The sun was dipping behind grey clouds as Aban drove the car. A soft breeze played with Tooba’s scarf as it fluttered against the window. For the first time in days, she was smiling.
They had done it.
The truth had been shared.
The case was about to begin.
And somehow… hope had returned.
“I didn’t think she would agree,” Tooba whispered, still holding the mother’s quiet tears in her memory.
Aban smiled. “Sometimes, truth is buried so deep… it only rises when someone digs with their soul.”
Tooba looked at him — a strange peace filled her heart.
Then, in a split second —
a loud bang shattered the calm.
A black SUV rammed into them from the left.
Glass exploded.
Tooba screamed.
The car spun wildly, tires screeching.
Another hit — this time from the back — slammed the car into the roadside barrier.
And then — silence.
Smoke.
Blood.
Shattered glass.
The windshield cracked like broken ice.
Tooba blinked, her vision blurry. “Aban…?”
She turned — he was slumped forward over the steering wheel, his hand bleeding badly — a bullet wound just above the wrist. His head rested against the side, a gash bleeding over his forehead.
“No... no!” she cried, trying to push open her door, but pain stabbed through her shoulder.
People gathered.
Shouts.
Sirens.
Then—
Hospital.
---
Scene: Hospital – Night
Tooba lay in a hospital bed, IV dripping slowly beside her. Her head was bandaged, her shoulder in a sling, cuts on her face. But her eyes were open.
Searching.
The doctor came in.
“You’re lucky,” he said gently. “Your injuries are not serious. You’ll heal.”
She blinked once. “And my husband?”
A pause.
“He’s in ICU. The bullet went through the bone and muscle. He lost a lot of blood. But we’re trying everything.”
She nodded slowly.
Then turned her face away.
Tears rolled silently.
Everything they were building… almost ended in one moment.
And she knew.
This wasn’t just an accident.
The nurse had just finished adjusting her bandage when the door creaked open slowly. In walked Fatima, a friend from the studio. Her eyes were soft, careful, as if she was walking into a room where silence had weight.
“Tooba,” she said gently, stepping closer. “This just came for you.”
She placed a white envelope on the side table—stamped with the seal of the District Court of Milan.
Tooba's hand trembled slightly as she reached for it. The words printed on the front seemed heavier than ink.
She opened it slowly, her fingers careful, as if the paper might burn her.
Her eyes moved across each line.
Legal Proceedings. Fareed Iqbal. Conspiracy. Suppression of evidence. Courtroom No. 3. August 11. Judge Elena Romano.
Each word hit like a drop of cold water down her spine.
But her face stayed still. Calm. Only her breathing changed—deeper now. Firmer.
“So it has begun,” she whispered, almost to herself.
Fatima watched her in silence, unsure what to say.
Tooba folded the letter back carefully and placed it on the table like something sacred. Her bandaged hand shook slightly, but her eyes were filled with fire. Not fear.
“I didn’t come this far to walk away now,” she said quietly.
Then she looked out of the hospital window, where a strip of early morning sunlight was breaking through the clouds.
“Justice is not cheap,” she murmured. “And I’m ready to pay its price.”
Fatima stepped closer and held her shoulder. “You won’t be alone.”
Tooba gave a small nod, her voice steady now.
“I have to go to court. Not for just me. But for the truth.”
And in her silent hospital room, with machines humming softly and pain wrapped around her limbs, she felt stronger than she had ever felt before.
The court hearing was just hours away.
Tooba stepped out of the hospital gate, her arm still in a sling, a bandage on her forehead. Aban walked beside her, holding the legal file tightly in one hand, and shielding her gently with the other.
A black car was waiting.
They sat inside silently.
No one spoke.
The driver started the engine.
As the streets of Milan passed by, Tooba stared out of the window. Banners waved in the wind—some in support of the minister, some against.
Whispers had turned to noise.
Truth was no longer hiding.
Halfway to the court, the driver slowed.
A crowd had gathered—angry faces blocking the road, holding placards.
"LIAR!"
"FAKE ANCHOR!"
"DEFAMATION FOR MONEY!"
They were shouting. Some were filming. Some were banging on the windows.
Tooba shrank back slightly. Aban leaned forward.
"Drive. Slowly. But keep going," he ordered the driver.
But suddenly—a stone hit the windshield.
Crack.
The glass didn’t break—but it shook the car.
Tooba took a deep breath.
“We’re not turning back,” she said firmly.
Aban looked at her, impressed. He squeezed her hand for a second.
They took a longer, alternate route, cutting through narrow alleys and tight corners. The car swayed, and time was slipping.
They reached the court entrance 15 minutes late.
Security stopped them.
"Your name?" one of the officers barked. “You’re late.”
“I’m Tooba Farooq,” she said. “Plaintiff. Fareed Iqbal’s case.”
The officer checked the list and paused.
“You’ve been reassigned to Courtroom No. 5. Second floor. Quick. They’re about to begin.”
They ran up the stairs, Aban holding the heavy file close to his chest.
Tooba’s injured leg ached—but she didn’t stop.
She wouldn’t.
Outside Courtroom No. 5, a reporter tried to click a photo. Aban pushed the camera away. "No photos," he said sharply.
And finally, they entered the courtroom.
The judge was seated. Lawyers were in place. Fareed Iqbal stood in the defendant’s box with his arrogant smile.
But when he saw Tooba walk in—injured, tired, but standing tall—his smile faded slightly.
She had made it.
Against fear, noise, pain, and pressure—she had come to testify.
The courtroom was tense.
Wooden benches filled with reporters, lawyers, and silent observers. A police escort stood near the accused.
Judge Elena Romano, calm and sharp-eyed, entered and took her seat.
"Bring the case file forward," she ordered, adjusting her glasses.
A clerk handed over the file.
“This hearing concerns: The State vs. The Minister.”
Aban Zubair stood from the plaintiff’s bench.
“I represent Miss Tooba Farooq, Your Honour,” he said, voice firm. “She is the key eyewitness to the Minister’s crime.”
From the other side, the Minister’s lawyer stood.
“We deny all charges. This is nothing more than political theater. The video shared is fake—edited by the media.”
Judge Romano raised a brow. “We will let the evidence speak.”
Tooba stood slowly, still bruised but composed.
“The video wasn’t fake,” she said clearly. “I was there. I saw him. He killed Hamid Ali and threatened anyone who would speak.”
A murmur rippled through the courtroom.
The Minister sat motionless. But his eyes locked on her, cold and burning.
Aban stepped forward and placed a USB drive on the evidence table.
“This contains raw footage from the news station’s server—unedited, with timestamps and background audio. It proves the video was not tampered.”
The judge nodded. “It will be analyzed by an independent forensic team.”
The Minister’s lawyer smirked. “Even if she was there, where’s the proof he pulled the trigger?”
Tooba didn’t flinch.
“I heard his voice. I saw the gun. He said: ‘If you speak, you’ll end up the same.’”
A long silence followed.
Then Judge Romano spoke.
“This court will not ignore such testimony. The footage will be verified. I am also ordering immediate witness protection for Miss
The court building stood tall and gray, its wide stairs crawling with journalists, cameras flashing, and murmurs rising like smoke. But none of that mattered now.
Tooba stepped out of the car, her scarf pinned tightly, her face pale but steady. Aban stood beside her, a file in one hand, the other gently placed on her shoulder.
“Ready?” he asked softly.
She looked at the building, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Let’s do this.”
They walked together toward the entrance. Two policemen standing by the door moved aside silently.
The moment they crossed the threshold, a chill settled in her chest. Everything became quiet inside—too quiet.
Each step on the polished floor echoed.
Tooba’s heart thudded. The weight of the case, the threats, the accident, the red paint, the fear—it all came back for a second.
But then she looked at Aban, walking calmly beside her, like a shield.
She lifted her chin.
In front of the courtroom, a female court officer checked their names on a list, then opened the door.
The courtroom was already full.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as Tooba entered.
On the other side of the room, the Minister sat in a pressed suit, his hands folded, his expression calm—almost amused.
But when his eyes met Tooba’s, they narrowed slightly. Just slightly.
She did not blink.
Aban guided her to the witness stand. Papers were placed. A glass of water was offered.
Judge Elena Romano entered a moment later.
“All rise.”
The courtroom stood.
Tooba remained steady.
She had entered the court not as a victim—but as a witness.
And this time, she wasn’t alone.
The courtroom echoed with the sharp sound of the gavel as Judge Elena Romano took her seat. Her expression was firm, her gaze steady.
“You may proceed, Mr. Aban,” she said.
Aban stood tall, buttoned his coat, and walked slowly to the center. Tooba sat silently at the side, her eyes fixed on him.
“Your Honour,” he began, his voice calm and confident, “this is not a case of media manipulation. This is not about a viral video or an edited clip. This is about a man who lost his life for speaking the truth.”
The minister’s lawyer smirked. “We have already submitted our objection. The video is clearly tampered—”
Aban raised a hand.
“Objection noted, but easily disproven.”
He turned toward the screen in the courtroom and nodded. A technician clicked play.
The original video—taken directly from Tooba’s dashcam—began to play. Unedited. Raw. Clear audio.
The minister’s voice could be heard, shouting, threatening, ordering. There were no cuts, no transitions.
“This video was retrieved from the direct internal memory of the car dashcam,” Aban said. “Verified by three independent forensics labs, including one from Geneva.”
He handed over the printed forensic reports, all stamped and signed.
“And to further support this,” Aban said, “here is a sworn statement from a former staff member of the minister, who was dismissed last year—because he recorded this on his phone and refused to delete it.”
Gasps filled the courtroom as the phone footage was shown. It matched the timeline of the dashcam. The same words. The same threats. The same location.
“Are these edited too?” Aban asked quietly, locking eyes with the minister.
The minister shifted in his seat, for the first time visibly uncomfortable.
“And here—” Aban pulled one last file, “—are the hospital records of the victim, showing that he was already receiving threats, and had filed two complaints days before his death.”
He placed the reports on the judge’s bench.
The courtroom was silent.
Judge Elena looked through the pages with narrowed eyes. She tapped the table slowly. “Mr. Minister,” she said, “do you still claim this is false?”
The minister stood slowly, his voice raised. “It’s all a conspiracy. She’s lying. This lawyer—this channel—they all want attention!”
Judge Elena leaned back in her chair, eyes sharp. “The evidence says otherwise. And this court deals in evidence—not noise.”
She turned to Aban. “Court will reconvene in three days for final verdict. But for now—excellent inquiry, Mr. Aban.”
Tooba let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Aban walked back and sat beside her, his voice low. “We’re closer now.”
She looked at him with grateful eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered. “To justice.”
