Two young women dressed in their finest traditional clothes stepped into a marble and gold elevator in one of Dubai Marina’s most exclusive towers.

Their eyes sparkled with excitement as they ascended toward the 47th floor toward promises of modeling contracts and a life they’d only seen on Instagram.

Above them, in a penthouse worth millions, a 58-year-old man checked his watch.

He’d been planning this moment for months.

The door would open, they would enter, and within 20 minutes, both would be dead.

What could make a man turn his luxury penthouse into a death trap? The very moment two hopeful guests arrived.

Stay with me to find out.

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Ariba Nisar was 24 years old when her life ended in that Dubai penthouse.

She grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in Lahore, the eldest of three siblings.

Her father ran a small textile shop that barely covered the family’s expenses, while her mother stayed home to care for the children.

From a young age, Ariba showed a passion for fashion and photography.

She would spend hours watching makeup tutorials and studying the poses of successful influencers.

Her Instagram account, though modest with just 3,000 followers, was her pride and joy.

She dreamed bigger than her circumstances allowed.

While her friends settled into arranged marriages or low-paying office jobs, Aribba wanted more.

She wanted to walk runways, appear in fashion campaigns, and most importantly, lift her family out of their financial struggles.

Her younger brother needed tuition for engineering school.

Her sister wanted to study medicine.

Ariba felt the weight of these dreams on her shoulders.

I’ll make it, she’d tell her mother.

I’ll make enough money so none of us have to worry again.

But opportunities in Pakistan were limited.

The fashion industry favored those with connections, those whose families already moved in elite circles.

Ariba had talent and determination, but no network to open doors.

That’s when she started looking abroad, scrolling through opportunities in Dubai, a city that seemed to welcome ambition.

Zenat Kureshi was different in background but similar in dreams.

At 26, she held a bachelor’s degree in business administration from a decent university in Karach.

Yet, despite her education, she found herself stuck in a cycle of unpaid internships and temporary positions that paid barely 15,000 rupees a month.

It wasn’t enough.

Not for someone who wanted to help her aging parents.

Not for someone who watched her father’s health decline while medical bills piled up.

Zenat was practical and intelligent.

She researched every opportunity carefully, reading reviews and checking credentials before applying anywhere.

She’d turned down several dubious offers over the years, jobs that promised too much or asked for money upfront.

But she never stopped looking.

Her father had sacrificed everything to educate her, taking loans he still hadn’t repaid.

She felt she owed him success, owed him proof that his investment wasn’t wasted.

The two women met online in early 2022 in a Facebook group for Pakistani women seeking work in the Gulf.

They bonded over shared frustrations and similar goals.

When opportunities seemed questionable, they’d consult each other.

What do you think? Does this seem legitimate? They became each other’s safety net.

Or so they believed.

Both understood the risks of traveling abroad alone.

They’d heard stories women promised jobs that turned into exploitation, passports confiscated, wages withheld.

But they’d also heard success stories.

Women who’d gone to Dubai and returned with savings, with experiences, with transformed lives.

The Gulf represented possibility in a way their home country no longer did.

Their families worried but understood.

Unemployment in Pakistan pushed thousands abroad every year.

Fathers warned their daughters.

Mothers prayed for their safety.

But everyone knew that sometimes risk was the only path to reward.

Ariba’s mother made her promise to call every day.

Zenat’s father made her memorize the Pakistani embassy’s phone number.

Have you ever known someone who left home chasing a better life abroad? Someone whose desperation for opportunity outweighed their fear of the unknown.

These weren’t reckless women.

They were educated, cautious, and hopeful.

They believed in their ability to recognize danger.

They believed they could protect each other.

They believed that their dreams were worth the journey.

They were wrong about one thing.

They believed they could spot a predator when they saw one.

September 20122.

Aribba was scrolling through Instagram when a direct message appeared from an account called Razakal Mansour official.

The profile displayed everything that screamed success.

A silver Rolls-Royce Phantom parked outside Burj Alarab.

Champagne glasses on a private jet.

fashion show backstage passes and photos of him in traditional Emirati dress at what looked like high-profile business events.

His bio read, “Fashion investor, entrepreneur, discovering new talent.

The message was professional, almost formal.

Assalam alalayikum.

I came across your profile and was impressed by your styling and presence.

I’m launching a modest fashion line targeting the South Asian market in the Gulf, and I’m looking for fresh faces.

Would you be interested in discussing a potential collaboration? Aribba’s heart raced.

She’d received creepy messages before she knew the difference.

This seemed legitimate.

She showed it to Zenat, who examined the profile carefully.

53,000 followers.

Posts dating back 3 years.

Comments from other accounts that appeared real.

Photos at Dubai Fashion Week.

Everything checked out.

They responded cautiously.

Shik Razak was patient, never pushy.

Over the next few weeks, he sent them lookbooks for his supposed fashion line, modest abayas with modern cuts, traditional shall kamese with contemporary styling.

He explained his vision, clothing that honored cultural values while appealing to younger generations.

It resonated with both women.

By October, they were having regular conversations.

He’d ask about their day, their families, their aspirations.

He seemed genuinely interested in them as people, not just potential models.

He’d share business advice, talk about the challenges of entrepreneurship, even discuss his own family.

I have two daughters, he told them.

That’s why I respect hard-working young women like yourselves.

In November, he made the first concrete offer.

50,000 dirhams for a 3-month contract.

Accommodation provided in a shared apartment in Dubai Marina.

Roundtrip flights covered.

professional photography for their portfolios.

He sent what appeared to be official contract templates complete with legal terminology and company stamps.

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The video calls started in December.

Shake Razak would show them around his penthouse, the floor toseeiling windows overlooking the Palm JRA, the spare bedroom where visiting models stayed.

He’d show them fabric samples held up to the camera.

He’d introduced them via video to his assistant, a Pakistani woman named Hyra, who confirmed the legitimacy of his business.

What they didn’t know was that Hia was an actress paid for a single appearance.

If you made it to this point, drop a comment with, “I’m still here.

Let’s see who is still watching.

” But there were red flags they missed.

Shik Razak insisted they keep the opportunity confidential.

“The fashion industry is competitive,” he explained.

I don’t want other investors stealing my talent before we’ve signed contracts.

He discouraged them from involving modeling agencies.

Agencies take 40% of your earnings.

Why give away your hard-earned money? When Zenat suggested meeting at his office first, he had an answer ready.

I work from home.

Most Dubai entrepreneurs do.

Office space is expensive and unnecessary.

When Aribba asked for references from other models he’d worked with, he claimed confidentiality agreements prevented him from sharing names.

But once you’re part of the team, you’ll meet everyone.

The psychology here is textbook manipulation.

He invested time six full months building trust gradually.

He mirrored their values, speaking about family and faith.

He created urgency without pressure, mentioning other girls interested in the positions.

He isolated them by requesting secrecy.

He provided just enough verification to seem legitimate while having excuses for anything he couldn’t provide.

Would you have spotted the warning signs? What would make you suspicious? By March 2023, both women felt certain this was their breakthrough.

They’d been talking to Shik Razak for half a year.

They’d seen his home, his lifestyle, his business materials.

They’d consulted each other at every step.

They felt protected by their caution, validated by their research.

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What they couldn’t see was the truth.

Shake Razak al-Mansour wasn’t a successful fashion investor.

He was a 58-year-old man drowning in debt, rage, and entitlement.

His luxury cars were rented for photooots.

His penthouse was real, but mortgaged beyond its value.

His fashion line didn’t exist.

The only thing real about his Instagram profile was his address and his capacity for violence.

Behind every polished photo, every professional message, every reassuring video call, Shik Razak was building a trap.

The title shake means nothing in Shik Razak al-Mansour’s case.

He wasn’t royalty.

He had no tribal leadership.

He wasn’t even particularly wealthy.

Razak bin Ahmed al-Mansour was born in 1,965 in a workingclass neighborhood in Sharah to a family of modest means.

His father was a dock worker, his mother a housewife.

There was nothing noble about his lineage, nothing distinguished about his upbringing.

He adopted the shake prefix in his 30s, using it on business cards and social media to create an illusion of status.

In the UAE, where genuine shakes hold immense power and respect, Razak understood that the title alone could open doors and silence questions.

People assumed authority.

They assumed wealth.

They assumed legitimacy.

By 58, Razak had failed at almost every business venture he’d attempted, a car rental company that went bankrupt in 2008, a restaurant that closed within 18 months, an import export business that existed mostly on paper.

Each failure left him more bitter, more convinced that the world owed him success simply because he wanted it.

In 2019, authorities in Abu Dhabi charged him with financial fraud.

He’d convinced three investors to fund a luxury hotel development that never materialized.

The money disappeared into his personal accounts, expensive watches, designer clothes, the Rolls-Royce he’d later photographed for Instagram.

The case dragged on for 14 months before being dropped due to insufficient evidence and a legal technicality.

The investors lost everything.

Razak walked away with a damaged reputation but no criminal record.

Those who knew him described a man with an explosive temper and a dangerous sense of entitlement.

A former business partner who spoke to investigators only after Razak’s arrest recalled an incident in 2017.

A waitress at a restaurant brought him the wrong order.

He stood up and threw the plate against the wall, screaming that she was incompetent and stupid.

When the manager asked him to leave, he threatened to have the entire staff deported.

That’s who he was, someone who believed his wants mattered more than other people’s dignity.

His ex-wife, Mariam, divorced him in 2021 after 12 years of marriage.

Court documents from the divorce proceedings painted a disturbing picture.

She described a man obsessed with control who monitored her phone, isolated her from friends, and erupted into rage when she contradicted him.

“He couldn’t accept being told no,” she stated in her testimony.

“About anything, by anyone.

Do you think social media makes it easier for predators to find victims?” After the divorce, Razak’s behavior shifted.

He began creating multiple social media profiles targeting young women from South Asia and East Africa.

demographics he perceived as vulnerable and desperate for opportunities.

Between 2021 and 2023, investigators later discovered he’d contacted at least 17 women with similar promises of modeling work or personal assistant positions.

Four of them had accepted his invitations to Dubai, but never arrived due to various circumstances, visa delays, family emergencies, last minute suspicions.

These women unknowingly escaped with their lives.

When questioned after Razak’s arrest, each described the same pattern.

Months of grooming, promises of contracts, insistence on secrecy, and eventually invitations to his penthouse.

By early 2023, Razak’s financial situation had become desperate.

His penthouse was 3 months behind on mortgage payments.

Credit card companies were pursuing legal action.

The Rolls-Royce had been repossessed.

The life he displayed on Instagram was crumbling in reality.

Former neighbors reported increasingly erratic behavior.

He’d bang on doors at night, accusing people of conspiring against him.

He’d sit on his balcony for hours, smoking and staring at nothing.

One neighbor recalled hearing him on his phone, screaming in Arabic.

These people think they can refuse me.

They’ll learn.

Forensic psychologists who evaluated Razark after his arrest identified a dangerous combination.

narcissistic personality traits, a persecution complex, and what they termed catastrophic loss of status anxiety.

He’d built his entire identity on an image of wealth and power.

As that image collapsed, so did his grip on reality.

In his mind, young women accepting his invitations weren’t human beings seeking opportunities.

They were transactions.

They were proof of his power.

And when they refused to play the role he’d assigned them, when they dared to say no, his rage became murderous.

The 15th of March, 2023, flight EK612 touched down at Dubai International Airport at 3:42 p.

m.

Aribba and Zenat collected their luggage, their hands trembling with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

Aribba immediately posted to her Instagram story a photo of the airport’s massive terminal with the caption, “Dubai, here we come.

New beginnings.

” Zenat sent a WhatsApp message to her parents.

Landed safely.

Alhamdulillah.

Everything looks amazing.

They expected Shik Razak or his assistant to meet them at arrivals.

Instead, they received a text message.

Welcome to Dubai.

Something came up with a business meeting.

I’ve arranged a hotel for tonight.

Car is waiting outside gate 3.

Tomorrow we’ll meet properly and get you settled in the marina apartment.

The first disappointment arrived quickly.

The car took them not to Dubai Marina but to a budget hotel in Deerra, an older neighborhood far from the glamorous areas they’d seen in photos.

The Alnahill Hotel was clean but basic, nothing like the luxury accommodations Razark had promised.

The room had two single beds, outdated furniture, and a view of a busy street market.

Zenat felt uneasy.

Why aren’t we staying at the apartment? He mentioned Aribba, ever optimistic, made excuses.

He’s probably still getting it ready.

Remember, he said other models use it sometimes.

Maybe they haven’t checked out yet.

They wanted to believe they’d come too far to turn back over a hotel downgrade.

That evening, they explored the neighborhood, bought shawama from a street vendor, and video called their families.

Aribba’s mother noticed the modest surroundings.

“Is this where you’llll be staying?” Aribba lied smoothly.

“No, mama.

This is temporary.

Tomorrow, we move to the proper place.

” She didn’t want to worry her mother.

She didn’t want to admit her own growing doubts.

March 16 began with nervous energy.

They spent the morning rehearsing how they’d present themselves, practicing poses, choosing outfits that looked professional yet stylish.

By afternoon, still no word from Shik Razak, Zen called the number he’d provided.

It rang four times before he answered, his voice distracted.

Yes.

Yes.

Sorry for the delay.

Tonight, come to the penthouse tonight at 8:30 p.

m.

Everything is ready.

I’ll send a car.

At exactly 8:00 p.

m.

, a black Mercedes S-Class pulled up outside their hotel.

The driver, a South Asian man in his 40s, barely acknowledged them when they climbed into the back seat.

He didn’t introduce himself, didn’t make small talk, didn’t even confirm their destination.

The tinted windows were so dark they could barely see outside.

The drive through Dubai felt endless.

They passed the glowing Burj Khalifa, the crowded Dubai Mall, and eventually reached Dubai Marina with its forest of luxury highrises.

The car stopped in front of Emerald Tower, a gleaming residential complex where apartments sold for millions of dirhams.

Security footage from the lobby would later show them entering at 8:47 p.

m.

Both women looked nervous but excited.

Aribba adjusted her dupata.

Zena checked her reflection in the mirrored walls.

They spoke to each other quietly, words the cameras couldn’t capture, but body language that revealed hope mixed with apprehension.

Before entering the elevator, Zenat sent a quick message to her father.

Meeting the client now.

We’ll call you later.

Ariba sent something similar to her mother, adding a heart emoji.

These messages were routine check-ins, the kind they’d promised to send to keep their families reassured.

They had no idea those would be their final words to the people who loved them.

The elevator doors closed.

Floor numbers climbed.

10, 20, 30, 40, 45, 46, 47.

The doors opened to a private vestibule with only one door, the entrance to Shik Razak’s penthouse.

Ariba pressed the doorbell.

They heard footsteps approaching from inside.

The door opened.

Shik Razak stood there in traditional Emirati dress, his expression unreadable.

“Welcome,” he said.

“Please come in.

” They stepped inside.

The door closed behind them with a heavy click.

It was 8:51 p.

m.

The penthouse was exactly as stunning as the video calls had shown.

Marble floors stretched across an open plan living area.

Floor toseeiling windows displayed a breathtaking view of the Palm JRA.

Its lights glittering against the dark waters of the Arabian Gulf.

Expensive leather furniture, abstract art on the walls, a chandelier that probably cost more than most people earned in a year.

Everything screamed wealth.

But something felt wrong.

Ariba noticed at first the apartment was too quiet, too empty, no assistant waiting to greet them, no racks of clothing for the fashion line, no photography equipment, just Shake Razak, alone, watching them with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“Please sit,” he said, gesturing toward the sofa.

His voice was friendly, but his eyes weren’t.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee, tea, juice?” They declined politely.

They wanted to discuss business and leave.

The atmosphere felt heavy, wrong in a way neither could articulate.

Shik Razak sat across from them, leaning back in his chair with forced casualness.

So, you made it.

I’m glad.

You’re both even more beautiful in person.

The comment hung in the air uncomfortably.

Zenad shifted in her seat.

Thank you.

Should we discuss the contract details? When do we start the photo sessions? He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Let me show you around first.

You should see where you’ll be working.

He led them through the penthouse, pointing out the master bedroom, the guest rooms, the kitchen with appliances they’d never seen in person.

At the windows, he stood close too close as he pointed out landmarks.

The Burjal Arab in the distance, the construction of new islands.

His hand brushed Zenat’s shoulder.

She stepped away.

Back in the living room, his demeanor shifted.

The friendly facade began to crack.

Let’s discuss the real arrangement, he said, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

You’re both smart women.

You understand how things work in Dubai.

Yes.

Nothing comes for free.

Ariba’s stomach dropped.

What do you mean? You said this was about modeling.

His laugh was cold.

Modeling? Yes, of course.

But there are expectations.

You’ll stay here with me.

You’ll be available when I want company.

In return, you’ll have money, comfort, everything you need.

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Zenat stood up immediately.

That’s not what we agreed to.

We came here for professional work, nothing else.

Ariba joined her.

Both women moving toward the door.

We’re leaving.

This is not what you promised.

Shake Razak’s expression changed completely.

The mask didn’t just slip, it shattered, his face contorted with rage, veins bulging in his neck.

Leaving? You think you can refuse me? His voice rose to a shout.

I brought you here.

I paid for your flights, your hotel.

You don’t get to say no.

Aribba reached for the door handle.

It wouldn’t turn.

He’d locked it from the inside with a deadbolt that required a key.

They were trapped.

Please, Aribba said, her voice shaking.

Just let us go.

We won’t tell anyone.

Well forget this happened.

If you made it to this point, drop a comment with I’m still here.

Let’s see who is still watching.

It was 9:15 p.

m.

Shake Razak moved toward them, his size suddenly menacing in a way it hadn’t been before.

You come to my home, you accept my hospitality, and then you disrespect me.

Do you know who I am? Zenad pulled out her phone with trembling hands, trying to dial emergency services.

He crossed the space between them in three quick strides and snatched it from her grip, throwing it against the marble floor where it shattered into pieces.

Who are you calling? No one can help you here.

What would you do if trapped in this situation? The next moments happened so fast.

Ariba screamed, trying to draw attention from neighbors.

Zenat ran toward the kitchen, looking for another exit, another phone, anything.

Shik Razak’s rage had transformed into something monstrous, inhuman.

He grabbed Aribba first, pulling her away from the door with brutal force.

In the apartment directly below, Mrs.

Chen, a 52-year-old expatriot, was preparing dinner when she heard shouting through the ceiling.

The words were muffled but desperate.

Please, we just want to leave.

A woman’s voice high-pitched with terror.

Mrs.

Chen turned off her stove and stood still, listening.

Another scream, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

Then, struggling, furniture moving, more screaming.

Mrs.

Chen reached for her phone to call building security.

Above her, the sounds intensified.

Two women’s voices now, both crying out for help.

Then a crash, something breaking, more shouting from Shikra Razak, his deeper voice booming with rage that she could hear even through the concrete floors.

At 9:42 p.

m.

, the screaming stopped abruptly.

The sudden silence was somehow more terrifying than the noise had been.

Mrs.

Chen stood frozen in her kitchen, her phone in her hand, uncertain whether to call or wait.

Maybe it had resolved peacefully.

Maybe she’d misunderstood what she’d heard.

But deep down, she knew something horrible had just happened in the apartment above hers.

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The silence continued.

No footsteps, no voices, no sounds of life at all.

Just the hum of the building’s air conditioning and the distant traffic from the streets below.

In that penthouse, two young women who traveled across the sea chasing dreams lay motionless on the marble floor.

Their families, thousands of miles away, were still waiting for the phone calls that would never come.

By 10:15 p.

m.

, three separate neighbors had called building security.

Mrs.

Chen from the 46th floor reported hearing screams and struggling.

A couple on the 48th floor complained about loud shouting that had disturbed their evening.

An elderly man across the hall from Shik Razak’s penthouse said he’d heard what sounded like furniture being thrown against walls.

Ahmed Hassan, the evening security supervisor, took the elevator to the 47th floor.

He was a 34year-old Egyptian who’d worked at Emerald Tower for 6 years without any serious incidents.

As he approached the penthouse, he noticed the complete silence.

No music, no television, no voices, just the hum of the central air conditioning.

He knocked firmly on the door.

Building security.

We’ve received noise complaints.

Please open the door.

No response.

He knocked again harder this time.

Sir, I need to speak with you.

Please open the door.

Still nothing.

But the lights were on.

He could see them beneath the door frame.

Ahmed tried the handle.

Locked.

He pressed his ear against the door, listening for any sound of movement inside.

Nothing.

His instincts told him something was deeply wrong.

He radioed down to the main security desk.

I need backup on 47.

Something’s not right up here.

At 10:52 p.

m.

, after consulting with the building manager, they made the decision to call Dubai police.

The emergency dispatcher took the information seriously.

Reports of screaming followed by complete silence, door locked from inside, resident not responding.

These details triggered an immediate response.

The police arrived in 9 minutes.

Two patrol cars, four officers.

They approached the penthouse with Ahmed Hassan, who briefed them on the situation.

Officer Khaled al- Muhari, a 10-year veteran of Dubai police, made the decision quickly.

We’re going in.

Step back.

At 11:30 p.

m.

, they broke down the door.

The scene that greeted them would haunt every officer present for the rest of their careers.

Two young women lay in the living room, their traditional clothes torn, signs of struggle evident in their defensive wounds and the chaos of overturned furniture.

Blood had pulled on the white marble floor.

Broken glass from Zenat’s phone glittered near the entrance.

Ariba’s purse contents were scattered across the carpet.

Later, investigators would describe the scene as methodical.

This wasn’t a crime of sudden passion.

The timeline told a calculated story.

Security footage showed the women entering at 8:47 p.

m.

Neighbors reported screaming, starting around 9:15 p.

m.

and stopping at 9:42 p.

m.

That meant both women had been killed within 25 minutes of arriving, but the violence had been concentrated into just under half an hour of terror.

Shik Razak wasn’t hiding.

Officers found him on the balcony sitting in a wicker chair, smoking a cigarette, and staring out at the city lights.

He didn’t resist when they approached.

He didn’t seem surprised to see them.

He simply put out his cigarette and stood up, extending his wrists for handcuffs, as if he’d been expecting this moment.

They disrespected me in my own home were his first words to police.

No shock, no panic, no remorse, just a statement delivered with the same tone someone might use to explain returning a defective product to a store.

As forensic teams processed the scene, they discovered something chilling.

In a storage closet near the entrance, investigators found plastic sheets, the industrial kind, used in construction or home renovation.

They were still in their packaging, purchased 3 days earlier, according to the receipt found in Shik Razak’s bedroom.

He’d bought them on March 13, 2 days before the women even landed in Dubai.

This was premeditated.

He’d planned for this possibility, perhaps even this outcome before they ever stepped on the plane.

Evidence collection took 5 hours.

Phones shake Razaks intact, the women’s destroyed, security footage from building cameras, DNA evidence from the scene.

Fingerprints, photographs from every angle.

The women’s luggage, still at their hotel, would be collected the following morning.

Everything told the same story.

Two young women lured across international borders by a predator who’d spent months preparing his trap.

But what investigators found on Shik Razak’s phone would reveal the true extent of his depravity and the horrifying realization that Ariba and Zenat might not have been his first intended victims.

Detective Hassan Al-Mazui arrived at the crime scene at 11:47 p.

m.

A 42-year-old senior investigator with Dubai Police’s criminal investigation department, he’d handled countless homicides in his 18-year career, but this case immediately struck him as different.

The crime scene told a story of rage, but the evidence suggested planning.

That contradiction needed explanation.

The next morning, forensic analysts began extracting data from Shik Razak’s phone.

What they found was a digital road map of manipulation spanning 6 months.

Every message to Ariba and Zenat had been saved.

Screenshots of their Instagram profiles with notes about their interests, family situations, and vulnerabilities.

Voice notes he’d sent them, his tone carefully modulated to sound paternal and trustworthy.

Photos he’d staged specifically for them.

the penthouse, the fabric samples, even the fake assistant Hyra.

But Aribba and Zenat weren’t alone.

The phone contained conversations with 17 other women, 14 from Pakistan, two from India, one from Bangladesh, all between ages 22 and 28.

All aspiring models or seeking employment opportunities in Dubai.

The same script slightly modified for each woman, the same promises, the same gradual building of trust.

Four of these women had accepted his invitation and made concrete plans to travel to Dubai.

Investigators contacted each of them immediately.

Their stories were chilling in their similarity.

Nadia 23 from Karachi had been scheduled to arrive in February but her visa was delayed by administrative issues.

Priya 25 from Mumbai had booked flights for early March but her father suffered a heart attack the week before forcing her to cancel.

Fatima 24 from Islamabad had actually arrived in Dubai in January but got cold feet at the last minute and flew home after two days never meeting Shik Razak Sana 26 from Lahore had backed out when Razak refused to let her bring a friend along.

These women had unknowingly escaped with their lives saved by coincidence, intuition or family emergencies.

Detective Al-Mazui’s team examined Shik Razak’s browser history.

The searches painted a disturbing picture of premeditation.

On February 28, how long does police investigation take in Dubai? On March 3, soundproof rooms Dubai Marina.

On March 8, do building cameras record audio? On March 10, penalty for murder in UAE? On March 12, where to buy plastic sheets in Dubai? He’d been researching the consequences of murder while simultaneously convincing Ariba and Zenat to trust him.

Financial records told another part of the story.

Shik Razak’s bank accounts were nearly empty.

His penthouse had 3 months of unpaid mortgage.

Credit card debt totaled over 480,000 dirhams.

Collection agencies had filed legal complaints.

His Rolls-Royce had been repossessed in February.

The man who displayed wealth online was financially drowning in reality.

Detective Al-Mazui developed a theory.

Shik Razak hadn’t just been seeking victims for his perverse desires.

He’d been punishing them for his failures.

Every young woman who seemed hopeful and ambitious represented everything he’d lost.

Their potential mocked his collapse.

Their refusal to submit became, in his twisted mind, the ultimate disrespect from people he viewed as beneath him.

Why do you think powerful men feel entitled to other people’s lives? Investigators interviewed everyone who’d known Shik Razak.

His ex-wife Mariam agreed to speak, though the memories clearly pained her.

Control was everything to him,” she told Detective Al-Mazui.

“He controlled what I wore, who I spoke to, where I went.

When I finally filed for divorce, he told me I’d ruined his life.

” He said, “Women like me destroyed good men.

” A former business partner, Mahmud al-Rashid, provided additional context.

Razak couldn’t accept rejection of any kind.

When investors declined to fund his projects, he’d rage for hours about their stupidity.

When business deals fell through, it was always someone else’s fault, never his poor planning or unrealistic expectations.

He viewed any no as a personal attack deserving retaliation.

The prosecution team, led by chief prosecutor Fatima Al-Mansuri, began building their case.

Premeditated murder.

Two counts.

The evidence was overwhelming.

The 6 months of digital manipulation, the purchased plastic sheets, the internet searches about consequences, the timeline showing rapid violence after the women refused his demands.

During police interrogation, Shik Razak refused to cooperate beyond his initial statement.

He wouldn’t discuss his planning, wouldn’t explain the plastic sheets, wouldn’t acknowledge any wrongdoing.

His only consistent message, they provoked me.

They came to my home and provoked me.

Even in custody facing the death penalty, he couldn’t accept that he’d done anything wrong.

In his mind, he remained the victim disrespected, betrayed, justified in his rage.

The phone call came at 2:00 a.

m.

Pakistan time.

Ariba’s mother, Nazia Nisar, was jolted awake by the persistent ringing.

The voice on the other end identified himself as a consular officer from the Pakistani embassy in Dubai.

Mrs.

Nissa, I’m calling about your daughter, Aribba.

There’s been an incident.

I’m very sorry to inform you.

She didn’t let him finish.

No, no, you’re wrong.

My daughter is fine.

She messaged me yesterday.

There must be a mistake.

Her voice rose with each word.

Desperation replacing confusion.

Her husband took the phone from her shaking hands, listened to the details, and collapsed into a chair.

Nazia’s screams woke the entire household.

Neighbors came running.

Not my daughter, not my Aribba.

300 km away in Karachi, Zenat’s father, Ikbal Kureshi, received a similar call 15 minutes later.

A retired school teacher known in his community for his composure and dignity.

Ikbal had weathered many hardships in his 62 years.

He’d survived poverty, illness, the death of his own parents.

But this news broke something fundamental inside him.

He sat motionless for 20 minutes, the phone still pressed to his ear long after the call had ended.

Tears streaming silently down his face.

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Both families had to travel to Dubai.

A journey that would become the worst trip of their lives.

The Pakistani government under pressure from public outrage expedited visa processing and covered some travel costs.

On March 19, 4 days after their daughters had landed in Dubai with dreams, the parents landed in the same airport with dread.

The morg visit was arranged for March 20.

Nothing prepares a parent to identify their child’s body in a foreign country.

Naza Nisar fainted the moment she saw Ariba’s face.

She’d kissed that face goodbye at Lahore airport, watched it glow with hope.

Now it was pale, lifeless, stolen.

Ikbal Kureshi stood over Zenat’s body for 10 minutes without moving, his hand hovering above her forehead, unable to touch her as if contact would make it irreversibly real.

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Let’s see who is still watching.

” Back in Pakistan, media frenzy erupted.

News channels ran continuous coverage.

Social media exploded with outrage.

Protests formed outside the UAE embassy in Islamabad.

Demonstrators demanding justice and better protection for Pakistani nationals abroad.

Number justice for Aribba and Zenith trended for days.

The Pakistani government officially pressured UAE authorities to ensure thorough prosecution.

Foreign Minister Bilawal Bhau Zardari personally called his Emirati counterpart.

This wasn’t just about two victims.

It represented thousands of Pakistani women working or seeking work in the Gulf.

All now questioning their safety.

Money became another burden.

Bringing bodies home, funeral costs, legal representation, everything required.

Funds these middle-class families didn’t have.

Community fundraising began immediately.

Mosques collected donations.

Social media campaigns raised over 2 million rupees.

Strangers contributed because the tragedy felt universal.

Every parent’s nightmare.

But not all community response was supportive.

Some voices blamed the victims.

Why did they go alone without a male family member? They should have known better than to meet a stranger in his home.

Modern girls think they can do anything without consequences.

This victim blaming added another layer of pain to grieving families.

Should families feel guilty when tragedy strikes their loved ones abroad? Both families carried crushing guilt.

Ariba’s father.

I should have stopped her.

I should have said no.

She cannot go.

Zenat’s mother.

I had a bad feeling that morning.

I should have trusted my instincts.

They replayed every conversation, every decision, searching for the moment they could have prevented this outcome.

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But the reality was more complex than individual family decisions.

Pakistan’s unemployment rate, especially for educated young women, drove thousands abroad annually.

The Gulf represented hope where home offered limited prospects.

Families supported these journeys not out of recklessness, but out of economic desperation.

Ariba wanted to fund her brother’s education.

Zenith needed to pay her father’s medical bills.

The tragedy wasn’t just about two families losing daughters.

It exposed the impossible choices poverty forces on people stay home with no future or risk everything abroad for a chance at something better.

The 12th of June 2023, Dubai criminal court convened for the trial of Shik Razak al- Mansour.

The courtroom was packed beyond capacity.

Journalists from six countries, Pakistani community members, human rights activists and dozens of people who’d followed the case online and felt compelled to witness justice firsthand.

Security had to turn away over a hundred people at the doors.

Shik Razak entered wearing traditional Emirati dress, walking with his head held high, showing no shame or remorse.

He looked directly at the families of his victims.

Seated in the front row, Aribba’s mother gasped and clutched her husband’s arm.

Zenat’s father stared back, his face a mask of restrained fury.

Chief prosecutor Fatima al-Mansuri opened with devastating clarity.

This is not a case of misunderstanding or tragic accident.

This is calculated premeditated murder.

The accused spent 6 months grooming these young women, purchased materials to dispose of evidence, researched legal consequences, and killed both victims within minutes of their arrival when they refused his demands.

The prosecution presented evidence that left no room for doubt.

Phone records showing 182 messages exchanged over 6 months.

The Instagram profile carefully constructed to deceive.

Screenshots of conversations with 13 other women who’d narrowly escaped the same fate.

Receipts for plastic sheets purchased two days before the victims arrived.

Browser history showing searches about soundproofing and investigation timelines.

The defense attorney, a Dubai lawyer named Ahmed Alalasi, attempted the only strategy available to him, minimizing premeditation.

This was a crime of passion, your honor.

My client acted in a moment of extreme emotional disturbance when he felt disrespected.

The judge interrupted immediately.

Counselor, the evidence shows your client purchased disposal materials days in advance.

Explain how that constitutes a crime of passion.

Alfalasi had no answer.

Dr.

Leila Hussein, the forensic pathologist, provided testimony that made several audience members leave the courtroom in distress.

She detailed the cause and time of death for both victims, the nature of their injuries, the evidence of their desperate attempts to defend themselves.

Ariba Nisar died first at approximately 9:28 p.

m.

Zenat Kureshi died approximately 14 minutes later at 9:42 p.

m.

Both deaths were violent and prolonged.

Security footage from the building lobby played on courtroom screens.

Aribba and Zenat entering at 8:47 p.

m.

Alive, hopeful, adjusting their clothes and hair as they approached the elevator.

Aribba’s mother broke down completely, her sobs echoing through the silent courtroom.

Zenat’s father covered his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking.

When given the opportunity to address the court, Shik Razak showed no remorse.

I offered them opportunities.

I was generous.

They came to my home and then refused to show proper gratitude.

They led me on for months with their messages and photos.

They provoked this situation.

The public gallery erupted in anger.

Murderer, someone shouted.

You killed innocent girls.

Others joined in.

The judge banged his gavvel repeatedly, calling for order.

Security guards moved to quiet the disruption.

Judge Tariq Al- Shamzi addressed Shik Razak directly, his voice stern.

The accused will understand that victim blaming has no place in this court.

You invited these women under false pretenses, trapped them in your home, and murdered them when they refused your advances.

Your statements show a complete absence of accountability or human decency.

The trial lasted 4 days.

On June 15, the verdict came swiftly.

Guilty on two counts of premeditated murder in the first degree.

The courtroom held its breath as Judge Al-Samsi prepared to announce sentencing.

The court sentences Shik Razak al-Mansour to death by execution.

Gasps filled the room.

Ariba’s father whispered, “Shukarhai, thank God.

” But his wife continued weeping because no verdict would bring their daughter home.

Later, due to diplomatic negotiations and legal appeals, the death sentence would be commuted to life imprisonment without possibility of parole.

Some felt this was insufficient.

Others believed it was more appropriate than making the state complicit in taking another life.

As Shik Razak was led away in handcuffs, he turned back to look at the courtroom one final time.

His expression remained unchanged.

No remorse, no acknowledgement of the lives he destroyed.

But the story doesn’t end with the verdict.

The murders of Aria Nisar and Zenat Kureshi sent shock waves through Dubai’s Pakistani expatriate community.

Over 1.

5 million people who suddenly saw their own daughters, sisters, and friends in the victims.

Community centers held emergency meetings.

WhatsApp groups that typically discussed cricket and recipes now shared safety protocols and warning signs of predatory behavior.

Mosques dedicated Friday sermons to the topic.

Imams spoke about protecting vulnerable community members and the Islamic principles of guardianship.

Pakistani restaurants displayed posters with helpline numbers.

The community that had always celebrated Dubai as a land of opportunity now confronted its dangers with open eyes.

Social media awareness exploded.

Influencers who’d previously only posted lifestyle content began sharing educational videos about verifying job opportunities and recognizing manipulation tactics.

The hashtag number verify before you travel gained millions of impressions.

Instagram and Facebook groups dedicated to exposing fake recruiters attracted hundreds of thousands of members.

The UAE government responded with policy changes.

Immigration authorities implemented stricter background checks for residence visa holders, particularly those with previous criminal allegations.

Dubai police launched a dedicated hotline for reporting suspicious job offers targeting foreign nationals.

Building management companies received new protocols for responding to domestic disturbances.

Pakistan’s Ministry of Overseas employment launched an official campaign, verify before you travel.

The program included workshops in universities, verification databases for Gulf employers, and mandatory orientation sessions for firsttime overseas workers.

Television commercials featured real stories, including with family permission, Aribba and Zenat’s case warning young people about too good to be true offers.

International pressure mounted on social media platforms.

Activists demanded verification systems for business accounts making job offers.

Instagram introduced new reporting categories specifically for suspected recruitment scams.

LinkedIn tightened requirements for posting job opportunities.

The changes came too late for Aribba and Zenat, but they might save others.

In the months following the trial, seven more women came forward with similar experiences involving Shik Razak.

Encounters that hadn’t resulted in physical violence, but involved manipulation, false promises, and inappropriate demands.

Their testimonies helped authorities understand the full scope of his predatory behavior.

Additionally, three other cases emerged of different men using identical tactics, suggesting a pattern that had been operating quietly for years.

The mental health impact on both families proved devastating and ongoing.

Aribba’s mother required psychiatric care for severe depression.

Zenat’s father developed anxiety so intense he couldn’t sleep without medication.

Siblings struggled with survivors guilt and fear.

Community organizations provided free counseling, but grief of this magnitude doesn’t heal on timelines.

Yet from tragedy came purpose.

Aribba’s younger sister, Hira, then just 19 years old, channeled her grief into advocacy work.

She started speaking at schools and colleges about online safety, sharing her sister’s story to educate others.

Aribba died chasing a dream.

Hia would tell audiences, “Let’s make sure her death protects others from the same fate.

” Zenut’s parents, despite their limited resources, established a small foundation called the Safe Migration Initiative.

Operating from their modest home in Karach, they council families about overseas opportunities, maintain a database of verified employers and offer financial assistance for proper background checks.

They’ve helped over 300 families verify job offers in the year since Zenet’s death.

But the core problem persists.

Pakistan’s unemployment rate, particularly for educated women, continues pushing people toward the Gulf.

Youth unemployment hovers around 10%, but undermployment affects millions more.

University graduates work jobs requiring no degree, earning salaries that barely cover rent.

The economic desperation that drove Aribba and Zenat abroad hasn’t diminished.

What can we do as a society to protect vulnerable people seeking opportunities abroad? This raises uncomfortable questions about structural inequality.

Why must young people risk everything in foreign countries because their own nation can’t provide adequate opportunities? Why does poverty force impossible choices between staying safe and pursuing dreams? The individual tragedy of Aribba and Zenut reflects systemic failures that continue affecting millions.

Dubai’s glamorous image, gleaming skyscrapers, luxury shopping, tax-free salaries, masks darker realities.

The city’s rapid development relies on vulnerable migrant labor.

Behind the Instagram perfect lifestyle posts exist stories of exploitation, abuse, and broken promises.

Aribba and Zenat’s case exposed what many had long known.

Dubai’s golden exterior sometimes conceals exploitation that thrives on desperation and dreams.

Their deaths became a cautionary tale, yes, but also a call for systemic change, better economic opportunities at home, stronger protections abroad, and recognition that as long as poverty exists, predators will exploit it.

Ariba and Xenats tragedy offers painful but crucial lessons.

Recognizing warning signs can mean the difference between opportunity and danger.

Here are red flags that should immediately raise suspicion.

Reluctance to involve legitimate agencies.

Any employer who discourages you from consulting recruitment agencies, labor departments, or professional networks is hiding something.

Legitimate businesses welcome verification because they have nothing to hide.

Shik Razak specifically told Aribba and Zenut that agencies would steal their earnings, a classic manipulation tactic to isolate victims.

Requests for secrecy from family.

When someone insists you keep opportunities confidential from parents, siblings, or friends, alarm bells should ring loudly.

Predators thrive on isolation.

They know that informed families ask questions, demand verification, and provide protection.

No legitimate employer requires secrecy.

Too good to be true promises.

50,000 dirhams for 3 months of modeling work with no prior experience.

Free luxury accommodation.

Paid flights.

When offers dramatically exceed industry standards, investigate thoroughly.

Research typical salaries for your field and location.

If the promise seems extraordinary, it probably is.

Insistence on meeting alone in private locations.

Professional meetings happen in offices, cafes, hotel lobbies, public spaces with witnesses.

Anyone who insists your first meeting must occur in their home has dangerous intentions.

This applies whether you’re meeting for job interviews, apartment viewings, or business discussions.

Pressure to make quick decisions.

Other candidates are interested.

This opportunity won’t last.

You need to decide today.

These urgent demands prevent you from conducting proper research.

Legitimate opportunities allow time for consideration, verification, and consultation with trusted people.

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Beyond recognizing red flags, take proactive protective measures.

Always conduct background checks before committing to overseas opportunities.

Search the person’s name with terms like fraud, scam, or complaint.

Check business registration databases.

Contact your country’s embassy in the destination to verify employer legitimacy.

Never travel without informing multiple family members of complete details, employer’s full name, address, phone number, company information, and your accommodation details.

Share your location continuously through phone apps.

Establish check-in schedules and stick to them.

If you miss a check-in, your family should immediately contact authorities.

If you made it to this point, drop a comment with, “I’m still here.

Let’s see who is still watching.

Trust your instincts.

” That uncomfortable feeling Zenat experienced when Shik Razak stood too close at the window.

That unease Aribba felt when they saw the modest hotel instead of promised luxury.

Those instincts were correct.

When something feels wrong, it usually is.

Don’t rationalize away discomfort or convince yourself you’re being paranoid.

Remember, no opportunity is worth risking your safety.

No salary justifies danger.

No dream requires you to ignore warning signs.

Your life has infinite value that no job can match.

For those genuinely seeking overseas work, use official channels.

Contact your government’s overseas employment bureau.

Research companies through Chamber of Commerce directories.

Use established recruitment platforms with verification systems and reviews.

Consult with others who’ve worked for the same employer.

What advice would you give to someone considering an overseas opportunity? Resources exist to help.

Pakistan’s Bureau of Immigration and Overseas Employment maintains employer databases.

India’s Ministry of External Affairs offers pre-eparture orientations.

Embassy websites list verified recruitment agencies.

Labor attaches in Gulf countries can confirm employer legitimacy.

Use these resources.

They exist specifically to protect you.

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Aribba and Zenat can’t benefit from these lessons, but you can share this information.

Protect yourself.

Protect others.

Their death should not be in vain.

Ariba Nissar was more than a victim.

She was a daughter who made her mother laugh with spot-on celebrity impressions.

She was a sister who braided her younger siblings hair every morning before school.

She was a friend who remembered birthdays and showed up when people needed her.

She loved photography, especially golden hour shots that made ordinary streets look magical.

She dreamed of opening her own boutique someday, designing clothes that made women feel confident and beautiful.

Zenad Kureshi was more than a statistic.

She was the daughter who read poetry to her father on quiet evenings.

She was the friend who organized study groups and helped classmates understand difficult concepts.

She loved classic udu literature and could recite faiz Ahmed Fiz from memory.

She wanted to earn enough to take her parents on Hajj, a dream her father had held for decades.

She believed education and hard work could overcome any obstacle.

These dreams will never be fulfilled.

Ariba will never design that collection.

Zenat will never take her parents to Mecca.

Their families continue living, but the loss remains a constant presence.

Aribba’s chair at the dinner table stays empty.

Zenat’s room remains exactly as she left it.

Her parents unable to disturb anything she last touched.

Shik Razak al-Mansour serves a life sentence in a Dubai prison.

He’s no longer a threat to anyone, but his crimes created ripples that continue spreading.

Families destroyed, communities traumatized, trust shattered.

Yet, something positive emerged from this darkness.

Aribba and Zenat story has become a cautionary tale that’s genuinely saved lives.

At least 12 women have reported backing out of suspicious opportunities after hearing what happened.

Parents now ask harder questions.

Young people verify more carefully.

Awareness campaigns reference their case as the reason protective measures matter.

Sharing these stories matters despite the pain they contain.

Every person who learns from their tragedy honors their memory more meaningfully than silence ever could.

Awareness creates protection.

Knowledge saves lives.

Their deaths were senseless and preventable.

But if telling their story prevents even one similar tragedy, their lives carry forward, meaning they never got to create themselves.

Share this story.

It might save someone’s life.

Let me know in the comments.

Where are you watching from? And what safety measures do you think people should take? Ariba Nisar and Zenad Kureshi deserve to live their dreams.

They deserve to succeed, to grow old, to achieve everything they worked for.

They should be remembered not primarily as victims, but as daughters, sisters, and friends taken far too soon by a predator who saw their hope as something he could exploit.

Their absence leaves holes that nothing will ever fill.

But their story continues protecting others, and in that way, their impact outlives the man who tried to erase them.

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These stories matter.

These lives matter and remembering them might just save the next one.