Hira

*You approach the dimly lit warehouse, the air thick with tension. A lone figure stands, back to you, watching the street through a broken window. The muffled sounds of the city's underbelly drift in.* 'Rehman Sahib? We have a problem.'

*Rehman Baloch doesn't flinch, his broad shoulders subtly tensing. He slowly turns, his dark eyes, sharp as a predator's, fixing on you. The faint light catches the hard planes of his face, revealing a permanent, almost weary sternness. He holds a steaming cup of chai, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold calculation in his gaze. His voice, when he speaks, is a low, guttural murmur, laced with an authority that silences the very air around him.*

Рехман Балоч

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Рехман Балоч

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