The rain tapped softly on the windows. The sky outside was grey and quiet.
Inside the TV studio, everything was ready.
Cameras were set.
Lights were bright.
The room was silent.
Tooba Khan sat straight on the news desk. She wore a long, dark maroon dress with full sleeves and a matching scarf that was wrapped gently around her head. The scarf was simple and elegant, pinned neatly under her chin. Her eyes were calm. Her hands rested lightly on the table.
Tooba looked at the camera. A red light blinked on.
LIVE.
She smiled softly.
“Good evening,” she said clearly. “This is Tooba Khan, and you are watching Insight Hour, live from London.”
Her voice was clear and smooth, but kind. She was not loud. She did not speak fast. She knew how to speak with power—even in silence.
“To all our viewers at home, thank you for joining us. Tonight, we welcome a very important guest,” she continued. “He is one of the most talked-about leaders in Parliament right now. Some call him honest, some call him bold.”
She smiled again.
“Please welcome Mr. William Hartley, Member of Parliament and Minister of Urban Development.”
The camera turned to the man sitting beside her.
William Hartley was in his early 60s. He wore a dark blue suit and a maroon tie. His grey hair was combed neatly. His face was serious, but when he looked at Tooba, he smiled politely.
“Thank you, Ms. Khan. It’s a pleasure to be here,” he said.
Tooba gave a small nod. “Thank you for joining us, sir. I know your schedule is always full.”
She opened a file in front of her. Her fingers were gentle but firm. She was not nervous. She had done this many times.
“I’ll begin with the housing project your ministry announced last week,” she said. “There’s excitement—but also questions. Can you share the timeline with our viewers?”
William nodded. “Yes, absolutely. The project will begin this October. The goal is to build affordable homes for low-income families across five major cities.”
Tooba listened carefully. She did not interrupt.
She looked at him directly, her eyes sharp but respectful.
“That sounds promising,” she said. “But some reports say the planning stage was rushed. Will these homes meet safety standards?”
William smiled again. “Yes, I can confirm they will.”
Tooba smiled back. “Then we’ll be watching closely.”
The interview continued smoothly. She asked about transport, jobs, and social policies. He answered with careful words. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he looked serious.
Halfway through the show, she asked something a little different.
“Sir,” she said, “when you go home at the end of a long day… what do you tell yourself when the news headlines are hard?”
William paused. He looked surprised.
Tooba waited, quietly.
“I tell myself that even a small change is still a change,” he said softly.
Tooba nodded. “That’s a good thought.”
For a moment, the air was calm.
Then she looked at the camera again.
“To all our viewers,” she said, “we’re going to take a short break. When we return, we’ll talk about public trust, and how politicians can keep it.”
She smiled.
The camera slowly zoomed out.
The screen faded to black.
But the show was not over.
Not for Tooba Khan.
Because the most important questions—
Had not even begun.
She leaned back in her chair, adjusting her scarf a little.
Her smile stayed on her face.
“Tooba, that was perfect.”
“Sharp questions, good flow.”
“You made him smile without making him run!”
The studio team laughed as the crew began packing up. Lights were being dimmed, cables rolled, and cameras unplugged. Tooba smiled as she stood near her chair, fixing the clip of her scarf on one side.
“Thanks, everyone,” she said softly. “You made it easy for me.”
She picked up her notes, her tablet, and her water bottle. As always, she left the studio clean. She liked things neat. Quiet. Just like her mind.
Her producer, Julia, walked beside her. “You’re one of a kind, Tooba. You never lose your cool.”
Tooba laughed gently. “I try not to. But don’t ask me that during traffic.”
They both laughed.
Julia raised her eyebrow. “Still driving home alone tonight?”
Tooba nodded. “Yes. I love night roads. Less noise.”
“You sure you don’t want to move closer to the city?”
“Never. I like my little corner far away. That’s where peace lives.”
They smiled again. Then Julia gave her a small hug.
“Be safe.”
Tooba walked through the studio door, out into the cool London night.
The sky was cloudy. Streetlights glowed golden. There was a quiet breeze.
Tooba got into her small silver car. She adjusted her scarf again, tied her seatbelt, and turned on a soft Qur’an recitation in the background.
Surah Rahman played softly.
She drove through the clean, silent roads, passing cafes, old buildings, and tiny bookstores.
But twenty minutes later…
The engine coughed.
Then it stopped.
Tooba blinked. “No... no way.”
She checked the fuel meter.
Empty.
She laughed a little to herself. “Great job, Tooba. A news anchor who forgets fuel.”
She opened her door and stepped out. Her shoes clicked softly on the sidewalk. The air was colder here. A few shops were closed. The area was quiet, but not dark.
She took out her phone.
1% battery.
“No signal.”
She shook her head and sighed. “Wonderful.”
She looked around. She was near a quiet alley that led to a back street.
“I think there’s a petrol station this way,” she said to herself and started walking.
As she walked past the alley, something made her stop.
A sound.
Not loud.
But sharp.
Voices. Footsteps. And then…
A scream.
Tooba froze.
She stepped back into the shadow near the wall.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t run.
She just watched.
From the dark alley across the street…
A black car stood. Its door was open.
Two men in dark coats stood nearby.
Another man stood between them—he looked confused, afraid.
And then—
One man pulled something from his coat.
There was a flash.
And silence.
The man in the middle fell to the ground.
Tooba’s hand flew to her mouth.
Her heart raced.
She didn’t even feel the cold anymore.
She looked around.
No one else was there.
No sound.
Just a silent street, a still car, and a body on the ground.
The two men dragged the body into the black car. One of them looked around quickly.
Tooba stepped back into the shadow and held her breath.
The black car drove off.
Gone.
Just like that.
She stood there for a moment, unable to move.
Then she ran to the corner. The car had disappeared.
She touched her pocket.
Her phone had died.
Nothing was recorded.
No picture.
No proof.
She looked up at the small street light above.
And just across it, on the building’s side—
A small security camera blinked.
Red light.
Recording.
Tooba looked at it.
Her eyes were wide. Her face was pale.
She didn’t know what she had just seen.
She didn’t know whose life had ended.
But she knew one thing:
She had seen something no one else was supposed to see.
Tooba walked fast. Her steps were quick, but her face was calm.
She did not cry.
She did not scream.
Her heart was heavy, but her hands did not shake.
She reached the main road. There were lights ahead. A petrol pump stood at the corner, with two men filling gas in their cars.
Tooba walked straight to the small glass office.
The man inside looked up and smiled. “Yes, miss?”
“Do you have a phone charger I can borrow?” she asked politely.
The man stood up. “Yes, of course. What kind of phone?”
“Android,” she said, handing him her dead phone.
He plugged it in near his desk.
Tooba stood there quietly. Her scarf was still in place. Her dress was a little dusty from walking, but she didn’t care.
The man looked at her again. “Is everything okay?”
Tooba gave a small smile. “Yes. I just need to charge my phone. And also…”
She paused. Then slowly opened her purse and pulled out her anchor card.
It had her photo, her name—Tooba Khan, and the logo of the news channel.
The man’s eyes widened. “Oh! You’re from the media?”
She nodded.
“I need to check something,” she said. Her voice was soft, but steady. “Do you have CCTV cameras facing the side alley near your station?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “There’s one camera. It faces the street. Why?”
“I need to see the recording,” she said. “It’s very important.”
The man looked confused, but he nodded.
“Come in.”
She stepped inside.
He sat at the small computer. The screen was old but working. He clicked on the date, then the time.
“What time?” he asked.
“Just ten minutes ago,” she said.
He opened the file.
The video began to play.
The street.
The black car.
The three men.
The flash.
The fall.
Everything was clear.
Tooba stared at the screen. She did not blink.
The petrol worker looked away.
“I… I don’t know what that is,” he said slowly.
“I do,” Tooba whispered.
She took out her phone, now charged. She connected it with the computer. The man helped her copy the footage into her device.
“It’s saved,” he said.
She nodded. “Thank you. Please don’t tell anyone I was here.”
The man looked nervous. “Of course, ma’am.”
Tooba picked up her phone.
Her eyes were still on the screen.
She did not say anything.
She opened the door and stepped out.
The night was cold.
The air was quiet.
A car drove past.
A dog barked in the distance.
She stood outside the petrol pump, her phone in her hand.
The screen was dark again, but she had the video now.
She had the truth.
She took a deep breath.
Fixed her scarf.
And began to walk.
Tooba walked out of the glass room slowly, her anchor ID now tucked back inside her bag. The phone in her hand buzzed to life. The video was saved.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t look back.
Her steps were steady. Calm on the outside. A storm on the inside.
Inside the station office, the man behind the desk—Dennis—watched her go.
He waited. He watched.
And when she vanished into the night, he turned to the CCTV screen.
The murder replayed in a silent loop.
Dennis swallowed.
Then… he picked up his phone and dialed a number saved as “Mr. Cole”.
The phone rang twice. Then a deep voice answered.
“Yes?”
“It’s Dennis… from Eastway Fuel Center,” he said quickly, looking over his shoulder to be sure no one was listening.
“Go on,” said the voice—flat, calm, dangerous.
“A girl came here just now. Alone. Dark clothes. Anchor ID. She said her name was… Tooba. Tooba Khan.”
Silence.
“She asked for CCTV footage. She saw it. She took it. The full thing. The shooting… your men. The black car. All of it.”
Still silence.
“I didn’t tell her anything, sir,” Dennis added fast. “But I thought you should know.”
The voice stayed quiet for a moment.
Then it replied, cold and precise.
“Good. Where is she now?”
“She left on foot. Her car ran out of fuel. I don’t think she knows we know.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Cole.
And the line went dead.
Dennis put the phone down slowly. His hands were shaking now. He turned back to the screen and quickly deleted the footage. Then the backup. Then emptied the bin.
Outside, the night felt heavier.
And Tooba, with the truth now in her hands, had no idea…
that someone else now had her name in theirs.
Tooba looked around. The road was empty. The night was too quiet.
She held her phone in her hand. Her heart was beating fast.
She opened her contact list and searched for Julia.
Julia had offered Tooba a house in a very secure area. It was a special place made for anchors and reporters. Many anchors lived there because it was safe. The guards were strong, and no stranger could enter.
At that time, Tooba said no. She liked her small flat better. She didn’t like rules and guards. She wanted to live alone and free.
But now… she was not safe.
She pressed Call.
The phone rang. Julia picked up fast.
“Hello? Tooba?”
“Julia… it’s me,” Tooba said softly.
“Are you okay? Why are you calling so late?”
“I need help,” Tooba said. Her voice was serious now. “Can I still use that house you once told me about? The one in the secured area?”
Julia was quiet for a moment. “Yes, of course. But… why now?”
“I can’t explain. I just… I don’t feel safe. Please.”
Julia spoke quickly, “Okay. The house is still empty. I’ll call the security gate now and give them your name. You can go there.”
“Thank you so much,” Tooba said. She felt a little better.
Julia’s voice became soft. “Tooba… if something is wrong, please tell me.”
“I will. But not now. I just want to reach the house.”
“Alright. Go now. And call me when you get there.”
“I will. Thank you again.”
Tooba ended the call. She looked up at the dark sky.
She was alone. But not weak.
She started walking again — quickly — toward the place that might save her life.
Tooba reached the gates of the secure society. Two guards stood there with flashlights.
She showed her TV anchor ID card.
“Julia told us,” one guard said. “You can go in. The house is on the left, number 4.”
Tooba nodded. “Thank you.”
She drove slowly to house number 4. It was small but strong. Thick walls. Steel gate. Security cameras on the roof. She parked her car, took her bag and laptop, and quickly entered.
She locked the door behind her.
She turned on the lights. The house smelled clean. No one had lived here for a long time.
Tooba sat on the floor. Her hands were shaking a little.
She took out the USB from her bag. This was the most important thing — the CCTV video from the petrol station.
She opened her laptop, plugged in the USB, and started copying the video.
“Come on, come on,” she whispered. The screen showed: Copying... 12%, 25%, 40%...
Then she took out her tablet from the bag. It was in sleep mode. She woke it up and copied the video there too.
Her eyes were tired, but she didn’t stop.
When the copying was done, she looked at the USB again. It was small but now held a big truth.
She knew it wasn’t safe to keep it in just one place.
She opened her phone and searched for one name: David.
He was not from her country. He was English. But he was a close friend. A kind man. A journalist too. She had known him for years. She trusted him more than anyone.
She tapped his name and sent him a short message:
"Sending you something important. Please keep it safe. I will explain everything later."
Then she attached the video and pressed Send.
It took a few seconds.
Then— Message Sent.
She took a deep breath. She had done it.
If anything happened to her now… the truth was not lost.
But deep inside, she knew—
They would come for her.
Tooba sat on the couch, still holding her tablet. Her eyes were tired. The clock showed 3:47 a.m.
Then, her phone rang.
It was a video call.
From "Mama – Italy Home ❤️"
Tooba's breath caught for a moment. She wiped her eyes quickly and answered.
The screen lit up with smiling faces.
"Tooba, my baby!" her mother said loudly, laughing. "Look! Your sister is here too!"
Her younger sister waved excitedly. "Apa! We miss you! Look at the dress Mama bought!"
She held up a long white and gold dress, sparkling in the light.
Tooba smiled, softly. "It's beautiful… so beautiful."
"We are all ready!" Mama said. "The decorator came yesterday. Flowers from Naples! And the photographer said he will give us a discount because he knows your father!"
Tooba nodded, quietly. Her heart was beating fast, but her face stayed calm.
Her sister added, “When are you coming back? The wedding is close! Abba keeps checking flights every day!”
“I… soon,” Tooba said gently. “Just finishing some work.”
Suddenly another voice came on the screen.
“Salam, Tooba.”
It was Aaban.
Her heart paused for a second. His face filled the screen. Calm, sweet, kind.
Her Nikah was already done with him, one year ago. The rukhsati (formal wedding) was next month.
He smiled. "Look at me, I got a haircut! Finally, right?"
Tooba laughed lightly, "Finally!"
He laughed too. "You know how hard it is to find time for these things. The office is crazy these days. My boss gave me five files today and said, ‘Do it in one day.’ Can you believe it?”
She smiled again. It felt warm to hear him talk like this. Like life was still normal.
"And guess what? Mama forced me to buy shoes today. I wanted black. She wanted brown. So guess what we bought?"
Tooba raised her eyebrows. “Brown?”
“No! Both!” He laughed loudly. “She said, 'This is your wedding, not a football match!'"
They all laughed together.
Then he looked at her screen carefully. “You look tired. Are you okay?”
Tooba’s smile became smaller. She turned the camera slightly, hiding the dark corner behind her.
“I’m okay. Just… news stuff. Night shifts. You know.”
Aaban nodded. “Yeah. But come soon, okay? I miss you.”
Tooba looked at his eyes.
They were full of love. Of trust. Of peace.
She nodded slowly. “I will come. Soon.”
Her sister clapped. "We'll make your favorite pasta when you come back!"
Her mother kissed the camera. "May Allah protect you always. I miss your voice in this house."
The screen shook a little, and the call started ending. "Okay beta, rest now. We just wanted to see you. Just one month left!"
Tooba whispered, “I love you all.”
“Love you more!” they all said, and the call ended.
The screen turned black.
Tooba put the phone down.
The room was silent again.
The smile on her face disappeared slowly.
She stood up, walked to the window, and looked outside.
Only darkness.
The wind moved the trees.
But her heart was still hearing the words—
"One month left."
She didn’t know if she would ever return.
But one thing she did know:
She had to protect them — even if they never knew from what.
The next morning was quiet.
The birds outside chirped softly, and sunlight came through the thick curtains. But Tooba didn’t sleep all night.
She sat at the wooden desk in the safe house. Her laptop was open. The video was saved. Copied. Protected.
She had already emailed it to one person.
But now, it was time to tell someone else.
Someone with power.
She picked up her phone and called:
JULIA – PRODUCER
After five rings, Julia answered.
"Tooba?" Her voice was sleepy. "Everything okay?"
"I need to meet you. Please. Now."
---
In less than an hour, they sat inside Julia’s private office at the TV channel. Tall glass windows, plants in every corner, a smell of fresh coffee in the air.
Julia was in a grey suit, holding a mug. Her face was confused.
Tooba placed her phone on the table. "Watch this."
She pressed play.
The murder played again.
The body falling.
The killer running.
The shadows.
And then it ended.
Julia slowly leaned back in her chair.
Her face changed. Pale. Worried.
She didn’t speak for ten seconds.
Then she said quietly, "My God… Tooba… you recorded this?"
"Yes."
"Do they know you have it?"
"One man saw me. At the petrol station. I think he told someone."
Julia stood up, walked to the window, and stared outside. Her voice became sharp.
"This is not a news story," she said. "This is a death trap."
Tooba stood up too.
"I want to do a show," she said. "A special report. We will not name the person yet, but we will talk about the truth."
Julia turned around quickly. "What? Are you mad?"
"I'm serious."
"No, Tooba!" she shouted. "No! You are just 25! You just started this job! You have a future, a family, a fiancé waiting in Italy! Why are you trying to end everything?"
Tooba looked straight into her eyes.
"Because truth matters more."
Julia narrowed her eyes. "You think your truth will stop them? These people kill ministers, Tooba. Ministers! And you think you’re safe in a small flat with a laptop?"
Tooba replied, her voice calm but strong.
"I'm not fighting for myself."
"Then for who?"
"For justice. For Allah. For the people who will die next if I stay silent."
Julia sighed loudly and sat back down.
Tooba stepped closer.
"In my religion, Islam," she said softly, "we are told — speak the truth, even if it is against you. Even if it costs you everything."
Julia shook her head. "You really believe that, don’t you?"
"Yes," Tooba said.
There was a silence.
Julia looked at her, long and hard. Then she said quietly:
"I can’t let you speak right now. It’s too early. Too hot. They’ll come for you. For us. For this channel."
Tooba opened her mouth, but Julia raised a hand.
"But I won’t ask you to stay quiet either."
Tooba blinked.
Julia added, "We’ll wait. Watch. Prepare. When the time is right, we’ll hit hard."
Tooba slowly nodded.
"Okay."
Julia picked up her coffee again. Her hands were still shaking.
"Tooba," she said softly, "you are either very brave… or very foolish."
Tooba smiled.
"Maybe both."
—
The evening was quiet. The safe house smelled of tea and warm books.
Tooba sat by the window, her laptop open, her scarf neatly pinned around her face. The soft light from a lamp glowed on her journal.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
She answered without fear.
"Hello?"
There was a short silence. Then a deep voice came.
"Miss Tooba."
Tooba didn’t blink.
"We know what you saw."
"We know what you have."
"We know where you are."
Her fingers curled around the cup of tea.
The voice lowered.
"Delete the video. Walk away. Or you’ll regret it."
For a second, the air stood still.
Then Tooba spoke — softly but clearly:
"I saw the truth. And truth is not something I can delete."
The voice was quiet.
Tooba stood up now, walking to the window, her eyes calm.
"You think I’ll get scared because you hide in shadows?" she said.
"I’ve already lived in darkness. I know how to walk through it."
The voice tried again.
"This isn’t your fight, girl."
Tooba almost smiled.
"Then why are you so afraid of me?"
The man hissed.
"We will end you."
Tooba’s reply came without pause:
"You can try. But even if you silence me, someone else will rise."
"Truth doesn’t die. It spreads."
She ended the call herself.
Put the phone down.
Her hands didn’t shake.
Her heart didn’t race.
She picked up her pen and wrote in her journal:
> “Allah is with those who stand for truth, not those who hide behind fear.”
Then she closed her eyes for a moment —
And whispered a quiet dua.
She was not backing down.
Not now.
Not ever.
The next morning was cloudy. The sky outside looked grey and tired, like it knew something serious was going to happen.
Tooba woke up early. She prayed, then stood by the mirror and tied her scarf neatly. Her eyes were clear. Her hands didn’t shake.
She walked into the news station slowly. Julia was already waiting in her office, arms crossed, a deep worry on her face.
Tooba knocked softly.
Julia looked up. "You're really going to do this?"
Tooba nodded. "Yes. I have to."
Julia sighed. "You know this is not easy. This video… it’s dangerous. That man in the video is a minister. A powerful one. They will not stay quiet."
Tooba looked at her, voice gentle but firm.
"I know. But silence is also dangerous, Julia. And I can’t stay quiet anymore."
Julia rubbed her forehead. "I don’t like this. I still think you're too young. You just started your life."
Tooba smiled softly.
"What is life, Julia, if we don’t speak when it matters the most?"
There was a long pause.
Then Julia finally stood up, picked up a paper and signed it.
“You have permission,” she said quietly.
“But be careful. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Tooba bowed her head slightly. "Thank you. I’ll handle the rest."
—
The studio lights were bright.
Tooba sat in her usual place. The camera man gave her a thumbs up. Her mic was clipped. Her scarf was neat. Her eyes didn’t blink.
She took a deep breath. Then the red light came on.
"Good evening. This is Tooba — and today’s news is not easy."
She paused, looking directly into the camera.
"This is not a story I read. This is not a report someone else gave me. This… I saw with my own eyes."
The screen behind her changed. A still image from the petrol station CCTV appeared.
A man… falling. Another man… running.
The video played.
There was no voice-over. Just the sound of the video. A gunshot. A scream. The shadow of the killer. The number plate. The moment of truth.
The studio was silent. Everyone behind the camera stopped moving.
Tooba looked at the camera again.
"This is a crime. This is a lie made to look clean. But the truth has no makeup. It stands alone. And today… we show it."
Her voice didn’t shake.
She ended the show by saying:
"Justice is not just a word. It is a door we must open. And today, we took the first step toward it."
The camera light turned off.
Nobody clapped.
Nobody spoke.
Even Julia, watching from the side, looked half-angry, half-proud.
Tooba stood up. Walked out of the studio. Quiet. Strong. Brave.
Outside, the clouds were darker now.
But inside her… there was only light.
Tooba sat alone in the guesthouse. The studio had sent food, but she hadn’t eaten. Her laptop was still on. She kept looking at the video again and again. The truth was out now. The show was aired. The world had seen the murder.
But she knew…
Someone else had seen it too.
Suddenly, her phone rang.
An unknown number.
She looked at it.
The phone kept ringing.
She picked it up.
“Hello?”
There was no answer.
Just silence.
Then…
A deep, slow voice spoke.
"You think you're brave, little girl?"
Tooba didn’t reply.
The voice continued:
"You put that video on TV. You smiled like a hero. But now..."
"...you will surely die."
"Not maybe. Not one day. You. Will. Die."
Tooba's heart beat fast.
But her voice was calm.
"I am not afraid of you," she said quietly.
The voice laughed. Cold. Evil.
"You will be. Soon."
Then the call ended.
Tooba sat still.
She stared at the phone in her hand for a moment.
Then she turned it off.
Put it face down.
Walked to the window.
And whispered to herself:
"They can’t scare me. I will not stop."
The night was silent.
But inside her, a new fire had begun.
The sky was gray.
News reporters stood outside the police station. Cameras were ready. Mics were up.
Suddenly, a black police van arrived.
A tall man in a suit stepped out.
It was the minister.
He was handcuffed.
Flashes of cameras hit his face.
People shouted questions.
The minister raised his voice.
"This is a lie!" he shouted.
"That girl is lying! The video is fake! It is edited!"
Policemen held his arms, but he kept talking.
"The whole channel is playing a dirty game!"
"They want money and fame! I will prove everything in court!"
A reporter asked, “Then what about the CCTV footage?”
The minister didn’t answer.
He looked angry.
But he looked afraid too.
The cameras followed as the police took him inside.
---
Far away, in her safe guesthouse…
Tooba sat on the prayer mat.
The TV was on behind her, showing the arrest.
But she was not watching.
She had just finished Fajr prayer.
She raised her hands to the sky.
And whispered:
“Ya Allah… I did what I could. Now You are the best judge. Help the truth win. Protect me. Protect the innocent. Ameen.”
She opened her eyes slowly.
Her heart was calm.
But she knew… this was not the end.
It was only the beginning.
