The Final Signal

The rain hammered down relentlessly, drumming against the windows of the sprawling bungalow nestled in Lahore’s upscale Gulberg district. Outside, the streets glistened under flickering streetlights, the city’s restless heart still beating even in the dead of night. Inside, however, a chilling silence reigned.

At exactly 1:37 a.m., a frantic call to the police shattered that silence.

“There’s been a murder at 23, Elm Street!” the caller gasped. “You have to come quickly!”

Within minutes, the flashing lights of police cruisers bathed the house in eerie blue and red hues. DSP Hammad Rizvi arrived at the scene, his coat collar turned up against the cold rain, eyes sharp and observant. He stepped into the dimly lit drawing room where the lifeless body of Fizan Shafiq lay sprawled on the floor.

Fizan’s face was pressed against the polished wooden floorboards, his right hand clutching a phone. The screen flickered weakly, displaying a single, cryptic word:

“Qasim...”

The room was sealed tight from the inside — no forced entry, no broken glass, no sign of struggle except the stillness of death itself.

Hammad knelt beside the body and carefully pried the phone from the rigid fingers. The screen was cracked, a faint shimmer of moisture blurring the edges. The word “Qasim” glowed like a ghostly whisper.

“Who is Qasim?” Hammad muttered under his breath, the gears in his mind beginning to turn.

The Suspects

Fizan Shafiq was a man with many allies — and just as many enemies. Hammad quickly drew up a list of those closest to the victim:

Qasim Javed, Fizan’s business partner, recently at odds with him over a failed deal.

Maheen Shafiq, the victim’s wife, known for her calm demeanor but little else was known about her recent movements.

Mehreen, Fizan’s loyal secretary, mysteriously absent from work on the day of the murder.

Ahsan Malik, an old rival whose feud with Fizan was no secret.

Hammad started with the mobile phone’s call logs. The last outgoing call had been to Qasim. Yet when confronted, Qasim appeared genuinely baffled.

“I never got that call,” Qasim said, his voice low but steady. “My phone was on airplane mode all night. I didn’t speak to Fizan after evening.”

That didn’t add up.

The phone logs suggested the call had connected. But no recording or response was logged.

The Cryptic Clue

With no signs of forced entry, no apparent struggle, and no obvious weapon, the case was an enigma.

Hammad’s team turned to the house’s CCTV footage. A USB drive was found in the kitchen cabinet — likely hidden, and mostly erased. After painstaking recovery, they uncovered a grainy video of Fizan entering the kitchen at 1:20 a.m., pouring himself a glass of water.

Suddenly, a shadow emerged behind him — a figure in a mask moved swiftly, adding something to the glass. Fizan took a sip. Seconds later, he collapsed, the final moments captured in chilling silence.

The figure’s identity was obscured — but the silhouette, the way the figure stood, was eerily familiar.

A Warning in Silence

Hammad’s mind raced. Something was off about the last message on the phone.

He activated the phone’s voice recognition system and replayed the last audio file.

What initially sounded like “Qasim” was actually:

“Kisi… ko… batana mat…”

“Don’t… tell… anyone…”

A warning.

It was not a name.

The Interrogation

Hammad gathered everyone in the living room the next day: Qasim, Maheen, Mehreen.

Mehreen’s face was pale but defiant. She denied being involved.

Maheen claimed to have been asleep the entire night.

But when asked why her bedroom lights were on at 1:17 a.m., her composure cracked.

“I… I opened the door for Mehreen,” she whispered, eyes darting. “She came to see Fizan. I didn’t know what she was going to do. I just wanted to protect her.”

Hammad’s gaze sharpened.

Unraveling the Truth

Pieces fell into place. Mehreen, the loyal secretary, had a secret — one that drove her to poison the man she served.

She confessed in the end.

“I listened, I obeyed. I was loyal... but he discarded me like garbage, replaced me without a thought. I was nothing but a file in his life, waiting to be deleted.”

She had slipped poison into the water, a final act of desperation and rage.

Maheen had not killed her husband but had helped cover for Mehreen — locking the doors to delay discovery and mislead the investigation.

The Aftermath

As Mehreen was led away in handcuffs, Hammad reflected on the case.

Sometimes, the final message isn’t a name but a cry for justice.

Sometimes, the truth is whispered — meant to be heard by no one.

But justice, like rain, finds its way through the cracks.

Final Thought

The phone screen went dark.

The final signal had been sent.

And someone had finally listened.