∘₊✧───── 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ─────✧₊∘

The temple was quieter than usual. Morning chants had faded into a lull of incense and the occasional ring of a bell. Ruhi sat on the cool marble floor, just outside the sanctum, legs folded, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were locked on the flickering diyas, but her thoughts were far from still.

It had been an impulsive decision to come. Her heart had felt heavy… scattered. As if she couldn’t breathe in campus anymore. So she had come here, looking for peace.

She had done the parikrama twice, sat through the aarti quietly, and yet, no calm came. Just a whirlpool of thoughts circling her chest.

An elderly priest, his cotton dhoti spotless and his forehead marked with sandalwood paste, passed by. He stopped when he noticed her stillness.

“Beta,” his voice was kind, fatherly. “kaafi der se baithi ho yahan, vrat rakha hai aaj?”

Ruhi looked up, startled out of her trance. She nodded faintly.

“Ji… pandit ji. Hamare pati ke liye.”

The priest smiled warmly. “Bahut achha. Bhagwan tumhare pati ko lambi umar dein.” He paused, his gaze softening as he looked more closely at her. “Lekin tumne maang kyun nahi bhari aaj? Aise pavitra din pe… shringar adhura kyon?”

Ruhi hesitated. She hadn’t expected this question. Her fingers brushed her forehead instinctively, where the vermilion should’ve been.

“Woh…hum thode confused hain.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Lagana hai ya nahi, samajh nahi aata.”

The priest sat down beside her, a hint of concern on his face. “Kya confusion hai, beti?”

She looked down at her hands, twisting the edge of her dupatta nervously. “Hamari shaadi us din adhoori reh gayi thi. Sindoor… nahi lag paya tha. Kuch aisi situations ho gayi thi…”

The priest was silent for a moment, as if measuring his words. Then, gently but firmly, he said,

“Sanatan dharm mein, sindoor sirf ek rasam nahi hai. Vivah ke saath ek aatmik bandhan hota hai, aur woh sindoor us bandhan ka pramaan hota hai. Jis din maang bhari jaati hai, us din stree ko pati par poora adhikaar milta hai. Bina uske… vivaah poorna nahi hota. Adhoora rehta hai.”

His words struck her like thunder in silence.

“Tumhara niyati pe vishwas hai?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

She nodded slowly, lips trembling.

“Toh yeh bhi maan lo, jo vivah ke liye likha gaya tha, woh hamesha apne poore roop mein hi sampann hona chahiye. Adhoore rishton mein na prem tikta hai, na sukoon. Tum khud bhi to sukoon dhoondhne aayi ho, hai na?”

Her throat tightened. She blinked, but a tear slid down.

“Main toh kehta hoon,” the priest said gently, placing a small silver box beside her, “Agar tumne vrat rakha hai unke liye, toh mann se unki patni bhi ho. Apne aap ko is uljhan mein mat dalo. Apna hak poore dil se maango… aur us pe bharosa rakho.”

His words were simple, but they stirred something deep inside. Her lips parted, but she couldn't speak. Her heart was too full.

As the priest got up and returned to the inner sanctum, Ruhi stared at the small sindoor box he had left behind.

Her tears fell freely now.

Not from sadness.

Not from guilt.

But from the weight of truth.

Her marriage wasn’t complete.

And neither was she.

 _________________________________

The safehouse was dimly lit, screens humming quietly, maps and surveillance footage lined across a wall like pieces of a puzzle waiting to be solved. Echo sat at the desk, sipping on his fourth cup of coffee, while the soft clicks of Shivaang gearing up filled the silence.

Shivaang stood near the window, adjusting the hidden mic under the collar of his shirt, then slipping on his leather jacket. Every movement was fluid, calculated. Tonight wasn't about confrontation, it was about shadows. Watching. Listening.

"Trussardi's schedule still unchanged?" Shivaang asked without looking back.

Echo nodded, eyes scanning a digital tablet. "Yeah. The gallery walkthrough is on, but something's off. New security patterns. He’s changed his route last minute. Someone tipped him."

Shivaang turned, now fully ready - black jeans, matte phone holster, silent boots. "Then this might be our best shot to confirm if he's worth letting live or not."

He walked over to the table, picked up his phone, hesitated a second… and then extended it to Echo.

"Remember—"

Echo didn’t even let him finish. He smirked, cutting in with mock pride, "I know I know. If your Ruhi calls, I will pick it up. Bhale hi aasman gir jaye yaa zameen phatt jaye, I will pick up her call. Happy?"

"Good," he said, the single word laced with more emotion than he let show.

Then, just like that, he was gone.

No further instructions. No dramatic exits. Just the soft thud of the door and the silence that follows a storm about to begin.

Echo glanced at the phone in his hand then his eyes returned to the live satellite feed. The mission had just begun, and the day wasn’t going to be easy.

 Echo now connected on a secure video call with Wolf and the Director. His headset was on, eyes sharp, tone all business.

“Agent Mirage has entered zone three,” Echo said, voice clipped and focused. “He’s tailing Trussardi’s car. No visual confirmation of the asset he’s supposed to meet yet.”

Wolf, patching in from India, nodded. “We’ve intercepted chatter. There’s a possibility that the link meeting Trussardi tonight has ties to Eastern Europe contacts. If Mirage gets a photo or voice sample, we can run it through facial match.”

The Director’s calm, authoritative voice came through next. “Good. Keep distance. We can’t afford exposure.”

Just then,  a vibration on the table cut through the tension.

Shivaang’s phone lit up.

“Ruh calling.”

Echo’s eyes widened. A beat passed. Then he swiftly muted his comm line, picked up the phone and stepped a little aside, speaking softly.

“Hello?”

There was a pause on the other side. Then her voice came gentle and hesitant.

“Umm… Shivaang?”

“Hey… he’s just a little caught up right now,” Echo said, keeping his tone kind but neutral. “Is it something urgent?”

“No… nahi. I’ll call later,” she replied quickly, masking the disappointment. “Sorry to bother.”

“Ruhi,” Echo added, almost instinctively, “he’ll call when he’s free, pakka.”

Before she could respond, the line on Echo’s comm buzzed.

The Director’s voice returned, crystal clear.

“Also, what's the status of Shivaang's divorce proceedings?”

Echo froze.

On the other end of the phone, there was silence. But not the normal kind.

The dead kind. The kind that felt heard.

Ruhi hadn't hung up.

She had heard that.

His stomach dropped. “Shit,” he whispered under his breath, pressing the phone tighter.

“Ruhi?” he said, tone suddenly urgent.

But the call had already ended.

He looked at Shivaang’s screen. The lock screen blinked back at him empty, cold, still.

Wolf's voice came through again. “Echo? You there?”

Echo cleared his throat, eyes still on the phone. “Yeah.." Only if I could tell.. We have a new problem… not mission-related.

And this time, it wasn’t something that could be tracked or decoded.

 _______________________________________

The alley behind the Trussardi-owned warehouse was darker than the Milanese night. Mirage crouched low, eyes scanning every shadow. His micro-bug transmitter was working perfectly, hooked inside the electrical panel of the conference room upstairs.

Crackling through his earpiece came fragments of a conversation, voices laced with coded tension, Italian blending with faint Hindi.

“Shipment rerouted to Bharuch port…”

“New fund trail through textile grants…”

“Contact in India will clear the next phase…”

Mirage’s eyes narrowed.

India.

That was the link. When they thought the person they caught was the only one involved, but there was someone else playing all this already knew, they would be tracing them so he made Virendra the needed pawn. While he still continues to run the entire funding network for this terror ring.

He was about to signal Echo when—

Click.

The channel went dead and a chilling realization followed

They knew.

Shouts in Italian erupted from the floor above, growing louder with every passing second. The voices were urgent, panicked. Footsteps pounded down the fire escape, fast and unrelenting.

“Trovalo! C’è una talpa!” someone screamed.

(Find him! There’s a mole!)

Mirage didn’t wait. He broke into a run.

His boots slammed against the slick cobblestones, each step echoing through the narrow alleyways. Bullets began to whistle past him, striking metal poles, shattering crates, and ricocheting off abandoned machinery.

The air was thick with smoke and tension. His face was concealed by a half-mask and hood, shielding his identity, but it did nothing to protect him from the danger closing in.

Suddenly, a man lunged at him from the right. Without breaking stride, Mirage twisted mid-run. He grabbed the attacker’s arm, dislocated it with a brutal snap, and swung the man’s body forward, using him as a shield. Two bullets struck the man’s back. Blood sprayed across the walls as he collapsed, lifeless. Two down.

Mirage ducked behind a rusted barrel, panting quietly. He quickly checked his magazine. Only one bullet left.

The sound of deliberate footsteps echoed toward him slower, heavier and more controlled. This one wasn’t like the others. He was trained and experienced.

Mirage sprang to his feet and slipped into a caged, dimly lit walkway. He moved silently, every movement calculated. Just as he turned the corner, he saw him.

Trussardi’s top enforcer.

He was massive, dressed in black, a smug expression twisting his face. They locked eyes, neither moving for two tense seconds.

Then the enforcer smiled coldly and raised his gun.

“Goodbye,” he said, pulling the trigger with chilling calm.

The gunshot rang out, deafening in the silence.

The bullet grazed his hand as he twisted his body to the side, the sting sharp but manageable. His jacket tore at the sleeve, blood drawing a thin line across his skin. But he was still standing, heart still beating.

Before the man could even process what had happened, Mirage charged.

He grabbed a loose metal bar from the nearby fence and deflected the second shot. In one swift motion, he twisted the man’s wrist, forcing the gun to the ground with a harsh clang. Without hesitation, Mirage slammed him against the wall, knocking the breath out of him. In a blur of motion, Mirage retrieved the gun and pointed it squarely at his enemy’s head.

His breathing was shallow but steady. His eyes were burning with intensity.

“Can’t die so early,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, “not when my wife is fasting for my life.”

He pulled the trigger.

One clean shot. The bullet hit straight between the eyes.

Silence followed.

The alley, now littered with smoke and blood, stood still again, only one man left breathing.

Mirage straightened, steadying himself despite the blood trickling from his side.

Then, without another word, he vanished into the shadows.

 _______________________________________

The metal door of the safehouse creaked open.

Mirage stepped in, his breath steady but his shirt sleeve soaked in crimson. His face was still half-covered, the adrenaline just beginning to settle in his eyes. He closed the door behind him silently.

Echo, still connected on the secure line with Wolf and the Director, turned toward him immediately. His eyes landed on the gash across Mirage’s hand, blood still oozing down his wrist.

“Mirage, you’re-” Echo began, standing up in alarm.

But Mirage held up a hand, already moving toward the comm table.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice clipped. “Patch me in.”

Echo tapped the system and unmuted the call. The screen lit up again with the live link. Wolf appeared on one window, seated in a tech room. The Director’s silhouette dominated the central frame.

Mirage leaned in, speaking directly into the mic. “Virendra isn't the one.”

The Director’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “And?”

Mirage didn’t flinch. “He was just a pawn. Target is still out, running this network.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the Director leaned back, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Knew it,” he muttered.

He leaned forward again, his voice rising, not in panic, but in the frustration that only came from seeing the board too late.

“KNEW it, dammit!”

His voice echoed through the call.

Echo looked between Mirage and the screen, tense. Wolf muttered a curse under his breath.

The Director continued, cold fury dripping from every word. “Get that drive decrypted now. I want everything, every name, every link, every route exposed.”

Mirage nodded once, jaw clenched. “Copy that.”

As he stepped back, Echo followed, whispering with concern, “Bro, your hand…”

Mirage finally looked down, as if noticing the blood now staining the edge of the table. He flexed his fingers once, wincing faintly. “It’ll heal.”

He sat down heavily in the chair, pulling off his mask. The pain was real, but not enough to distract him from the bigger wound, the one that hadn’t bled yet.

The target was still out there.

Watching.

Moving.

Waiting.

And this game was far from over.

 _____________________________________

Night had settled over Milan like a velvet blanket, but inside the safehouse, the air remained sharp with static and unfinished business. The decrypted files were running in the background, the faint hum of the system syncing into the silence.

Echo sat near the monitor, his fingers tapping restlessly on the desk when suddenly, his phone rang. The screen lit up with an unexpected name.

Prisha calling.

He answered casually. “Yes, ma'am?”

Her voice hit him like a slap. Sharp. Urgent.

“Shivaang jiju ka number do.”

Echo raised an eyebrow. “Umm… excuse me? Why would I give you that?”

There was a pause. Then her voice came again, this time louder, laced with panic and fury.

“Chup chap do! Mazak ka time nahi hai!”

The sharpness in her voice sliced through him instantly. Without a word, he turned and walked over to where Shivaang sat.

Echo extended the phone. “Koi pagal billi hai. Chillaa rahi hai. Tere se baat karni hai.”

Shivaang looked at him, puzzled, then took the phone. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was trembling.

“Jiju… Ruhi's not back to hostel yet,” Prisha said, trying to hold herself together. “Her phone is also unreachable. Where do I go? I didn’t know what else to do… so I called you.”

For a moment, the world stopped.

Every sound around him dulled.

His breath caught. His fingers tightened around the phone.

The war he had just returned from… the bullet he had dodged… none of it compared to the dread rising in his chest now.

Ruhi was missing.

It had only taken one sentence from Prisha for Shivaang to be on his feet, heart hammering harder than it had during tonight’s gunfire. He tossed Echo his jacket and said sharply, “Track her last location. Now.”

They didn’t waste a second.

Prisha was already at the campus when they arrived. She stood near the entrance of the main building, arms wrapped tightly around herself, face pale.

Shivaang barely slowed down as he approached her. His voice was tight, urgent.

"When did she leave?"

Prisha looked down, unable to meet his eyes. Guilt hung heavy on her shoulders, pressing her spine down like a weight.

"In the morning," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Shivaang’s eyes scanned the area around them, desperate, restless. He took a step back, already turning to search elsewhere.

"And did she tell you where she was going?"

Prisha swallowed hard. Her hands fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. She opened her mouth, hesitant, guilt deepening in her eyes.

“No-”

But before she could say anything more, Echo interrupted from behind, fingers flying across the tablet in his hand.

"Here she is."

Shivaang moved quickly to look at the screen.

The CCTV footage showed Ruhi sitting on the old stone bench tucked beneath the quiet row of olive trees at the far edge of the campus. The leaves whispered softly around her, the area deserted. A girl with sharp features approached and started talking. Shivaang watched every second, his heart clenching.

Ruhi didn’t speak at first. She only listened. Her shoulders were slumped, her body language stiff. Her hands slowly curled into fists at her sides. Then she replied, just a few words. Her lips moved, but the footage was mute. There was no way to know what she had said.

Then, slowly, she stood and turned. She walked out of the frame, and with her, every trace of her presence vanished.

“Zoom out,” Shivaang said sharply, his voice cracking with urgency. “Where did she go after that?”

Echo tapped quickly, switching angles, flipping cameras.

“That’s the problem,” he said, frustration evident in his clenched jaw. “The next camera didn’t catch her. There’s a blind spot between the design block and the rear gardens. No surveillance covers that area.”

Without waiting for more explanation, Shivaang turned and bolted in the direction of the blind spot.

He ran like his soul was on fire.

Echo followed immediately. Prisha hesitated for a moment before breaking into a run herself, breathing heavy with panic and regret.

They searched for what felt like hours—behind buildings, through the design block, around the gardens, near the studio halls. Every corner. Every possible path. They checked bathrooms, storerooms, the rooftop even. But nothing.

Now they stood near the back gate, under the dark sky. Their breaths came in gasps, clothes clinging to them from sweat, and hearts pounding not just from exhaustion, but from fear.

Shivaang’s eyes were still scanning, unable to rest, desperate. His chest rose and fell rapidly, anxiety pushing his restraint to the edge.

Prisha finally broke the silence. Her voice trembled.

“I… I was anxious today. And angry,” she admitted. “Because of Ethan. That he’s gone missing… and now people are looking at me strangely. I thought things might come down on me.”

Shivaang turned to her sharply.

Prisha’s voice cracked. “She came to me to fix my mood… and I—I snapped and yelled at her, I told her to leave me alone. I didn’t mean it like that but… she just stood there. Then left quietly. It-It's all my fault.”

Shivaang’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as fury started to boil beneath his skin. His lips pressed into a tight line, the muscle on his cheek twitching. He didn’t say anything, but the rage was visible, swelling inside him with every beat of his heart.

Just then, Echo suddenly stilled.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

Shivaang’s head snapped to him. “What?”

“I just remembered,” Echo said, eyes wide with realization. “She called your phone. Just earlier, before all this. You were busy, so I told her you’d call back. But before I could cut the call…”

He paused, face paling as the memory returned.

“…the Director suddenly asked about your divorce proceedings, and then—then the call got disconnected. She must’ve heard.”

There was a long, stunned silence.

Prisha turned, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What? Divorce? Jiju, you want a divorce?”

Shivaang didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because at that moment, everything slammed into him at once.

He had been rude to her last night because of the things going on in his mind.

He hadn’t even explained. Not once. Not properly. Not when she needed him to.

And now she was gone.

He felt like something had been ripped open inside him.

His breath hitched. He cursed under it, fingers curling into fists. He was angry, so angry.

At Prisha. At Echo. At himself.

Most of all, at himself.

He turned slightly, stepping back, and closed his eyes, desperate to center himself, to find the last sliver of composure he had left. But even with his eyes shut, rage trembled under his skin like electricity. It was palpable, thick in the air around him.

Then his voice came low, deadly calm, but tight with suppressed fury.

“Did you hear anything else in the background?” he asked Echo with his eyes still closed.

Echo gulped, aware of the storm he stood before. He racked his brain, trying to remember something, anything.

Finally, he whispered, “I think… I think I heard vehicles. And… something like bells.”

Shivaang’s eyes snapped open.

The bells. Only one place came to his mind.

He didn’t say a word. He just turned and ran toward the temple.

********************************************************************
Next chapter is pyaar, just pyaar. 💕

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Love,

Reva ♡