The constant jostling woke me. At first, I thought my head was rolling against something hard. Then I realized it was the car—swaying, tires humming beneath me.
I started counting. One. Two. Three. Every bump, every turn, every lurch. Maybe to stop myself from screaming, maybe to prove I still existed. But the numbers tangled and slipped away. My skull ached like someone had driven a spike through it.

They had shoved me inside like luggage. Rough hands gripping my arms, dragging me, throwing me into the backseat. My cheek smacked leather hard enough to rattle my teeth. Then the slam of a door, the click of a lock, the world closing in.

The rope burned my wrists and ankles. The tape tasted sharp and chemical on my tongue. The blindfold pressed down on me, smothering the world in a darkness too thick to breathe.

Panic tried to take over. I fought it, chest heaving in small, shallow bursts. If I had let it fully, I might have suffocated before they even touched me.

So I counted again. Four. Five. Six. My pulse beat the numbers in my ears—loud, frantic.

Beneath it all—the ache, the restraints, the endless dark—one thought refused to leave: Where were they taking me?

The thought gnawed until it was the only thing left.

I must have drifted, because the air changed—damp, cold, heavy. The blindfold was ripped off, and light stabbed my eyes. I squinted, forcing myself not to flinch.

The room smelled of rust and damp. Water dripped somewhere, steady, cruel. A bulb dangled from a frayed wire, buzzing, its weak light cutting the darkness into jagged shapes.

Through my lashes, I saw him. A figure in the corner. Still. Smoke curled from a cigarette, vanishing before it reached the bulb.

Footsteps approached. A young voice, hesitant. “Boss… she’s still out.”

Silence. Then the corner voice, low, steady, carrying something that made my stomach twist. Something familiar.
“Let her dream. The longer she doesn’t know, the worse it will feel when she does.”

I stiffened. My mind scrambled for the tone, the cadence. Too familiar. My chest sank, but I pushed the thought away.

A small sound escaped me through the gag—a whimper, a call for help.

Boots echoed on concrete, each step like nails driving into my spine. He crouched. I wanted to bolt, but the ropes dug in deeper. His hand brushed my cheek like false kindness. Then steel replaced it.

The knife traced my jaw, resting at the hollow of my throat. Waiting.
“See?” he whispered, hot against my ear. “Your body obeys fear. Not me.” I wanted to scream. The gag caught it. Tears stung, unspilled.

The blade finally bit—a shallow slice, red blooming. I forced myself not to give him what he wanted. Don’t scream. Don’t focus on the pain. Focus on something else.

Ekansh.
I saw him clearly, as if he were there. His chest beneath my cheek, solid, warm. Rising steadily with each breath. Sandalwood clung to his shirt, the one I stole on cold nights.
My fingers had curled around him like he was the only steady thing in the world. Yet now, even in memory, there was a shadow of doubt, a tiny thread of wrongness I couldn’t place.

“Does it sting?” the villain whispered. Silk over rust. “It’s supposed to.”
Something in the timbre felt too familiar, a tone I should have recognized, but it slipped through the fog.

Another cut. My thigh this time. Sharp, white-hot. I bit my cheek. Don’t focus on pain. Focus on him.

I saw his small smile when I whined about mornings. His ruffling of my hair, the kiss on my forehead that stayed hours later. Warm. Soft. Safe.

“Pretty thoughts,” the voice said, dragging the knife just enough to nick my skin again. “Hold on. They’ll taste sweeter when I take them away… or when he can’t save them.”

Again. Shallow, cruel. I jerked against the ropes, wrists burning.

Ekansh’s laugh flickered in my head. His grip when I sulked. He pressed me against his chest so I could hear his heartbeat. Steady. Safe. Home.

“Your pulse is racing,” he murmured, brushing my throat. “Not for me. For him. Fear could’ve been a beautiful love story.”

The cadence tugged at recognition. But pain and exhaustion blurred it away.

My brother flashed next. His teasing grin, calling me “idiot” when I worried too much. Protective beneath the cocky tilt. My throat closed. Please… please let him be okay.

The villain chuckled. “Prayers? They rot faster than flesh here.”

Another flash of Ekansh—sleeping, arm across me, fanning my neck, holding me tight. I clung to him as the knife retraced my skin. His voice wouldn’t leave. The knife didn’t stop. My mind was stained with fear.

Cold water slammed over my face. I sputtered.
“Stay with me. Fear works best when awake.”

I blinked blood and water into my eyes. The voice tugged at a chord too painful to name.

A phone buzzed. He answered like I wasn’t bleeding. Static, then a panicked voice: “He… he met with an accident—”

Silence. A low laugh. “Of course he did.”

He wiped the blade on my sleeve. My knees went weak.
“Don’t go anywhere. I’d hate to miss the next scream.” Boots faded. The door slammed. Bulb swung. Shadows grew.

I slumped, breath jagged, tears mixing with water. My lips moved silently, forming a prayer. Ekansh. Please. Find me.

And as the dark folded me back in, his voice whispered, low and soft, cutting deeper than the knife itself:
“And what if he wanted it to happen?”

◎◎◎

Time blurred into pain. No days, no nights—just hunger gnawing, breath scraping, joints screaming.
The bulb flickered overhead, useless as hope. The door creaked. Footsteps—too light to be him.

“Birdie,” a voice sang, mock-sweet. “Relax. We’re not monsters.”

The word birdie made bile rise in my throat.

A tray clattered down beside me. “Brought you supper. Days without food must feel like forever.” He snorted at his own joke, then left.

I crawled, wrists raw, knees throbbing. The smell hit me—wrong, metallic, rancid. Hunger didn’t care.

I shoved it in, swallowed fast. My stomach revolted. I gagged, spewing it all back out in burning waves.

Dog food.

Tears burned. My body shook, emptying nothing.

Then—the boots. Slow. Heavy. Each step of ownership.

The door groaned shut behind him. His presence pressed down like a weight on my chest.

“What did you expect?” His voice was smooth, edged with knives. “A feast? Daddy cooking dinner for his darling girl? Please.”

He laughed, low, cruel.

He crouched, voice slipping into my ear. “Your father never wanted you. Business. Power. Himself. That’s all he ever chose. Not you. Never you. And your husband?” A pause, dripping. “He’s no different. He forgot you the second I took you. Forgot you fast, like a stain scrubbed clean.”

His smile glinted in the half-light. “Face it. They’re both better off. Lighter. Freer. You’re not a loss, Naina. You’re a relief.”

The words hit like stones, crushing the air from my chest. Memory flickered—old phone calls, his voice full of empty excuses—and something inside me cracked.

A sob ripped free, raw and broken. My knees gave out, but the ropes held, leaving me to fold in on myself. I pressed my face into my arms, trying to choke the sound back, but the tears came hot and fast, burning over my lips.

He didn’t turn away. He watched, feeding on it. His voice dropped, soft, almost tender.
“That’s it, little bird. Break. Cry. Nobody’s coming to save you. Not your hero, not your husband, not anyone. You’re mine now—just another forgotten thing rotting in the dark.”

A sudden courage ripped through me, and the question burst out before I could stop it—sharp and useless. “What did I do?” My voice was cracked, small. Why me?

He crouched closer, deliberate, his shadow swallowing mine. A gloved hand brushed the sticky hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear as if he owned the right. I jerked away, but he only leaned in, breath scraping my shell of an ear.

“Because,” he whispered, voice smooth and slow, “you’re the reason everything began… when it was supposed to end.”

Then he stood. Boots on concrete, his presence peeled away, leaving the echo of those words and a room that felt suddenly too big and too empty.

The sentence burrowed into me and wouldn’t leave. What could I possibly have started? My mind dragged at memories and choices, hunting for a fault line I didn’t know I’d made.

His words kept circling in my skull, a loop I couldn’t break: You are the reason everything began… when it was supposed to end.

◎◎◎

Five… Ten.

The tray had come hours ago. Same awful smell. Dog food. I ate because my body demanded it louder than my mind—because hunger always won over pride.

Later, when the light above rolled into its weak evening glow, the man would return. He always did. His footsteps were the only clock I had left.

My wrists were healing slowly, ugly in their small victories: angry red fading to dark scabs. Healing should have felt like relief, but it felt like a sentence—proof I’d wake to another day in this room, another night of quiet misery and small torments.

Between scabs and scraps, I counted something else. Not days of pain, but days since his hand had been warm over mine.

Ten.

Ten days since I’d fallen asleep to the rise and fall of Ekansh’s chest. Ten days since his forehead had leaned to mine, and the world had felt steady. I whispered the number into the quiet, loud enough for my voice to remember his name.

The number cut deeper than comfort. Memory frayed at the edges—his laugh thinning, the tilt of his chin blurring in the light. Sometimes the memory slipped, turning into ropes, shadows, the low voice watching me fall apart. I feared closing my eyes, afraid that what I had saved from him might vanish.

Then doubt came, small and sharp: Is he even looking? Has he traced enough leads, turned enough stones? Or am I already fading, a face slipping from his life while he moves on?

I clenched my hands, nails biting raw skin. He has to be looking, I told myself. He would come. He must come. But another thought, meaner, prying, slithered in.

What if he isn’t?

That thought cut colder than hunger, heavier than the ropes. It was proof that even hope could hurt.

I had been thinking of Ekansh—his warmth, his arms, his forehead kiss—when the door creaked. Not the usual lazy groan of the henchman, but heavier, fuller, as if the air braced itself.

I snapped my head up instinctively, then dropped it again. Two presences.

Familiar. Too familiar. My heart thudded painfully. I pressed my forehead to my knees, wishing to vanish.

I clenched my jaw on the floor. Lifting my eyes felt like a trap. But a jagged thought hammered my chest: Who are they really? Why does it feel like I’ve met the monsters keeping me here?

Boots crossed the floor, slow, deliberate, stopping in front of me. Warm air pressed closer. Fingers tangled in my hair.

I flinched reflexively, but her grip only tightened, yanking my head back so the bulb above flooded my face in sickly yellow light.

“Hello, Naina.”

No warmth—just malice, sharp as silk wrapped in poison. My breath seized. For a moment, I thought it was a memory, a cruel echo. But it wasn’t. Her eyes. Her sharp smile.

Every part of me screamed it couldn’t be, that I’d lost my mind. Yet she was real, so close I could see her lip curl as she watched me crumble. Nightmare and memory fused.

My throat burned, but I asked anyway, raw and trembling: “Where’s Ekansh? He’s here, right?”

A low, cruel laugh. The man in the doorway flicked a sharp, private glance at her. They leaned in, light catching their faces in all the wrong places.

“No,” he said softly. “But, he’s waiting for you.”

Her smile widened, vicious. “But not for you to come back. For you to rot. To learn what being forgotten means.”

Laughter slicked across the floor, shadows twisted, chains at my wrists doubled in weight.

I wanted to scream, to tell them he would find me, tear them apart—but my voice was gone, strangled into a rasp.

He crouched closer, the faint gleam of iron at his smile. “We’ll leave you with that thought, princess. Let it grow.”

He stood. Her grip in my hair tightened, a cruel check, before she let go. Together, they walked to the door, shoulders brushing, exchanging another smug look. The lock clicked—final, absolute.

When their footsteps faded, the room felt smaller, louder. The bulb swung, shadows stretching. I counted my heartbeats. I breathed.

He will find me.

I swung my hands on my knees, whispering it rhythmically, almost like a song, a rhyme: He will find me… he will find me… The thought was the only candle in the storm, and I clutched it until my fingers cramped.

The door creaked open wider, their footsteps moving away. Then—deliberately—they left it ajar. A thin line of light spilled across the floor, reaching almost to my toes.

My breath caught. The first crack in ten days. The first sliver outside. Even as I leaned toward it, desperate, I knew it was no mercy. No mistake. A trap.

And then—voices.

Low whispers slipped through the door. My body went stiff, every nerve alert.

“How did he find it?” The words hit me like a jolt. Who? My pulse thumped in my chest.

A crash followed—the slam of a phone. I flinched, curling in on myself, but the voices continued.

I tried to stay in the corner, but I needed more. I moved closer, slowly, trembling, my palms pressing into the cold floor. My knees buckled, but I forced them to stay steady.

One step. Then another. Bare feet dragged softly across the concrete.

The door’s light widened as I neared. My hands shook, bracing against the frame. I risked a glance.

Shadows shifted. Two figures. Their backs are to me. Her hair caught the light like fire; his posture was tense, coiled with something dark.

The henchman—always present—was nowhere to be seen. A thought hit me sharply. This is it.

Hope cut through the hunger for the first time in days. My heart pounded so loudly I feared they’d hear it. I pressed a hand to my chest to steady it.

I edged forward, over the line of light, closer to the open door.

Then he turned. His gaze pinned me like iron. The flicker of hope shriveled in my chest.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice colder than the floor beneath me. “On your feet already? I thought we drugged you enough to keep you crawling.”

The woman laughed, sharp and cruel. “She actually thought she could slip away.” She stepped forward, seizing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back.

“Where’s Ekansh?” I whispered, desperation spilling out. “He’s coming, right?”

For a moment, I smiled—a glimmer of hope. But then he spoke, calm, cruel: “No. He’s not.”

My smile vanished. The hope dissolved.

And then, they shoved me to the floor. My body hit hard, pain shooting through my bones. Every nerve screamed.

A fist slammed into my ribs, another to my side. My knees buckled; the taste of iron filled my mouth. Shadows leaned in, hands gripped my wrists, and the sting of cold pricked my skin.

I tried to focus, but their blows came faster, relentless. Not mercy, just punishment.

His boot hit my ribs again, twice, ripping a scream from me. She crouched beside me, tilting her head like she was studying an animal.

“Pathetic,” she hissed. “And this is what he clung to?”

He spat, furious. “She shouldn’t even be standing. You—haven’t drugged her enough?”

The henchman shuffled forward, muttering, but Yash snapped at him and struck, “Fix it. Now.”

They didn’t just hit me. They tore me apart.

The needle came next—cold, precise, sliding under my skin, fire spreading through my veins. Any cry was punished. My body jerked, but the ropes held. Their laughter filled the room, mocking, unrelenting.

They leaned close, voices hot and cruel in my ear. “Pathetic. All that family name, and no one who’d bleed for you.” Another sneer followed: “Your father wouldn’t even answer. Too busy. Too proud. You were always an afterthought.”

Then they went for the thing that hurt most.

“Ekansh,” one of them breathed, stretching his name like a secret. My body stiffened. They noticed, of course, and their cruel grin widened in their voices.

“Do you really think he’s looking for you? That he hasn’t already filled that space you left behind?”

A whisper crawled under my skin: “He was always waiting for someone else. You were just… convenient.”

The words cut deeper than their fists. They reopened old wounds—my father’s absence, unanswered calls, the hollow place I’d pretended was strength. Now they twisted the one memory that kept me alive—Ekansh’s warmth—into a weapon.

Each strike blurred into the next. Pain wasn’t pain anymore—it was rhythm, a heartbeat, the only clock I had. They moved around me like hunters, voices low, cruel, satisfied. When they leaned close, their words were knives.

Between strikes, my mind gave me flashes of him. His hands brush my hair away, shaking me awake with a laugh. His forehead against mine in the dark, warm breath on my cheek, the little mole he’d kissed until I laughed.

Each memory came too bright, too wrong, always broken by pain.

They noticed. Of course they did. One leaned close, whispering, “You cling to him, huh? That’s your anchor. Let’s see how long it holds.”

Blows kept coming—fist to face, boot to ribs, dragging me across the floor. Pain became my only language: thud, gasp, scrape, boots against concrete.

“Stay awake,” one snarled as I nearly blacked out. “We’re not done yet.”

They hauled me up, slammed my face into the wall, and shoved me down. I hugged my knees, clinging to the tiniest scraps of strength I had. Words about my father, about how no one would come for me, how I was alone, cut into me like knives.

Then, from the hallway—gunfire. Sharp pops that made my skin crawl. Heads snapped up. Henchmen cursed, boots scraping. Men ran to see what had happened. The leader stayed back, calm, counting, calculating.

I smelled cheap cologne, heard the clink of metal—keys, tools, maybe knives. I closed my eyes tight and whispered like a prayer: Hold on. Remember. Breathe. Ekansh. The name burned against my lips.

Then he moved—fast, greedy. His hand came down. Pain exploded in my side. My knees buckled. The floor hit hard. My mind scrambled; his face blurred into rage.

A henchman shoved back inside, face pale, eyes wide. “There are people outside, Boss. Lots of them.”

The leader barked orders. Boots thundered closer. The henchmen who had rushed out before barreled back, faces tight with fear. The leader moved like a pivot, eyes calculating, while the man by me froze. Blood and sweat thickened the air.

“Move,” the leader hissed. “Now.”

Before I could react, the blade slashed across my abdomen. Pain ripped through me in white-hot waves. I crumpled to the floor, curling around the wound, tasting iron with every shallow breath. My vision swam, and the edges of the room blurred. Every nerve screamed.

Everyone scrambled away, shouting and shoving each other, their panic filling the air. But one stayed.

The henchman—the one who had brought the trays, who had laughed when I retched—was crouched beside me. My mind wanted to scream, to push him away, but my body was too weak, every nerve set alight with the stabbing pain in my side. My knees pressed into the floor, trembling, wrists raw.

“You’re soft… too soft,” he whispered, leaning in so close that his breath brushed my ear. “All that fight… wasted. You’d do anything if I asked, wouldn’t you?”

I whimpered, powerless. My fingers twitched uselessly against the ropes. My body was mine, yet it felt borrowed, unable to respond.

“That’s it… give in… feel it… You like it, don’t you?” he murmured, fingers brushing where they shouldn’t. My stomach churned violently. It wasn’t wanted. It wasn’t a curiosity. It was fear made tactile, made a suffocating weight pressing through every nerve.

Pain exploded from the stab wound. I gasped, curling around the white-hot burn in my side. My arms pressed uselessly against the floor. The ropes held me, immobilized. My breaths came shallow, desperate.

“They’ll never find you like this… broken, crying… mine,” he hissed, leaning closer, hands claiming space my body could no longer guard.

Tears streamed unchecked. My face pressed into the floorboards, into the smell of sweat and concrete and iron. The henchman’s hands traced over me, asserting dominion over a body too weak to resist. My mind splintered. Every instinct screamed to flee—but escape was impossible.

And then—the door slammed open. Boots thundered against the concrete. He cursed, scrambling back. A kick sent him sprawling, the sound of impact sharp in my ears.

Warmth enveloped me suddenly, a weight unlike any I had felt in ten days. Strong arms wrapped around me, pressing me against a chest that steadied my trembling body. His voice cut through the haze, low and unyielding: “I’ve got you.”

I clung to it like the air itself. My lips trembled. “You… made it…”