The dawn breaks over the horizon, casting a pale light over the Shergill mansion. Drishti's eyes are bloodshot, the heavy bags under them a testament to the sleepless night she endured. Yet, her determination remains unshaken. She steps into her home, her mind still replaying the accident-Rakshit's car being crushed under the weight of the truck, the screech of tires, and the haunting silence that followed.

Her steps are quick, purposeful, as she freshens up, washing away the grime of the previous night. The icy water stings her skin, but she doesn't flinch. As she dries her face, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The woman staring back is a far cry from the one who entered the Shergill mansion as a personal assistant. This Drishti is fierce, relentless-a woman who will stop at nothing to protect the man who has unwittingly become her world.

She steps into the puja room, her hands trembling slightly as she lights the diya. The flame flickers, casting a warm glow over the small idol of Kanha ji. Closing her eyes, Drishti folds her hands, her voice barely above a whisper, "Kanha ji, please... give me strength. Protect him... keep him safe. I won't ask for anything else."

Her stomach churns with hunger, a cruel reminder that she hasn't eaten since the accident, but she brushes it aside. There are more important things than food. In the kitchen, she prepares breakfast for the family, her hands moving automatically as she prepares the dishes. Her thoughts, however, are consumed by the footage she plans to review, by the faces of the men who tried to take Rakshit away from her.

When the food is ready, she sets the table quietly. As Mahima enters, she glances at Drishti's pale face and frowns, "You should eat something. You look like a ghost."

Drishti shakes her head, forcing a small smile, "I'm not hungry, aunty. Please, eat. I'll be fine."

Mahima's disapproving look is lost on Drishti as she turns and leaves the kitchen, heading back to her room. She has no time for meals or rest. Not until she finds out who tried to kill Rakshit.

HER ROOM

Drishti enters her room and immediately opens her laptop. The screen lights up, casting a blue hue on her determined face. Her fingers fly across the keyboard as she hacks into the street cameras near the site of the accident. She feels a small surge of satisfaction when she bypasses the security systems with ease. As the footage loads, she leans in, her heart pounding in her chest.

The truck appears on the screen, barreling down the road. Drishti watches in horror as it swerves deliberately towards Rakshit's car. Her breath catches in her throat as she pauses the footage, zooming in on the truck's cabin. The grainy image shows two figures inside-the driver, and another man sitting beside him.

"It wasn't an accident..." she murmurs to herself, her voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. "It was an attempt to murder."

She rewinds the footage, studying the faces of the men in the truck. They're unfamiliar, but there's something about them that sends a shiver down her spine. The man beside the driver looks particularly menacing, with cold eyes and a sneer that makes her skin crawl.

"Who are you?" Drishti whispers, her fingers tracing the outline of the man's face on the screen. "And why did you try to kill him?"

She closes the laptop with a determined snap and moves to her closet. From the back, she pulls out a dusty duffel bag, one she hasn't touched in years. As she unzips it, the contents spill out-large men's boots, gloves, a thick jacket, pants, and a mask that would hide her face completely.

With methodical precision, she dresses herself, each layer transforming her from Drishti Shergill, the dutiful wife, into an avenger-a hunter. She secures the mask over her face and sneaks out of the house, her movements stealthy and calculated. She took her gun and pocket knife.

She gazed at herself in the mirror, a satisfying smirk lingering on her face as she whispers

"They tried to hurt Rakshit Shergill, and they will pay the price."

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STREETS

The streets are eerily quiet as Drishti makes her way to the underbelly of the city. This is a place she knows well, a place where information is a currency more valuable than gold. She stops at a dingy tea stall, its rickety tables occupied by shady figures. The owner, a wiry man with sharp eyes, looks up as she approaches.

"Bhaiya.." Drishti's voice is low, masked by the cloth covering her face, "I need information."

The man raises an eyebrow, "Depends on what kind of information you're looking for, madam."

She pulls out a thick wad of cash from her pocket and places it on the counter, "About two men-one was driving a truck, the other was with him. They were involved in an accident on the highway yesterday."

The man's eyes gleam as he pockets the money, "Truck drivers, huh? That's not an accident, madam. Word is that someone paid big money for that hit."

Drishti's heart races, "Who paid them?"

He shrugs, "That's beyond my knowledge. But... I do know where you can find them. They've been hiding out in a warehouse down by the docks."

"Thank you." Drishti nods, her voice cold as she turns away.

"Be careful," the man calls after her, "Those guys are dangerous."

Dangerous. The word echoes in her mind as she heads towards the docks. The night air is chilly, but she barely feels it. Her entire focus is on the two men who tried to kill Rakshit. She spots the warehouse in the distance, its windows dark, its structure looming like a silent predator.

WAREHOUSE

Drishti slips into the warehouse through a side entrance, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. The sound of voices reaches her ears, rough and guttural. She creeps closer, hiding behind a stack of crates as she listens to their conversation.

"-Did you see how his car flipped? Thought we got him for sure," one man says, his voice full of malicious glee.

"Yeah," the other man chuckles, "But the boss wasn't happy we didn't finish the job. He's not going to pay us full until we know the guy's dead."

Drishti's blood boils at their words. They're talking about Rakshit as if he were nothing more than a target, a job to be completed. Her hands curl into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

Stepping out from behind the crates, she reveals herself, her voice steady and ice-cold, "You won't be getting that money."

The men whirl around, eyes wide with surprise. The taller one sneers, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the last person you'll ever see," Drishti replies, her voice devoid of emotion.

The shorter man laughs, "You think you can take us both on? Lady, you've got guts, I'll give you that."

Drishti doesn't respond. Instead, she lunges at the taller man, catching him off guard. Her fist connects with his jaw, sending him reeling back. The shorter man pulls out a knife, but Drishti is faster. She grabs his wrist, twisting it until the knife falls to the ground with a clatter.

"Who sent you?" she demands, her voice a growl.

"Go to hell!" the taller man spits, charging at her.

Drishti sidesteps him and delivers a swift kick to his stomach. He doubles over, gasping for air. She grabs the knife from the floor and presses it to his throat, her voice dangerously low, "I'll ask again-who sent you?"

The shorter man's bravado crumbles, fear flashing in his eyes as he stammers, "It was... it was a job. We don't know who the boss is. We just get orders."

"Liar," Drishti hisses, applying more pressure on the knife.

"I swear!" he pleads, "Please, don't kill me!"

But Drishti's mercy is gone, replaced by the cold rage that has consumed her since Rakshit's accident. Without another word, she slashes the knife across the taller man's throat. Blood sprays out, and he crumples to the ground, lifeless. The shorter man screams in terror, scrambling to escape, but Drishti is on him in an instant. She clamps a hand over his mouth, muffling his cries as she drives the knife into his chest.

The silence that follows is deafening. Drishti watches as the life drains from the man's eyes, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest. The men who tried to kill Rakshit are dead, but the satisfaction she expected doesn't come. All she feels is an overwhelming emptiness.

She wipes the blood from the knife and leaves it beside the bodies after she erases her fingerprints, her mind numb as she walks out of the warehouse. The streets are deserted as she makes her way back home, the adrenaline slowly fading, leaving her exhausted.

She enters the home secretly from the back door, making sure no one would see her and enters into her bathroom. After she cleans herself and hides her clothes, she took a hot, long shower, calming her mind. She then wears a simple saree and makes her way to the hospital, desperate to see the man who lay there.

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The night air feels cool against Drishti's skin as she makes her way to the hospital. Her steps are measured, her heart still racing from the night's events. The adrenaline from her earlier confrontation with the men is slowly ebbing away, leaving behind a gnawing emptiness in its wake. She didn't just fight for Rakshit's life; she fought for the part of herself that had come to care for him, despite everything.

As she reaches the hospital entrance, the familiar antiseptic smell hits her. It's oddly comforting, a reminder that she's about to see him-alive, safe, and breathing. She glances at the clock in the hallway; it's past midnight. The hospital is quiet, the only sounds being the soft hum of machines and the occasional footsteps of nurses on their rounds.

Drishti walks through the dimly lit corridor, her heart tightening with each step. She finally reaches Rakshit's room and pauses outside, her hand on the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, she pushes the door open gently, not wanting to disturb him if he's asleep.

The room is softly illuminated by the light from the bedside lamp. Rakshit lies on the bed, his face peaceful in slumber. His injuries are still evident-the bandages on his head, the slight bruising on his arms-but seeing him breathe, seeing him alive, fills Drishti with an overwhelming sense of relief.

She steps closer to his bed, her eyes never leaving his face. As she reaches his side, she sinks to her knees beside him, her emotions finally catching up with her. The weight of the day's events crashes down on her, and tears spring to her eyes. She takes his hand in hers, the warmth of his skin grounding her, reminding her that he's still with her.

Gently, she caresses his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. His hand is so much larger than hers, strong yet tender. She lifts it to her lips, placing a soft kiss on his fingers, her tears falling onto his skin.

She leans in closer, her lips hovering just above his forehead. Closing her eyes, she places a light kiss there, letting the touch linger for a moment longer than necessary. When she pulls back, her heart is aching with a tenderness she can't fully comprehend.

A tear slips down her cheek as she whispers, her voice barely audible, "Please get well soon, Mr. Shergill. I can't lose you. I... I don't know what I would do without you."

Her breath hitches as she chokes back a sob, her emotions too raw, too exposed. She tries to pull herself together, but the sight of him lying there, so vulnerable, makes it impossible. She's always been strong, always been able to handle anything thrown her way, but this-seeing him like this-breaks her in ways she never imagined.

She tightens her grip on his hand, as if holding onto him will keep him with her, as if her touch alone can heal him. "You have to fight, Mr. Shergill, You have to wake up and fight. I'll be right here, waiting for you. I'll always be here."

Her tears continue to fall, and she lets them. For once, she doesn't try to hide her vulnerability, doesn't try to mask her pain with sarcasm or bravado. Here, in the stillness of the night, with only Rakshit as her witness, she allows herself to feel every ounce of the fear, the guilt, the love that's been building inside her.

Exhaustion finally takes over, and she rests her head on the edge of his bed, her hand still clasped in his. The rhythmic beeping of the machines and the steady rise and fall of Rakshit's chest lull her into a sense of calm. She closes her eyes, letting the tension in her body slowly release.

As she drifts off to sleep, her last conscious thought is of Rakshit-the man who infuriates her, challenges her, and now, has become the one person she can't imagine her life without. She silently prays that he'll wake up soon, that he'll be okay, because without him, her world no longer makes sense.

And as she sleeps, her fingers entwined with his, she finds a momentary peace, a respite from the storm that rages within her. For now, all that matters is that she's here with him, and he's still fighting, still holding on. And she'll be right here, holding on with him.