The hospital's corridors buzzed with urgency, voices overlapping in a symphony of pain and healing. But Aarohi barely heard any of it. Her mind was spinning.
Who was that man?
Her hands still trembled as she walked toward the emergency wing. The memory of his voice—the deep, steady calm that felt colder than steel—echoed in her ears. She didn’t recognize his face, but the way people had moved around him? Like he was royalty. Or something far more dangerous.
And then there were his eyes. Not the kind that looked at you. The kind that looked through you. As if he already knew her.
She pushed the thought away and entered the ward, past patients moaning in pain, families arguing, nurses shouting instructions. She focused on the routine: changing bed sheets, updating case notes, checking a patient’s pulse. She tried to bury the encounter like she buried everything else.
But some things refuse to stay buried.
—
Across the city, in a glass-tinted skyscraper guarded like a fortress, Raghav Rathore sat in silence. The skyline behind him was smudged with monsoon clouds, rain streaking down the windows like tears the sky couldn’t hold in.
Kabir entered, holding a slim file.
“She lives in Dharavi. Slum block D5. Father’s a drunk. Mother’s violent. One younger sister. Seven years old. Her name’s Chhavi.”
Raghav said nothing.
“Scholarship student. Top of her class. Works part-time at a clinic to cover expenses the scholarship doesn’t.”
Still silence.
“She hasn’t missed a single rotation. Despite...” Kabir paused, then added gently, “Despite what we know now.”
Raghav finally spoke. “She walks through hell and still shows up on time.”
Kabir nodded. “Exactly.”
There was a brief pause. Then Raghav asked, “Has anyone touched her?”
“Her professors? No. Not that we’ve found. She keeps her head down. No boyfriends. No known friends outside school. No social media.”
Raghav leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “She doesn’t even know she’s gold. That makes her dangerous.”
Kabir raised a brow. “Dangerous?”
“To me.”
Kabir was silent.
Raghav stood and walked toward the window. “People like her… they don’t break. They bend. Quietly. But every bend turns into resistance. And resistance always tempts me.”
Kabir smirked. “So what now?”
“Nothing yet,” Raghav said. “Let her keep waking up thinking she’s free. But I want eyes on her. No interference unless she’s in danger.”
“You’re protecting her?”
“No,” he said softly. “I’m studying her.”
—
Back at the hospital, Aarohi sat on the edge of a supply room stool, stealing five minutes between rounds. She opened her notebook to review pharmacology notes—but her eyes drifted instead.
To that moment.
The man. The voice. The strange sense of being seen for the first time.
Aarohi didn’t know that outside the window of that very room, across the street, a car sat idling.
Inside, a man watched her through binoculars, speaking softly into a mic.
“Target is alone. She looks tired.”
Back in the skyscraper, Raghav listened, arms crossed.
“She’ll break soon,” Kabir said.
“No,” Raghav murmured. “She’s already broken. She just hasn’t realized I’m the one who’ll put her back together.”
—
Later that afternoon, Aarohi stepped out of the ward, stretching her aching back. The cafeteria line was long, and her head throbbed with the beginnings of a migraine. She just wanted water. Quiet. Maybe two Advils.
“Hey!”
She turned to see Sonal, her classmate, waving and jogging toward her with a cupcake in hand.
Aarohi managed a tired smile. “Hey. You look... unusually excited for a hospital.”
Sonal laughed. “It’s my birthday, idiot.”
“Oh my God. I forgot. Happy birthday!”
“You’re forgiven. Barely. Anyway, I’m having a small thing tonight. Nothing fancy—just a few classmates, rooftop cafe near Bandra. You should come.”
Aarohi blinked. “I—I don’t know. I have work after shifts. And I need to go home—”
“No. Aarohi, come on. You never come to anything. Just this once? You deserve one night where you’re not carrying the weight of the universe on your shoulders.”
Aarohi hesitated.
“I don’t have clothes for something like that,” she said softly, almost embarrassed.
Sonal rolled her eyes. “We all wear kurta and jeans. No one’s doing a fashion show, I swear. Please?”
There was something in her friend's hopeful expression—something that chipped a crack in Aarohi’s usual resolve.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll try.”
“You’ll come,” Sonal grinned, victorious. “Seven o’clock. Don’t ditch.”
Aarohi smiled faintly, pocketing the napkin with the address scribbled on it. It had been so long since anyone invited her anywhere like this.
—
That evening, Aarohi stood at the edge of the rooftop café, arms crossed, awkwardly clutching her phone. She had borrowed Sonal’s spare dupatta and cleaned her old jeans the best she could. Her lips wore a tint of gloss. Her heart, however, wore layers of nerves.
The rooftop lights sparkled, fairy lights strung across the open air, music humming in the background. Laughter drifted. Everyone looked free.
Sonal came over and pulled her into the group. Introductions. Smiles. Laughter. For the first time in a long time, Aarohi felt almost invisible in the best way.
Until he came.
Samar. Tall, entitled, the kind of rich boy who believed kindness was weakness. He had flirted with her once before—she’d ignored him. Apparently, he remembered.
He leaned close, beer bottle in hand. “Aarohi, right? Surprised to see you here. You clean up nice... for a charity case.”
Her stomach twisted.
“Excuse me?” she said quietly.
He laughed. “Come on, don’t act offended. I mean, you do live in the slums, don’t you?”
People nearby went quiet. She felt her face flush—not with shame, but with heat. Rage. Embarrassment. But she kept her composure.
“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” she said, stepping back.
He moved closer. “Don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly. Don’t tell me you came here expecting to be treated like a princess?”
His hand brushed her wrist.
She yanked it away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Oh come on. Playing hard to get now?”
She looked to Sonal, who stood frozen, unsure what to do. Others whispered but no one moved.
Then his hand reached again—lower.
Aarohi slapped him.
Gasps. Music paused. Silence.
Samar looked stunned. Then angry. “You crazy b*tch—”
“I said don’t touch me,” Aarohi said, her voice louder this time, filled with steel. “I don’t care where you come from or how rich you are. You don’t touch people without their consent.”
He blinked. She was trembling, but she stood tall.
“If you ever come near me again, Samar, you’ll regret it,” she added. “You think you're powerful because you humiliate people who can't afford your clothes or your drinks. But I survived things you'd never last a day through.”
Sonal stepped forward now, grabbing Aarohi’s hand. “Let’s go.”
But Aarohi turned around first and faced the crowd.
“Shame on every one of you who watched and said nothing.”
Then she walked out.
—
The auto ride back home was silent, her throat dry, eyes burning.
When she stepped into the house, she hoped they’d be asleep.
They weren’t.
Her mother’s hand came first.
“Where were you, you shameless girl?”
Her father threw her bag across the room. “Wearing lipstick now? Who gave you money for this? Whoring around like your mother, aren’t you?”
She tried to speak, tried to say something—anything—but her voice got stuck.
Her mother grabbed her arm, nails digging into flesh. “You think you can act like you're something special? Going to parties?”
“Chhavi,” Aarohi cried, trying to reach the corner where her little sister sat, curled up in a blanket. “Please don’t wake her—”
But it was too late.
Chhavi’s wide, terrified eyes looked up at her sister as screams filled the room.
And somewhere across the city, Raghav sat in the dark.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
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