Two days passed in quiet routine inside the compound. Meera trained lightly with the younger recruits—basic weapons handling, physical drills—always careful not to show too much skill. She played the grieving widow perfectly: quiet, obedient, eyes downcast when Faisal was near. But she watched everything. Every guard rotation, every whispered conversation, every vehicle that came and left.

On the third evening, Faisal summoned her to a small private room at the back of the building. No courtyard this time. Just a locked door, dim bulb hanging from the ceiling, a low wooden table, two cushions on the floor, and the faint smell of incense.