The neon sign of the cafe in Gulberg 3 sputtered, a flickering pink scorpion against the deepening indigo of the evening sky. From his usual table by the window, Arslan watched the theatre of the street unfold. This was his ritual—a single cup of overly-sweet Kashmiri chai, the steam fogging the glass, and the lives of others his only entertainment.
Gulberg 3 after dark was a creature of two minds. By day, it was all business suits and hurried lunches, the respectable facade of Lahore’s elite. But as the sun retreated, a different pulse began to thrum through its wide, tree-lined streets. Luxury sedans, their windows tinted to a predatory black, glided soundlessly past groups of young men laughing too loudly, their cologne a cloud in the warm air. He watched the women, a spectrum of intent—some in elegant shalwar kameez, heading home from a day at the office; others in dazzling, body-hugging dresses, their eyes holding a calculated challenge, heading towards the glow of the rooftop restaurants and exclusive clubs.
It was here he saw her. Not one of the obvious ones, not a character from the cliché. She emerged from a non-descript building, not a five-star hotel. She was, perhaps, the most ordinary-looking remarkable person he had ever seen. Dressed not to scream, but to whisper—a simple, impeccably tailored linen shirt, dark trousers, heels that clicked with purpose, not provocation. She carried a leather satchel, not a glittering clutch. She could have been an architect, a graphic designer, a journalist. But Arslan, a student of human currency, knew better. It was in the slight hesitation at the curb, the way her eyes scanned the street not for a friend, but for a specific make of car. It was in the invisible bubble of transaction that surrounded her, a cocktail of anticipation and detachment Escorts in Gulberg 3 Lahore
Her client arrived. A man in his late forties, the kind whose watch cost more than Arslan’s motorcycle. He stepped out, all practiced chivalry, opening the door of his Mercedes for her. Their exchange was brief, polite, utterly devoid of the warmth of acquaintances. It was a contract, silently acknowledged. As she slid into the passenger seat, her gaze met Arslan’s through the cafe window.
For a fraction of a second, the professional veil slipped. He didn’t see cunning or shame. He saw a profound, weary intelligence. He saw someone who had long ago mapped the price of things—of time, of attention, of discretion. Her look was not an invitation; it was a simple, stark acknowledgment of his observation.
