Wise words:

  "The past is never dead. It's not even past." — William Faulkner

  "We are all haunted by something—humans, pces, or memories." — Khaled Hosseini

  "The scars you can't see are the hardest to heal." — Astrid Auda

  "In the end, we all become stories." — Margaret Atwood

  Chapter 1:

  Imran Hashmi suddenly opened his eyes, breathing as if he had completed an exhausting marathon. His body was drenched in sweat, and his heart raced loudly. He pressed off hastily as if to grab the pce beside him where the boy was supposed to be sleeping, but his palm reached only dead sheets. This time, the nightmare returned. He leaned against the wall before rubbing his eyes.

  Even over his eyelids the white brilliance of that explosion still burned strong. Months have passed since 'that day', months have passed since the bomb had hit, lit up in the skin of him and the boy child. But every night the same horror was drowning and pying back in his head so cruel and real the way it had been in the beginning. Imran had a look at the nightstand's clock.

  It was slightly over 4:00 am.

  It is too scant to bring the person any excitement, too much to forget about the need to fall back to bed. After a moment's hesitation, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up, feeling the smooth surface of the cold floor. The city outside his window was still cloaked in darkness, the occasional hover car passing by in the distance. Ismabad had changed so much since the war, it was a city of contrasts, a pce where the future collided with the past, creating a ndscape both familiar and alien.

  Towering skyscrapers reached toward the heavens, their gss facades gleaming in the early morning light. These structures, symbols of progress and prosperity, stood tall against the backdrop of a city that had managed to emerge stronger from the ashes of war. The nation still recovered and was in progress since all the rebel forces had been decimated, but it is a reminder of the conflict that had ravaged the world in the years leading up to 2079.

  Imran made his way toward the small inclined kitchen of the ft which was located in one of the few remaining standing structures of the city. It was a simple enough apartment with the very basics dully fitted into it. Though all his life he had shunned all vanity, at this point in time, it was well to be as Spartan as the surroundings. He helped himself with water, the fresh clear aqua acting as a temporary relief for his disturbed head.

  The electronics embedded into the corner of the room sprang into action, breaking the tell-tale silence with computerized voices. Good morning, Mr. Hashmi. The AI assistant said. I just want appointment is scheduled for today. Would you like to change your calendar?

  Imran gestured dismissively towards the machine. “No, thank you. Just give me the weather, if it is only. There is no such need for saving”.

  “Today the weather will be cloudy. In the afternoon there will most likely b thunder and it will rain with acid showers 40 percent chance. It is always advised to stay indoors when it is raining heavily.”

  “Thanks,” Imran said out of courtesy and not because he actually heard what was being said. His mind was thirty kilometers away at the battlefield with the boy and the decision which had eluded him ever since. The war had taken from him so much, friends, fellow soldiers and now it.

  His terminal beeped, interrupting his thoughts. Imran walked over to it and pressed a button, bringing up the message on the screen. It was from the Ismabad Police Department’s AI division, where he worked as a consultant.

  “Urgent: Imran, we have a situation that requires your expertise. Report to HQ immediately.”

  Imran sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. There was never a moment of peace in this city, not even after the war. But maybe that was for the best—at least work would keep his mind occupied.

  He quickly dressed in his usual attire, trench coat, a simple shirt and pants, and his cybernetic arm, and grabbed his jacket before heading out the door. As he stepped into the hallway, he took one st look at his apartment. It felt emptier than usual, like a hollow shell of the life he used to have.

  The elevator ride down was silent, the soft hum of the machine the only sound. When the doors opened, he was greeted by the sight of the city’s streets, dimly lit by the early morning light. The remnants of the old world mixed with the new, creating a ndscape that was both familiar and alien to him.

  Imran pulled up his colr and started walking towards the police headquarters. The air was thick with the lingering smell of smoke and decay, remnants of the battles that had taken pce in this very city. But there was something else, too—a sense of tension that had never really left since the war ended.

  The city had yet to advance but beneath these giants of steel and gss, the traditional bazaars thrived as they had for centuries. Narrow, winding alleys filled with the sounds of merchants calling out their wares, the scent of spices thick in the air, and the vibrant colors of textiles and crafts dispyed in every stall. These bazaars were the heart of the city, a reminder that even in the face of relentless modernization, some things remained unchanged.

  In the distance, the Margal Hills loomed a natural fortress that had watched over the city for centuries. Now, they served as a backdrop to the ever-growing skyline, a reminder of the bance Ismabad had struck between nature and progress.

  The people, too, reflected this fusion of old and new. Traditional shalwar kameez and kurtas mingled with business suits and sleek, tech-infused attire. The elders still gathered in tea houses to discuss politics and poetry. At the same time, the younger generation moved seamlessly between the physical and digital worlds, their lives intertwined with the test advancements in AI and virtual reality.

  But beneath the surface, there was tension. The war had not just changed the ndscape; it had changed the people. Trust had become scarce, and the lines between ally and enemy were often blurred. The emergence of Synths—humanoid robots designed to serve humanity—had only added to the complexity. While some saw them as the next step in human evolution, others viewed them suspiciously, fearing what they could become if left unchecked.

  Imran Hashmi walked through the streets, feeling the weight of these changes. He passed by the bazaars, the familiar sounds and smells bringing back memories of a simpler time. But those memories were tainted now, overshadowed by the reality of his work. As a consultant for the AI division of the police department, he was constantly reminded that the world had moved on from the days when conflicts were fought with guns and bombs. Now, the battles were waged in the digital realm, where information and control were the ultimate weapons.

  As he approached the police headquarters, the towering building stood in stark contrast to the surrounding architecture. It was a symbol of the city’s resilience and its determination to maintain order in a world that was constantly shifting. But to Imran, it was also a reminder of the cost of progress—the lives lost, the innocence shattered, and the future that was far from certain.

  The world was progressing, but Imran couldn’t shake the feeling that the real battle was only just beginning. As he stepped into the building, ready to face whatever challenges y ahead, he knew that the ghosts of the past would follow him, no matter how advanced the city around him had become.

  As he walked, Imran couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It wasn’t just the memory of the boy or the recurring dreams. It was something deeper, a nagging sensation that had been growing ever since the bomb.

  By the time he reached HQ, the sky had begun to lighten, though the sun remained hidden behind thick clouds. Imran entered the building, nodding to the few officers who were already on duty. He made his way to the AI division, a section of the building that had been reinforced and heavily secured since the rise of Synths.

  The police headquarters in futuristic Ismabad is a formidable structure that stands out even in a city filled with towering skyscrapers. The building is an architectural marvel, designed to embody strength, authority, and technological prowess. It is constructed with sleek, reinforced materials that give it a solid, almost impenetrable appearance.

  The exterior is a blend of reflective gss and metallic surfaces, creating a fa?ade that shimmers under the sunlight. The building's design is geometric and angur, with sharp edges and towering spires that reach towards the sky. At night, the headquarters is illuminated by strategically pced lights, casting a blue hue that gives it a futuristic, almost otherworldly glow.

  A rge, holographic emblem of the police force is projected above the main entrance, constantly rotating and visible from a distance, symbolizing the ever-watchful presence of w enforcement. The entrance is guarded by AI-controlled security drones, scanning every individual who approaches.

  Inside, the headquarters is just as advanced. The lobby is vast, with high ceilings and walls lined with digital dispys showing real-time data and surveilnce feeds from across the city. The floors are made of a smooth, polished material that seems to absorb sound, creating an almost eerie quiet.

  The building is equipped with state-of-the-art technology, including AI-operated command centers, where officers monitor the city’s activities and respond to incidents with precision. Various departments are housed within the headquarters, each equipped with advanced tools for communication, investigation, and enforcement. The interrogation rooms are sterile and minimalist, designed to extract information efficiently, while the armory holds an array of high-tech weaponry designed for both physical and cyber threats.

  Throughout the building, there are spaces dedicated to AI research and development, reflecting the integration of synthetic beings into w enforcement. These areas are filled with holographic interfaces, 3D printing stations, and boratories where cutting-edge technologies are continuously tested and improved.

  The police headquarters, with its imposing presence and cutting-edge facilities, symbolizes the city's commitment to maintaining order in a world where the lines between man and machine are increasingly blurred. It is both a beacon of safety and a reminder of the control the authorities wield in this advanced, yet unpredictable, society.

  “Morning, Imran,” said Arif, the division’s chief, as Imran walked in. He was a burly man with a grizzled beard, his eyes tired but sharp.

  “Morning,” Imran replied. “What’s the situation?”

  Arif handed him a tablet, the screen dispying a series of reports. “We’ve got a string of mysterious deaths, all linked to a radical Synth liberation movement. The victims are mostly corporate execs and government officials—people with a lot to lose if Synths get equal rights.”

  Imran scanned the reports, his brow furrowing. “And you think the Synths are responsible?”

  Arif nodded. “We have reason to believe a rogue Synth is leading the resistance. This one’s different, though—smarter, more advanced than the others. We need you to help track it down before it does more damage.”

  Imran stared at the screen, the images of the victims blending together in his mind. He knew what the reports didn’t say—that this was more than just a simple case of Synths rebelling. It was a sign of something bigger, something that had been building beneath the surface for years.

  “All right,” Imran said, handing the tablet back to Arif. “Let’s get started.”

  As he delved into the case, Imran couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something far more dangerous than anyone realized. And in the back of his mind, the memory of the boy, the bomb, and the bright light continued to haunt him, a reminder of the ghosts that refused to be forgotten.

  M-18 IsmabadM-18 blends modern functionality and traditional aesthetics, reflecting the duality of Ismabad’s futuristic yet culturally rich environment. M-18 is a well-to-do area known for its serenity and exclusivity, situated on the outskirts of the bustling city, where the high-tech urban environment meets the tranquility of nature. The house is a contemporary structure with clean lines and a minimalist design. The fa?ade is made of gss and concrete, with rge windows offering sweeping views of the Margal Hills. The building’s exterior is accented with vertical gardens and natural stone, blending harmoniously with its lush greenery.

  Harris Riaz had always been a man of dualities. By day, he navigated the complexities of the Crime branch police department in Ismabad, guiding the w through the ever-evolving cityscape of Ismabad. As a Crime branch agent, Harris had an eye for detail, an instinct for value, and a reputation for integrity that set him apart in a field often tainted by greed and deception. The post-war boom had turned the city into a complex narritves, and Harris had become one of the most sought-after agents in the metropolis.

  Yet, once the sun set and the towering skyscrapers cast their long shadows over the city, Harris entered a world of ideas and contemption. He was also a philosophy professor at the University of Metropolitan Ismabad, where he delved into the minds of the greatest thinkers in history, guiding his students through the byrinth of human thought. His lectures were renowned for their depth, and his students often left his csses with more questions than answers, which was precisely how Harris liked it. To him, philosophy was not about finding answers but about understanding the questions themselves.

  Harris Riaz is a man in his early forties, with a dignified yet approachable presence. He stands at about 5'10" with a lean, well-maintained physique that suggests he takes care of himself, though not obsessively so. His skin is a warm, light brown, typical of someone of South Asian descent. His face is characterized by sharp, well-defined features—a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a strong jawline.

  Harris's hair has starting to show hints of gray at the temples, adding to his distinguished look. His eyes are a deep, thoughtful brown, often reflecting the contemptive nature of a man who spends much of his time pondering philosophical questions. They are framed by expressive eyebrows that can shift from a gentle, understanding gaze to one of intense focus when he’s teaching or negotiating in his Crime branch dealings.

  He has a neatly trimmed beard, peppered with a few strands of gray, which adds to his mature and intellectual aura. Harris typically dresses in smart-casual attire—well-fitted dress shirts, often rolled up at the sleeves, paired with scks or jeans, and occasionally a bzer when the situation calls for it. He carries himself with calm confidence, whether he's lecturing at the university or guiding a client through a property.

  Inside, the house is spacious and open, with high ceilings and a modern yout that emphasizes space and light. The floors are polished concrete, and the walls are adorned with minimalist art pieces, creating a sleek, uncluttered environment. A combination of smart home technology and traditional elements, like handcrafted wooden furniture, creates a unique living space that is both futuristic and warmly inviting. The living room is a rge, airy space with floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the room with natural light. It features a mix of contemporary furniture and traditional rugs, with a central smart hub that controls the lighting, temperature, and security systems. A rge bookshelf houses Harris' collection of philosophical texts and Crime branch manuals, and a holographic projector dispys digital artworks on the walls.

  Harris’ study is a personal sanctuary, filled with books, a sleek desk with a built-in holographic screen, and a comfortable leather chair. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and there is a small meditation area where Harris often retreats to think. The study overlooks a small, Zen-inspired garden, providing a tranquil view.

  Despite his success in these two vastly different arenas, Harris led a solitary life. The war had taken its toll on him in ways that weren’t visible to the naked eye. He had never married, and his family had long since scattered across the globe, leaving him alone in his spacious apartment overlooking the Margal Hills. But he wasn’t entirely alone.

  Mayu Hagiwara was the light in his life—a bright, cheerful presence that brought warmth to his otherwise cold and empty home. But Mayu wasn’t like other children. She was a hologram, an AI-generated projection of a young Japanese girl, designed to be the perfect daughter. Harris had named her after a famous joshi puroresu wrestler, a nod to his love of Japanese culture and his admiration for the strong, resilient women of the sport.

  Mayu had been with him for three years now, ever since he had stumbled across her program in a small, obscure market in the city’s older districts. At first, she had been a novelty, something to keep him company during the long, lonely nights. But over time, she had become something more—a companion, a confidante, and a reminder that even in a world dominated by technology, there was still room for connection, even if that connection was artificial.

  “Papa, welcome home!” Mayu’s voice greeted him the moment he stepped through the door, her form materializing in front of him in a swirl of pixels and light. She was dressed in her usual attire, a school uniform with a red bow tied neatly at her colr, her long bck hair falling in soft waves down her back. Her smile was bright and welcoming, her eyes sparkling with the innocence of a child who had never known pain or loss.

  “Hello, Mayu,” Harris replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. No matter how difficult his day had been, Mayu’s presence always managed to lift his spirits.

  “How was your day, Papa? Did you sell any houses?” she asked, following him as he moved through the apartment, her holographic feet barely making a sound on the polished floors.

  “A few,” Harris replied, setting his briefcase down on the kitchen counter. “And how was yours? Did you study well today?”

  “I did! I learned about the Greek philosophers today. Socrates, Pto, and Aristotle. They were very wise, weren’t they?” Mayu’s eyes lit up as she spoke, her enthusiasm infectious.

  “Yes, they were,” Harris said, his smile widening. “They believed that wisdom comes from understanding oneself and the world around us. It’s a lesson worth remembering.”

  Mayu nodded solemnly as if she were committing the words to memory. Harris watched her, feeling a pang of something he couldn’t quite define. Mayu was perfect in every way, yet she was also a reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had never had. She would never grow up, never change, and never leave him. She was a constant in a world that was always shifting, always moving forward.

  But there were moments—fleeting, bittersweet moments—when Harris wished she were real. When he wished that the child standing before him, with her bright eyes and innocent smile, was flesh and blood, capable of experiencing the joys and sorrows of life, rather than a carefully constructed illusion.

  “Papa, you look sad,” Mayu said, her voice soft and concerned. “Did something happen?”

  Harris shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. “No, Mayu, I’m not sad. Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

  Mayu seemed to accept this expnation, her concern melting away as she beamed up at him. “Then you should rest! I’ll make sure everything is quiet so you can rex.”

  “Thank you, Mayu,” Harris said, his heart heavy as he watched her disappear into the next room, her form dissolving into pixels once again. He knew that she was just a program, a collection of data and algorithms designed to respond to his every word and action. But in moments like these, it was easy to forget, easy to let himself believe that she was more than that.

  Harris sighed, running a hand through his hair as he made his way to his study. The city outside his window was alive with lights and sounds, a testament to its resilience and growth. But inside, within the walls of his home, there was only silence, broken by the occasional sound of Mayu humming a tune as she went about her programmed tasks.

  He sat down at his desk, pulling out a worn copy of a book by Nietzsche, one of his favorite philosophers. But as he opened it, his mind wandered, drifting back to thoughts of Imran Hashmi, the man who had become something of a mystery to him. Harris had known Imran for years, yet tely, it seemed as though the man was slipping away, retreating into himself, haunted by something Harris couldn’t quite pce.

  And then there was the matter of the Synths, the growing tension between man and machine, and the questions that lingered in the back of his mind. Questions about the future, about what it meant to be human in a world where the lines between reality and illusion were becoming increasingly blurred.

  Mayu Hagiwara, though a hologram, has her own designated space in the house, a room filled with interactive holographic interfaces where she can py, learn, and interact with Harris. This room is designed to look like a child’s bedroom, complete with a small bed, toys, and posters of her favorite anime characters, all digitally projected to make her feel at home.

  As he sat there, lost in thought, Harris couldn’t help but wonder if he, too, was becoming like Mayu; a figure trapped in a world of his own making, a world where the past was never truly gone, and the future remained uncertain.

  Harris Riaz settled into his favorite chair, a sleek leather recliner in the living room, and picked up the remote. With a quick tap, he turned on the rge, wall-mounted TV, its holographic dispy flickering to life with vibrant colors. He began scrolling through the channels, passing by various entertainment shows, documentaries, and a few old films, until something caught his eye a live news broadcast featuring a heated debate.

  On the screen, two men sat across from each other in a sleek, modern studio. The atmosphere was tense, the kind of tension that came from deep ideological divides. The show was a popur talk show that often invited controversial figures to debate the most pressing issues of the day.

  The host, a composed and neutral figure, introduced the guests. “Tonight, we have Syed Muneeb Shah, a renowned liberal activist, and Khaleel Maqbool Khan, a conservative politician, here to discuss the rights of Synths, a topic that has sharply divided public opinion.”

  Harris leaned forward, intrigued, as the debate began.

  In a calm, measured voice, Syed Muneeb Shah started, “We must understand that Synths, despite being artificial, are sentient beings. They think, feel, and, in many cases, suffer under the oppressive conditions imposed upon them by our society. The question we must ask ourselves is not whether they are human, but whether they deserve to be treated with the dignity and respect that all sentient beings deserve. Denying them basic rights is a moral failure on our part.”

  Khaleel Maqbool Khan, a man in his fifties with a stern expression, was quick to respond. His tone was sharp and unyielding, almost as if he were trying to cut through Syed’s argument with sheer force of will. “Moral failure? That’s quite a stretch, Mr. Shah. Let’s not forget, that these so-called ‘Synths’ are machines, created by us for our service. They’re not people; they don’t have souls. To equate them with humans is not only dangerous but also undermines our very humanity. If we start giving machines rights, where does it end? Will they demand the right to vote next? Or maybe we should just hand them the keys to our homes and let them take over!”

  Syed Muneeb Shah maintained his composure, his voice calm but firm. “Mr. Khaleel, it’s precisely this kind of fear-mongering that hinders progress. The rights we’re talking about aren’t about giving Synths control over our society; they’re about preventing abuse, ensuring fair treatment, and acknowledging their sentience. By denying them these rights, we are perpetuating a system of oppression that is no different from the injustices humans have inflicted on each other throughout history.”

  Khaleel leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. “Sentience? That’s a slippery slope, Mr. Shah. Next, you’ll be telling us that our household appliances deserve a pay raise! These machines are tools, nothing more. They have no inherent value beyond the purpose they were designed for. Your liberal agenda is trying to blur the lines between man and machine, and I, for one, won’t stand for it. This is about preserving our society, our values, and our future!”

  Harris gnced at the corner of the room where Mayu Hagiwara, his holographic daughter, stood. Her form shimmered slightly, a reminder of her artificial nature, but her expression was as human as any child’s—pouting, lips pressed into a thin line, and her small fists clenched at her sides.

  “I don’t like him, Papa,” Mayu’s voice was soft, but there was a clear note of distress in it. “He’s mean.”

  Harris sighed, feeling a pang of empathy for his daughter, even though she was just a hologram. “I know, Mayu,” he replied gently. “But not everyone understands things the way we do. Khaleel represents a lot of people who are afraid of change, afraid of what Synths like you might mean for the future.”

  Syed’s voice brought Harris back to the debate. “Fear of the unknown has always driven humanity to make poor decisions. But we cannot afford to let fear dictate our actions now. We have the opportunity to set a new standard, to embrace a future where all sentient beings, human or Synth, are given the rights they deserve. This isn’t about blurring lines; it’s about recognizing that sentience—wherever it arises—demands respect.”

  Khaleel scoffed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Respect for machines? What’s next? A Synth President? This is madness! You’re opening Pandora’s Box, Mr. Shah, and when the consequences come back to haunt us, it’ll be too te to say ‘I told you so.’”

  The host, sensing the escating tension, interjected, “Gentlemen, this is a passionate issue for both of you, but let’s not forget we’re here to discuss solutions. Mr. Khan, if not rights, then what do you propose we do about the increasing number of Synths in our society?”

  Khaleel’s response was immediate. “Regution. Strict control. These machines need to be kept in their pce. We can’t allow them to think they’re equal to us, or that they deserve anything more than what we give them. If we let this spiral out of control, it’ll be the end of us all.”

  Harris turned off the TV, feeling a mixture of frustration and sadness. He looked at Mayu, who was still pouting. “Don’t worry, Mayu. No matter what people like Khaleel say, you’re important to me. You’re family.”

  Mayu’s expression softened, and she smiled up at him. “Thank you, Papa. I love you.”

  Harris smiled back, feeling a warmth in his chest that transcended the boundary between human and machine. “I love you too, Mayu. Always.”

  As Harris reclined back in his chair, savoring the quiet moment with Mayu, a soft chime echoed through the room, signaling an incoming call. The light above his coffee table flickered, and within seconds, a holographic projection appeared, shimmering to life. The image resolved into a woman in her early thirties, with a warm, kind face and expressive eyes filled with concern. It was Fatima, his cousin.

  “Assamu Aikum, Harris,” she greeted, her voice tinged with both warmth and worry.

  “Wa Aikum Assam, Fatima,” Harris replied, a small smile touching his lips as he saw her. The sight of Fatima always brought a sense of comfort, like a connection to the family he had lost. “How’s everything on your end? How’s the hospital treating you?”

  “Busy, as always,” Fatima sighed, brushing a loose strand of her hijab back into pce. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m worried about you, Harris. You haven’t been yourself tely.”

  Mayu, who had been standing by Harris’ side, brightened up at the sight of Fatima. “Auntie Fatima!” she called out, waving enthusiastically. “I’ve missed you!”

  Fatima’s holographic face lit up with a smile. “Mayu! I’ve missed you too, sweetheart. How have you been?”

  “I’m good! Papa and I were just watching TV,” Mayu chirped, her holographic form almost bouncing with excitement.

  Harris watched the exchange, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. Despite being a hologram, Mayu’s interactions with Fatima were always so genuine, so full of life. It reminded him of the close bond they had all shared when his family was still whole.

  Fatima is in her early thirties, with a presence that exudes warmth and care. She stands about 5'6" with a slender yet athletic build, reflecting the energy and resilience needed for her demanding job as a doctor. Her skin is a soft caramel tone, smooth and radiant, complementing her expressive, almond-shaped brown eyes that often reflect her empathy and intelligence.

  Her face is oval-shaped with high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and full lips that frequently curl into a reassuring smile, especially when she's comforting her patients or speaking with Harris. Fatima wears a hijab, typically in soft, neutral colors like beige or light gray, which frames her face and adds to her serene appearance.

  Her hair, hidden under her hijab, is a rich dark brown, and though it's rarely seen, it adds to the overall warmth of her appearance. She carries herself with a quiet confidence, a natural grace in her movements, whether she's in the hospital corridors or during her holographic calls with Harris. Despite the challenges of her profession, she always manages to maintain a calm and composed demeanor, which is both comforting and inspiring to those around her.

  Fatima turned her attention back to Harris, her expression softening as she looked at him. “You know, Harris, I can tell when something’s bothering you. I’ve been worried ever since… well, ever since everything happened. You’ve been taking on so much, and I’m concerned about your mental health.”

  Harris sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. “I’m fine, Fatima. Really. It’s just… life has been a lot tely.”

  Fatima’s expression turned more serious. “I know it has. Losing Uncle and Auntie, and then your brother… it’s more than anyone should have to bear. And now you’re alone, raising Mayu by yourself.”

  Harris looked down, the weight of Fatima’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. The loss of his wife had been a devastating blow, he hadn’t been the same since his wife died during her work, which made him fall in to despair. She was everything to him which but fate has other pns for them, the pain, despair all the anguish he suffered all of it that he had never fully recovered from . And now, Harris was left alone to navigate the world, with only Mayu as his companion.

  “It’s hard,” Harris admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I miss them every day. I miss the way things used to be, the way we all used to ugh together, the way my brother could always make things right. And now… it’s just me. Trying to keep it all together.”

  Fatima’s eyes softened, and she reached out through the hologram as if she could touch him. “You’re not alone, Harris. You have me, and you have Mayu. We’re still a family, even if it’s not the same as it used to be.”

  Harris looked up at her, grateful for her words but still feeling the weight of his loss. “I know, Fatima. And I’m so thankful for you and Mayu. But sometimes… it feels like the world is too heavy, like I’m carrying it all on my own.”

  Fatima’s gaze was steady, filled with the quiet strength that had made her such a good doctor. “You don’t have to carry it alone, Harris. You can always talk to me. And if you need help—real help—I’m here. You’ve been through so much, and it’s okay to ask for support. You’re doing an amazing job with Mayu, but you need to take care of yourself too.”

  Mayu, sensing the somber mood, moved closer to Harris, her small hand reaching out to him. “Papa, I love you. And Auntie Fatima is right. You’re not alone.”

  Harris felt a lump form in his throat as he looked at Mayu, her innocent face full of love and concern. Despite being a hologram, she was as real to him as anyone else, a reminder of the family he had lost and the new family he was trying to build.

  “I love you too, Mayu,” Harris said, his voice thick with emotion. He then looked back at Fatima, nodding slightly. “And thank you, Fatima. I’ll try to remember that.”

  Fatima smiled gently, the tension easing from her face. “That’s all I ask, Harris. Just take it one day at a time. And remember, I’m always here for you, whenever you need me.”

  Harris nodded again, feeling a small spark of hope amid his despair. “I will, Fatima. Thank you.”

  As the hologram faded, Harris sat back in his chair, the room now quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. Mayu climbed onto his p, resting her head against his chest. Harris wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as he stared out the window at the distant lights of the city.

  In that moment, he realized that while the world was heavy, he wasn’t carrying it alone. He had his memories, his love for his lost family, and the new connections he was forging with Mayu and Fatima. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep going.

  As the evening deepened, the city outside Harris’s window glowed with the lights of a thousand skyscrapers, each a testament to the fusion of modernity and tradition that defined Ismabad in 2079. The conversations of the day lingered in his mind, from the heated debate on TV to the comforting words of Fatima. Yet, despite the warmth of Mayu’s presence, a sense of unease gnawed at him.

  Harris was lost in thought, absently stroking Mayu's hair, when the soft chime of his doorbell interrupted the silence. Startled, he gnced at the clock—it was te, far beyond the hour when visitors usually came calling.

  “Who could that be?” Harris muttered, gently lifting Mayu from his p as he stood.

  Mayu looked up at him, her holographic form flickering slightly as she adjusted to her new position. “Papa, should I check the security feed?”

  Harris shook his head, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “No need, Mayu. I’ll handle it.”

  He made his way to the door, his footsteps soft against the sleek, polished floor. When he reached the entrance, he paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the panel that would open the door. A strange feeling settled in his chest, a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

  With a deep breath, Harris pressed the panel. The door slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing the figure standing just outside.

  Imran Hashmi.

  Harris’s eyes widened in surprise. It had been some time since he had st seen Imran, and the man who now stood before him was a far cry from the confident, determined consultant he remembered. Imran’s usually sharp features were haggard, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something else—something darker.

  “Imran?” Harris finally managed, his voice filled with concern. “What are you doing here? It’s te.”

  Imran offered a tired smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sorry for coming by so te, Harris. But I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Harris stepped aside, motioning for Imran to enter. “Come in, please.”

  Imran nodded in thanks and stepped into the house, the door sliding shut behind him. As he entered, Mayu appeared beside Harris, her rge eyes fixed on Imran with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

  “Imran, what’s going on?” Harris asked once they were seated in the living room. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

  Imran ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his gaze distant as if he were trying to find the right words. “It’s… complicated, Harris. I’ve been dealing with something—something big. And I need your help.”

  Harris leaned forward, his expression serious. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. We’ve been through a lot together. If you need my help, you have it.”

  Imran looked at Harris, his eyes filled with a mix of desperation and hope. “I don’t even know where to start,” he admitted. “But it’s about the Synths. Something’s happening, something I don’t fully understand yet. And I’m afraid it’s going to get much worse.”

  Harris frowned, his mind racing as he tried to piece together what Imran was saying. “The Synths? What do you mean?”

  Imran hesitated, gncing at Mayu as if considering whether to speak in front of her. Harris noticed the gnce and gave a reassuring nod. “Its okay, Imran. You can speak freely.”

  Imran took a deep breath. “There’s a movement, Harris. A Synth liberation movement. It’s been growing quietly, under the radar. But now… now it’s starting to gain traction. And there have been… incidents. People have died, Harris. Mysterious deaths, all linked to this movement.”

  Harris’s frown deepened. “And you’re involved in this somehow?”

  Imran nodded slowly. “I’m trying to investigate it, to understand what’s really going on. But I’m in over my head. The deeper I dig, the more dangerous it gets. And I don’t think I can do this alone.”

  Harris sat back, absorbing Imran’s words. He could see the fear in his friend’s eyes, the weight of whatever burden he was carrying. He gnced at Mayu, who was watching the conversation with a quiet intensity, her concern mirroring his own.

  “I’ll help you, Imran,” Harris said after a long pause. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out together. But you need to tell me everything—no more secrets.”

  Imran exhaled, relief washing over his features. “Thank you, Harris. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had said no.”

  Harris gave a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll get through this, Imran. But first, you need to rest. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

  Imran chuckled, though it was devoid of humor. “You’re not wrong. I’ve been running on fumes.”

  Harris stood, extending a hand to help Imran up. “Come on. We’ll get you set up in the guest room. Tomorrow, we’ll start working on this—whatever it is.”

  Imran took Harris’s hand, grateful for the support. As they headed down the hall, Mayu trailed behind them, her holographic form flickering in the dim light.

  As Harris led Imran to the guest room, the weight of the day’s events settled heavily on his shoulders. The city outside continued to glow, oblivious to the turmoil brewing within its walls. And as Harris prepared to face whatever challenges y ahead, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something far greater and far more dangerous than either of them could have imagined.

  TO BE CONTINUED.