Restless Silence

The sky outside Ibrahim's penthouse was ink-black, the stars scattered like distant dreams. The faint glow of city lights poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting soft shadows across the sleek, modern furniture. Ibrahim had just stepped inside after a long day at the office when his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket.

He glanced at the screen and saw Ayan's name flashing. A sigh escaped him, but he answered. "Ayan," he said, his voice calm yet tinged with exhaustion.

"Ibrahim," Ayan's tone was urgent. "I found something. The post… it was uploaded from Dad's laptop."

Ibrahim froze mid-step, his fingers tightening slightly around the phone. "What?" he asked, his voice quieter but sharper.

"I know how it sounds, but it's true," Ayan continued. "Someone didn't hack it; they physically used his laptop. Whoever did this, they were in the house. Right under our noses."

A brief silence followed. Ibrahim's jaw clenched, and he ran a hand through his hair. "Did you tell Dad?"

Ayan hesitated before responding. "Of course I did. He's furious. Security has been questioned, CCTV checked—nothing. It's as if they walked in and out without leaving a trace."

Ibrahim exhaled slowly. He could imagine the chaos back at his father's house, but none of it surprised him. "And what did you expect me to say to him?"

Ayan's frustration seeped through the line. "Anything. Something. You're his son too, Ibrahim. This involves all of us."

But Ibrahim only sighed, his voice steady but distant. "I have nothing to say to him, Ayan."

Before Ayan could argue further, Ibrahim added, "Take care," and ended the call with a polite, yet detached, "Salaam."

He set the phone down on the counter and let out a long breath. His eyes wandered, landing on a picture hanging on the wall. It was a photograph of his mother, her face radiant with a gentle smile, her eyes holding the warmth of a thousand suns.

Ibrahim's stoic expression cracked. A single tear slid down his cheek, unbidden, carrying with it a weight he rarely allowed himself to feel. He stepped closer to the picture, his gaze locked onto it as if searching for answers in her silent image.

"May you rest in peace, Mom," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You deserved so much more."

For a moment, he stood there, lost in the memory of her—the way her laughter once filled their home, the way she had always been a source of light in the darkness. But that light had been extinguished too soon, leaving only shadows and unresolved pain.

He closed his eyes briefly, wiping the tear away as if to bury the emotion deep within once again.

Pulling himself away, he moved to his room. Stripping off his suit jacket, he stepped into the bathroom. The sound of water from the shower filled the silence, washing over him like a temporary reprieve.

When he finally emerged, the exhaustion of the day clung to him. Ibrahim lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His mind raced, thoughts colliding about the leak, his family, and the ghost of his mother's memory that lingered in the corners of his heart.

Eventually, sleep claimed him, but even in the quiet of his dreams, the weight of reality lingered, refusing to let go.

---

Fiza stepped out of NeuraTech, the cool night air brushing against her skin. The distant hum of traffic filled the silence, but her mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the day. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started walking toward the subway station, her sneakers echoing softly against the pavement.

Just as she reached for her phone to check the time, it vibrated in her hand. Fiza glanced at the screen, her brow furrowing at the unknown number. With a slight hesitation, she answered.

"Hello?" she said, her voice firm but cautious.

"Ma'am," the voice on the other end spoke hurriedly, almost breathless. "We've got intel. Ibrahim's stepmother is planning something big against him."

Fiza froze mid-step. Her heart skipped a beat, and her fingers tightened around the phone. "What?" she asked sharply, her tone colder now.

"She's mobilizing her people, but there's someone new involved—someone we don't recognize," the voice continued.

Fiza's eyes narrowed as she processed the information. "Her men… They're like Ibrahim's men, aren't they? Always keeping him informed about her plans?"

"Yes, ma'am," the caller confirmed, hesitating for a moment. "But this new person—we don't know who he is or where he came from."

Frustration bubbled up in Fiza's chest. She clenched her teeth and replied curtly, "Keep an eye on her and inform me the moment you find out who that person is."

"Yes, ma'am."

Without another word, she ended the call and exhaled sharply, trying to control the rising tide of anger within her. That woman. Instead of confronting her husband for his heinous act, she's targeting Ibrahim.

Her mind raced, connecting dots and considering possibilities. Fiza pulled her phone out again and quickly dialed another number.

The line was picked up almost instantly. "Yes, ma'am?" came the professional voice on the other end.

"Increase security around the penthouse," Fiza ordered, her voice steely and unwavering. "I don't want anyone getting anywhere near it. Do you understand?"

"Understood, ma'am," the person replied promptly.

"Good," she said and ended the call.

Fiza took a deep breath, looking around at the quiet street, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "That woman," she muttered under her breath. "If she wants to play games, maybe it's time I teach her a lesson too."

Her eyes darkened with resolve. This wasn't just about Ibrahim anymore; it was about protecting someone who didn't deserve to bear the weight of his family's sins. Fiza straightened her posture and walked forward with purpose, the faint glint of determination flickering in her gaze as the night stretched ahead.