Rain returned like an unwelcome memory, drizzling over the cobbled streets of Istanbul with a soft persistence. A chill swept through the air, sneaking beneath coats and scarves, as if the city itself were whispering secrets from behind damp stone walls.
Imani sat on the terrace of a quiet rooftop café overlooking the Bosphorus, the city below muffled under grey skies and wet umbrellas. She wore a tailored black trench coat, her scarf a deep emerald wrapped tightly around her head, framing her face like a solemn painting. Her almond-shaped eyes were hidden behind oversized sunglasses, but the tension in her posture betrayed the calm façade.
Across from her, Zara stirred her tea with a clink that felt louder than it should. She wore a cream turtleneck under a houndstooth jacket, her red lipstick smudged slightly, like she had forgotten to care.
"You do know 'Phase One' sounds very dramatic, right?" Zara said, half-teasing.
Imani cracked a faint smile. "Good. Because it is."
Zara leaned forward, dropping her voice. "And what exactly does Phase One entail? Besides giving Omar a semi-panic attack last night."
Imani exhaled. "We trace the money. We follow the connections. We find out exactly what role my mother plays in this, and where Baba has been hiding."
"Still think he's hiding?"
"No," Imani said, slowly. "I think he's being hidden."
The door creaked open, and Omar stepped out, a file tucked under his arm. He wore a fitted navy coat, clean-shaven for once, and his black boots glistened with rain. He sat down wordlessly, laid the file on the table, and slid it toward Imani.
"Courier dropped it off ten minutes ago. From an anonymous source."
Imani opened it carefully. Inside, crisp documents—financial trails, handwritten memos, encrypted emails, old foundation reports. And one photograph.
Her hand froze mid-flip.
It was a grainy surveillance photo. Taken months ago. Her father—Dr. Hussnain Nurain—wearing a long overcoat and kufi, emerging from a mosque in Casablanca.
She closed the folder.
Zara's eyes were wide. "That's him?"
Imani nodded.
Omar leaned forward. "Looks like your mother's been running more than just boardrooms. She's managing ghost operations in three countries."
"And my father's either playing dead voluntarily… or being kept that way."
---
The next day, Imani met Idris.
By accident.
She was at a bookshop near Galata Tower, browsing translations of Rumi's poetry, when a familiar voice said her name.
She turned, slowly.
Idris.
He wore a dark olive jacket, jeans, and a faint scruff that hadn't been there the last time she saw him. His eyes still held that maddening calm. But his lips were parted like he'd just remembered how to breathe.
"Imani. I—"
She cut him off. "How did you find me?"
"I didn't. I swear."
She didn't respond, flipping the book in her hand absentmindedly.
"You're not going to run again?" he asked, half-smiling.
She looked at him. "Depends. Are you still lying?"
Idris sighed. "I deserved that."
"No. You deserved more. You deserved a clean break and a quiet exit. But instead you disappeared without telling me why."
"I was trying to protect you."
"From what? The truth?"
He lowered his gaze. "I was recruited, Imani. Months before we met. Your mother had people watching you. She knew you were close to something. I was the plant."
She blinked, holding back a storm.
"But I didn't expect to fall in love with you."
Silence stretched between them.
"I wanted to disappear, to keep you safe," he said. "But maybe I made everything worse."
She stared at him, and for a moment, just a moment, she softened.
"I need time," she said.
"I know."
She turned to leave, then paused. "Don't follow me."
He didn't.
---
That evening, the trio regrouped at the apartment. The power was out, and they huddled near candlelight, the city outside flickering with car horns and echoing azans.
"I think we're being watched," Omar said.
Zara snorted. "That's a given. We've poked a nest of very expensive snakes."
Imani paced the room. "We need to find my father. If he's in Casablanca, we go."
Omar looked up. "We?"
"I'm not doing this alone."
Zara crossed her arms. "We go. But we prepare better this time. No more 'walk into the lion's den' nonsense."
"Agreed," Omar said. "And while you're in Morocco, I'll stay behind. There's someone I need to meet here."
"Who?"
He hesitated. "The person your father was trying to contact before he vanished."
The candle flickered wildly.
Imani stared at the file again. Her mind raced. Her heart pulsed with uncertainty.
But her voice was steady when she spoke.
"Book the flights."
And just like that, the next piece of the puzzle began to shift.
---