The rain over the Salt Cut did not ease as dawn approached. It settled into a heavy, suffocating fog that drifted off the black canal water, wrapping the brick walls and iron gates of District 4 in a cold, grey shroud.
At 4:30 AM, Barlas stood on the rusting iron platform of an abandoned water tower overlooking the canal road. His wet leather coat heavy against his shoulders, his dark eyes remained fixed on the single yellow lamp burning outside the Calle Siete tenement.
Down in the alleyways, the district was still asleep, but the dark threads of Barlas's trap were already drawing tight.
Across the Salt Cut, Garin’s couriers had finished loading three unidentifiable steel drums into the back of a covered delivery van. Under the canvas tarp lay the forged ledger, signed with Hunza's copied initials and stamped with the stolen brass seal. Two streets away from Farooq Flour Mills, an unmarked Municipal Trade Inspectorate van sat idling quietly under the shadow of the overpass, its headlights turned off, waiting for the 5:30 AM signal.
Barlas pulled his coat tighter, a low, bitter laugh escaping his lips into the damp fog.
Run your rounds, boy, Barlas thought, his fingers gripping the iron railing until his knuckles groaned. Check your locks. Hold your keys. In one hour, clean hands won't mean a thing when the city marshals throw you into the back of an iron transport.
Meanwhile, on the third floor of Calle Siete, the quiet of the morning was broken not by sirens, but by a low, sharp gasp.
Ayesha stood by the narrow window, holding a wooden bowl of water. Suddenly, her grip slipped, and the bowl shattered against the floorboards, splashing cold water across the woven floor mat. She caught herself against the window frame, her knees giving way as a sudden, intense contraction coursed through her body.
"Hunza..." she whispered, her voice trembling in the dark room.
In the hallway outside, a neighboring woman—an elderly midwife who lived down the landing—heard the sound of glass breaking and hurried to the door. She pushed it open, saw Ayesha gripping the window frame, and immediately rushed to her side, supporting her weight.
"The time has come, child," the old woman said, checking her pale face and rapid breathing. "The baby is coming early. We need to get you to the clinic on Calle Siete right now!"
"Hunza..." Ayesha breathed, tears of pain and fear brimming in her eyes as another sharp wave hit her. "He's... he's at the mill... on the night shift..."
"I'll send a boy to the mill gates," the midwife urged, helping Ayesha step carefully toward the door. "But we cannot wait. We must move now!"
Two streets away, inside the quiet yard of Farooq Flour Mills, Hunza stood near the rear intake chute.
The air was unusually heavy. The hum of the night engines had settled, leaving only the sound of rainwater dripping off the tin eaves. Hunza shone his wooden flashlight along the perimeter wall, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, disciplined rhythm. His ₱700 wage was folded neatly inside his pocket, and his mind was filled with quiet gratitude for the peace Allah had granted his home.
Suddenly, a faint metallic clatter echoed from the back fence near the timber shed.
Hunza paused, his sharp eyes narrowing into the fog. He clicked off his flashlight, dropping into his low, balanced stance, and stepped silently toward the dark alley wall.
He did not know that a covered van was turning the corner onto the canal road. He did not know that three steel drums of illegal fuel were about to be rolled against his gate. He did not know that the municipal marshals were clicking the safety catches off their sidearms three blocks away. And he did not know that at that very moment, Ayesha was being carried down the steep stairs of Calle Siete into the storm.
As the church bell at the square struck five slow, heavy tolls, the shadow of Barlas’s revenge and the arrival of a new life collided in the dark heart of District 4.
END OF VOLUME 1