The city felt unfamiliar.
Ishani walked faster than usual, her phone clenched tightly in her hand, screen locked, fingers still shaking from the last message:
“He can’t save you.”
Every second since then had felt like walking through fog. Her eyes kept flicking to alleyways, to parked cars, to reflections in glass.
Paranoia or reality?
She couldn’t tell anymore.
The sun was setting, spilling orange over the city, but to Ishani it felt more like a warning than a comfort. She turned into the narrow lane that led to her apartment, boots echoing against concrete. For the first time, she noticed how quiet the area was. Too quiet.
She glanced behind her.
A man.
Dressed in black. Not rushing. Not too close. But not far enough either.
She slowed. So did he.
Her heart began to race. She turned into a small grocery store and stayed there, pretending to browse. Her hands were cold. Her thoughts louder than her breath.
When she stepped out ten minutes later — the man was gone.
Or so she thought.
That night, back home, she tried to sleep — but her ears wouldn’t stop listening. To the creak of floorboards. To the drip of a distant faucet. To the static in her own breath.
At 2:13 a.m., she sat up.
There was something on the floor. A slip of paper. No sound, no knock, no movement.
Just there.
She crawled toward it cautiously and picked it up with trembling fingers.
One line, written in red ink:
You weren’t supposed to know. Stay quiet.
No name. No signature. Just the sentence. A threat dressed as advice.
Ishani’s chest tightened. Her hands moved before her mind caught up. She dialed the only person who had ever looked her in the eyes with both danger and honesty.
Advit Singh Rathore.
The call went unanswered.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On the fourth, a soft click.
A deep, quiet voice.
“I told you not to open anything.”
She froze. “Advit?”
His voice was tense. “Where are you?”
“My apartment.”
“You need to leave. Now.”
“What—?”
“Ishani, listen to me—” his voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re being watched.”
The call cut.
Her screen flickered once.
Twice.
Then it went black.
She grabbed her bag, phone, and Rhea’s letter. Her breath came fast, but her mind was clear.
Down the stairs. Not the elevator.
She pushed open the back gate, running into the alley—
—and crashed right into someone’s chest.
She screamed, ready to fight, but the arms that caught her didn’t let go.
“Ishani,” came the whisper, warm and real.
She looked up.
Advit.
His face was drawn, dark circles under his eyes, shirt slightly blood-stained at the sleeve.
“Are you hurt?” she asked breathlessly.
He shook his head. “Not me.”
“Then whose blood is—?”
He looked away. “Doesn’t matter now.”
He held her tighter.
“You’re coming with me.”
This time, she didn’t argue.
Because in the middle of fear and darkness, there was something in his grip that felt like safety. Not comfort. Not peace.
But rescue.
Even if it came wrapped in danger.
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