Note : Please read the Prologue first to get a better understanding.

Aarush Kashyap (Pakhi's husband) and Pakhi Verma (Ruhi's sister) are characters originally introduced in my other book, Hacked by Fate: Trapped by Truth. However, this story is written to stand on its own and can be read independently.

So dive in✨

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Darkness.

The kind that presses against your eyelids even when they're open. The kind that smells like mold, gasoline, and old wood.

Ruhi stirred, her breathing shallow and ragged. Her mouth tied with a cloth, her wrists burned, bound tight behind a metal chair, her ankles too, her head throbbed, a deep, pulsing ache at the back of her skull. She winced and blinked hard, the shadows swirling into shapes.

Four hours. That's how long she'd been gone or maybe more.

She remembered landing in Milan. The rush of cool autumn air. The sound of trams. Her taxi ride to the institute. And then... a sharp jab. A blur. A van.

Her breath hitched. Now, the room around her flickered dimly under a low-hanging bulb. Cement walls, no windows, six men stood in a half-circle around her. Faces hidden behind scarves, but guns, those weren't hidden. Muzzles glinted under the light.

She shifted in her seat. The chair scraped, metal on concrete.

One of the men caught the sound and turned. Quietly walked to the rusted door and knocked once. A signal. Moments later, the door opened with a groan. Two older men entered. They didn't carry weapons, they didn't need to. The room seemed to bend around them anyway.

One of them white-bearded, tilted his head at Ruhi, his gaze slow and lingering. The other, thinner, with a cold smile that didn't reach his eyes, chuckled softly.

"Well," he murmured, voice like sandpaper. "Both of his daughters have got something, huh?"

The two men exchanged a knowing look.

Ruhi's spine went stiff. The world was spinning. Not from the blow she'd taken, but from the weight of what she'd just heard.

Both daughters? They know who I am? They know dad?

The thinner old man stepped forward, leaned closer to Ruhi's face. His breath reeked of tobacco and something worse something rotten.

"Give her one more injection," he said, straightening up. "Once her sister is dealt with there, we'll confirm the deal for her too."

The bearded man gave a satisfied grunt and both turned to leave, robes rustling against the cold cement as they exited through the heavy door.

Ruhi's body trembled. She didn't know what they meant by "deal" but she knew it wasn't freedom.

One of the masked men broke from the circle, heading to a cluttered steel table in the corner. He pulled a tray toward him. The metal clinked. A syringe. A vial. Liquid thick, amber, menacing.

Ruhi's eyes widened. She squirmed in the chair, the metal biting into her skin.

"No... please... don't...," she whispered, voice bound, hoarse and dry.

He turned, silent, and began walking toward her. The needle glinted under the bulb, closer and closer.

Her breath shattered. She was scared of injections. Scared of darkness. Scared of men like these. Tears welled in her eyes. "Pakhi... Di..." she whispered to the shadows. A name, a prayer.

The man raised the syringe, ready to pierce her arm. She squeezed her eyes shut.

And then, without warning, the lights cut out, plunging the room into a sudden, suffocating darkness. A sharp hiss sliced through the air, followed by a swift, eerie silence, then a heavy thud. Another. Then another. A gurgled cry tore through the stillness, wet and final.

Ruhi flinched instinctively, eyes kept shut, her breath caught in her throat. The chair beneath her trembled slightly as if echoing the chaos. For a long moment, there was nothing. No footsteps, no whispers, only the pounding of her heart. And then, trembling, she dared to open her eyes. What she saw made the blood drain from her face. The men who had circled her, the ones with guns, with sneers and syringes were down.

Each of the six armed men lay sprawled in crimson silence, their throats slit clean, their weapons untouched. The room smelled of blood, iron, and precision.

And then,

He stepped into the light. Black shirt, sleeves rolled, collar slightly turned. Eyes sharp, unreadable. Calm, too calm. His face was partially covered only his eyes visible beneath the shadows and fabric.

He didn't speak at first, just looked at her. And she looked back. Even through her fear, even through the sting of tears and blood, she saw something in those eyes. Not just a man but her rescue, her storm, her anchor.

And him, he saw a girl in a torn kurti, eyes like monsoon thunder, trembling but unbroken.

He stepped forward and knelt to her level. Then, in a low, measured tone, he said, "Do not make any sound." He leaned near her shoulder, the warmth of his presence briefly brushing against her skin as his hands moved silently to undo the ropes binding her wrists behind her back.

She didn't dare move. He started untying her ropes, slowly, carefully like he wasn't just freeing her hands, but offering something far more sacred, Safety.

The ropes fell away, leaving red, angry marks on her wrists. Then he untied the cloth tied on her mouth,  Ruhi inhaled sharply, but kept silent, just as he'd said.

Shivaang shifted to the front of the chair, eyes scanning her face for signs of injury. A flicker of recognition passed through his gaze not of her identity, but of the pain she was holding in. He offered no comfort, no explanation. Only efficiency.

"Can you walk?" he asked, voice low.

She nodded, though her legs trembled beneath her. He stood, offering a steady hand not gently, not forcefully. Just... there. Ruhi took it.

They moved quickly. Shivaang led, his movements rehearsed and deliberate. His steps made no sound against the concrete floor, his black boots blending with shadow. Ruhi followed close, her bare feet stinging with each step, but she didn't dare slow down.

He guided her through a narrow hallway that reeked of damp rot and old blood. Every few meters, Shivaang would pause, listening and sensing.

Two turns in, they encountered another man near a stairwell. He didn't even get a chance to speak. Shivaang moved like smoke silent, fast, and fatal. A single twist, a blade, and the body slumped against the wall without a sound.

Ruhi recoiled, heart hammering, but he didn't break stride. He grabbed the man's security badge and tossed her a worn-out shawl from a nearby crate.

"Cover your face," he murmured.

She obeyed.

The stairwell groaned under their weight as they ascended. From the upper level, faint voices, maybe guards changing shift. Shivaang glanced at a wall-mounted camera and pulled a slim remote from his pocket. One click and the feed died.

They reached the exit, an old delivery door chained from the outside. Shivaang took out a thin wire and lockpick, working silently as Ruhi pressed against the wall, clutching the shawl around her.

With a faint click, the chain gave way. He opened the door just enough for them to slip out. Cold night air hit her skin like a slap. Freedom or the scent of it.

A van waited at the far end of the alley. Shivaang opened the passenger door for her, gave one curt nod. "Get in."

She slid in, hands still shaking. He circled around, got behind the wheel, and pulled them into the night without another word.

For the whole time, neither of them spoke. The road stretched ahead, dark and quiet. The van slowed to a stop outside a modest apartment on the quieter edge of Milan. Shivaang shut off the engine, stepped out, and opened the passenger door without a word.

Ruhi followed.

He didn't offer a hand this time. She didn't expect one. Inside, the apartment was clean. Every item had a place. No clutter, no warmth just function.

Then, without any ceremony, he reached up and pulled off the cloth covering the lower half of his face.

Ruhi turned slightly, startled not by who he was, but by how he was. Sharp jawline, dusky skin, a faint cut near his temple. But it was the eyes that stayed the same. Those impossibly intense, unreadable eyes now framed by a face equally striking.

He pointed down a short hallway. "Bathroom's to the left," he said, his voice even. "There's warm water and towel."

She nodded faintly, clutching the frayed ends of her torn kurti. Shivaang paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

He looked at her for a moment standing there in the dim light, her kurti torn at the sleeve, dust clinging to her skin, and blood dried faintly at the corner of her lip.

Without a word, he turned and walked into one of the rooms.

Ruhi stood still, eyes following him briefly before falling to the floor again.

A few moments later, he returned, holding a neatly folded white shirt in his hand. He stopped just a step away from her, extended it without looking directly at her face.

"I don't have anything else," he said quietly. "Use this."

She took it without a word, her fingers brushing the worn cotton. It smelled faintly of him clean, like cedar and something sharper beneath.

He stepped aside, giving her space.

She disappeared into the hallway and emerged back ten minutes later, her hair damp, combed back with her fingers. She still was in her kurti with Shivaang's shirt hung loose over it like a long shrug, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. It swallowed her frame, and somehow made her look even smaller.

She sat quietly on the couch, eyes lowered, arms wrapped around herself.

Shivaang watched her for a moment from across the hall. He didn't ask anything, just walked over to the cabinet, pulled out a small first-aid box, and placed it on the table near her.

She looked up only slightly, the bruise on her lip visible now under the warm light.

He sat across from her, not too close and opened the kit. From inside, he gently pulled out a cotton swab and antiseptic. He didn't speak as he handed it to her.

Her fingers took it from him with a small tremble, but she didn't meet his gaze.

Only then did he speak softly, but directly. "What's your name?"

No reply.

A few seconds passed. "Do you want to eat something?"

Still nothing.

She sat there like a statue carved from silence wrapped in his shirt, barefoot, her lips pressed together so tight it looked like she'd swallowed her voice.

"Gungi ho?" [Are you mute?]

Again no reply. Shivaang exhaled. Just a whisper of a sigh. He didn't press her, didn't try again. he simply leaned back, resting one arm on the table, and looked away giving her what she needed more than words.

Space.

Time slipped by, slow and silent. Ruhi hadn't said a word since they met. She sat cross-legged on one corner of the couch, Shivaang's white shirt hanging loose around her like borrowed armor. Her eyes were red from fatigue and fright, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Shivaang moved with his usual quiet rhythm clearing the space, checking the windows, and finally settling across from her again. He studied her face for a moment, noting how it had softened in the warmth of the room, but tension still lingered at her shoulders.

Then he spoke, calm and low. "Do you want to talk to your family?"

She looked up slowly, eyes wide, almost childlike. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Just a silent stare, full of longing and fear, as if the very idea of connection would shatter her.

Shivaang sighed long, quiet and reached for his phone. Two rings. and Aarush picked up immediately.

"She's here," Shivaang said simply, and handed the phone to her.

Ruhi hesitated, then took it with trembling hands. The screen lit up with a video call. On the other end, Aarush's face came into view, and then Pakhi. The moment her sister's face appeared, Ruhi broke.

"Diii...!" she sobbed, voice cracking open after hours of silence.

Shivaang paused, something flickering across his otherwise still face.

Chalo iinko bolna toh aata hai [So she knows how to speak], he thought, lips twitching faintly in the hint of a sardonic smirk.

Across the screen, Pakhi gasped, tears already rolling down her cheeks. "Ruhi... thank God," she whispered, her voice thick with relief. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Ruhi nodded between sobs. "I'm okay... now."

Shivaang stood up quietly and walked a few steps away, giving them space but still keeping a watchful eye. The vulnerability between the sisters unfolded like a fragile thread, and he let it stretch as long as it needed.

After some time, he walked into the kitchen and returned with a plate of freshly cut fruits and placed it gently on the table in front of her. She didn't look up, but her eyes flickered in acknowledgment.

Just then, the phone in her hand crackled with Aarush's voice.

"She doesn't know how to tell you this," Aarush said, his voice calm but low. "They kidnapped her from her institute. There was no security."

Pakhi's gasp followed, loud and sharp. "Th-then? Where will she stay now?"

Aarush didn't skip a beat. "She'll stay where she is right now."

"What?" Pakhi blinked.

"What?" Ruhi echoed softly.

"What?" Shivaang said flat, incredulous.

He stepped forward, took the phone gently from Ruhi's hands, and spoke without taking his eyes off her. "Aarush. Side pe aana zara." [Aarush please come to the side]

There was a pause, then a shuffle of movement. Shivaang stepped out onto the small balcony.

"This won't work," he said the moment the line cleared. "She can't stay here. This place isn't secure for her. It's not safe for me either and you know that."

"I know" Aarush replied. "But right now, she's safer in your apartment than out there. I don't trust anyone else in Milan. And I sure as hell don't trust that her attackers won't try again."

"There's an ongoing mission. I can't have distractions."

"She won't be a distraction. She's gentle, reserved and barely speaks. You'll hardly feel her presence, but it means everything for her safety."

Silence.

Shivaang clenched his jaw. He looked through the glass, at the girl who now sat hugging her knees slightly, staring at the untouched fruit on the table.

"I can keep her for a few days," he said finally. "But no longer."

"That's all I'm asking," Aarush said.

He turned back inside, walked to Ruhi, and held the phone back out to her. She blinked up at him, confused.

"Your sister," he said simply.

Her hand reached up slowly. She took the phone like it was something fragile. Shivaang didn't interrupt and before turning, he gave a small nod toward the plate of cut fruits on the table a silent gesture and then moved back into other room.

The room had grown quiet again.

Ruhi sat on the edge of the couch, her knees drawn up slightly, Shivaang's shirt wrapped around her like armor she hadn't asked for. The half-eaten plate of fruit still sat on the table between them, touched, but barely.

Shivaang lingered near the doorway to the kitchen, watching her in silence. She hadn't spoken again. Her eyes stayed low, guarded and fragile.

He didn't know who she really was not beyond the name, the panic, the trembling whisper of "Di" over the phone. She was just... a girl. One who had been taken. One he'd had to save. That should've been the end of it. And yet, here she was.

Finally, he broke the silence. "You can take the guestroom,"

She looked up at him for a brief moment. He pointed down the hall.

"Second door"

Ruhi rose slowly, limbs still heavy due to past events. She paused by the hallway entrance, her eyes sweeping the space as if unsure it would still be there when she turned back.

Then, quietly, she said the first word since her call had ended.

"I can't stay here," she finally said, her voice firmer this time. "It feels like... like a live-in. And I don't do that. I'll manage something in the campus hostel."

Shivaang didn't flinch or blink. His tone was bone-dry, almost unamused.

"Toh ab aap chahti hain ki hum aapse shaadi karein aapko yaha rakhne ke liye?" [So now you want me to marry you so that you would stay here?]

Ruhi gaped at him, stunned. Her words caught in her throat. She stared at him, wide-eyed. Then softly, she muttered, "Hamara vo matlab nahi tha." [That's not what I meant.]

He leaned back slightly against the wall, arms folded, his voice now edged with finality.

"Stay for a week. After that, you can go and live wherever you want. But right now, I can assure you, your attackers could be posted outside your institute, wearing a guard's uniform, looking for your face like a hawk."

That silenced her, entirely. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She didn't argue. Just turned away slowly and walked to the guestroom. A few moments later, the click of the door locking echoed through the still apartment.

He remained where he stood, arms still folded. His face was unreadable, but his jaw had tightened.

Under his breath, almost as a whisper: "What did you just get dropped into, Shrivastav?"

The room buzzed softly with the hum of servers. Dim overhead lights cast long shadows across the polished cement floor. Shivaang stood in front of large screens, arms crossed, jaw tight. His team present on call.

Mirage(firmly): "What do we have?"

Echo (activating a map of Europe): "Money trail's real. Clean routes, layered in shell firms. But there's a consistent pattern, they're routing through boutique textile exporters in Bulgaria, Hungary, and southern Italy. Each one links back to the same holding company in Prague. Which was scrubbed clean three weeks ago."

Wolf : "Digitally wiped. No owner on paper. But we pulled a mirror backup of the domain registry. The original domain manager has ties to..." (taps tablet, pulls up a name) "...Trussardi's legal counsel."

Mirage(quietly, with intensity): "So we were right. Agnelli Trussardi isn't just funding the fashion gala. He's a channel. A pawn."

Echo: "Or worse. A gatekeeper. And it's not just money, there's chatter. Encrypted exchanges on dark web nodes. Weapons shipments tagged under textile cargo from Istanbul. Milan is just the final dock."

Mirage(stepping forward): "And all this is happening under our nose while the world watches fashion shows and drinks champagne."

Echo (lowering his voice): "We don't have full visibility yet. Whoever is above Trussardi... they're operating from the shadows. He's just the visible end."

Mirage(coldly): "Then we shine the light deeper."

(He walks to the screen, tapping on the export routes. His finger lands on a dock in Genoa.)

Wolf : "There's a container arriving next week. Under the brand Valtaggio Milano. One of Trussardi's subsidiaries. 

Mirage: Wolf, I want a full manifest intercepted before it hits customs and we don't move early. We move precise. Let them feel safe. We trail them, not touch them. I want the shipment tagged, not stopped."

Echo: "And what about Trussardi? Public figure, untouchable in the fashion elite."

Mirage(with finality): "We don't touch him yet. We expose him. Piece by piece. I want surveillance on every event he attends. Every call, every transfer. If he sneezes in the wrong direction, I want to know why. Prep a secure line to HQ. We loop in Delhi but not with full detail. Not yet. This web is bigger than it looks. If there's a leak, I want it contained on this side of the continent."

Echo, Wolf : "Understood."

Mirage(stepping back, voice steady): "We're not chasing shadows. We're dragging them out into the sun."

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★ I hope you liked this chapter ★

With all my heart,
Reva♡