Some men wait for opportunity.
Others become it.
And Aarav Malik… he had just caught its scent in the air like petrol before fire.
It happened on a humid Friday afternoon in Lahore.
The garage was buzzing, literally—an angry Mehran's battery had just shocked one of the boys. Iqbal was yelling. A kid spilled oil. Chaos was the usual melody.
And then he walked in.
A man in a starched shalwar kameez, aviator glasses too expensive for the area, and a calmness that screamed money with manners. He didn't dodge the oil puddles. He walked through them.
"Aarav Malik?" the man asked, voice crisp like winter air in Defence.
"That depends," Aarav said, wiping grease off his hands, "you here to complain or invest?"
The man smiled. "Hopefully the second."
His name was Taimoor Shah. A silent investor. The kind of guy who didn't show up in newspapers but had equity in half the fast-food chains and real estate plazas around Lahore. He'd heard about Aarav through a chain of impressed clients, whispering about the boy genius in a mechanic's uniform.
"I've been wanting to start something bold," Taimoor said. "A car business. Pakistani-engineered, affordable, and personal. But I don't need a drawing-room entrepreneur. I need you."
Aarav blinked. "Me? Why?"
"Because you make broken things run again. I've seen it. Heard it. Felt it."
He leaned in. "Let's build cars together. I'll fund. You lead. 50-50."
Aarav didn't respond. Not right away. Because dreams don't always shout. Sometimes, they whisper. And this whisper? It felt like destiny in disguise.
That night, under the buzzing tube light, Iqbal sat with him, old cigarette trembling between fingers.
"You're thinking like a boy again," he muttered. "This isn't just fixing Suzukis and Civics. This is building something from scratch. With no name. No customers. No mercy from the market."
Aarav looked out the window.
"I know."
Iqbal exhaled slowly. "And what if it fails?"
Aarav's jaw tightened.
"Then we do what we always did, Ustaad. We rebuild."
Triple Axe was born two weeks later.
They didn't start with corporate flair. There was no AC office, no press launch. Just a dusty warehouse on the outskirts of Lahore and a team of ex-mechanics with sunburnt hands and steel in their spirits.
They bought scrap. Wrecked cars from Walton, jail auctions, and abandoned lots.
But Aarav? He saw potential in every pile of rust.
They stripped the old. Welded the new. Infused raw horsepower with sleek design. Added Pakistani grit to every screw. Each car was like Aarav himself—once shattered, now rebuilt stronger.
Five beasts stood lined under the flickering warehouse lights. Matte black finish. Chrome trims. A look that didn't beg for attention, it demanded it.
Stamped on the back: Triple Axe
Slogan underneath: "Cutting Through Limits."
But now came the real test.
Not could they build?
But could they sell?
Because markets in Lahore don't run on sympathy.
They run on resale value, petrol efficiency, and shiny Instagram reels.
And in a world of Toyota, Honda, and Hyundai… would anyone trust a garage-boy brand?
Aarav stood outside the plant, arms crossed, watching his empire of bolts and belief.
Iqbal stepped beside him, arms behind his back.
"You sure about this, beta?"
Aarav nodded slowly.
"We've built the bones. Now it's time to give it a roar."