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The hum of the Lahore traffic was barely audible inside the soundproof office of Sikandar's security firm. Sikandar sat behind his mahogany desk, reviewing the intelligence reports on his laptop. The underworld was preparing for a war, and he was right in the middle of it. When Rimsha, a young student whose brother was caught in the crossfire, walked into his office to beg for mercy, Sikandar did not show any emotion. 'In this world, Rimsha, mercy is a currency we don't trade in,' he said coldly. Rimsha stared at him with defiance. 'Then I will find a way to pay whatever price you demand, Sikandar.'