."
"What happened?"
Mrs. Shagufta clasped her hands together nervously.
"She came to my office that evening."
"And?"
"She said she needed permission to leave the hostel for a few days."
Zarar's eyes lifted slightly.
"For what reason?"
The warden swallowed.
"She told me she was going to attend a friend's wedding."
Tariq exchanged a quick glance with Zarar.
"Did she mention the friend's name?" Zarar asked.
"No."
"Did you ask?"
"She said it was a classmate from another department."
Zarar leaned back slightly.
"And you approved the leave?"
"Yes. She requested three days and also her father called me and assured me that they were aware about it"
The room fell quiet.
"But she never returned," Tariq murmured.
Mrs. Shagufta nodded slowly.
"Three days passed."
"Then four."
"Her roommate came to ask if I knew where she was."
Zarar tapped his pen lightly against the desk.
"Roommate's name?"
"Samina."
"Where is she?"
"In class."
"We'll speak to her."
The warden nodded.
"But before that," Zarar said, "I want to understand something."
She looked up.
"When Hira left the hostel," he asked carefully, "was she carrying luggage?"
The warden frowned slightly.
"No."
"No bag?"
"No suitcase."
"Just her backpack."
Zarar wrote the detail down slowly.
Backpack.
Short trip.
Wedding.
Or a lie.
"Did she appear nervous?" he asked.
Mrs. Shagufta thought for a moment.
"…Not nervous."
"Then?"
"Excited."
Zarar's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Excited?"
"Yes."
"She said something about finally being able to relax after exams."
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Because forensic reports showed something different.
The girl had been dead for almost five days.
Meaning she likely never reached any wedding.
She never even left the city.
---
Room 212 — Girls' Hostel
The hallway was quiet when they reached the second floor.
A few girls peered curiously from half-open doors as the officers walked past.
Room 212 stood near the end of the corridor.
The door creaked softly as the warden unlocked it.
Inside, the room was small but tidy.
Two single beds.
Two study tables.
A shared cupboard.
One bed was clearly occupied.
The other looked frozen in time.
"Which one was hers?" Zarar asked.
The warden pointed.
"That one."
Zarar stepped closer.
The bedsheet was still neatly folded.
Books arranged in perfect stacks on the table.
A zoology textbook lay open with sticky notes marking several pages.
He scanned the titles.
Filled with literature bites details of authors and the poets as if she was going to memorize them all.
Serious student.
Methodical.
He opened the cupboard slowly.
Inside hung several simple outfits.
A few scarves.
And on the top shelf—
A small jewelry box.
Zarar opened it.
Inside was a delicate silver delicate hair pin.
Almost in Japanese style.
His gaze paused.
A small detail.
But sometimes small details mattered.
He closed the box again.
"Her backpack?" he asked.
The warden shook her head.
"She took it with her."
Zarar looked around the room again.
No signs of struggle.
No sudden disappearance.
Everything suggested she had left willingly.
Which meant the killer had gained her trust first.
---
Outside the literature Department
As they stepped out of the hostel building, the afternoon sun had shifted.
Students walked between departments again.
Life moving forward.
Zarar's gaze scanned the crowd instinctively.
He always watched people.
Their movements.
Their expressions.
Their silences.
As he was thinking Tariq brought him out if the storm of his thoughts
"Sir, Samina—the roommate—is waiting in the department office."
Zarar turned his attention back to the case.
"Let's go."
---
Hostel Record Review
Before leaving, Zarar requested one final document.
The hostel exit register.
Every student leaving overnight had to sign it.
Mrs. Shagufta handed him the thick book.
He flipped through the pages.
Names.
Dates.
Signatures.
Then he found it.
Hira Imtiaz
Date: Five days ago.
Reason: Friend's wedding.
Expected return: Three days.
Signature: clear.
Neat.
Controlled handwriting.
But one detail made his gaze pause.
The time of departure.
8:12 p.m.
Zarar closed the register slowly.
Because forensic analysis estimated her time of death between 8:30 and 10:00 p.m. that same night.
Which meant something chilling.
The girl likely never left the campus area.
The killer had met her almost immediately after she stepped out.
Someone she trusted enough to walk with.
Someone who knew her plans.
Someone who knew she was leaving alone.
Zarar stepped outside the building again.
The warm breeze carried faint campus sounds.
Laughter.
Footsteps.
Distant traffic.
But beneath all of it, his instincts whispered something else.
The killer had not chosen the victim randomly.
The girl had been studied first.
Watched.
Understood.
And then removed.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
He looked once more toward the literature Department building in the distance.
A crowd of students entered through its glass doors.
Somewhere among them were the people who had last seen Hira alive.
Friends.
Classmates.
Witnesses.
Maybe even the person who had walked beside her that night.
Zarar slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Next," he said calmly, "we talk to her classmates."
And somewhere inside that department—
The investigation was about to take its first unexpected turn.
Part 2
(The Girl He Wasn't Looking For)
The literature department building was older than most structures on campus.
Its walls carried a faded yellow color that had darkened over time, and tall windows allowed sunlight to spill across long corridors. Posters about poetry readings, book clubs, and literary seminars decorated the walls.
Officer Zarar walked through the hallway with steady steps.
Behind him, Officer Tariq flipped through a small notebook.
"So… literature students?" Tariq murmured.
Zarar nodded slightly.
"The victim was last seen meeting a student," he said. "Someone she knew from a debate event."
"Right."
They stopped outside a classroom where several students were gathered.
A professor had already informed them about the investigation, so the students looked nervous the moment the two officers appeared.
Zarar stepped forward.
"I won't take much of your time," he said calmly. "I only need to ask a few questions."
His voice carried authority without sounding harsh.
That was one of the reasons people often ended up talking to him more than they intended to.
A girl in the front row raised her hand hesitantly.
"Sir… is it about Hira?"
"Yes."
The room fell quiet.
Zarar studied their expressions carefully.
Fear. Curiosity. Concern.
But nothing that immediately screamed guilt.
He began asking questions one by one.
"When was the last time anyone here spoke to her?"
A boy adjusted his glasses.
"Three days before she disappeared."
"What did she say?"
"That she was traveling."
"Traveling where?"
The boy shrugged.
"She just said a wedding."
Zarar wrote something down.
Another girl spoke.
"She told some of us her friend was getting married in another city."
"Did she mention which friend?"
"No."
"Did anyone here know that friend?"
Silence answered him.
Zarar's eyes narrowed slightly.
Strange.
People usually talk about weddings excitedly. Especially students.
But no one knew anything about this supposed friend.
Tariq leaned against a desk.
"So basically," he said casually, "she told everyone she was going to a wedding but nobody knows whose wedding?"
A few students exchanged glances.
"Yes," someone muttered.
Zarar tapped his pen against the notebook.
"Did she seem worried or stressed before leaving?"
Another student shook her head.
"No, sir. She was actually… excited."
"Excited?"
"Yes."
"About the wedding?"
The girl hesitated.
"I think but also...."
Zarar looked at her sharply.
"also oabout what?"
"She said she was finally going to meet someone important."
That sentence made the room heavier.
Zarar's mind immediately caught onto the detail.
"Someone important?" he repeated.
"Yes."
"Did she say who?"
"No."
"Male or female?"
"I don't know."
Zarar paused.
Interesting.
Someone important.
That didn't sound like a wedding guest.
That sounded like a meeting.
He scribbled another note.
Then he continued questioning the rest of the students.
Most answers were similar.
No one knew the mysterious friend.
No one knew the wedding location.
No one knew the person she was excited to meet.
Which meant one thing.
Either she lied.
Or someone made sure the story stayed vague.
After about twenty minutes, the questioning was almost over.
Zarar closed his notebook.
"Thank you for cooperating."
Students began relaxing slightly.
But just as he turned to leave—
His attention shifted.
Not because someone spoke.
But because someone laughed.
A soft laugh.
Light.
Almost musical.
It came from the hallway outside the classroom.
Zarar's gaze instinctively moved toward the door.
And that's when he saw her.
She stood just outside with two girls, holding a stack of books close to her chest.
Her headscarf was loosely pinned, a few strands of dark hair escaping near her temples.
She was smiling while talking to her friends.
Dimples appeared on her cheeks as a golden delicate nosering shines almost as of complementing her dimples.
For a brief second, sunlight from the window behind her framed her face.
And Zarar felt something unexpected.
Stillness.
May be a desire to look one more time. The kind that will make you almost a sinner
The kind that appears before you even understand why.
Making him almost jerk his head and murmured a small "ASTAGFIRUALLAH"(god please forgive me) while the tip of his ear turning a little pink making Tariq beside him amuse.
She was saying something quickly, her hands moving slightly while she spoke.
Her friends laughed.
And she laughed with them.
It wasn't a loud laugh.
More like the kind someone tries to hide.
Zarar watched agin quietly.
Then one of the girls nudged her and whispered something.
The girl immediately looked toward the classroom.
Her eyes met Zarar's.
Just for a second.
Her smile froze.
And like someone caught doing something embarrassing, she quickly lowered her gaze.
Her friends continued whispering.
She murmured something softly in response, clearly embarrassed.
Zarar looked away first.
Professional instinct returned.
He stepped out of the classroom.
The girls instantly grew quieter.
"Excuse me," Zarar said calmly.
All three straightened. They were standing outside the class almost as if waiting for someone.
The shy girl held her books tighter.
Her fingers fidgeted slightly against the cover.
"Are you students here?" Zarar asked.
One of the girls nodded quickly.
"Yes, sir."
"Literature department?"
"No, sir," another replied. "We're from zoology."
Zarar paused.
Zoology.
Then why were they standing here?
"Why are you in this building?" he asked.
The girl with the books hesitated before answering softly.
"We were waiting for our friend… she studies literature."
Her voice was gentle.
But slightly nervous.
Zarar nodded.
He had asked questions to everyone in the area anyway.
No harm in one more.
"Did any of you know a girl named Hira?"
The shy girl lifted her head slightly.
Her brows knitted together in thought.
"I think… I saw her once during the debate event," she said.
Her voice became a little quicker now.
Not exactly confident.
More like someone thinking out loud.
"She was the one who spoke about— about cultural identity in literature, right?"
Zarar looked at her.
Sharp observation.
"Yes."
She nodded quickly.
"I remember because she argued with someone from the history department," she continued.
Her friends exchanged amused looks.
"She remembers every debate," one whispered.
The girl flushed slightly.
"I don't remember everything," she muttered.
Then she realized she had spoken too casually to a police officer.
Her shoulders stiffened again.
Zarar noticed the change.
Interesting.
Shy at first.
Then talkative once comfortable.
He had seen that personality before.
"Did you ever speak to her?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"No, sir."
"But you saw her at the event?"
"Yes."
"Did she seem close to anyone there?"
She thought for a moment.
"I think… she was talking to a tall guy near the exit after the debate."
Zarar's attention sharpened.
"A tall guy?"
"Yes."
"Can you describe him?"
She frowned slightly.
"I didn't see his face clearly."
"What about his clothes?"
"…Black hoodie. Like long hairs and maybe glasses I guess "
Tariq exchanged a glance with Zarar.
That matched something from their earlier reports.
Zarar nodded slowly.
"Thank you."
The girl looked relieved that the questioning was over.
But then—
Her eyes accidentally lifted again.
Zarar was already looking at her.
For a brief moment, neither spoke.
Her cheeks turned faintly pink.
She quickly looked down again.
"Sorry," she murmured softly, though she hadn't done anything wrong.
Zarar almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead he simply said,
"What's your name?"
She hesitated.
"Anaya."
Her friends exchanged another knowing glance.
Zarar wrote the name in his notebook.
"Thank you for your help, Miss Anaya."
She nodded quietly.
As he and Tariq walked away down the corridor, Tariq leaned closer.
"Interesting girl."
Zarar didn't respond.
But for some reason—
He remembered the sound of her laugh.
And the dimples.
Part 3:
(The Boy Behind the Screen)
The computer science department building looked very different from the rest of the campus.
Where literature halls carried the smell of old books and echoing debates, the CS block hummed with electricity and quiet focus. The corridors were lined with glass panels revealing labs full of glowing monitors, tangled wires, and students lost in their digital worlds.
Inside Lab 3, the only sound was the rhythmic tapping of keys.
Fast.
Precise.
Relentless.
At the far end of the lab sat a guy.
He looked nothing like the kind of person who attracted attention.
Tall but slightly hunched, as if years of bending over computers had shaped his posture or maybe just because he was too focused right now. His hair was messy, falling across his forehead in a way that made him constantly push it back. Large rectangular glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, and the reflection of the screen flickered across the lenses.
Most people described him with one word.
Nerd.
But anyone who paid close attention would notice something else.
His eyes.
Right now, they were hunter like .
Focused. And almost captivating
Almost… frantic. But usually lense covered .
A thin layer of sweat covered his forehead despite the cold air from the lab's air conditioning.
Lines of code raced across his computer screen.
Folders opened.
Closed.
Files appeared and disappeared.
His fingers moved so quickly across the keyboard that they almost blurred.
His breathing had become slightly uneven.
"Come on…" he whispered under his breath.
The cursor blinked impatiently on the screen.
Another command.
Another file opened.
A new window appeared.
Numbers filled the screen.
Roman leaned closer.
His pupils dilated slightly.
"Yes…"
For a moment, satisfaction flickered across his face.
But then—
Footsteps approached the lab.
Roman froze.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
The door opened.
"Bro!"
He flinched.
Actually flinched.
The sudden voice made him jerk so hard that his chair creaked loudly.
A boy walked in carrying two books under his arm.
This was Mohsin. His friend ,Roman's friend
Roman's only real friend.
Mohsin stopped mid-step and stared.
"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?" he asked.
Roman quickly adjusted his glasses.
"N-nothing."
His voice came out slightly strained.
Mohsin raised an eyebrow.
Then he looked at the screen.
Roman immediately pressed a few keys.
The windows minimized.
The screen returned to a normal desktop.
Mohsin's eyebrow lifted higher.
"That was suspicious."
Roman forced a small smile.
"I was just debugging something."
"You looked like you were hacking the Pentagon."
Roman let out a quiet, awkward laugh.
"That's… illegal."
Mohsin pulled a chair and sat beside him.
"Relax. I was joking."
Roman nodded.
But his fingers still tapped nervously against the desk.
Mohsin noticed.
He studied Roman for a moment.
Roman was easy to miss, not because he was ordinary, but because he usually potray himself so no one would care about him .Standing close to six feet, his frame was deceptively broad, though he seemed to shrink into himself with the help of oversized hoodies and baggy sweatshirts. Long strands of dark hair fell across his forehead, nearly brushing the lenses of his glasses, giving him a wolf-like silhouette—lean, sharp, and observant—but intentionally obscured, as if he preferred the world to see only fragments of him. His eyes had a strange, almost unnatural gleam, though he insisted the lenses were purely corrective. He often joked—half to himself, half to Mohsin who asked—that it felt awkward not to wear them, as though his vision and identity were entwined in those round glasses.
Few knew anything of his family. Roman's father was a wealthy businessman, his influence and resources quietly pervasive throughout the city. Yet Roman never flaunted this fact; the world did not know, nor did he want it to. Fame, recognition, even casual attention—these were discomforts he carefully avoided. Only Mohsin, his one true friend, knew the truth, and Roman trusted him implicitly. It was this combination of hidden strength, deliberate concealment, and quiet power that made him intriguing, even unknowable, as though every layer peeled back only revealed more restraint, more mystery, more carefully measured presence.
Then suddenly Mohsin'sexpression changed to something mischievous.
"By the way…"
Roman stiffened slightly.
"I just came from the literature block."
Roman's fingers paused.
Mohsin leaned closer.
"And guess who I saw?"
Roman pretended to focus on his keyboard.
"I don't know."
"Anaya."
Roman's hand slipped slightly off the mouse.
Mohsin smirked.
"Thought so."
Roman frowned.
"What?"
"You definitely heard that name."
"I hear many names."
Mohsin chuckled.
"Not like that."
Roman sighed quietly.
"Mohsin…"
But Mohsin wasn't done.
"There were police officers there," he continued casually.
Roman blinked.
"Police?"
"Yeah."
Mohsin leaned back in the chair.
"Apparently they're investigating that missing girl from the hostel."
Roman's expression remained neutral.
Too neutral.
Mohsin continued talking.
"And guess who the officers were questioning nearby."
Roman didn't respond.
"Anaya and her friends."
Roman's fingers slowly curled.
Mohsin watched him carefully.
Then he grinned.
"You should've seen your face just now."
Roman pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh please."
Mohsin nudged him.
"You've had a crush on her since first semester."
Roman's head snapped toward him.
"Lower your voice!"
Mohsin burst into laughter.
"See?!"
Roman looked around the lab quickly.
Thankfully, they were alone.
He exhaled slowly.
"You're imagining things."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
Mohsin leaned forward again.
"Then why do you suddenly appear near the zoology building every Tuesday?"
Roman opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"I have… classes nearby."
Mohsin raised both eyebrows.
"Computer science classes near zoology?"
Roman looked away.
Mohsin grinned wider.
"Exactly."
Roman rubbed his forehead tiredly.
"You talk too much."
"And you like her too much."
Roman turned sharply.
"I don't—"
Mohsin lifted his hands.
"Okay okay."
Then he leaned closer again and whispered dramatically,
"But if you don't hurry someone else might marry her."
Roman immediately cut him off.
"Mohsin."
The tone was sharp.
Much sharper than usual.
Mohsin blinked.
Roman rarely raised his voice.
Roman realized it too.
He quickly softened his expression.
"Can we drop this?"
Mohsin studied him for a moment.
Then shrugged.
"Fine."
He stood up.
"Anyway, I came to call you."
Roman frowned.
"For what?"
Mohsin looked at the wall clock.
"You seriously forgot?"
Roman followed his gaze.
The time made his stomach drop slightly.
"Oh."
Mohsin smiled.
"Maghrib prayer."
Roman swallowed.
"Right."
Mohsin stretched his arms.
"Come on. Everyone's heading to the mosque."
Roman nodded slowly.
He reached toward his keyboard.
The screen woke up again.
For a brief second—
Something flashed on it.
A folder.
A strange file name.
Then Roman quickly shut the computer down.
The monitor went black.
He stood up.
But before leaving—
Roman looked back at the computer.
Just for a second.
His expression changed.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Something else.
Something uneasy.
As if the machine behind him held something important.
Something dangerous.
"Roman?"
Mohsin's voice came from the doorway.
Roman blinked.
Then forced a small smile.
"Coming."
He grabbed his bag and followed Mohsin out of the lab.
The corridor lights flickered slightly as they walked.
Mohsin continued talking about random things.
Assignments.
Food.
Campus gossip.
Roman nodded occasionally.
But his mind wasn't there.
Because somewhere in the back of his thoughts—
A name echoed again.
Anaya.
And far behind them…
Inside Lab 3…
The computer they left behind remained silent.
The black screen reflected the empty room.
But if someone had turned it back on—
They might have seen the hidden program Roman had been running.
A program that was still processing something.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Waiting.