Ahana’s POV
it's 8 p.m and the air outside Grant Medical College carried that tired kind of chill that only Mumbai knows — humid yet weary, heavy with the smell of rain and exhaust fumes. My shoulders ached under the weight of my bag, and every muscle in my body screamed for rest.
Today had been exhausting. Three back-to-back lectures, two practicals, one lab exam that almost fried my brain, and now, after all that, I still had to give a two-hour online lecture to NEET aspirants. Sometimes I wonder if I was too ambitious for my own good.
Why, Mumma, I muttered under my breath, kicking at a stray pebble on the road. Why did you make me love medicine so much?
The evening sky above was purple, fading into navy. Streetlights flickered alive one by one, washing the cracked pavement in golden glows. Auto-rickshaws honked; the crowd buzzed with the usual chaos — students, office workers, street vendors calling out to the last few customers. It was home, and yet, tonight, I felt strangely apart from it.
I adjusted my tote bag on my shoulder and took out my phone. I’d promised to call Aryan before leaving campus, but in the rush, I’d forgotten. Typical.
I dialed his number, and he picked up after just one ring.
Me: “Hello?”
Him: “Hello. Have you reached home?”
Me: “Almost. Just five minutes away.”
Him: “So late though.”
Me: “Yeah, you know Mumbai traffic.”
Him: “Hmm. Okay, we’ll talk tomorrow in college. Bye.”
Me: “Bye.”
The call ended, leaving behind that faint electronic silence that always feels too abrupt.
Aryan. My so-called red flag.
I smiled faintly at the thought. He’d been my friend since eleventh grade — four years now. We were a group of four: me, Kavya, Aryan, and Raghav. It had always been us, through boards, entrance exams, breakdowns, and hostel nights filled with caffeine and panic.
I called Aryan “Red Flag” because… well, every Aryan I knew had been one. 😏 Except this one, maybe. He wasn’t perfect — annoying sometimes, overly logical, always lecturing me about eating on time — but he was safe. Safe in a way that made me forget how unpredictable the world could be.
Still, I teased him with that name. It had become our inside joke.
He wanted to become a pediatrician — “children doctor,” as he’d once said in his overly serious tone — while Raghav, the quiet one, was planning to be a vet. Kavya and I, of course, had our eyes on cardiology. We’d dreamed about it since we were fifteen, watching our mothers — both nurses — talking about heart surgeries like it was poetry.
I smiled thinking about that. Kavya had been my friend since childhood. We’d grown up in the same colony, studied at the same school, and even now, lived only a few lanes apart. She was the only girl I’d ever felt completely comfortable with. The kind who could look at me once and know if something was wrong.
Sometimes, I wondered if that’s what sisterhood was supposed to feel like.
The road home was quiet now. The rush had thinned out, and I could hear my own footsteps — soft taps against the concrete, steady and rhythmic. I pulled my cardigan tighter around me and sighed.
I was tired, yes, but it wasn’t just physical. It was that deeper kind of exhaustion that came when you realized life was moving too fast, and you were barely keeping up.
Being an MBBS student meant living in a world of late nights and unending expectations. There were days when I didn’t even remember what sunlight felt like on my face, just the fluorescent glare of hospital corridors.
But tonight… there was something different in the air. Like a warning. A stillness hiding behind the city noise.
Maybe it was just me overthinking — I did that a lot.
I crossed the small signal near the tea stall where we often hung out after class. The chaiwala waved at me; I waved back with a tired smile. The air smelled of cardamom and smoke. Somewhere, a radio played an old Kishore Kumar song. It made me nostalgic for reasons I couldn’t name.
My phone buzzed with a message. It was from Kavya.
Kavya: Rehearsing tomorrow’s lecture? 😏
Me: Haha no. Just walking home. Totally dead.
Kavya: Same. Raghav dropped Aryan to his hostel. He said you didn’t eat properly again. 😒
Me: Traitor reported me again 😭
Kavya: You deserve it. Anyway, see you tomorrow, Dr. Zombie.
I laughed quietly. The kind of laugh that slipped out without effort. For a moment, it made the night feel warmer.
When I was little, Mumma used to tell me that laughter was like a pulse — it meant you were still alive inside, even when the world felt heavy. I didn’t understand it back then. But I think I do now.
My steps slowed as I turned into the narrow lane that led to our apartment complex. Dim lights hung from old poles, and the distant barking of dogs echoed down the street.
That’s when the wind shifted — just a soft change, but enough to make the hairs on my neck rise.
It wasn’t fear, not really. Just… something. An awareness, like someone watching from far away.
I shook my head, brushing it off. I’d been reading too many crime cases lately, thanks to Raghav’s obsession with “medical murder mysteries.” It was messing with my brain.
Still, as I walked, I couldn’t help glancing around. The shadows under the streetlight stretched long and thin, curling at the edges like ink. I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and kept walking faster.
My building was just three blocks away now. I could already see the dim light from our balcony. Appa had probably left it on for me. He always did.
Appa — Arun — my father.
A soft smile tugged at my lips, but it didn’t last.
We’d had a fight last week. Something about my internship schedule and how little I came home for dinner. He said I was overworking. I said he didn’t understand what MBBS required. We both said things we didn’t mean. Typical.
He was strict, but not unkind. Just… hard to read sometimes. Especially since Mumma passed away when I was a baby. I never really knew what it was like to have her. All I had was Appa — his silence, his work, and his odd bursts of affection.
But lately… he’d been different. Distracted. On the phone too often. Whispers with men I didn’t know. I thought maybe it was business, but something about his eyes had changed.
It wasn’t the usual fatherly worry. It was guilt. Heavy and quiet.
I shook the thought off again. Maybe I was just too tired. My brain was playing tricks.
As I walked, I passed a group of kids playing with paper boats in a puddle from the evening rain. Their laughter carried through the night — bright, innocent, untouched by everything I was beginning to see in the world. I envied them for a moment.
Somewhere behind me, a car engine hummed low and steady. I turned briefly — black SUV, tinted windows. It didn’t slow down, just rolled past me, disappearing around the corner. Still, my heart skipped a beat.
Get a grip, Ahana. I exhaled, pressing my hand to my chest. You’re just tired. That’s all.
But my instincts — the ones built from years of dissecting human behavior, of reading body language in hospitals and streets — told me something else. That tonight was the beginning of something I wouldn’t be able to walk away from.
I ignored the chill running through me and took the final turn toward my building. The watchman gave me a sleepy nod, and I smiled back automatically.
The moment I turned into our lane, the air around me felt… heavier. It wasn’t just the humidity of Mumbai’s evening; it was the sight of a black SUV parked right in front of our apartment. Sleek, polished, intimidating — the kind of car that didn’t belong to our middle-class building.
My stomach dropped.
Someone had come.
And I didn’t even need to guess for what.
Papa had been talking about marriage ever since I turned eighteen, and every time I thought I’d successfully dodged another “rishta,” he somehow found a new one. Can’t he understand I’m nineteen? Nineteen. Just barely an adult. Not ready for… whatever version of “settled” he imagines for me.
I adjusted the strap of my tote bag and sighed, exhaustion sitting heavy on my shoulders. I’d just come back from the hospital after a long day — lectures, assignments, and those never-ending extra classes I take for NEET aspirants. And now this.
“Uhh… why, Mumma?” I whispered under my breath. “Why did you leave me alone with him?”
If she were here, she’d never let Papa do this. She was always soft-spoken but strong. I lost her when I was five, but even now, I remember her lullabies. Her voice. Her hands. She was the warmth in our house.
After she was gone, everything turned cold.
And then there was my sister.
A memory flashed — the blinding headlights, her pushing me out of the way, the sound of brakes screaming. My heart clenched painfully. Papa never forgave me for that. Not really. He looked at me differently after that — not as a daughter, but as a reminder.
Now, he was trying to get rid of that reminder.
Maybe by marrying her off.
I exhaled, climbing the stairs. “Just one evening of peace. That’s all I ask.”
The moment I unlocked the door, a strange silence welcomed me. Usually, Papa would be in the living room, watching TV or shouting on a business call. But today… nothing.
And then I saw him.
The man sitting on our sofa was unlike anyone I had ever seen. His black blazer lay casually on the edge of the couch, but even without it, his presence dominated the room. His white shirt clung perfectly to his broad shoulders — a subtle hint at the hours he must have spent sculpting his body. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing strong, veined forearms, muscles that flexed slightly as he adjusted his posture. A vintage Rolex glinted faintly on his wrist.
His jaw… sharp. Perfectly cut. Dangerous in its precision. Every line of him screamed control, and yet there was a calm, almost effortless ease about him. His hair was messy, but the kind of messy that somehow looked deliberate, elegant, magnetic.
And then, those eyes.
Light brown, impossibly sharp, calm yet unreadable. I caught myself staring, feeling almost like he could see straight into my thoughts. My reflection mirrored in those eyes felt small, fragile, unworthy.

The second man was easier to miss, but not for long. Standing beside the sofa, dressed in black — a plain T-shirt, dark pants, boots — he seemed casual, almost ordinary. Until my eyes flicked down and I saw it: a gun tucked into his boot.
Every nerve in my body went taut.
Without thinking, I reached into my bag and pulled out my pepper spray. My hands shook violently, slick with sweat, and I fumbled with the cap.
My hands trembled as I pointed it toward them. Sweat made the spray slippery.
“Who… who are you?” My voice shook, brittle with fear and defiance.
The man in black moved first. He shifted slightly, concealing the weapon in his boot with practiced ease. His smile was small, professional, and meaningless. “I am Rajveer,” he said, voice calm, low, and precise. Rajveer. The name sounded unfamiliar, foreign, too composed for someone who carried a gun.
I opened my mouth to ask what they wanted, but before I could, the man on the sofa — the one with those unsettling eyes — finally stood.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t speak immediately either.
He just looked at me.
And then, in a voice that was low, steady, and terrifyingly calm, he said,
“We have your father.”
The world stopped spinning.
“What?” I whispered, the can of spray nearly slipping from my hand. I stepped forward, my pulse thundering in my ears. “What did you just say?”
Something inside me snapped. I ran to him, grabbed his collar — or at least tried to. He was tall, much taller, and I had to stand on my toes just to reach him. My fingers curled around the soft fabric of his shirt.
“What did you do to him?” I demanded, my voice breaking.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His face stayed unreadable.
Instead, he leaned down slightly, his breath brushing my ear. “Your father is in a gas chamber. And if we don’t get him out within twenty hours…” he paused, letting every word fall like a stone, “he won’t survive. Especially with that asthma of his.”
The room spun around me.
My knees threatened to buckle. My grip on his collar loosened. I was about to fall when his hand shot out and caught me
His palm pressed against my bare waist where my crop top met my jeans. It was warm. Steady. Strong. Firm. And somehow, despite the panic and fear surging through me, it sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
I tried to comprehend what was happening. Gas chamber? My father? And these strangers — this man, who held me like I weighed nothing. And the fact he is still holding me as if he knows that if he didn't hold me right now I will collapse. And that is the truth my body isn't in my control right now.
“Bring him out,” I whispered, voice breaking, almost pleading.“Please… I’ll do anything.”
He didn’t let go. One hand stayed firmly at my waist, the other near my arm where I had grabbed his collar. He was solid, immovable, and yet there was a strange gentleness in the control he exerted.
I stared up at him, trying to reconcile the fear and the inexplicable pull I felt toward him. His gaze never wavered. Controlled. Dark. Unreadable.
His jaw tightened, a small muscle ticking there.
“Anything?” he asked quietly.
I nodded without hesitation, my mind screaming, my heart pounding. “Yes.”
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between us. The only sound was the faint hum of the ceiling fan, and the soft thud of my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
Then, he said it.
Calmly. Coldly. As if he were offering me a business deal.
“Marry me.”
My heart stopped.
The words didn’t make sense at first. I blinked, staring up at him, trying to understand whether I’d heard him right.
“W-what?”
He didn’t repeat it. He didn’t need to. The weight of his words already settled in my chest like a boulder.
He was still holding me — one hand firm around my waist, the other brushing against my wrist where I’d been gripping his collar. My breath was uneven, my pulse wild.
His eyes met mine again, and this time, I saw it clearly — a darkness that wasn’t entirely heartless. Something buried deep under layers of control.
And that scared me even more.
Because monsters are easier to understand when they’re just monsters.
But this man — looked like someone who could destroy you… and still make you want to stay.
I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice, but it refused to come out.
Marry him?
Who even was he?
And why did his voice sound like both a command and a plea?
I wanted to scream, to tell him no, to tell him to get out of my house — but all I could do was stare at him, my world spinning faster and faster.
All I could think was —
My father.
The gas chamber.
And this stranger who wanted to marry me.
My heart thundered, my lips parted to say something — anything — but no words came out.
Only silence.
And the echo of his voice, still hanging in the air
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