The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the rugged Lyari roads as Hamza gripped the handlebars of his old motorcycle. The engine roared steadily, pushing them forward at a brisk speed through the winding path flanked by dusty hills and sparse vegetation. Both men, Hamza and Uzair, were dressed in traditional Balochi kurtas and salwars, the loose fabric billowing slightly in the rush of wind. Hamza's kurta, a deep earthy red, clung to his broad shoulders, while Uzair's, in a faded blue, pressed against his back as he sat pillion, his legs straddling the seat behind Hamza.

The road was far from smooth, potholes dotted the surface like craters on a forgotten moon, jolting the bike with every bump. Uzair's arms instinctively wrapped around Hamza's waist to steady himself, his palms flattening against the firm muscles beneath the kurta. 'Yeh sadak toh maarne wali hai, bhai ko bol ke pehle ye sadak theek karwaunga behenchod' Uzair muttered, his voice barely audible over the growl of the engine and the whipping wind.