fact or fiction
Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about copycat killers, eyewitnesses testimony, what makes a murderer and more.
The Silent Dealer
M Mehran The city of Islamabad gleamed under the cold winter moon, its streets quiet except for the occasional rickshaw rattling down narrow lanes. But in the shadows, a different rhythm existed—a rhythm dictated by someone the police barely believed existed: Rafiq, known in the underworld as The Silent Dealer. Rafiq didn’t need a reputation; his work spoke for itself. While others thrived on noise, violence, or spectacle, he thrived on invisibility. No one saw him coming, no one traced his steps. His transactions were clean, his presence nearly mythic. Rumor said he could acquire anything—information, weapons, or even secrets that could ruin the powerful. Tonight, Rafiq walked briskly down a back alley near F-7, a small leather satchel clutched in his hand. Inside was the prize: stolen microchips from a foreign tech company, smuggled in through the airport. The chips were worth millions on the black market, but for Rafiq, money was secondary. Influence was the game. Whoever controlled information controlled the city. He reached the meeting point, an abandoned warehouse at the edge of the city, where two men waited nervously. They were newcomers, eager to impress, unaware that Rafiq’s reputation was more than just a name—it was a warning. “Do you have it?” one asked, voice shaky. Rafiq didn’t answer. He opened the satchel slowly, revealing the microchips gleaming under the flickering fluorescent light. The men’s eyes widened, and greed replaced their fear. “Impressive,” the other said. “But how do we know you’re not—” Rafiq raised a hand. Silence. That was all it took. He didn’t shout, threaten, or brandish a weapon. The mere calmness in his voice, the precision in his movements, made them pause. In that moment, they understood: crossing Rafiq was a mistake they could never undo. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the warehouse entrance. Rival smugglers, tipped off by an anonymous source, stormed inside. Guns were drawn, chaos erupted. Rafiq moved like water. He was never the first to attack, but always the last to leave. With calculated steps, he navigated through the melee. One man lunged, and Rafiq sidestepped, using the intruder’s momentum to throw him against a crate. Another aimed at his chest, but Rafiq, anticipating the shot, dropped and rolled, leaving the bullet to shatter the wall behind him. Every move was deliberate, every step measured. Within minutes, the attackers were subdued, some fleeing in panic, others groaning on the cold floor. Rafiq’s calmness never wavered. He collected the two nervous men, handed them a portion of the microchips, and spoke in a tone that brooked no argument: “This is your share. Keep quiet, stay alive, and remember: the city is bigger than greed. Respect it.” By the time dawn broke over Islamabad, the warehouse was empty. No one could trace Rafiq’s movements. The microchips had vanished from the black market, now in the hands of those who knew their place, and the city returned to its normal hum, oblivious to the storm that had passed. Rafiq returned to his modest apartment, a small room cluttered with books, maps, and a laptop covered in stickers. Unlike others in his line of work, he didn’t crave luxury or fame. His satisfaction came from control—the invisible strings he could pull to orchestrate events, manipulate outcomes, and remain untouchable. Yet, even he knew danger was never far. In his world, trust was a rare commodity, betrayal a constant companion. One slip, one wrong move, and everything could end. But Rafiq had learned to thrive in the shadows, to read people like an open book, and to survive where others fell. As Islamabad stirred awake, the legend of the Silent Dealer grew, whispered among criminals, traders, and those seeking information. Some dismissed him as myth, but those who had crossed him—or worked for him—knew better. Rafiq didn’t need recognition. He didn’t seek fame. He needed only one thing: to remain untouchable, a ghost moving silently through the city, always two steps ahead of everyone else. And in the quiet of his apartment, sipping tea while monitoring the city through encrypted feeds, Rafiq smiled faintly. The city slept, unaware that the Silent Dealer was watching, planning, surviving—always one step ahead.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Criminal
Bloodlines of Betrayal
M Mehran The streets of Karachi never slept, but some nights were darker than others. Tonight was one of them. The neon lights flickered against rain-soaked pavement, casting distorted reflections of the city’s hidden underworld. And somewhere in the shadows, Adeel Javed, known in whispers as The Fox, prepared for a night that could change everything. Adeel was no ordinary criminal. Born into a family where loyalty and deception coexisted uneasily, he learned early that trust was a currency more fragile than gold. His father, once a respected trader, had been murdered by a rival clan when Adeel was only twelve. That night, he vowed never to be a victim again. Years passed, and Adeel honed his skills—not just in fighting, but in reading people. He understood fear, manipulation, and strategy in ways that made him lethal without firing a single shot. His network stretched across Karachi: informants in every market, contacts in every alley, and ears in every tavern. Yet, despite his growing empire, Adeel remained invisible, a shadow moving unseen. Tonight, his target was Malik Shah, a corrupt politician rumored to deal in arms and money laundering. The plan was simple: infiltrate Malik’s high-security estate during the annual masquerade gala, retrieve incriminating documents, and leave before anyone noticed. But in Adeel’s world, simple was never easy. Dressed in a tailored suit and a Venetian mask, he entered the grand hall, blending seamlessly with wealthy socialites unaware of the danger in their midst. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above, and the soft hum of a string quartet filled the room. Adeel’s eyes, however, never lingered on the opulence—they scanned exits, guards, and vulnerabilities. He approached the study, where Malik had been rumored to keep his secrets. A narrow corridor, guarded by two men, stood in his way. But Adeel was the Fox, not a brute. With a whispered distraction and a carefully timed flicker of light, he led the guards away from the entrance. In moments, he was inside. The office was a testament to Malik’s arrogance: thick mahogany furniture, shelves filled with expensive books, and a safe hidden behind a painting. Adeel worked quickly, bypassing the intricate locks with the skill of a master thief. Documents were packed into a small leather satchel, enough to topple Malik’s empire and expose years of criminal activity. But as he prepared to leave, the sound of a gun cocking froze him. “Didn’t expect me, did you, Fox?” a voice sneered. Malik himself, holding a silenced pistol, stepped from the shadows. Adeel smiled faintly. “I thought you’d be more careful, Malik. Yet, here we are.” The two men circled each other, tension thick enough to choke the air. Malik fired once, narrowly missing Adeel, who rolled behind a grand desk. Time slowed. Every move, every decision mattered. One mistake, and it would be over. Adeel noticed the floorboard near Malik’s feet was loose. A quick step, a flick of the satchel, and Malik’s balance betrayed him. The gun slipped from his hand as he crashed to the floor, dazed. Adeel moved swiftly, pinning Malik and pressing the barrel of a small pistol to his temple. “You’ll pay for every life you’ve ruined,” Adeel said quietly. Malik’s eyes widened in fear. Instead of killing him, Adeel made his choice. He took photos of the documents with his encrypted phone, leaving Malik alive, humiliated, and powerless. This was Adeel’s code: strike hard, but with purpose. Kill only when necessary, expose corruption whenever possible. By dawn, the gala continued as if nothing had happened. Malik returned to his guests, unaware that his empire had already begun crumbling. And somewhere in the streets of Karachi, Adeel vanished, leaving behind only the legend of the Fox, the man who punished with intelligence, not brute force. As the city awoke to its daily chaos, whispers of Adeel’s latest heist spread quietly among the underworld. No one knew where he would strike next, or if they ever would. But one thing was certain: in a world ruled by betrayal and greed, Adeel Javed remained untouchable, a shadow of justice, cunning and relentless.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Criminal
The Heist of Silence
M Mehran The city of Lahore slept uneasily under the glare of neon lights, unaware that the night belonged to a man known only as Faizan—or the Whisper, as the underworld called him. Unlike other criminals who thrived on chaos, Faizan’s specialty was subtlety. His crimes were precise, clean, almost invisible, leaving no trace except a lingering sense of violation. Faizan had not always walked this path. Once, he was an engineer, building machines for a living, designing circuits and gadgets with the meticulousness of a perfectionist. But the company he worked for betrayed him—cutting his salary, firing him unjustly, and stealing his patents. The injustice ignited a fire inside him, one that no legitimate path could extinguish. He discovered that the same precision he applied to machines could be applied to crime, turning him into a ghost that no one could catch. His target tonight was the Malik estate, a mansion in Gulberg that shimmered like a fortress of wealth. Malik was a businessman rumored to deal in shady contracts, exploiting everyone from employees to neighbors. Faizan didn’t care about morals—his mission was artful theft, executed flawlessly. He arrived at the estate after midnight, the city asleep, save for distant sirens and the occasional stray dog. Scaling the walls silently, he reached a window left slightly open—careless security, the perfect opportunity. Inside, the house was a labyrinth of luxury: Persian rugs, gold-plated fixtures, and the faint smell of expensive perfume. Faizan’s eyes scanned the room. He had only fifteen minutes before the security patrol circled back. Carefully, he opened a hidden drawer in Malik’s office desk, revealing a set of old ledgers and a small velvet box. His hands moved with mechanical precision. Inside the box was a flash drive containing years of illicit contracts and secret deals—proof that could bring Malik down if exposed. The mission was almost over. Faizan was about to retreat when he heard it—a soft click from the hallway. Someone was coming. He ducked behind the curtain, heart pounding but mind sharp. A young man appeared, Malik’s son, unaware that the intruder was steps away. Faizan knew one wrong move could end in disaster. He waited, every second stretched like an eternity. The boy left the room, humming a tune, and Faizan exhaled silently. He pocketed the flash drive and the ledgers, leaving no fingerprints, no sign that anyone had been there. Outside, the night embraced him again. The city lights shimmered, reflecting off puddles from the recent rain. Faizan melted into the streets, a phantom among the living. But unlike other criminals, he did not celebrate the act. He was not driven by greed—he was driven by purpose. Every theft, every heist, had meaning, a message for those who believed they were untouchable. Back in his small apartment, Faizan examined the items. The flash drive held enough evidence to topple Malik’s empire. He smirked—not out of malice, but satisfaction. He had played the game perfectly, and the world didn’t even know he had moved the pieces. Yet, life as the Whisper was never simple. The underworld was filled with whispers of betrayal. Even those closest to him could not be trusted. Every night brought danger, and every dawn, relief. Faizan knew that one mistake, one miscalculation, could end everything. But the thrill, the challenge, was intoxicating. He was alive in a way the mundane world had never allowed him to be. The next morning, Malik woke to find his secrets gone, his security shaken, but no signs of forced entry. Panic coursed through his veins, but he could do nothing—no one saw the Whisper, and no one ever would. His empire would tremble quietly, unknowingly, like the subtle hum of a well-oiled machine. Faizan continued his life in the shadows. By day, he was just another face in Lahore, unnoticed, blending in with commuters, street vendors, and office workers. By night, he became the architect of chaos, a silent reckoner who punished the corrupt and exposed the guilty. He didn’t need recognition. He didn’t seek fame. For Faizan, the world was a puzzle, and each heist was a piece perfectly placed, a testament to his intellect and his unwavering sense of justice, however unconventional it may be. And so, the city slept, unaware that in the silent corners, a man named Faizan—The Whisper—moved unseen, reshaping destinies, one calculated step at a time.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Criminal
The Shadow of Peshawar
M Mehran In the narrow alleys of Peshawar, the city breathed in whispers. Everyone had a story, but few dared to tell the truth. Among them, one name carried fear like a shadow: Zahid Khan, a man whose reputation straddled the line between legend and nightmare. Zahid wasn’t born a criminal. Once, he had a small shop selling trinkets near Qissa Khwani Bazaar. But fate, as cruel as it often is, left him destitute when a fire destroyed his shop. The insurance never paid, and the banks refused mercy. It was hunger and desperation that first pushed him to steal a loaf of bread. That act was the spark; what followed was fire. Years passed, and Zahid transformed into the city’s most notorious figure. The police knew him by sight, traders by rumor, and even children whispered his name in fear. But what made Zahid dangerous wasn’t his skill with a gun or his network of thieves—it was his mind. He planned, calculated, and executed with precision. Every move was a chess piece; every step, a story in itself. One humid evening, Zahid walked into the dimly lit tea shop near Chowk Yadgar. His sharp eyes scanned the room. In the corner, a young man with nervous hands was counting notes too quickly. Zahid recognized him immediately—Arman, a small-time pickpocket trying to step into the bigger league. “Careful,” Zahid murmured, his voice low, almost a warning. Arman froze, his heart pounding in rhythm with the old ceiling fan’s creak. Zahid smiled faintly, the kind of smile that could cut deeper than a knife. “You want to survive here, you follow rules. And the first rule… never bite more than you can chew.” Arman nodded, swallowing his pride and fear. Zahid’s reputation was legendary, but few knew the man behind the shadow. Beneath the hardened exterior, Zahid had principles—a strange code that governed his criminal empire. He never harmed the innocent, never cheated those who trusted him, and always kept his word. It was a paradox that kept the authorities guessing: a criminal, yet oddly honorable. That night, a message arrived on Zahid’s old, cracked phone. “The consignment is delayed. Need plan B.” His brow furrowed. This wasn’t unusual. The city’s underworld was unpredictable, but something about this delay felt different. He gathered his trusted men in the warehouse near the outskirts of the city, the smell of diesel and rust thick in the air. “Listen,” Zahid said, his voice cutting through the tension. “This isn’t just about money anymore. Someone is trying to play us. We move tonight, or we risk losing everything.” His men nodded, their faces tight with resolve. They trusted him, feared him, and followed him without question. The night fell heavy, the streets of Peshawar nearly deserted, except for the occasional stray dog scavenging for leftovers. Zahid’s team moved silently, shadows among shadows, to the location where the consignment was supposed to arrive. A single streetlamp flickered above, painting the scene in intermittent light. Then, the ambush. Men masked and armed blocked the alley, their weapons glinting under the weak light. Zahid’s instincts kicked in. Years of surviving the streets, escaping police raids, and dodging betrayals sharpened his senses. He gave a quick signal, and his men split strategically. Chaos erupted—gunfire, shouts, and the metallic echo of fear. Zahid ducked behind a rusted cart, watching carefully. He noticed the leader of the ambushers, a man with a scar across his cheek, shouting orders. Zahid’s lips curled into a small grin. He had been expecting this. With a precision only he could manage, he launched a counterattack. Within minutes, the attackers were either subdued or fleeing, leaving behind empty crates and confusion. By the time dawn painted the city in hues of orange and gold, Zahid was already gone. The alley was silent again, save for the faint clatter of broken crates. News would spread quickly: the city’s shadow had struck again. But Zahid? He vanished into the maze of the city, leaving only whispers behind. Some said Zahid Khan was unstoppable. Others claimed he was a myth, a story told to keep children from wandering too far. But those who had crossed him, or worse, trusted him, knew the truth: Zahid was more than a criminal. He was the shadow of Peshawar—relentless, calculating, and unforgettable. And as the city woke to its usual chaos, Zahid walked the streets in plain sight, a ghost among the living, already planning his next move.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Criminal
Bread, Stones, and Dreams: A Palestinian Childhood
The aroma of freshly baked bread was always the first thing that greeted Youssef every morning. His mother would wake long before dawn, quietly kneading dough in the pale glow of the kitchen light. Their home was small, the walls worn and cracked, but the bread filled it with warmth and a sense of fragile normalcy. For Youssef’s family, bread wasn’t just food — it was life, dignity, and hope.
By Shaheen Khanabout a year ago in Criminal
The Silent Criminal
M Mehran Detective Elena Rivera hated quiet streets. They looked innocent, but in her experience, silence hid the darkest secrets. That night, she stood outside a small bakery on the corner of Maple and Third. The shop’s lights were still on, though it had closed hours ago. Inside, she found the owner, Mr. Keller, tied to a chair, trembling. The register was open, cash missing. Before Elena could speak, he whispered: “It was her. The girl with the violin.” The case baffled the precinct. The suspect wasn’t a gang member, not a desperate thief, not even someone with a record. It was Clara Voss, twenty-two years old, a gifted street musician who often played on that very corner. Witnesses described her as quiet, polite, almost invisible. Yet over the next month, crimes began to form a pattern—small businesses robbed, safes cracked, alarms bypassed. And always, someone swore they saw the same thing: a young woman carrying a violin case. Her nickname spread through the city like smoke. The Silent Criminal. Elena’s captain dismissed it. “Urban legend,” he grunted. “People see what they want. A violin case doesn’t make someone guilty.” But Elena couldn’t ignore the pattern. Every robbery was clean, efficient, no fingerprints. It reminded her of something—music. Each crime unfolded like a score, notes precise, timing flawless. She dove into Clara’s past. A conservatory dropout. Brilliant with strings, but her scholarship vanished after her father’s medical bills drained the family. Clara worked odd jobs, none stable. Somewhere between lost auditions and eviction notices, the gifted musician had disappeared into shadows. Elena knew one thing: talent like that doesn’t vanish. It transforms. One rainy night, Elena set a trap. She convinced the owner of a pawn shop rumored to be next on the list to cooperate. They left the register full, cameras hidden. Then Elena waited in the alley, watching raindrops dance under the streetlights. At 2:14 a.m., she heard it—a faint melody, soft, haunting, carried through the night. A violin. And there she was. Clara, slim figure wrapped in a dark coat, violin case slung over her shoulder. She moved with quiet confidence, slipping inside the shop as though the locks had been waiting for her. Elena followed, heart racing. She expected chaos. Instead, she found Clara kneeling at the safe, fingers moving in rhythm, as if playing invisible strings. Within minutes, the lock clicked open. “Clara Voss,” Elena said firmly. Clara froze. Slowly, she turned. Her eyes were tired, but calm. She didn’t run. She didn’t beg. She simply placed the money back into the safe, closed it, and whispered, “You’re too late.” The arrest shook the city. Newspapers printed her photo: a delicate young woman with the face of a violinist, not a criminal. People argued in coffee shops, in buses, on corners. Some called her a thief. Others called her a hero who robbed only from businesses known for exploitation—landlords, pawn shops, corrupt suppliers. Clara said little. During questioning, she remained polite, her answers clipped. “Why do it?” Elena pressed. “You’re gifted. You could’ve had a career.” Clara looked at her hands. “Music doesn’t pay hospital bills. It doesn’t stop landlords from locking the door. But crime… crime has rhythm. And once you learn the notes, it plays itself.” Elena leaned closer. “But you hurt people.” Clara’s gaze flickered. “I hurt systems. The people were collateral.” At trial, her defense painted her as a modern-day Robin Hood. They brought in professors who spoke of her genius, neighbors who swore she bought groceries for the elderly, children who remembered her lullabies on the street. But the evidence was undeniable—videos, fingerprints finally traced, money trails uncovered. Clara Voss was sentenced to ten years. The day she was taken away, the courthouse was packed. Some jeered, some cried, some even played violins in protest. Clara walked silently between guards, her case left behind. Elena watched from the back, unsettled. She should’ve felt satisfaction. Instead, she felt the same thing she’d felt the night she heard Clara play: the haunting knowledge that silence hides more than noise ever could. Months later, on her commute home, Elena passed the corner of Maple and Third. A young boy stood there, struggling with an old violin. His notes were clumsy, but beneath them, Elena recognized a familiar rhythm. She froze. The song wasn’t just music. It was a pattern—a sequence of notes Clara had hummed during questioning, the same pattern that matched the safe codes she used. And suddenly, Elena understood. Clara hadn’t stopped playing. She had simply changed the audience. For the first time, Elena wondered: had they truly caught the Silent Criminal? Or had Clara composed something larger, a symphony of crime that would play on long after her cell door shut? The boy lifted his bow again, eyes glinting. The melody rose, and the city’s silence deepened.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Criminal
TikTok Under Fire
Why the World’s Most Popular App is Also One of the Most Dangerous TikTok is the social media phenomenon of our time. With over a billion users worldwide, the app has transformed how young people consume content, express themselves, and even influence politics. Its short videos can launch careers, make songs go viral, and shape global culture in real time.
By Wings of Time about a year ago in Criminal
Girl Stabbed to Death on North Carolina Train: What We Know So Far
The Incident On a routine NC train ride through Charlotte, tragedy struck when Iryna Zarutska, a Ukrainian refugee, was fatally stabbed. Witnesses reported chaos on board as passengers attempted to intervene and authorities rushed to respond.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a year ago in Criminal
The Rise of New Powers After World War 3
The Rise of New Powers After World War 3 How Global Conflict Could Reshape the Balance of Power If a Third World War were to break out, the devastation would not be limited to battlefields and bombed-out cities. The conflict would also dismantle the political and economic order that has defined the modern age. Nations that survive the opening strikes would likely emerge wounded and exhausted, leaving room for new players to step forward. History reminds us that every great conflict rearranges the balance of power. After the First World War, vast empires collapsed. After the Second, the United States and the Soviet Union rose to dominate global affairs. Should another world war erupt, a similar shift—though perhaps far more dramatic—would be inevitable.
By Wings of Time about a year ago in Criminal
From Defense to War: What a U.S. “Ministry of War” Would Mean
What if the United States government announced tomorrow that it was renaming the Department of Defense to the Ministry of War? At first glance, it might seem like nothing more than a change in language. But in politics, language is never just language—it shapes perception, frames policy, and influences how nations see themselves and one another. A shift in terminology from “defense” to “war” would represent a dramatic transformation in America’s identity and global posture.
By Muhammad Ibrahimabout a year ago in Criminal
