Aayat's POV

The corridor had fallen back into its familiar silence.

Cold. Long. Endless.

I sat on the narrow cot in my cell, my back against the damp wall, staring at the iron bars in front of me while my mind wandered through too many thoughts at once.

Mihir.

His angry voice still echoed in my head.

Where is Aayat Raghuvanshi?

The way he had sounded, furious, desperate, almost dangerous, had done something strange to my chest. Something I didn't quite want to examine.

But the prison walls were still here.

Nothing had changed yet.

Just when the silence began to feel unbearable, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.

A guard appeared, dragging his boots across the concrete floor with the lazy irritation of someone who had done this routine far too many times.

He stopped at the neighboring cell.

Then barked loudly,

"Prisoner 726! Eat. Or you'll die."

The sound cracked through the quiet hallway like a gunshot.

A metal tray slid through the bars with a harsh scraping noise.

Food. If it could even be called that.

"Last warning," the guard muttered before turning away.

His footsteps faded down the corridor.

And once again...

Silence.

I waited.

One second.

Two.

Five.

But something felt strange.

The tray hadn't moved.

Most prisoners in a place like this grabbed food immediately. Hunger didn't leave much room for pride.

Yet the tray remained exactly where the guard had pushed it.

Untouched.

My curiosity stirred.

Slowly, I stood up from the cot and walked toward the bars of my cell, careful not to make too much noise.

From the narrow angle between the concrete walls, I could barely see into the neighboring cell.

At first, only shadows.

Then my eyes adjusted.

And I saw him.

The man sitting on the floor against the far wall.

My breath caught slightly.

He was older.

Much older than I expected.

His hair was thick but completely grey, falling untidily around his temples. A rough grey beard covered most of his jaw, merging into a heavy moustache that gave his face a severe, almost intimidating look.

Deep lines marked his forehead.

Not the lines of age alone.

But of years.

Of battles life had clearly fought against him.

He looked like a man in his mid-fifties.

Maybe older.

Yet there was nothing weak about him.

Even sitting down, his broad shoulders filled the space around him. His arms were heavy, powerful, the kind that had once carried strength without effort.

Chains hung loosely around his wrists.

But strangely...

He didn't look like a prisoner.

He looked like someone who simply happened to be inside a prison.

The tray sat untouched near his feet.

And he hadn't even looked at it.

I hesitated for a moment.

Something about him was... unsettling.

Not violent.

Not aggressive.

Just quiet in a way that felt dangerous.

But the silence pressed on my nerves.

Before I could stop myself, I spoke.

"Your food is getting cold."

My voice sounded softer than I intended.

The man didn't move.

Didn't react.

Not even a flicker.

He remained exactly the same, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, as if the world outside his thoughts didn't matter.

I frowned slightly.

"Are you not hungry?"

Nothing.

The tray still lay where it had landed.

Untouched.

A small sigh escaped me.

"The guard said you'll die if you don't eat."

For a moment I wondered if he had simply chosen to ignore me.

Or if he had decided that talking was beneath him.

I shifted my weight against the bars.

"You know," I added, trying to sound casual, "starving yourself won't make prison life more dramatic."

That's when he moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

His head lifted.

And his eyes opened.

Grey.

Cold.

Sharp.

They landed on me with such quiet intensity that for a moment I forgot what I had been about to say.

Those eyes were not the tired eyes of an old man.

They were alert.

Calculating.

Watching.

Like he was measuring every detail about me in a single glance.

Seconds passed between us.

Long enough for the air to grow heavy.

Then just as suddenly

He looked away again.

As if I had already been assessed.

And dismissed.

I blinked.

"Well... that's rude," I muttered.

The tray still hadn't moved.

I shook my head lightly.

"Fine. Don't eat."

I was about to turn back toward my bed when a voice stopped me.

Low.

Rough.

Worn with age, yet steady.

"You talk too much."

I froze.

Slowly turning back toward the bars.

"So you do speak," I said.

The man said nothing.

His gaze remained somewhere in the distance.

Studying nothing.

And everything.

Curiosity pushed me again.

"What's your name?"

Silence.

I waited.

Still nothing.

Then finally, without looking at me, he spoke.

"Jailer number 704."

His tone was flat.

Like that number was the only identity that mattered anymore.

I leaned slightly closer to the bars.

"That's not a name."

Now his eyes moved again.

They found mine.

For a moment something unreadable passed through them.

Then he said quietly,

"Names don't matter here."

The words hung in the cold air between the cells.

But I wasn't satisfied.

"Well, I still have one," I replied lightly.

His gaze remained steady.

"And what is it?"

"Aayat."

He studied me again.

Longer this time.

As if testing the sound of it in his mind.

Then, without another word, he leaned forward.

Picked up the tray.

And began eating.

Slowly.

Silently.

Like the conversation had ended before it even properly began.

But something had changed.

Because once...

Just once...

While he ate

Those cold grey eyes flicked toward my cell again.

Watching me.

—

For a while the corridor was filled only with the quiet sound of metal scraping against metal.

The man in the next cell, Prisoner 704, ate slowly, almost mechanically. The chains around his wrists clinked softly each time he lifted his hand.

I sat back on the edge of my cot, watching the faint strip of light that slipped through the small barred window above.

But my mind kept drifting back to him.

Twenty minutes passed.

Maybe more.

The tray was empty now.

Yet he still hadn't said another word.

I finally stood again and walked toward the bars, resting my hands against the cold iron.

"You know," I said quietly, "most people say thank you when someone saves their dinner."

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then his voice came again.

Low. Distant.

"I didn't ask you to."

I sighed softly.

"That's true."

Silence settled between us again.

But this time it didn't feel as heavy.

I glanced toward the dim outline of his cell.

"You've been here long?" I asked.

The question hung in the air.

For several seconds, he didn't respond.

I almost thought he would ignore me again.

Then he spoke.

"Twenty years."

The words were simple.

Flat.

But they hit me like a sudden drop in temperature.

I blinked.

"Twenty... years?"

This time he looked toward me again.

There was no drama in his face.

No bitterness.

Just a tired sort of acceptance.

"Yes."

The way he said it made it sound like nothing more than a number.

But my chest tightened.

"Twenty years in this place?"

His gaze drifted somewhere past my cell.

"I've been in worse."

I didn't even know what to say to that.

For a moment I simply stared at the shadowed outline of him through the bars.

"You must have done something... serious," I said quietly.

Another long silence.

Then he answered.

"Murder."

The word fell into the corridor like a stone into water.

Heavy.

Final.

I felt my fingers tighten slightly around the bars.

"Oh."

My voice came out softer than I intended.

A strange feeling crept into my chest.

Not fear.

Something else.

Because the way he said it... it didn't sound like a confession.

It sounded like something he had repeated too many times.

"You killed someone?" I asked slowly.

For a moment I thought he wouldn't respond.

Then he leaned his head back against the wall again.

"That's what they say."

Something about the way he said that made my brows furrow.

"That's what they say?" I repeated.

His eyes flicked toward my cell again.

Sharp.

Studying.

Then he gave the smallest shrug.

"Twenty years," he said quietly. "After that, truth doesn't matter much."

The corridor fell silent again.

But my mind was suddenly racing.

Twenty years.

For murder.

And yet...

There had been something strange in his voice.

Something that sounded less like guilt

and more like exhaustion.

I hesitated before speaking again.

"Did you do it?"

The question slipped out before I could stop myself.

For a moment he didn't answer.

The prison seemed to hold its breath.

Then slowly...

He turned his head toward my cell.

His grey eyes met mine through the darkness.

And for the first time since I had seen him

there was something different in them.

Not cold.

Not empty.

Just very, very tired.

"No," he said quietly.

The word barely rose above a whisper.

"I didn't."

A chill ran down my spine.

Because for some reason...

I believed him.

I leaned slightly closer to the bars.

"Then why are you here?"

For a long moment he didn't reply.

Then finally he said,

"Because someone else needed me to be."

The answer only created more questions.

But before I could ask another

his eyes narrowed slightly.

He studied me again.

"You said your name was Aayat."

"Yes."

His gaze sharpened.

"And you're here for what?"

The question hung between us.

I hesitated.

Then I gave a small, bitter smile.

"Murder," I said quietly.

For the first time since I had seen him

Prisoner 704's expression changed.

Not shock.

But something close to recognition.

For a while after that, neither of us spoke.

The corridor returned to its usual silence, heavy, cold, broken only by the distant clang of iron doors and the occasional footsteps of guards passing through.

I sat on the edge of my bed again, staring at the floor.

Murder.

The word still felt strange in my mouth.

Strange that both of us had been accused of the same thing.

Twenty years for him.

Two weeks for me.

The difference felt terrifying.

After some time, the low voice from the next cell broke the silence again.

"Where do you live?"

I looked up slightly, surprised.

His tone hadn't changed, still rough, still calm, but this time there was curiosity buried somewhere underneath it.

"India," I answered.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he asked another question.

"Originally?"

I leaned my shoulder lightly against the wall beside the bars, thinking for a moment.

"That's... complicated."

From the neighboring cell came a faint sound of chains shifting as he adjusted his position.

"Try," he said simply.

I exhaled softly.

"Well... I'm Indian."

I paused.

"But I wasn't born there."

He didn't interrupt.

So I continued.

"I was born in Australia."

The memory rose in my mind like a faint photograph.

Bright sunlight.

Music in the background.

My father laughing.

"My dad was a musician," I said quietly. "A singer and guitarist."

For the first time since the conversation started, I heard the faintest shift from his cell, as if he had leaned forward slightly.

"Musician," he repeated.

"Yeah," I said with a small smile. "Which meant we never stayed in one place too long."

I traced a finger along the cold metal bar.

"We moved around a lot. Australia... India... sometimes Europe when he had performances."

The memories felt distant now.

Like they belonged to someone else's life.

"My childhood was mostly airports, hotel rooms, and backstage concerts."

For a moment I could almost hear the music again.

Almost smell the stage lights and old guitar strings.

Then reality returned.

Prison walls.

Cold floor.

I gave a quiet laugh.

"I guess you could say I never really had a permanent home."

The corridor stayed silent for a few seconds.

Then his voice came again.

"You said was."

I frowned slightly.

"What?"

"You said your father was a musician."

The way he said it made my chest tighten slightly.

I stared at the floor for a moment before answering.

"He died."

The words came out softer than I expected.

For a while, he didn't say anything.

And strangely...

That silence didn't feel uncomfortable.

It felt like he understood something without needing to ask more.

After a minute, his voice returned again.

Low.

Thoughtful.

"You don't sound like someone who would kill."

I gave a dry smile he couldn't see.

"That makes two of us."

From the darkness of the neighboring cell came a quiet exhale.

Then he asked one more question.

"So how did you end up here, Aayat from everywhere?"

I leaned my head back against the wall, staring up at the small barred window.

"Someone decided I was the perfect person to blame."

The chains in his cell shifted again.

Then, after a pause, he said quietly,

"Same story."

The two words settled between us like a strange understanding.

Two strangers.

Two cells.

Both accused of the same crime.

Both claiming they didn't do it.

And for some reason...

Talking to Prisoner 704 felt easier than talking to most people outside these walls.

For a while after that, the corridor sank back into silence again.

A strange silence.

Not the heavy one from before.

Something quieter... almost thoughtful.

I sat with my back against the cold wall, tracing small lines on the metal frame of the cot while my mind wandered through old memories I hadn't thought about in years.

Australia.

Concert halls.

My father tuning his guitar backstage.

I hadn't spoken about those things in a long time.

From the next cell, I could hear the faint shifting of chains when Prisoner 704 moved.

Slow. Measured.

Like a man who had learned to exist inside small spaces.

Minutes passed.

Then suddenly

"You studied?"

His voice came out of nowhere.

I looked toward the bars again.

"Yes," I said. "Business."

Another pause.

"And now?"

I let out a quiet breath.

"Right now I'm in prison for murder."

A faint huff of air came from his cell.

Not quite laughter.

But close.

Then the silence stretched again.

I watched the dim corridor light flicker once.

Twice.

Then something finally started bothering me.

I stood up and walked back toward the bars.

"You know something?" I said.

No response.

I crossed my arms.

"When I first spoke to you, you ignored every single question I asked."

The faint outline of him didn't move.

"But now suddenly you're asking about my life."

Still silence.

I tilted my head slightly toward the darkness of his cell.

"Why?"

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the quiet sound of chains shifted again.

He stood up.

Slowly.

For the first time since I had seen him, he walked closer to the bars separating our cells.

The dim corridor light finally touched his face properly.

Grey hair.

Grey beard.

Deep lines across his forehead.

Up close, he looked even older.

Even harder.

But those eyes...

Those grey eyes were still sharp.

Still studying me.

"You noticed that," he said.

His voice was calm.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Hard not to."

He rested one hand against the wall beside his bars.

For a moment he didn't answer.

Then he said quietly,

"Because the first questions were useless."

I frowned.

"Useless?"

He nodded once.

"Yes."

His gaze stayed fixed on me.

"You asked my name."

A pause.

"You asked why I wasn't eating."

Another pause.

"You asked things that don't matter in here."

The corridor felt colder somehow.

Then he added quietly,

"But now I'm asking the questions that do."

I leaned slightly against the bars.

"And what exactly makes my life story important to you?"

His eyes didn't leave mine.

For several seconds he just looked at me.

Like he was measuring something.

Then he said something unexpected.

"Because you don't belong here."

I blinked.

"What?"

He gestured slightly toward the cell around me.

"This place breaks people."

His voice remained steady.

"But you're still curious."

He studied my face again.

"Still asking questions."

Another pause.

"Still talking."

Something about the way he said that made my chest tighten slightly.

"So?" I asked.

His gaze sharpened.

"So people like you usually don't survive places like this."

The words hung in the cold air between us.

I frowned slightly.

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

For the first time...

The faintest hint of something shifted in his expression.

Almost like the ghost of a smile beneath the grey beard.

"No," he said.

Then he leaned back slightly into the shadow of his cell again.

"It's an observation."

I stared at him for a moment.

Then sighed.

"You still haven't answered my question."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Which one?"

"Why you're suddenly interested."

For a few seconds he didn't answer.

Then he spoke quietly.

"Because in twenty years..."

His grey eyes met mine again.

"...you're the first person who talked to me like I'm still human."

The corridor fell silent again.

And for some reason

That answer stayed with me longer than anything else he had said.

For a while after that, neither of us spoke again.

The corridor returned to its quiet rhythm , distant footsteps, the occasional clank of metal doors, and the faint hum of the prison lights that flickered every few seconds.

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the shadow of Prisoner 726 stretch across the floor of his cell.

He had stepped back into the darker corner again, leaning against the wall like he had been before.

Silent.

Still.

Almost like our conversation had never happened.

But my curiosity refused to settle.

Finally, I spoke again.

"So..."

No response.

I leaned my shoulder lightly against the bars.

"You've been here twenty years."

Still nothing.

"You were accused of murder."

The faintest sound of chains shifted as he adjusted his stance.

But he didn't speak.

I sighed softly.

"You've asked me about my life."

My eyes moved toward the dim outline of him.

"But you haven't said a single thing about yours."

Silence.

The kind that felt intentional.

Like a door being quietly closed.

I tilted my head slightly.

"What was it like... before this place?"

Nothing.

Not even the smallest reaction.

I waited a few seconds.

Then I added,

"Family?"

Still nothing.

"Friends?"

The silence stretched longer this time.

I frowned slightly.

"You know... conversations usually work both ways."

No reply.

I rubbed my forehead lightly in frustration.

"You ask questions. I answer. Then I ask questions and suddenly you become a statue."

The shadow in his cell didn't move.

I exhaled sharply.

"Fine."

I turned away from the bars and walked a few steps back toward the bed.

Then something slipped out before I could stop myself.

"Was it that terrible?"

The words echoed softly in the corridor.

I stopped.

Then slowly turned back toward his cell.

"Your life before this place."

My voice softened slightly.

"Was it so terrible that you don't want to talk about it?"

For a long moment...

Nothing happened.

Then I heard the faint scrape of his boots against the concrete.

He stepped forward again.

Not fully into the light this time.

But close enough that I could see his face more clearly.

Those grey eyes were on me again.

Quiet.

Watching.

Then he spoke.

Low.

Measured.

"You assume too much."

I crossed my arms.

"Then correct me."

His gaze lingered on me for a few seconds.

Then he said something unexpected.

"Life wasn't terrible."

I blinked.

That wasn't the answer I expected.

"Then why—"

"Because," he interrupted calmly, "the moment you talk about your life before prison..."

He paused.

The faint lines around his eyes deepening.

"...you remember everything you lost."

The words landed heavier than he probably intended.

Or maybe exactly as heavy as he meant them to be.

I felt my chest tighten slightly.

For a second I didn't know what to say.

Then I leaned lightly against the bars again.

"So you just pretend none of it existed?"

He didn't answer right away.

His gaze shifted briefly toward the small window high above the corridor.

Then back to me.

"It's easier."

I studied him for a moment.

The grey hair.

The tired lines on his face.

Twenty years.

A strange thought crossed my mind.

"You must have had someone waiting for you once."

His expression didn't change.

But something in his eyes flickered.

Just for a second.

Then it was gone.

He looked away again.

And that silence...

That silence told me more than any answer could have.

Morning came quietly.

In prison, mornings didn't arrive with sunlight and warmth the way they used to in the outside world. They arrived with keys rattling against metal doors and guards barking orders down cold corridors.

"Yard time!"

The lock of my cell snapped open with a dull clang.

I stepped out with the other prisoners, the cold air biting against my skin as we were escorted across the concrete yard. Snow clung to the edges of the walls, and the sky above was a dull grey, the kind that made time feel slow and heavy.

I walked in small circles for a while, hands tucked into my sleeves, letting the air clear my mind.

My thoughts drifted, as they had been doing often now, toward the man in the next cell.

Prisoner 704.

Twenty years.

A man who spoke so little yet somehow made every word feel deliberate.

I didn't know why, but something about him kept lingering in my mind.

Eventually, the guards called us back inside.

"Move."

We were herded through the gates again, boots echoing against the concrete floors of the prison corridors.

When I reached the hallway of my cell block, something immediately felt... off.

I slowed slightly.

The door of the neighboring cell was open.

704's cell.

Empty.

I frowned.

The guards pushed me forward, but curiosity pulled my eyes sideways.

Where was he?

I hadn't seen him in the yard.

Maybe they had taken him somewhere else.

Interrogation.

Punishment.

Or something worse.

As I passed the cell, something on the wall caught my attention.

I stopped.

Just for a second.

The guard barked behind me, "Move!"

But I had already noticed it.

Scratched into the concrete wall beside the bed.

Lines.

Shapes.

I leaned slightly to see them better before stepping into my own cell.

The guard slammed the door shut behind me.

But now my eyes were fixed on the neighboring cell through the bars.

The walls of his cell were covered with markings.

Not random ones.

Intentional ones.

My brows furrowed as I studied them carefully.

Near the corner of the wall, someone had scratched the rough outline of a guitar.

It wasn't perfect, the lines were uneven, clearly carved with something sharp like a piece of rock or metal.

But it was unmistakably a guitar.

My chest tightened slightly.

He must have drawn it himself.

I leaned closer to the bars, squinting to see the other markings scattered across the wall.

Words.

Lyrics.

Written in different places.

Different languages.

Some in Hindi.

Some in English.

Others in Russian.

German.

And a few scripts I didn't even recognize.

It looked like fragments of songs.

Lines of emotion carved into concrete like someone had needed to get the words out before they drowned inside him.

My eyes moved slowly across the wall until they stopped at one familiar line.

My breath caught.

Scratched carefully into the wall in Hindi were the words:

"Pyar diwana hota hai... mastana hota hai..."

For a moment the prison corridor faded away.

I could almost hear my father's voice again.

His guitar resting on his knee as he sang that song softly in our living room years ago.

It had always been one of his favorites.

Mine too.

My fingers tightened around the cold bars.

    704.    

Was he... a musician?

Or at least someone who loved music.

The thought surprised me.

The quiet, intimidating man with the grey beard and sharp eyes...

Writing song lyrics on prison walls.

I looked again at the scratched guitar.

And suddenly the image of him sitting silently in his cell felt different.

He hadn't just been staring at the walls.

He had been filling them.

With music.

With memories.

With pieces of himself.

A strange ache settled in my chest.

"If he loved music this much," I murmured quietly to myself, "why didn't he tell me?"

Then I answered my own question almost immediately.

"Why would he?"

I leaned my head lightly against the cold iron bars.

"He barely told me anything."

Twenty years in prison.

Maybe music was the only thing he had left that belonged to him.

The only thing he didn't want to share.

I watched the empty cell for another moment.

Then slowly stepped back.

The silence in the corridor felt different now.

He wasn't there.

And somehow...

The place felt emptier without him.

I sat down on my cot again, staring at the wall in front of me.

But the scratched lyrics from the next cell stayed in my mind.

And the quiet thought that refused to leave me was simple.

Prisoner 726 had once been someone very different from the man I had met here.

I was still staring at the opposite wall, my mind drifting between the scratched guitar and the unfinished lyrics I had seen in the neighboring cell, when footsteps echoed down the corridor again.

Heavy.

Purposeful.

Not the slow wandering steps of a guard doing routine rounds.

These were faster.

Keys clinked.

A voice spoke quietly to another officer.

Then my cell door rattled.

I stood up instinctively.

The lock turned.

The metal door swung open with a loud clang.

Two officers stood there.

I frowned immediately.

"Again?" I asked, irritation creeping into my voice. "Why do you keep moving me around without informing me?"

The taller officer didn't look annoyed this time.

If anything... he looked oddly neutral.

"Come," he said.

I didn't move.

"Where?" I asked.

The second officer exchanged a glance with him before answering.

"You're being released."

For a second, the words didn't register.

I blinked.

"What?"

The officer repeated it calmly.

"You're free."

My mind froze.

Free?

That didn't make any sense.

"How?" I asked slowly. "What do you mean I'm free?"

The officer stepped aside slightly, gesturing toward the corridor.

"Your case has been overturned. Your husband handled it."

My chest tightened.

Mihir.

A strange mix of emotions rushed through me all at once.

Relief.

Confusion.

Shock.

"Come on," the officer said. "You're leaving."

My legs felt strangely light as I stepped out of the cell.

The cold corridor stretched ahead of me as we walked toward the exit.

For the first time since arriving here, the heavy doors opened one after another.

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

Each one unlocking like something inside my chest was loosening.

As we stepped into the main hall of the prison, I could already see two figures standing near the exit.

One of them tall.

Familiar.

My heart skipped.

Mihir.

He was standing there in a dark coat, his posture stiff, his expression tense like he had been waiting for hours.

Beside him stood Zyran, arms crossed, looking just as impatient.

The moment Mihir saw me

Everything in his face changed.

Relief flooded his eyes so suddenly it almost made me stop walking.

"Aayat," he said quietly.

I didn't even realize I had quickened my pace until I was standing right in front of him.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

After everything that had happened...

There were too many things to say.

Too many questions.

"You're okay?" he asked finally.

I nodded slowly.

"Yes."

Zyran let out a long breath beside him.

"Thank God," he muttered. "This entire situation has been insane."

I glanced between the two of them, still trying to process everything.

"They said I'm free," I said.

Mihir nodded.

"You are."

"How?"

His jaw tightened slightly.

"Dev Chopra's evidence collapsed this morning," he said. "The forensic reports were fake. Witness statements were fabricated."

Zyran smirked faintly.

"Turns out criminals make mistakes too."

I exhaled slowly.

So it was over.

Just like that.

My gaze drifted back toward the corridor behind me.

Toward the cells.

Toward the empty space where Prisoner 726 had been.

Something about leaving felt strange.

Like I was walking away from a conversation that had barely begun.

Mihir noticed the direction of my gaze.

"What is it?" he asked.

I hesitated for a moment.

Then shook my head lightly.

"Nothing."

He studied my face for a second longer but didn't press.

Instead he gently touched my shoulder.

"Let's go home."

Home.

The word felt distant.

But I nodded.

As we walked toward the prison exit, the cold air hit my face again.

Freedom.

Yet for some reason...

My mind lingered on the empty cell behind me.

And the lyrics scratched into the wall.

The cold air outside the prison felt different.

Sharper.

Cleaner.

Like the world had suddenly grown wider after weeks of grey walls and iron bars.

The heavy prison gates shut behind us with a deep metallic thud.

For a moment I simply stood there, breathing.

Free.

The word still felt unreal.

Beside me, Zyran stretched his arms slightly, looking relieved. "I swear, if they had delayed this another day, Mihir would've torn that place apart."

Mihir shot him a look.

Zyran lifted both hands innocently. "What? I'm just stating facts."

A small smile tugged at my lips despite everything.

"Come," Mihir said quietly. "Let's get you out of here."

We began walking toward the parking area where their car was waiting. Gravel crunched softly under our shoes, and the grey sky hung low over the prison compound.

I wrapped my coat tighter around myself as the wind brushed past.

Just a few more steps and we would reach the exit gate.

Just a few more...

And then something caught my attention.

Near the outer security checkpoint, a woman stood beside one of the officers.

At first I barely glanced.

But the

My steps slowed.

My breath caught in my throat.

No.

It couldn't be.

But the more I looked, the clearer it became.

The familiar posture.

The perfectly styled hair despite the cold wind.

The expensive coat.

Shruti Kapoor.

My biological mother.

The woman who had given birth to me.

The woman I hadn't truly spoken to in months.

She was standing with one of the officers, speaking to him in a calm, controlled tone like she always did when dealing with authority.

My fingers curled slightly.

What was she doing here?

My instinct was to turn away immediately.

Pretend I hadn't seen her.

But my eyes stayed on her for a second longer.

Should I go over?

Should I ask why she was here?

A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind.

Did she come because she heard I was arrested?

Did she actually care?

No aayat, stop thinking

If she cared you wouldn't have ended here

Then another thought pushed forward.

Or did Tej sent her?

Tej.

Her husband. My stepfather.

The man who had slowly turned every conversation in that house into something tense and calculated.

My jaw tightened slightly.

Maybe he had sent her here to "check the situation or tej was in some bug problem."

Or worse

To make sure the scandal didn't reach their social circles.

I looked at her again.

She was still speaking to the officer, unaware that I was standing barely thirty meters away.

For a moment my feet almost moved in her direction.

Almost.

But then I stopped myself.

No.

I shouldn't.

I swallowed quietly and looked away.

Might Tej have done something...

The thought lingered unpleasantly.

I shook my head slightly.

No.

I wasn't ready for that conversation.

Not here.

Not now.

"Aayat?" Mihir's voice pulled me back.

I realized I had stopped walking.

He was watching me carefully.

"You okay?"

I forced a small nod.

"Yes."

Zyran glanced between us but didn't say anything.

We continued walking toward the car.

But as we reached the gate, I couldn't help glancing back one last time.

Shruti Kapoor was still standing there with the officer.

Talking.

Composed.

Perfect.

Just like always.

And just like always

I turned away before she could notice me.

The car door shut with a soft thud.

For the first time in weeks, I was sitting in something that didn't smell like iron and cold concrete.

Zyran slid into the driver's seat while Mihir sat beside me in the back. The engine started, and the car slowly rolled out of the prison gates.

I watched the massive grey walls disappear behind us through the window.

Just like that.

Two weeks of my life... sealed behind those gates.

No warning.

No explanation.

Just gone.

No one spoke for the first few minutes. The quiet inside the car felt almost fragile, like none of us wanted to disturb it.

Finally, I looked toward Mihir.

"Are Naina and Advit okay?"

The question had been sitting in my chest since the moment I walked out of that prison.

Mihir turned his head slightly toward me.

"They're safe."

I waited.

"They're under full protection," he continued. "I had them moved immediately."

A small breath escaped me.

"And now?" I asked.

"They've already been sent back to India."

India.

The word made my thoughts shift again.

"We're going back too," Mihir added calmly.

I looked at him.

"When?"

"Tonight."

Zyran glanced at us briefly through the rearview mirror.

"The jet's already arranged," he said. "And this time nobody's secretly redirecting the flight."

Mihir gave him a brief look that clearly meant not helping.

But the small tension eased something inside my chest.

At least they were safe.

Naina.

Advit.

That mattered more than anything.

For a moment I stared out the window at the passing road.

Then another name surfaced in my mind.

I turned back toward Mihir.

"What about Viraj Raichand?"

The air inside the car shifted slightly.

Zyran's grip tightened faintly on the steering wheel.

Mihir didn't answer immediately.

His gaze had moved toward the window now, watching the road ahead like he was considering how much to say.

Finally, he spoke.

"He's been taken into custody."

I frowned slightly.

"That's it?"

Mihir's jaw tightened faintly.

"No."

There was something darker in his tone now.

"He's not going anywhere."

I studied his face.

"What does that mean?"

Mihir turned his head toward me again.

And the calm expression I usually saw was gone.

In its place was something colder.

Controlled.

But unmistakably dangerous.

"He orchestrated everything," Mihir said quietly. "The fake evidence. The witnesses. Your transfer across countries."

My chest tightened.

"He wanted you buried in that prison."

The car fell silent again.

Then Mihir continued.

"He's not answering to courts right now."

Zyran gave a faint exhale through his nose.

"Let's just say..." he muttered, "he's in a place where lawyers won't be much help."

I looked at Mihir again.

"Where is he?"

Mihir's voice was calm again.

But there was steel beneath it.

"Under my control."

The words were simple.

Yet the meaning behind them was heavy.

"Not mercy," he added quietly.

His eyes met mine.

"Punishment."

A strange chill ran through me.

Because the way Mihir said it...

It didn't sound like political justice.

It sounded personal.

Very personal.

Should sound because what Viraj has done to Naina and Advit.

We reach India.

The car pulled up in front of the house, the familiar walls rising quietly against the night sky. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't surrounded by cold concrete and iron bars. The air smelled of earth, faint smoke from distant kitchens, and something soft I hadn't realized I'd missed, home.

Before I could even take a step toward the door, Naina appeared. She didn't wait for words. She ran, arms wide, and engulfed me in a hug so tight it took my breath away. I could feel the tremor in her shoulders, the unspoken relief, and I clutched her back as if letting go now would undo this moment entirely.

"I missed you bhabhi, are you alright?" she whispered, her voice muffled against my coat.

I swallowed, trying to steady myself, but then a small, hesitant figure appeared behind her. Advit. My heart stopped. He hesitated, then ran, arms flinging around my waist, tears sliding freely down his cheeks.

"I... missed you, Bhabhiii," he sobbed, clinging to me like he feared I would vanish again.

I sank to one knee, brushing his damp hair back with shaky hands. "I... missed you too," I murmured, overwhelmed. Both of them pressed close, grounding me, making the last weeks of fear and confusion feel like a distant nightmare.

Mihir's presence came quietly behind me, silent but steady, watching as I held them. His hand brushed mine briefly, a small, grounding anchor before I had to let go. He didn't say anything, but his gaze followed every motion, calm and watchful.

Eventually, I rose, lingering just a moment longer with Naina and Advit. They didn't need more words. Their presence said it all: I was back. I was safe.

Mihir then took my hand, firm and deliberate, leading me toward our rooms. The hallway felt impossibly long, the night quiet except for our footsteps. I paused in front of my door, intending to freshen up, to shake off the weight of the prison walls still clinging to me.

But his grip tightened gently, pulling me back.

"What are you doing, Mihir?" I asked softly, surprise threading my words.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

•    Can you guess why Shruti Kapoor was there?

•    And who is Jailer Number 704, really?

•    What happened with Viraj Raichand?

•    Will Aayat find out about why Shruti was present at the Russian jail?

•   If Tej did something what it might be?

AND YES TELL ME HOW WAS THE CHAPTER??????

To be continued

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