Raza's gaze, still lingering on Yara, softened almost imperceptibly—as if a veil had lifted and pity now edged his expression. The glare he had worn just moments ago melted into something gentler. A smile crept across his face, quiet but real.
Yara, caught off guard, blinked, a trace of confusion flickering in her eyes.
Raza turned, finally facing the pitch again. Haitam stood at the crease, calm and focused, his figure framed against the floodlights.
In that instant, the truth crystallized: Raza had recognized his mistake back then, had learned from it. There was no need to repeat it. Now it was Yara's turn—to accept it or resist.
A memory surfaced then, unbidden, from the first time they were to play as high schoolers. Yasir's question echoed:
"Why did you choose Haitam as your leader? David is confident, able to guide without flinching under pressure, and Milan's skills progress faster than Haitam's. So why him? And why do all of you agree?"
The boys had looked at one another, then at Haitam, who was lost in his own rhythm at the practice pitch. They smiled. For, the answer had been as clear as water:
Leadership.
The fifth delivery of the over had Adam sprinting for a run, his bat tapping the crease as he returned safely to the non-striker's end. Haruf took his stance once more, eyes sharp, body taut with anticipation.
Haitam collected the ball from Galleous, his feet firm on the popping crease, eyes locked on the wickets behind Haruf. He released the sixth delivery with precise force—a Doosra, deceptive, twisting deceptively toward the stumps.
Haruf's lips curled into a grin, reading the disguise a heartbeat early. Dropping low for a sweep, he let the Doosra drift past harmlessly, a silent taunt to the bowler. Then, with a roll of his wrists, he sent the ball soaring in a high, fearless arc over deep square leg—clean, untouchable.
"World Splitter," Haruf whispered to himself, grinning ear to ear.
The ball cracked through the air with a sound like stone shattering, cutting toward the crowd— a single white meteor streaking through a starless sky, destined for earth. Haitam blinked, momentarily stunned.
"Whoa!!" The stadium erupted.
Adam cheered alongside the crowd as the ball nestled into their midst.
"Massive! Even bigger than before! Ninety-nine meters! What a show! The entire stadium is on fire!" Jones shouted, exhilarated.
Yara's brow furrowed, tension etched across her features, while Yasir's gaze stayed steady, unreadable.
"Yes!! Did you hear that crack? Like he struck a rock! Incredible!" Azazel gasped, awe breaking through his composure.
Feng swallowed, overwhelmed, "What power…"
Noah's voice carried calmly yet confidently, "That's Haruf's World Splitter, little ones. With it, he dismantles any delivery meant to stop him, through mastered sweep shots executed in a destructive, flawless style."
Kenzo and Helios watched silently, observing Haruf's technique with measured contemplation.
"Oh dear~ that's not very kind of you, is it?" Pierre teased Aaron, who returned the wink with an even slyer smirk, "You're asking the wrong people for mercy at the wrong moment, my friend."
Milan retrieved the ball from the stands, passing it gently back to Haitam while patting his back. "Don't push yourself too hard," he murmured. Haitam shook his head, tucking the ball under his arm. "Don't worry about it," he replied, voice calm yet tinged with quiet resolve.
He drew a deep breath, lifting a hand to tousle his hair into a rebellious, wavy mess. A mischievous glint danced in his eyes, excitement tempered by focus. Adam followed his movements, watching Haitam's back with admiration, a quiet awe settling over him.
Around them, the players adjusted their positions, the stadium alive with anticipation. Every breath seemed held, every gaze sharpened. The final delivery of the over.
In the audiences stand, "Come on, bro…" Hira bit her nail, her eyes narrowing, tension radiating off her in palpable waves.
Haitam delivered the last ball of the over.
Just then, Hira felt a shadow hover over her head. A soft, almost gravitational whistle tugged at her senses, pulling her toward it. She instinctively turned her head.
From the seat beside the stairway, a young man rose, unfolding himself into the dim glow of the stadium lights. In one hand, he held a transparent umbrella, tilted just enough to shade himself beneath the open night sky. Something about him felt familiar—yet distant. Noble. Out of place. 'A figure clearly not from around here,' was her very first thought.
Golden-blond hair fell in tousled layers, parted deep to one side, longer strands sweeping lazily across his face. Steel-blue eyes—washed with a faint shade of grey—caught the light like cold glass. A black tracksuit clung casually to him, yet the jersey zipped over jeans made him stand out strangely, beautifully misplaced. A grey gear bag rested against his shoulder like proof he belonged somewhere else.
"Ah, mon ami… le voilà. [1](Ah, my friend… there he is.)" His voice carried quiet triumph, pleased, almost intimate with the air itself, "I finally found you."
Hira's gaze slipped behind to Zain and Erum. They mirrored her confusion, curiosity flickering like match-flames in their eyes.
"French…?" Zain murmured, reporter instincts sharpening at once. Raising his voice, he called, "Kid, grab a seat while it's open. The stadium's getting pretty riled up."
The boy turned. Blinked. Recognition softened his face, "Ah! If it isn't reporters. Yet again."
Zain's brow lifted. A touch offended, "Excuse me?"
Erum's stare hardened.
"Ah, don't get me wrong. It's just that, I escape from one, I get caught by another. Media sure gangs up on you in Pakistan. Point pris— (point taken)." A playful wink followed. The kid had talent—dangerous talent—for unsettling people on first meeting.
Zain cleared his throat, shrugging, "Sorry to disappoint you, kid. We've got our livelihood at stake." The boy laughed quietly, shaking his head, "Just kidding, Monsieur. But the reporters here are quite merciless, I tell you."
Then, softer—almost fond, "My friend made me work real hard to find him, hun~" His steel-blue gaze slid toward Karachi's pavilion, glinting like sharpened ice.
"Oh~? A friend, huh…" Zain traced the boy's line of sight to the pavilion, a faint smile curving his lips. "Who might that lucky one be…?" he wondered.
"What's your name—and what's with the umbrella?" Erum asked from the side, folding her arms.
"Ah, this…" the boy glanced upward through the clear canopy. Above him, the sky stretched like dark velvet, endless and secretive. A slow, unreadable smile touched his lips.
"You'll know soon enough." He turned back, "And, my bad for not introducing myself. It's Tristan. Tristan—" Suddenly, his attention snapped downward right at the pitch.
Zain, Erum, and Hira followed without thinking. Doosra. The same delivery. Haitam to Haruf.
"Again?" Erum exhaled, "Is he waiting for Haruf to send another six?"
Tristan's lips curved, "You think so?" He twirled the umbrella between his fingers, light and playful, like a magician teasing fate, "I bet he's powered up, though."
Upon his words, Hira's chest tightened. She swallowed, breath caught somewhere between fear and anticipation, her eyes refusing to leave the moment ahead.
The moment the ball landed on the pitch, Haruf had already settled into his sweep. Maybe it was instinct, maybe confidence— but from the non-striker's end, Adam caught something else. Haitam was smiling.
Like a hunter coaxing prey into a trap, Haitam murmured under his breath, "Raindrop Bounce." The ball tore toward the stumps with ferocity that mirrored his grey eyes. Then—without warning—it skidded across the surface, accelerating unnaturally.
Haruf read the shift and snapped into a front-foot defense, but the instant he committed—The ball leapt. Aiming straight for his gloves.
Momentum shattered. Confusion doubled. Haruf jerked his bat upward to shield himself, and that single desperate movement sent the ball popping high into the air.
Haruf stared up, startled. Adam froze, baffled by what he had just witnessed.
"Catch it!!" David shouted.
And Haitam? —the Dancing Monsoon—never missed his chance. With Kian rushing in behind to cover, the captain of Multan Sultans glided forward and gathered the ball gently into his safe hands.
Silence. A heartbeat. Then the fielders exploded in triumph, and the stadium followed with a thunderous roar— "OUT!!"
"Unbelievable! What a massive wicket for Multan Sultans!" Maaz cried, electric with thrill.
"Sheer tenacity and mind-blowing technique by Haitam Asher! Haruf Noor Faris departs at 19 off 10. The exact opposite of last time unfolds before the Quetta crowd!" Jones continued.
[1] Tristan's home language is French. The translation of the text is in italics next to it.