#Doorbell3am
The sharp sound of the doorbell shattered the silence of the night.

Samira woke with a start, her heart racing. It took her a moment to orient herself, to remember she was in her own home. Beside her, Umar groaned, rubbing his face as he sat up in bed.

“What time is it?” he muttered, squinting at the clock on the wall.

“Three a.m.,” Samira replied, her voice tinged with unease.

The doorbell rang again—shrill, insistent, relentless.

“Who could it be at this hour?” Samira whispered, clutching the edge of her blanket.

Umar didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the drawer beside the bed, his hand closing around the cold, familiar grip of his pistol. “Stay here,” he said, swinging his legs off the bed.

Samira sat frozen, her worry evident. “Be careful,” she murmured as Umar left the room.

"Don’t be afraid. Let me see who it is," Umar said, his voice steady. Samira nodded, but worry etched deep lines into her face.

The doorbell rang again—shrill, insistent. Umar approached the door cautiously, peering through the peephole. His tense shoulders eased for a moment.

"Taimoor?" he muttered. Anger flashed across his face as he unlocked the door.

“What the hell are you doing here at this hour?” Umar growled.

Taimoor pushed past him, ignoring the outburst. A young woman stood behind him, veiled and...