The Echoes of the Past

The morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ibrahim Siddiqui's corner office, illuminating his impeccable desk. Everything about the room—its minimalist decor, sharp angles, and muted tones—mirrored the man who occupied it. Ibrahim sat, lost in thought, a familiar folder open before him.

Fiza Alvi.

Her resume had captured his attention from the moment it crossed his desk. Her credentials were exceptional, almost too exceptional for the position she now held. Overqualified employees weren't unusual, but her presence felt… deliberate.

"Yousaf," Ibrahim called out, his voice calm but commanding.

Yousaf stepped in promptly, a notepad in hand. "Yes, sir?"

"Have HR dig deeper into Miss Alvi's background. Financial reasons for a position like this seem plausible on the surface, but I want to be certain." Ibrahim's gaze never left the resume. "Anything unusual, no matter how small, bring it to me."

Yousaf nodded. "Understood, sir. I'll follow up immediately."

As the door clicked shut, Ibrahim leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting toward the skyline. Zarvahn's bustling cityscape spread before him, a constant reminder of his empire. Yet, amidst the concrete and steel, an unsettling unease lingered.

He wasn't sure why, but Fiza's name clung to his thoughts like a shadow.

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The sharp sound of the elevator chiming drew Ibrahim's attention. Moments later, Ayan Siddiqui entered the office, his vibrant energy a stark contrast to Ibrahim's stern demeanor.

"Brother!" Ayan greeted, his tone bright as he walked in without hesitation.

"Ayan." Ibrahim's voice softened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.

Ayan dropped into the chair opposite him, loosening his tie as if he owned the room. "So, how's life ruling the tech world?"

"Productive," Ibrahim replied dryly. "Though I'm not here to entertain your small talk."

Ayan smirked, undeterred. "Fine, let's skip the pleasantries. I wanted to check in before I'm roped into endless meetings."

Ibrahim regarded his younger brother with a mixture of affection and exasperation. Ayan's charm and carefree attitude often masked a sharp mind, but it wasn't always easy to discern where his loyalties lay.

As their conversation shifted to business, Ibrahim's thoughts occasionally drifted back to Fiza. He didn't share his suspicions with Ayan; he didn't need distractions clouding his judgment.

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Hours passed, and the day's routine unfolded with precision. Yet Ibrahim's sharp eyes occasionally strayed toward the glass walls separating his office from the rest of the floor. He watched as Fiza moved through her tasks, her focus unwavering.

There was something in her movements, her demeanor—a quiet intensity that didn't fit the narrative she had presented. It wasn't fear or nervousness. It was something deeper.

"Yousaf," Ibrahim called again.

"Yes, sir?"

"Keep me updated on her performance. Daily."

"Yes, sir."

As Yousaf left, Ibrahim leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk. He was a man who thrived on answers, on control. And Fiza Alvi represented an anomaly he couldn't ignore.

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Fiza's Perspective:

The hum of NeuraTech's office felt almost suffocating to Fiza as she stared at the rows of data on her screen. Her hands moved steadily across the keyboard, but her mind churned with memories.

Every step she had taken to get here had been for one reason: justice for her family. The loss her family had endured—the betrayal that had reduced the once-proud Alvi name to whispers of pity—fueled her every decision.

She hadn't expected the sight of NeuraTech's sleek corridors to bring back such sharp memories. Yet every polished floor and towering glass panel reminded her of what had been stolen.

Her fingers paused over the keyboard as a vivid image of her father crossed her mind: Hafeez Alvi, a man of integrity and ambition, reduced to silence and defeat. The sting of his pain and the quiet resignation in his eyes had been unbearable to witness.

Her grip tightened on the edge of her desk. *They will pay,* she thought, her resolve hardening.

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Later, during her break, Fiza found a quiet corner in the cafeteria. Her untouched lunch sat beside her as she pretended to review documents. In truth, she was too restless to eat.

Her phone buzzed, pulling her attention away from the screen. It was a message from Aqsa:

"How's it going? Any updates?"

Fiza hesitated for a moment before typing back: "The usual. Slow progress, but I'll get there."

The reply came instantly: "Just be careful. I know why you're doing this, but… don't lose yourself in the process."

Fiza stared at the screen, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Aqsa's support had always been her anchor. She had confided everything to her elder sister—her rage, her pain, her plans—because she couldn't bear to carry the weight alone.

"I'm fine, Aqsa. I've got this," Fiza replied finally.

But even as she sent the message, Aqsa's words lingered in her mind. She wasn't just risking her career by being at NeuraTech; she was risking everything. Aqsa had begged her more than once to reconsider, but Fiza had made her choice.

She closed her phone and leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. The sound of laughter and casual conversations from other employees grated against her nerves. How could these people sit so comfortably, oblivious to the damage caused by the Siddiqui name?

Her gaze hardened. No matter the cost, she had to see this through.

"Mind if I join you?"

The voice startled her. She looked up to see Ayan Siddiqui standing there, his smile disarming.

"Um, sure," she said cautiously, moving her files to make room.

Ayan introduced himself, his tone light and friendly. Fiza responded politely but kept her guard up.

The conversation was brief, but even after Ayan left, Fiza felt uneasy. Her mind churned with questions. Was he as harmless as he seemed?

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As the day dragged on, every task, every interaction served as a painful reminder of why she was here. The Alvi family had been thriving until the Siddiquis had crossed their path. Fiza didn't know if it had been greed, arrogance, or both, but the result was clear: her family's downfall.

Every number she analyzed on her screen felt like a mockery. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to stay composed. But inside, her rage simmered, building with every passing second.

She replayed her father's words in her mind, spoken softly yet filled with weight: *"Never let them see your pain, Fiza. Be stronger than they expect."*

And she would. For her family, for herself, she would see this through.

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As the office emptied, Fiza packed her belongings with deliberate care. She had survived another day, but the battle was far from over.

She exited the building, her steps steady, her face calm. But inside, the fire raged. Every moment spent at NeuraTech was another step closer to justice.

No matter how challenging the road became, Fiza Alvi was prepared. She would not falter.

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