The Midnight Messenger

Zain zipped through Karachi’s neon-lit streets on his beat-up bike, the cool night air whipping past. It was 1 a.m., and he was on his last delivery for the night—a mysterious package from a new client on the Snapchat food app. The order was weird: no name, just a pin-drop at an old warehouse by the docks, and a note saying, “Deliver fast, tip big.” Zain, a 25-year-old delivery guy with dreams bigger than his paycheck, couldn’t resist the extra cash.The first snap (10 sec): Zain’s POV, helmet cam shaky, showing Karachi’s glowing billboards and honking rickshaws. “Late-night run, yaar! Big tip loading…” he mutters, grinning.He reached the warehouse, its rusted gates creaking in the wind. The place smelled of salt and decay, abandoned since the shipping boom died. Zain checked his phone—$50 tip promised if delivered by 1:15 a.m. He had five minutes. He parked, grabbed the insulated bag, and stepped inside. The second snap (12 sec): A dim, grainy shot of the warehouse interior, crates stacked high, a single bulb flickering. “Kya jagah hai yeh?” he whispers.A figure emerged from the shadows—a woman in a trench coat, face hidden by a hood. “You’re late,” she snapped, voice sharp. Zain glanced at his watch—1:14 a.m. “One minute, bhabhi, relax!” he joked. She didn’t laugh. She handed him a scanner to confirm delivery, her gloved fingers trembling. Zain swiped the bag over it, and a green light blinked. The third snap (10 sec): Close-up of the scanner, then a quick pan to the woman’s shadowy figure. “Creepy client alert!” he captions.But as he turned to leave, the bag beeped. Not the usual delivery tone—something urgent.

The woman froze. “Open it,” she hissed. Zain hesitated, then unzipped the bag. Inside wasn’t food—a small black box with a blinking red light. His stomach dropped. “Yeh kya hai?” he stammered. The fourth snap (15 sec): Zain’s wide eyes, the box in frame, red light pulsing. “Bro, I think I’m in a movie!” he types, half-laughing, half-panicked.The woman grabbed his arm. “You weren’t supposed to see that. Ride away, forget this.” But Zain’s curiosity kicked in. He’d grown up dodging trouble in Lyari—instincts sharp, street-smart. “Nahi, pehle batao,” he said, standing his ground. She sighed, pulling back her hood. Her face was young, scared, with a scar across her cheek. “It’s a tracker. For something… dangerous. They paid me to move it. Now you’re in it.”Zain’s mind raced. Was this a crime ring? A spy gig? He thought of his sister, studying late, counting on his earnings. He couldn’t risk it. “I’m out,” he said, tossing the bag back. But the woman grabbed it, eyes pleading. “If I don’t deliver, they’ll kill my brother. Help me, please.” The fifth snap (12 sec): Zain and the woman in a tense standoff, warehouse shadows dancing. “Moral dilemma, send help!” he captions.He groaned. “Fine, but we do this smart.” They hid the box in a crate, snapped a fake delivery photo, and sent it to the client’s Snapchat handle. Then Zain called his cousin, a tech geek, who traced the signal to a shady trucking company. They tipped off the police anonymously. The sixth snap (10 sec): Zain’s bike speeding away, warehouse fading, with “Mission: Success?” overlaid.By 3 a.m., sirens wailed in the distance. The woman hugged him, slipping $100 into his pocket. “You’re a good man,” she whispered, vanishing into the night. Zain rode home, heart pounding, cash burning a hole in his jeans. He didn’t tell Priya—just posted a final snap: a sunrise over the docks, caption “New day, new hustle.” But he kept the box’s photo, a secret he’d never share.