Unedited!!
Author's Pov:
On the same day, when she called him Ray, at night,
The clink of the spoon was the only sound in the room.
Sayeera sat at the long oak dining table, her eyes fixed on the plate before her, though she wasn’t really tasting anything. The stew had gone lukewarm a while ago, but she kept eating in small, hesitant mouthfuls ... more out of politeness than hunger.
The house was quiet ... that deep, waiting kind of silence that seemed to stretch from the walls themselves. The faint ticking of the clock filled the emptiness, marking seconds that felt longer than they should.
The room itself felt too large for one person to eat in. Shadows stretched from the tall windows across the marble floor, curling against the edges of the table where a single lamp burned with a soft golden light.
The faint creak of footsteps made her pause.
Reyaksh appeared at the far end of the hallway, his silhouette framed by the dim corridor light. He wasn’t wearing his usual clothes ... only a plain black shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms. There was something effortless about the way he carried silence with him, as if the air adjusted itself when he entered.
He paused there for a heartbeat, as if uncertain whether to step further in. His expression gave nothing away ... calm, sharp, unreadable ... but something in the stiffness of his posture betrayed hesitation, a shadow he quickly buried behind composure.
Sayeera lowered her gaze at once.
He moved closer, his boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the floor. The scent of the cold ... that crisp, metallic chill ... followed him, brushing against the warmth of the room. He didn’t speak at first.
For a long moment, he stood at the other end of the table, gaze drifting over the untouched half of her meal. He wasn’t one to share space easily ...especially this close ... but tonight, something in his manner was different. Controlled, but not detached.
After a breath, he walked around and sat across from her. The chair creaked softly.
Sayeera’s pulse stilled. She hadn’t expected him to sit. Her fingers curled around the edge of her plate, knuckles white.
He rested his forearms lightly on the table. “You should eat while it’s warm.”
She nodded, forcing another spoonful, though her appetite had vanished the instant he entered. His presence filled the space, quiet but heavy ... not oppressive, just… aware. She could feel his gaze on her, not as interrogation, but as observation ...steady, calculating.
He broke the silence first. “You’ve been resting?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
His words carried a quiet weight that made her stomach tighten, though his tone remained neutral. He looked away soon after, as though realizing his own unease, and stood. “There’s something I wanted to ask. And...the reason you are here for.”
Sayeera stared at him for a moment not sure what to say.
"After dinner" he added . She nodded faintly.
After that no one spoke, they finished their dinner in silence as it seems more comforting at that moment.
When they are done , they washed their hands and mouth.
"Come with me" said Reyaksh in neutral tone. Sayeera followed without any question.
The study was dimly lit, one lamp casting an amber glow across the dark wood. Papers were stacked in uneven piles, an open file resting near the edge of the desk. The smell of ink, metal, and faint smoke lingered ... traces of his long hours here.
Reyaksh motioned for her to sit while he remained standing, removing a thin bundle of photographs from a leather folder. “These are from the group we discussed,” he said quietly, spreading them across the desk in careful order.
Her eyes flickered across the faces ... harsh expressions, unknown eyes, the kind of men who carried danger in posture alone. She swallowed.
“Take your time,” Reyaksh said. His tone was calm, but his fingers brushed the edge of the desk once ... the only sign of impatience.
She looked at each face in silence. Ten… fifteen… twenty. None stirred memory. None fit.
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know them.”
He gathered another small stack. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Her voice was thin, apologetic.
He leaned slightly closer, studying her reaction before glancing down again. The light caught his profile ... the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint strain near his eyes, gone in an instant. He was disappointed, but not surprised.
She tried to look away ...and that’s when she saw it.
Half-buried under a notebook, by the edge of the desk, was a photograph that hadn’t been placed with the others. Something about it pulled her attention ... maybe the glint of metal, or the rough paper edge curling upward.
Her heart began to race.
She reached out slowly, almost afraid to touch it. “Wait… this one—”
Reyaksh straightened. “What is it?”
She drew the photograph toward her. Her eyes widened. “I’ve seen him.”
Her voice was almost a whisper when she said it.
“Him… I’ve seen him.”
Reyaksh froze. The change was subtle ... only a flicker in his stillness ... but it was enough to shift the air in the room. His eyes lifted from the papers, fixing on her with sudden, unnerving focus.
Sayeera didn’t notice the tension gathering in his shoulders. She was staring at the photograph as if the man might move if she looked away. Her fingers trembled against the edge of the image.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
The faint hum of the desk lamp filled the silence, the light shivering slightly as if the air itself had thickened. Reyaksh’s jaw tightened, a restrained reaction that most would have missed. He stepped closer — quiet, deliberate ... stopping just short of her chair.
“Are you sure?” he asked finally.
The question came low, controlled, but underneath it lay something colder ... disbelief, maybe even a thread of unease.
Sayeera looked up at him, her breath quickened. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, as if she were no longer in this room at all. “Yes,” she said, voice breaking. “I’m sure.”
She swallowed hard, her hand clutching the photograph tighter. “It was that night… the one I told you about ... near the ridge. I saw him. There were others too but—” Her words faltered as the memory clawed its way back.
Her pupils dilated; the light in the room seemed too bright all of a sudden. The voices, the sound of hurried steps in the dark, the smell of damp earth and smoke ... all of it flickered at the edges of her mind.
“I remember the chain,” she whispered, her hand lifting as though to touch her own neck. “It glinted… when he turned. And the scar—he smiled, but it wasn’t...”
Her breath caught. “...it wasn’t... right.”
Reyaksh said nothing. His expression didn’t change, but the silence between them did. It grew colder, heavier.
He reached out slowly, and she flinched before realizing he was only taking the photograph from her. His fingers brushed hers for the briefest instant ...cold, steady ... before he drew the picture back toward him.
He studied it for a long moment under the lamp’s glow, every trace of warmth gone from his face. When he finally spoke, his tone was quieter, almost measured against something internal.
“You’re certain you saw him that night?”
Sayeera nodded ... once, then again, more vigorously, as if trying to convince herself too. “I saw him, Ray, it was him” she insisted, her voice trembling. “He was … talking to someone. I couldn’t see their faces, but I remember him. I remember the scar.”
Reyaksh’s gaze lingered on her ...unreadable, assessing, as though the floor had just shifted beneath his carefully built ground. He hadn’t expected this.
Without a word, he placed the photograph down again, face-down this time, and straightened. The muscles in his jaw flexed once before he stilled them.
“Alright,” he said finally. The word was quiet but heavy ... a decision, not agreement.
Sayeera looked up at him, searching his face for meaning, but his expression was a mask again ... cool, precise, stripped of any trace of surprise that might have slipped through before.
He turned away slightly, the light catching on the edge of his profile. “You should rest,” he said. “That’s enough for tonight.”
“But—”
“I said that’s enough.”
The firmness in his tone wasn’t harsh, but it left no room for argument.
She hesitated, fingers tightening around the armrest of the chair. The faint trembling in her hands wouldn’t stop. “Did I… do something wrong?”
Reyaksh looked over his shoulder then, his eyes catching hers for the briefest second. Whatever emotion had crossed his face was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“No,” he said. “You did exactly what I needed.”
Then he turned back to the table, the lamplight drawing long shadows across his figure. He stood there for a moment, motionless, the photograph still face-down beneath his hand.
Sayeera rose slowly, uncertain if she should leave. She opened her mouth to speak, but the look on his face ... calm, distant, and deeply unreadable ... stopped her.
She backed away quietly, her breath shallow. The floor creaked once under her step, and that tiny sound felt far too loud.
When the door clicked shut behind her, Reyaksh finally exhaled ... long, slow, like he had been holding his breath since the moment she spoke.
He turned the photograph over once more. His eyes lingered on the scar, the chain, and the faint, mocking smile of the man in the picture.
For the first time that night, a flicker of something almost human crossed his face — surprise, but sharper.
He whispered to himself, barely audible,
“Impossible.”
The sound of the door clicking shut lingered like a held breath.
Reyaksh didn’t move at once. The lamplight painted a narrow halo across the desk, the silence pressing against his ribs.
That scar.
He remembered it ... not from reports, but from a night years ago, in a warehouse that smelled of burnt oil and gunpowder. Someone had mentioned a name then, one he hadn’t heard in years.
He exhaled through his nose, steady, but a pulse of disbelief flickered in his gaze. No. It can’t be him.
Yet Sayeera had seen what she’d seen.
And she didn’t lie ... she didn’t know enough to.
He sat down slowly, elbows on his knees, eyes still fixed on the photo.
The desk lamp hummed, its light trembling faintly in the draft seeping through the window. Outside, the wind whispered against the glass ... the kind of night that made every thought sound louder.
Reyaksh turned the picture over, checking the date scrawled on the back.
Two months old.
Too recent.
He straightened, jaw tightening. His hand found the comm-unit on the corner of the desk, pressing one coded line.
After a few seconds, a voice came through ... low, steady, familiar. “Kian here.”
Reyaksh leaned back in the chair. “I need you to run a name. Arven Kale ... or someone using that alias. Operates north-east. I want movement reports from the last quarter.”
There was a pause on the other end, paper rustling. “That name’s been dead for three years, Reyaksh. You sure it’s not an echo?”
His eyes flicked again to the photograph. “I’m sure.”
“Alright. What’s the concern?”
Reyaksh hesitated, the silence stretching just long enough for Kian to notice.
When he spoke, his tone was colder. “Possibility he’s working with one of the old rivals. Maybe contracted through secondary routes.”
Kian whistled softly. “That’s bad news if true. Which faction?”
“Could be Merek’s men. Maybe someone behind them.”
“Any source?”
Reyaksh’s gaze drifted to the closed door ... the direction Sayeera had gone. His expression didn’t shift. “Someone in the outer circles. A witness. Doesn’t matter.”
“Someone?”
“A girl,” Reyaksh said, cutting him off. “But she’s not connected anymore. I left her in the village near the ridge after the incident. She’s of no relevance now.”
Kian didn’t question it ... not directly. “You’re sure she’s clear?”
“Yes.” His voice was flat enough to end the line of inquiry.
A beat of silence. Then Kian’s tone softened. “You sound different, Reyaksh. What aren’t you saying?”
Reyaksh’s fingers tapped once on the desk ... a quiet, rhythmic sound. “Nothing that concerns you. Just find out where this man’s been operating. I want confirmation before dawn.”
“Understood.” Kian didn't said much seeing the urgency in his tone.
The line went dead with a faint click.
Reyaksh sat there, unmoving. The lamp buzzed faintly again, its light catching on the edge of the photograph he’d set aside.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, and stared at the image until his own reflection blurred into it ... two shadows overlapping, the hunter and the ghost.
His mind traced back to Sayeera’s trembling voice, the way she’d said him ... not as fear, but memory.
And beneath the quiet, something cold coiled in his chest — realization, or dread.
He reached for a pen, wrote a single word beside the photograph:
“Possible link ... verify.”
Then he set the pen down, closed the folder, and turned off the lamp.
The room sank into darkness, leaving only the faint outline of his figure by the window ... still, unreadable, and very much awake.
Outside, the wind carried the distant sound of something moving — a whisper through the trees, or perhaps a reminder that the past had started walking again.
On the otherside, when Sayeera was leaving the study,
The corridor outside the study was dim, the lamps burning low along the walls.
Sayeera closed the door softly behind her, afraid the sound might break something fragile in the silence. Her hand stayed on the handle for a long time after it was shut, her palm damp with cold sweat.
She could still feel his gaze ... not harsh, but heavy. The weight of it clung to her skin long after she stepped away.
Her footsteps echoed faintly against the marble floor as she walked back toward her room. The house seemed larger now, every shadow deeper, every corner holding its own whisper.
She tried to steady her breathing, but her pulse kept stumbling.
In her mind, the photograph still floated ... that man’s face, the faint gleam of the chain, the scar that cut across his cheek like an unfinished word.
The moment she’d seen it, the room had vanished around her. She was back there again — the night of the ridge, the smell of smoke and earth thick in the air, the cries muffled under the storm.
Her hands had been cold that night too.
Her body remembered it before her mind did.
She reached her door and closed it behind her, leaning her back against the wood. The air inside was warmer, softer ... the faint scent of herbs from the lamp the maids had left her to help her sleep.
It should have been comforting.
It wasn’t.
She slid down slowly until she was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up, her breath shallow.
It was supposed to be over ... that night, the faces, the running. Rayaksh had said to her that. You’re safe here, he’d said once, in that clipped tone that made it sound like an order.
But now that words felt like smoke — something she could no longer hold.
Her fingers curled against her knees. The image wouldn’t leave. The chain, the scar, the half-smile. The sound of boots crushing gravel.
She remembered the cold biting through her clothes, the voices — low, tense, male.
One of them had laughed. That same uneven laugh.
And then… the gunshot.
Her breath caught sharply.
She pressed her palms to her ears, as if the sound still echoed there.
The room felt smaller now. Her chest tightened.
For a moment, she almost got up to knock on Reyaksh’s door ... to ask what that man meant to him, to her, to any of this. But she stopped herself. He hadn’t wanted her to see that photo. She could tell. It had been half-hidden, half-buried under papers — something he didn’t expect her to notice.
And when she had… his eyes.
She’d seen something flicker there, something that didn’t belong to the calm, distant man who never lost control. Surprise, yes — but more than that. Recognition.
That thought sent another chill down her spine.
She got up slowly and walked to the small window beside her bed. The night outside was pale and restless, clouds dragging across a half-seen moon. The wind pressed against the glass, making it rattle faintly.
She pressed her forehead to the cold pane.
“He knew,” she whispered to herself. “He knew who that man was.”
Her reflection stared back at her ... tired eyes, the faint bruise of sleeplessness under them.
The lamp flickered once and went out, leaving only the pale wash of moonlight.
She lay down on the bed, turning on her side, facing the window. But her eyes refused to close. Every time she blinked, the image returned ... the scar, the chain, the voice.
And beneath it all, another face, half-hidden by memory: Reyaksh, standing in the dim light, his eyes unreadable as he told her to rest.
She had seen coldness before, but not like that. His had been quiet, deliberate ... the kind that made her wonder if he was holding back anger, or fear.
She turned again, clutching the blanket to her chest.
Sleep came in pieces — shallow, uneven. And when she finally drifted, the dream came:
A man with a chain around his neck.
The glint of metal in the dark.
Reyaksh’s voice saying You’re safe here, and the sound of gunfire that drowned it out.
She woke with a start, breath shuddering, sweat cooling on her skin.
The night hadn’t moved at all. The clock ticked softly. Somewhere far off, a door closed.
Sayeera lay still, staring into the dark.
The world was quiet again, but she knew something had changed ... not in the house, not even in Reyaksh ... but in whatever thin layer of calm had been holding her together until now.
The memory was awake.
And it wasn’t going back to sleep.
Sayeera stayed lying still for a long time, her pulse echoing in her ears.
Then the tears came, soundless at first. She pressed her face into the pillow, the fabric damp beneath her cheek. A small, broken sob escaped before she could swallow it back. Another followed, softer, as if even her grief was afraid of being heard.
The darkness around her seemed to listen.
Outside, the wind sighed against the window, carrying the faint creak of the shutters. The room was heavy with the scent of extinguished oil and the quiet tick of the clock.
“I’m safe,” she whispered into the silence, the words trembling on her lips. “He said I’m safe.”
But her voice wavered, as if even she didn’t believe it.
Eventually her breathing slowed. Exhaustion pulled at her limbs, and she turned onto her side again, wrapping the blanket tight around herself. The rhythm of the clock began to blur, and her eyelids grew heavy.
Sleep came back...uneasy, shallow.
At first it was only darkness, the kind that hums behind closed eyes. Then a faint sound began to form inside it: boots on gravel. A low murmur. The same sound that had haunted her earlier, distant yet clear.
The dream thickened. The smell of smoke returned, sharp and metallic. Shadows moved at the edge of sight...men talking, shapes bending over the faint glow of a lamp. She tried to look away, but her feet refused to move.
The chain gleamed.
That face turned toward her.
The scar caught the light.
Her body went rigid. She wanted to run, to shout, but the air around her pressed in, heavy and wet like fog. The voices rose...confused, angry...then the sound of a door slamming somewhere behind her.
She couldn’t breathe.
Someone was coming closer.
The footsteps grew louder, too real to be part of a dream now. They circled behind her, and when she turned, she saw nothing...only the gleam of that chain, swinging in the dark, moving toward her.
“Don’t,” she tried to say, but the word never left her throat.
Then a flash...white, blinding...and everything inside the dream broke open.
She screamed.
The sound tore through the room, raw and startled, her body jerking upright as if pulled by unseen hands. The blanket slipped to the floor. Her breath came in ragged bursts, eyes wide and unfocused, searching the corners of the room for what wasn’t there.
It took several seconds before she realized she was awake. The room was still. The only sound was her breathing, fast and uneven.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, trying to quiet the racing heartbeat. The air felt thick, unreal. For a moment she thought she saw movement near the door...a shadow shifting...but it was only the curtain, stirred by the night breeze.
Sayeera drew her knees close, holding herself until the trembling eased. Her throat burned from the scream, her cheeks wet again.
The dream had left its echo behind: the chain’s glint, the scar, and the feeling that someone had been standing just a breath away.
.
.
Reyaksh stepped out of his study, a folder tucked under his arm. The long corridor ahead was quiet. His expression gave nothing away ... but his eyes carried the weight of the hours he had just spent awake, sorting through fragments that refused to fit cleanly.
A soft chime sounded in his earpiece. He tapped it once.
“Laksh,” he said quietly.
Reyaksh walked slowly down the corridor, voice even. “Had to confirm the pattern from the last drop site. You were right ... the man from the photograph isn’t local.”
“Arven Kale,” Laksh’s voice replied, low and precise. “The one who works for money, not loyalty, and who takes high-risk, covert jobs.”
“He could be working for anyone who pays enough.” Reyaksh said. His footsteps echoed faintly on the marble as he turned toward the east wing. “I’ve cross-checked his name against the old contacts, he is nowhere but he came into light few months ago."
“So whoever hired him knows about you,” Laksh murmured. “Knows enough to aim closer.”
A pause. Reyaksh’s jaw tightened. “Maybe. Or maybe he was hired to find someone else.”
“Someone like—”
“Don’t say it,” Reyaksh cut in sharply. His tone was calm but laced with quiet command. “Not on this line.”
Static hummed briefly before Laksh replied, voice lower. “Understood.”
Reyaksh stopped near the end of the corridor, eyes moving toward the faint sliver of light spilling from the crack under Sayeera’s door at the far end. He said, almost absently, “I told you that night ... when I left her in the village. She’s not part of this anymore. But...it seems it's going to be complicated now as she is the one gave information about Arven Kale.”
Laksh hesitated before asking "Sir...do you... believe that woman?"
Reyaksh didn’t answer right away. He looked toward the window ...a pale reflection of his own face looked back at him, expression unreadable. “Belief doesn’t matter. Facts do.”
He adjusted the earpiece. “Track Kale’s last signal. I want to know who paid him, where he was between the ridge and the border, and who he met before he vanished. There’s a trail somewhere. Find it.”
"And..."...Reyaksh voice lingered for seconds, and finally said, "Don't talk about Sayeera to anyone...not my Dad, not even Kian."
“Got it,” Laksh said. “And Sir...”
But before Laksh could finish, the sound tore through the silence.
A scream ... sharp, high, and raw.
It echoed down the corridor, cutting through the calm like glass shattering in the dark.
Reyaksh froze mid-step.
For a second, he didn’t move at all. His hand, halfway to his pocket, stilled. The air seemed to thicken around him.
“Sir?” Laksh’s voice crackled in his ear. “What was that?”
Reyaksh didn’t respond. The only sound now was the scream and the echo still ringing in his mind.
He turned sharply, boots striking the marble. His voice, when it came, was low and clipped.
“I’ll call you back.”
He tapped the comm off. Silence.
Then he moved ...fast, precise. Almost running. The kind of movement that came from instinct, not thought. He crossed the hall in seconds, each step measured but urgent.
The scream had come from her room.
The corridor seemed longer than usual, the dim lights flickering as he passed. The air was colder near the east wing ... as if the night itself had slipped inside.
He reached the door. It was closed.
Behind it ... silence.
Reyaksh hesitated, just for a breath, hand hovering near the handle. He could hear the faint rustle of movement, a choked sound ... breathing, uneven and quick.
He pushed the door open.
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