Islamabad — Winter, 2025
The republic was suffocating in on itself.
While looking through his tinted windows, Rayan Kaisar, 34, observed the making of the capital city's downfall in complete silence. The scene was eerily familiar—teargas in the air, rusted gates, and voices teetering on the brink of shattering. But tonight was different. This wasn't protest. It was pre-collapse inertia. A quiet resignation before the fall.
In his own right, he was a genius—neuropsychology a self-taught venture, Oxford for Economics, Sandhurst for Strategy. The man was once the youngest civilian granted the privilege to brief the National Security Council. Before they turned on him. Before his name was lost to cabinet and his reforms entombed, passport snatched.
Self-exiled. Penned works disavowed, pseudonymous. Advised governments across borders. Studied autocracy like a surgeon studied putrid flesh; blood, bone, and everything in between.
Is
Now he had returned. Not to argue. To architect.
"Sir," the cautious voice of the driver notified, "D-Chowk up ahead. There is a protest that looks like it might get ugly."
"A protest? That is lovely. I hope it does," Rayan answered.
Outside of the crumbled street lights, a multitude of students were chanting. No more loans. No more lords. We want a future. Police officers stood close by, hands twitching on batons. The Prime Minister had ran off to Dubai three days ago. No one even cared anymore.
Rayan rolled up the window, shutting out the world.
---
Six individuals were waiting under tight surveillance at a private farmhouse in Chak Shahzad.
General Munir- Ryans' former mentor at the academy, a well respected war veteran.
Zara Faisal- The daughter of a murdered journalist, a philosopher and a journalist turned protestor.
Ali Mahmud- A defamed tech mogul for revealing election fraud.
Justice Rahim- Unwavering and stoic, he looked eternally tired, yet,his strong features would have the eyes of a fierce prophet