Author's Note: Thank you to everyone that came right back for Dhaagey, it was so wonderful to read through all the comments for the last chapter! Moving onto the next one, I hope y'all like this chapter! It was hard to write, but really rewarding. See you on the other side!

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Meerab woke with a gasp, her lungs burning as if she had been drowning in her sleep, her body fighting for air, for something to hold onto. Her fingers clutched at the sheets beneath her, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths as the last remnants of her dream slipped away into the darkness. She had been dreaming—she knew she had—but the moment she opened her eyes, it was gone, like ink dissolving in water.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Something is wrong.

She didn't know what it was, couldn't grasp the shape of it, but it was there—an oppressive weight in the air, a cold whisper curling around her throat. The feeling crept over her like a shadow, slow and insidious, curling around her ribs, tightening with each breath she took. She blinked into the darkness, her heartbeat thudding in her ears, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of her pulse. The air felt heavy. Stifling. It clung to her skin, thick with something unseen but felt, an omen, a warning, a quiet whisper of danger just beyond her reach.

She felt cold.

Something clawed at her from within—an unease so thick it made her stomach churn. A restlessness, a fear she couldn't name.

And then she remembered.

Her dream... it had been about Murtasim.

A sharp pang of unease lanced through her, cutting through the haze of sleep. She turned in bed, her body moving before her mind could catch up, seeking him in the dark. He would be there. She had fallen asleep beside him, his warmth had been the last thing she remembered—his hand wrapped around hers, his breath steady against the back of her neck, grounding her, comforting her.

But he wasn't there.

Her heart lurched.

Her hands splayed across the empty sheets, searching, feeling – they were cold.

He hadn't just stepped away. He had been gone for a while.

Her pulse spiked.

Meerab turned sharply, fumbling for the switch on the bedside lamp, her fingers trembling as she clicked it on. Warm, golden light flooded the room, chasing away the darkness—but not the unease. If anything, it only made it worse. The soft glow illuminated the emptiness beside her, the stark proof that she had been alone for longer than she realized.

Something is wrong.

The silence was heavy, unnatural. The air felt off. The very walls of the room seemed to lean in, pressing against her, whispering something she couldn't understand.

Her eyes landed on a note. A single slip of paper, placed neatly beside her phone.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she reached for it, her fingers tightening around the edges.

The words were written in his handwriting.

-----------

Meri Meerab,

Hopefully, I'll be back before you see this. Something came up at the village, I have to go check it out. I'll be back in the morning.

I love you.

—Your Murtasim

-----------

Under any other circumstance, she would have smiled, touched that he had remembered to leave a note. She would have laughed, maybe even teased him about how utterly in love he was, that he couldn't leave without telling her so.

But tonight...tonight, the words didn't settle right.

It wasn't enough.

Her fingers tightened around the note, her mind screaming at her to understand, to grasp what was missing. But there was nothing. No evidence, no proof - just a bone-deep certainty that something was very, very wrong.

Meerab snatched her phone off the nightstand, the screen lighting up to reveal Murtasim's face, smiling up at her from her lock screen.

Her chest tightened.

It was a picture she had taken of him one evening when they had been sitting on the terrace. He had been looking away at first, lost in thought, and she had called his name—he had turned to her with a smile, the kind that made her stomach flip, the kind that made her forget how to breathe. That was the picture on her lock screen, his dark eyes warm, his smile small but real.

But tonight, as she looked at it, the unease in her chest only grew heavier.

Her thumb swiped across the screen, pressing his name at the top of her call log.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

She closed her eyes, pressing the phone harder against her ear.

Four.

Five.

Nothing.

Her stomach dropped.

She pulled the phone away, staring at the screen, at the words Call Ended.

She immediately opened her messages, her fingers flying across the keyboard, typing out a quick text.

Is everything okay? Call me when you see this. I love you.

She sent it.

And waited.

Her fingers tightened around the phone, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip, her breath uneven. Seconds stretched into minutes. The light from her phone screen cast an eerie glow in the dimly lit room, illuminating the way her hands shook as she gripped it too tightly.

Still, nothing.

The silence from his end felt deafening. Murtasim always texted her back, even if it was just two words to tell her that he was busy and would call her soon.

Meerab bit her lip, hard, willing herself to stay calm, to think logically. Maybe he was just busy, maybe his phone was on silent, maybe...

No.

She could feel it.

Something was wrong.

The unease thickened, curling around her lungs, making it hard to breathe.

The watch. She remembered. Meerab turned quickly, reaching for the watch on her bedside table—the one Murtasim had given her. The one that was connected to his.

She pressed the button.

A single buzz was sent to him.

She waited, her breath caught in her throat.

He always buzzed back.

Always.

But tonight...tonight, there was nothing.

Her fingers trembled as they hovered over her phone screen, her mind racing in endless circles, searching for something – anything - that would soothe the unease curling in her stomach.

She forced herself to take a slow, deliberate breath, though it did little to calm her fraying nerves. Her hands moved almost on instinct, swiping through her phone until she reached the app Murtasim had downloaded for her—the tracking one linked to their watches.

The map loaded slowly, the seconds dragging on longer than they should have. Two blue dots.

Hers. Right here, in their home.

The other, far away. His. In the village. Exactly where he said he would be.

Meerab exhaled sharply, staring at the little glowing circle, willing it to make sense, willing it to ease the twisting in her chest. He's fine. He's where he's supposed to be. He said he was going to the village, he's there.

But the feeling didn't go away.

She stared harder, searching for something—anything—out of place, but there was nothing. The distance between them was vast, a stretch of land and roads and shadows, and she hated it. Hated not knowing.

Her thumb swiped up, pressing his name. She brought the phone to her ear, counting the rings as they passed. One. Two. Three.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Four. Five.

Silence.

The call didn't connect.

No voicemail, no busy tone—just the abrupt, empty stillness of a call that didn't go through.

Her stomach plummeted.

Meerab felt something deep inside her, a quiet but sharp warning she couldn't ignore.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up.

She scrambled up in bed, shoving the blanket off her legs, her movements hurried, frantic. Her breaths were short, uneven, chest tightening with every second that passed. Her bare feet hit the cool floor as she pushed herself up, moving toward the door before she even had a plan, before she even knew where she was going, but she had to do something.

She sprinted down the hallway, her heart racing as she crossed from his room into hers, her fingers already reaching for her wardrobe. She needed to get dressed, needed to leave, needed to find him.

Her hands shook as she grabbed the first suit she could find, her fingers clumsy as she pulled the fabric over her body. The house felt too quiet, the silence stretching long and empty around her, amplifying the erratic rhythm of her breathing as she got dressed.

She reached for her purse, her phone still clutched in one hand as she rushed toward the stairs, her fingers already dialing again -- not Murtasim this time.

The call connected almost instantly.

"When did Khan leave?" she asked, her voice sharp, urgent, cutting through the stillness of the night.

There was a pause on the other end, then the guard's voice, steady but cautious. "About three hours ago, Meerab Bibi."

Three hours.

Meerab's grip tightened on her phone.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. "Who went with him?"

She should have called Bhaktu directly. Should have checked with him. But the question was already out, her mind grasping at every missing piece of the puzzle, trying to understand why her mind was sure something was wrong.

The guard didn't hesitate. "He went alone in his car, with two guards following."

Not enough.

The words echoed in her head before she even realized she had thought them.

Two guards. Against what? Against who?

She knew Murtasim was careful, she knew he never acted recklessly when it came to his own safety - but she was still worried.

Her throat felt tight.

She pressed the button on her watch again.

Three buzzes.

Nothing.

She pressed it again.

Still—nothing.

Meerab grabbed her bag with unsteady hands, swinging it over her shoulder as she moved swiftly down the stairs, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides as she walked.

She was scared.

She hated admitting it, even to herself, but the fear was there, rising in her chest, curling around her ribs like a vice.

She hoped—desperately hoped—that this was just her overreacting. That she would call him again in ten minutes and he would pick up, groggy and irritated, demanding to know why she was panicking for no reason. That she would get to the village and find him standing there, arms crossed, shaking his head at her for not trusting him to be okay.

But she couldn't shake the feeling that this was something else.

She reached the bottom of the stairs, ready to run to the car, ready to drive to the village herself—

And then she stopped.

Just outside the guest room.

Her breath came out in a sharp exhale as she stared at the closed door, her body still vibrating with the need to move.

She didn't want to stop. Didn't want to waste time.

But she could almost hear Murtasim's voice in her head, steady and patient.

"Meri Meerab, take someone with you."

She exhaled sharply, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag.

She knew he would be furious if she went alone.

Her fist curled, and before she could second-guess herself, she knocked.

Not gently.

Not hesitantly.

But loudly.

The sound echoed through the quiet house, sharp and demanding, lingering in the stillness of the night.

The door flew open within seconds, and Armaan's face shifted from groggy confusion to sharp, immediate alertness the moment he saw her standing there. His eyes scanned her face, the way she stood at his door—disheveled, breathless, shaking. Shock registered in his features, and then concern took over, his brows knitting together.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

Meerab opened her mouth, but the words felt tangled, jumbled, too much all at once. She swallowed, forcing them out, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice.

"I don't know." The words were raw, breathless, panic-laced.

She could hear it. The desperation in her tone, the uneven breaths, the way the words tumbled out of her too fast, too frantic, like she was trying to outrun the fear clawing at her ribs.

"Murtasim...he left a note saying he was going to the village. He left three hours ago, he's there—but he's not picking up his phone, and he's not answering the buzzes, and—"

Her breath hitched, her voice cracking mid-sentence, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides.

Armaan held up a hand, trying to steady her.

"Maybe he's busy."

Meerab shook her head immediately.

She didn't want to hear it.

Didn't want reason, didn't want maybes.

Tears burned at her eyes before she could stop them, hot and unwelcome, slipping down her cheeks as she shook her head harder.

"Something is wrong, Armaan."

She didn't understand it, couldn't explain it in words. But she felt it, deep in her bones, in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't just fear, wasn't just an overreaction—it was certainty.

"I have to go to him." She exhaled sharply, trying to gather herself, but the words spilled out anyway. "I can go alone, but I—"

"I'll come with you." His voice was firm, no hesitation, no question. Just decision.

Meerab let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding as Armaan turned back into the room, grabbing his phone and wallet from the nightstand before looking back at her.

"Let's go."

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak, and within a minute, they were both rushing out the door, running into the night.

The air outside was cold, but Meerab barely felt it as she slid into the passenger seat. Her hands fumbled with her phone, her fingers pressing against the familiar contact, calling Murtasim again. The line rang and rang and rang.

Nothing.

She buzzed his watch again.

Nothing.

The car sped down the driveway, the tires screeching slightly as Armaan pushed the accelerator harder, merging onto the open road. But even as the city lights blurred past them, the buildings thinning into open land, it still wasn't fast enough.

Meerab opened the tracking app again, her vision swimming as the screen brightened in the darkness of the car.

Two blue dots.

Hers and his.

Her breathing came in sharp, shallow bursts as she watched them, obsessing over them. His dot sat unmoving in the village, distant and still. Hers inched closer—too slowly, agonizingly slow.

The seconds stretched like hours.

Her stomach twisted with every mile, with every signpost that didn't get them there fast enough.

She barely registered the city melting away, the roads narrowing, turning darker, quieter. The highways emptied, the occasional streetlamp flickering past, casting eerie, fleeting glows into the car.

Then even those faded.

The road stretched before them, leading into nothing but darkness.

Sparse land. Fewer houses. No streetlights.

Rural. Remote.

The car tore through the darkness, the night stretching endlessly before them, swallowing the road, swallowing the silence that had settled between her and Armaan. Meerab's fingers dug into her phone, the screen glowing faintly in her lap as her eyes flicked back to the tracking app for the hundredth time, heart hammering as she watched the two blue dots.

Hers was inching closer.

His was still.

Unmoving.

The GPS technology wasn't perfect. She knew that. Knew that it didn't track subtle movements, that a person could be shifting, breathing, moving slightly, and the dot would still look unmoving. She knew. But it had been too long. The small inconsistencies, the margin of error—none of it should have mattered. And yet, the blue dot hadn't moved at all.

Not a single inch.

Her stomach twisted, nausea curling at the base of her throat, thick and cloying. The air in the car suddenly felt too thin, too suffocating, as if the walls were closing in on her. She wanted to roll down the window, to gulp in fresh air, but her body was frozen, paralyzed by the screen in her lap, by the cruel stillness of that single blue dot.

Murtasim, move. Just move a little.

The words formed in her head, pleading, desperate. If she watched long enough, if she willed it with enough force, maybe the blue dot would shift, maybe the system was just lagging—

And then she saw it.

A dark shape on the side of the road, barely illuminated by the weak glow of their headlights. Her eyes locked onto it instantly, her mind processing faster than she could breathe, faster than she could think.

Her breath stopped.

The vehicle was familiar.

The guards' car.

The one that was always behind Murtasim's, trailing at a careful distance, a silent shadow.

It shouldn't be here.

Her vision tunneled, the edges of the world blurring as the realization slammed into her.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

"Stop!"

The word tore from her throat, sharp and commanding, her voice slicing through the silence like a blade.

Armaan barely had time to react before his foot slammed down on the brakes. The tires screeched against the asphalt, the car jolting to a violent stop, but Meerab wasn't waiting. The moment she felt the deceleration, she yanked open the door, barely registering Armaan's startled shout behind her before her feet hit the ground running.

The night air was cold against her overheated skin, but she didn't feel it.

She didn't feel anything.

Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs, wild and erratic, the fear inside her turning into something feral, something uncontrollable. Her legs burned as she sprinted toward the parked vehicle, her body moving faster than her thoughts.

The closer she got, the clearer the details became. The car's engine was still, no rumbling beneath the hood, no glow from the dashboard. The doors were locked. The windows were dark.

Her gaze flicked wildly to the fields beyond, searching.

Murtasim's car wasn't there.

The open expanse stretched out before her, silent, endless.

Her breath hitched violently as she spun in a circle, desperate, searching, needing to see something, anything.

Where was he?

Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms as she turned back to the guards' car, as she forced herself to look inside.

A sense of foreboding crawled over her skin, a sick feeling she couldn't shake. The air was too thick, too still. It felt like the world was holding its breath.

She pressed her fingers against the cool metal of the door, bracing herself, forcing herself to move closer. The interior was shrouded in darkness, the absence of movement making her stomach churn.

Then she stepped forward, past the front wheel, past the cracked-open hood, and saw it.

A splash of red across the windshield. The sight sent a wave of cold horror crashing through her.Her body locked up, her vision narrowing, tunneling, until all she could see was the blood.

And then her gaze dropped.

The driver.

The guard.

His head slumped against the steering wheel at an unnatural angle, his body motionless, his uniform soaked in deep crimson.

Blood streaked down his temple, dark and glistening under the faint moonlight.

Too much blood. Too still. The world tilted.

The guard had been shot.

A sound left her, guttural, broken, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her.

This wasn't overthinking. This wasn't fear.

This was real.

The air thickened, pressing against her lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Her pulse thundered in her ears, so loud it drowned out everything else—the distant rustling of the trees, the faint hum of the cooling engine, Armaan's voice calling her name.

This was real.

Her mind rejected it, rebelled against the truth screaming at her from every direction. Her heart, her body, her very soul had known from the moment she woke up gasping for air, from the moment her fingers brushed against the empty space in their bed—but knowing had done nothing to prepare her for this.

Her premonition had been right.

Something had happened. Something had happened to Murtasim.

A strangled sob caught in her throat, but she furiously swallowed it down, blinking hard to clear the haze of tears that blurred her vision. She couldn't afford to break down, not yet, not now. There would be time to cry later, to grieve, to fall apart if—no, not if—when she got him back.

Because he was not gone.

Her heart couldn't bear the thought, couldn't even begin to entertain the possibility of a world where Murtasim no longer existed.

No.

Allah wouldn't do this to her.

Her lips trembled as she turned to Armaan, her breathing ragged, her face pale, her entire body shaking. He was staring at the scene before them, at the dead guard in the car, at the blood smeared across the windshield, his expression shifting from shock to grim, terrible understanding.

He hadn't expected this. He had thought they were simply rushing to confirm that everything was fine.

But it wasn't.

It was anything but fine.

Meerab clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, willing herself to focus.

Ya Allah, don't do this. Don't take him from me. I will break.

Her breath shuddered as her thoughts turned into desperate prayers, whispered pleas only Allah could hear.

You can take my breath, my soul, my life—take everything—but don't take him. Please. He's all I have. He's...everything.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had to be strong. She had to find him.

Her mind whispered one thing, over and over again, echoing in the hollow space of her chest.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim.

Her hands shook as she reached for the car door, her body moving on instinct, her mind a frantic loop of denial, panic, and resolve.

Murtasim is strong. Murtasim is alive. I'll find him. I'll bring him home. I have to.

She clenched her fists, swallowing the fear, the grief, the unbearable dread curling in her ribs like a vice.

She turned to Armaan, her voice hoarse, her throat raw. "Let's go," she said.

Then she was moving, already stepping toward the car, already pushing herself forward, because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling.

And she couldn't feel.

Not now.

Not when he was out there, somewhere, waiting for her to come find him.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

They had to keep moving.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

They had to find him.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

The car shot forward, tires kicking up a storm of dust that curled into the night air, swallowing everything behind them. The force of it jolted her, but Meerab barely noticed. She barely felt anything except the suffocating weight pressing down on her chest, the icy grip of terror tightening its hold on her throat.

Her fingers clenched around her phone, the edges digging into her skin as she stared at the screen, desperate for something—anything—that would tell her she was wrong. That she was overreacting. That she would find him standing on the side of the road, smiling when he caught sight of her.

Meerab's fingers trembled around the phone as her eyes darted between the screen and the dark, unfamiliar paths stretching ahead of them. The blue dot—his dot—was close, but it was a guessing game, a cruel trick played by the terrain.

The roads near the village weren't real roads. Some were nothing more than dirt trails, winding through open fields and barren stretches of land, paths that weren't mapped, weren't marked, weren't designed to be found. The app gave her nothing—just a blank, unhelpful void, leaving her to chase a ghost in the night.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

Meerab hated the darkness here. It was different from the night in Hyderabad, where lights flickered, where the hum of life was always apparent. Here, the darkness was absolute, thick and suffocating, pressing in from all sides like a living, breathing thing. It swallowed everything whole, turning familiar landscapes into endless voids of nothingness.

Armaan had the high beams on, but even that wasn't enough. The light barely scratched the surface of the heavy night, illuminating only a few feet ahead before the shadows devoured it again.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

The car rumbled over uneven terrain, the tires crunching against loose gravel, skidding slightly over patches of dry earth. The sound grated against her ears, sharp, jarring, filling the silence with an unnatural unease.

They should have seen something by now.

His black Mercedes, his figure in the distance, the glint of headlights reflecting off something, anything.

But there was nothing.

Just more open land. More emptiness.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

Her hands curled into fists against her lap, her nails biting into her skin, but she barely felt the pain. Her foot tapped anxiously against the floor of the car, a nervous rhythm that matched the frantic beating of her heart.

The blue dots on the app refused to overlap.

They kept circling the same stretch of land, driving in loops that led nowhere, watching the distance between them shrink and grow again like some kind of sick game. She could see herself getting closer, but it was never close enough.

Ya Allah, please. Please, don't take him from me. I will break. I will die before I live without him. You can take anything from me—just not him. Not him. Not my Murtasim.

Her breath was coming too fast, her body rigid with the unbearable feeling of being so close, yet so far. Every second that passed was a second wasted, a second where something could be happening to him, a second where she wasn't there, wasn't helping.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she swallowed them down, shaking her head violently.

No. He is okay. He has to be okay.

He was strong. He was the strongest man she knew. He was hers. He wouldn't leave her.

"I have to get out."

The words left her in a rush, abrupt, desperate, her body already moving before her mind could catch up. Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the door handle, gripping it so tightly her knuckles ached.

Armaan cursed under his breath, his foot easing off the accelerator, slowing the car. His grip remained tight on the wheel, his other hand twitching against the gear shift as he shot her a sharp glance.

"Meerab, it's not going to be any easier on foot."

She barely heard him.

Her pulse pounded against her ribs, deafening, drowning out everything else. The helplessness was curling around her throat, tightening, constricting, making it impossible to breathe.

She was so close.

He was here. Somewhere here.

But she couldn't reach him.

It was suffocating, unbearable, the knowledge that he was near but just out of her grasp. She wanted to rip through the fields herself, run blindly into the darkness, feel the earth beneath her feet until she found him.

She wanted to scream his name into the night, loud enough to make the skies shatter, to demand that the universe give him back to her.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

Armaan exhaled sharply beside her, his voice lower now, steadier. "Give me your phone."

Meerab froze. Her fingers clenched tighter around the device, the smooth edges pressing into her palms, grounding her for a moment.

Armaan didn't push. He simply held out his hand, palm up, waiting.

"We'll find him." It was a promise. A quiet one, but one that carried weight.

Her lips trembled as she hesitated, her eyes flicking back to the glowing screen, to the two blue dots floating in a sea of nothing.

She didn't want to let go. Didn't want to relinquish even the smallest bit of control, as if holding onto the phone meant holding onto Murtasim. But she wasn't thinking clearly. She knew that.

Her hands shook as she placed the phone in his palm, her fingers reluctant to release it.

Her vision blurred, the faint blue glow of the screen warping through the tears that had gathered—when had she started crying?

She squeezed her eyes shut, exhaling shakily, trying to force the rising panic back down.

So close.

But not close enough.

Her shoulders curled inward, her hands clenching into the fabric of her suit, twisting it between her fingers as if the pressure would stop the trembling.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

The words were automatic, looping in her head, in her chest, in the hollow space beneath her ribs.

She was whispering them before she even realized it.

"Malik's lands."

Armaan's head snapped toward her.

Meerab turned to him, her eyes wide, desperate. "He has to be there."

He sighed, his fingers flexing against the wheel.

"Meerab—"

She cut him off before he could speak. "Where else would he be?" Her own voice sounded foreign to her—raw, hoarse, filled with something between hysteria and certainty.

Armaan's fingers tightened against the wheel, his knuckles turning white. His eyes flickered back toward the road, scanning the endless stretch of darkness before them.

"If Malik is behind whatever's happening, he wouldn't want it to happen on his lands."

Silence settled over the car, thick and oppressive.

Meerab opened her mouth, then closed it.

Her thoughts raced.

Armaan was right.

Malik wouldn't bring trouble to his own property, not if he wanted deniability.

Then where?

Where was Murtasim?

She squeezed her eyes shut, dragging through her mind, trying to recall every detail, every piece of land between here and the village.

Somewhere hidden.

Somewhere isolated.

Somewhere away from prying eyes.

Her heart pounded, her mind frantically flipping through every memory, every moment she had spent in this village, every conversation, every whispered word.

And then—it hit her.

A sharp gasp left her lips as realization clawed at her chest, her fingers gripping Armaan's arm. "My...haq mehr."

Armaan's brow furrowed. "What?"

Meerab's breath was shaky, her heart racing. "The land for the school."

The realization hit like a punch to the gut, stealing the breath from Meerab's lungs. She could hear her own pulse, loud and frantic, roaring in her ear. "It's ours," she whispered, the pieces clicking together in her mind. "But it's surrounded by Malik's land."

Armaan's eyes locked onto hers, sharp and focused. "Which way?"

Meerab's throat felt dry as she tore her gaze away, scanning the night, forcing herself to think, to remember.

The village in daylight was one thing - familiar, crowded, vibrant with life. But here, now, under the oppressive darkness, it was unrecognizable. The winding dirt paths, the vast fields stretching out into nothingness, the scattered silhouettes of distant structures, it all blurred into one endless void.

She hated herself for not paying more attention when she had been here before. She had spent so much time in the village, but she had never cared to memorize the roads, had never bothered to map out the land in her mind because her brain always turned off when Murtasim was around.

Her chest ached.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

Meerab forced herself to breathe, to grasp at any landmark she could remember. Her eyes darted toward the road ahead, past the endless expanse of shadowed land, and then she remembered.

"The mosque," she whispered, her voice breathless. "It's down the road from it."

Armaan's head jerked up, his gaze flickering across the darkness, his mind calculating. He muttered to himself, "South-east," before scrambling for his phone, flipping it open with quick, precise movements.

Meerab watched as he swiped through his screen, pulling up the compass, his fingers steady despite the tension thrumming through the air.

Her own hands felt numb.

Murtasim.

Find Murtasim.

He's okay.

Nothing happened.

Murtasim is fine.

Armaan wasted no time.

The car jerked violently as he reversed, the tires skidding across dirt and gravel, kicking up dust that swirled into the night like a rising storm. The force of the movement flung Meerab forward, her hands flying to the dashboard, barely catching herself before she slammed against it.

Then, in a single swift motion, Armaan spun the wheel, the car whipping around, the engine roaring as it shot forward.

The headlights sliced through the oppressive blackness, illuminating nothing but an endless stretch of uneven road, flanked by wild overgrowth and skeletal trees that loomed like twisted shadows. The beams of light danced over the dust still lingering in the air, making the world ahead of them look like something out of a nightmare—ghostly, distorted, unreal.

But this was real.

Too real.

The ground beneath them was uneven, rough and treacherous, the car bouncing with every pothole, every sharp dip in the earth. But Armaan didn't slow down. Didn't hesitate.

Faster.

Faster.

Meerab barely noticed how fast they were going.

Her whole body was rigid, pressed against the door, her fingernails digging into the armrest as her eyes scanned the darkness outside, wild, desperate, searching.

She didn't blink.

Didn't breathe.

Somewhere in this suffocating night, Murtasim was waiting.

She could feel it.

She was sure they were past the village now, racing toward something.

And then, she saw it.

A light.

Faint at first.

A soft, unnatural glow, barely cutting through the horizon, flickering in the distance against the pitch-black sky.

Her heartbeat stilled.

For a moment, she convinced herself it was nothing. Maybe someone had lit a fire in the fields. Maybe it was just lanterns. Maybe—

But then they got closer.

And it grew.

Brighter.

Taller.

It wasn't still—it was moving. Shifting. Devouring.

Orange flames twisted in the air, licking hungrily at the sky, curling and rising in thick, suffocating clouds of black smoke. The fire burned furiously, its glow reflecting off the ground, making the very earth beneath it look alive, writhing, screaming.

Meerab's heart sank.

A fire.

At this hour.

In the middle of nowhere.

In a village where light was scarce, where even electricity flickered unpredictably.

This wasn't an accident.

This wasn't normal.

Her breath hitched violently, her chest seizing with the weight of what this could mean.

She clutched the door handle so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Panic crawled up her spine like a living thing, spreading through her veins like poison, seeping into her bones, into her very being. Her lungs burned. She couldn't breathe fast enough, couldn't drag in enough air. The acrid scent of smoke was already thick in the air, slipping into the car through the vents, clinging to her skin.

Murtasim.

Her body wanted to collapse under the weight of it.

Of this horrible, suffocating certainty settling in her chest.

No.

No, she had to hold on.

Had to keep herself together.

Murtasim first.

Find Murtasim first.

The car hurtled toward the fire, toward the school land, toward the place she prayed—begged—he was still alive.

As they neared, the heat became suffocating. Even from a distance, she could feel it. It rolled off the flames in violent waves, thick and oppressive, pressing against her skin, forcing sweat to bead at the back of her neck. The night should have been cold—but the fire stole the chill, stole the very air.

It was a beast.

Rising high into the sky, its flames snarling, hungry, swallowing everything in their path. Wood cracked and snapped within the inferno, collapsing under the weight of destruction, sending embers flying into the air like dying stars.

The glow was blinding, too bright against the pitch-black night, making it hard to tell where the fire ended and the sky began.

Meerab felt her stomach drop, her body shuddering so violently she nearly retched.

Beside her, Armaan's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his jaw clenched, his breath unsteady.

Then, his voice, rough with uncertainty, with a dread he didn't want to voice. "Do you think he's there?"

Meerab's throat locked.

She wanted to say no.

Wanted to believe that Murtasim wasn't there, that this was just another cruel coincidence, that he was safe somewhere—anywhere—but here.

That they would find him standing on the side of the road, angry and confused, demanding to know why she was crying, why she had convinced herself that the worst had happened.

She wanted to believe that.

But she couldn't.

Because she knew.

The moment she saw the fire, she had known.

A sob tore from her chest, her hands shaking violently as she wiped at her face, tears spilling faster than she could stop them.

It wasn't just fear anymore.

It was something deeper.

Something she couldn't fight.

Something undeniable.

It was certainty.

Murtasim was here.

And if she didn't get to him—

No.

She couldn't think about that.

She refused to think about that.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim. He's okay. Nothing happened. Murtasim is fine.

The car screeched to a stop, the violent lurch of it barely registering in her mind. The tires skidded, kicking up thick clouds of dust, the sound a sharp, grating screech against the silence of the night. But Meerab wasn't waiting.

Before the wheels had even fully stilled, she threw the door open, the metallic creak drowned out by the roaring in her ears.

Her feet hit the ground running.

Armaan was shouting her name, his voice cutting through the chaos, but it was a distant thing, an echo lost to the fire that was consuming everything.

She couldn't hear him.

Couldn't stop.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim.

The heat slammed into her like a living force, wrapping around her, searing her skin even from a distance. It was unbearable, suffocating, thick and heavy, pressing into her lungs, making every breath feel like she was swallowing smoke and embers. The acrid scent of burning wood filled the air, mixing with something sharper, something darker—the scent of destruction, of something being ripped apart, devoured whole.

And then, past the flickering orange and yellow, she saw it.

His car.

The black Mercedes sat just beyond the blaze, its glossy paint reflecting the hellish glow of the fire. The driver's side door was flung open.

Empty.

He wasn't inside.

A sound clawed its way up her throat, a scream so raw, so broken, she barely recognized it as her own.

"Murtasim!"

The fire cracked and snarled in response, the wind howling through the burning structure, but the only thing she listened for was him.

Her voice shattered the night, tearing through the suffocating silence, through the roaring flames, through everything.

"Murtasim!"

Again. Louder.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim.

The words rang in her head, a desperate, panicked rhythm, over and over again.

She waited for it, for the familiar "Meerab!" to ring out in response, for his voice—rough, sharp, grounding—to cut through the chaos and bring her back.

But nothing came.

Nothing.

The emptiness pressed down on her, heavier than the heat, heavier than the thick, suffocating smoke curling around her. Her heart slammed against her ribs, wild, erratic, her vision swimming, the fire making the world look warped, twisted, wrong.

But she knew.

She didn't need to see him. She could feel it.

He was in there.

Her body screamed at her to move, to run, to tear through the flames if that's what it took. Every cell in her body rejected the idea of standing still.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim.

She didn't think.

Didn't hesitate.

She ran.

The fire roared as she bolted toward the barn's entrance, the flames licking hungrily at the sky, spitting sparks into the air, raging against the night. The smoke burned her throat, filled her lungs, her skin felt too hot, too tight, burning, blistering—

And then, hands grabbed her.

A harsh jerk.

A forceful pull.

Armaan's grip wrenched her back, hard, almost knocking her off her feet.

"Meerab, STOP!"

His voice was desperate, panicked, commanding.

But she fought him.

She thrashed against his hold, struggling, blind with fear, blind with rage, blind with love.

"Let me go!" she screamed, her voice raw, cracking under the weight of it all. "He's in there!"

"You'll get hurt! You'll die!"

"I don't care!"

The words tore from her before she could stop them, before she could even process them—but they were true.

She meant them.

All she knew was that if Murtasim was in there, if he was burning, if he was dying, she wasn't going to stand here like a coward.

If he died—

No.

No, she wouldn't let herself finish the thought.

Because if he died, then she died with him.

If something happened to him, she would be as good as dead.

Armaan's grip faltered for a second, just a second—

And that was all she needed.

With one sharp twist, she ripped herself free, yanking her arm out of his grasp.

And then she was running.

Her feet barely touched the ground as she launched herself forward, the fire swallowing her whole, wrapping around her like a living, breathing entity.

"Murtasim!"

The heat hit her like a tidal wave—violent, unrelenting, unbearable.

It crashed into her skin, curling around her arms, her legs, her face, making it feel like she was being burned alive, like the fire was reaching inside her chest and squeezing her lungs until they collapsed. The air was thick, suffocating, each breath a battle, each inhale searing her throat like she had swallowed molten embers.

She couldn't see.

Couldn't breathe.

The world was nothing but fire and smoke, a swirling, suffocating haze that blurred everything into shifting shadows and flickering light. The acrid stench of burning wood clogged her nose, her tongue, filled her mouth with the bitter, metallic taste of ash and despair.

But she didn't stop.

Murtasim. Find Murtasim.

Her eyes burned, her vision blurring, the only thing visible through the thick, suffocating haze was white.

A piece of fabric.

A kurta.

His kurta.

Her chest constricted, a choked sob leaving her as she pushed forward, reaching for him, praying—

And then something lurched above her.

A loud, sickening crack rang through the air.

A beam, falling.

And then something slammed into her, hard.

The impact was like hitting solid rock, all the air forced from her lungs as she was thrown aside, the heat and smoke blurring into streaks of orange and black.

She hit the ground, her head spinning, the world tilting, burning, breaking. The floor beneath her was scorching, the heat pressing down on her, curling into every inch of her skin, threatening to consume her.

A second later, the beam crashed down, right where she had been standing, erupting into an explosion of fire and embers.

For a moment, there was nothing but the roaring inferno, the sound so loud, so overwhelming, she could feel it rattling inside her bones.

Armaan. He had pushed her out of the way.

"Move!" He yelled, his voice urgent.

She turned, her body sluggish, her lungs screaming, her vision still blurred from heat, from tears, from terror.

Armaan.

Coughing, his face streaked with soot, pushing himself up, shoving debris off himself as he grabbed for her arm.

But she was already moving.

Already stumbling forward, toward the only thing that mattered.

The only thing that had ever mattered.

Because then she saw him.

And everything else ceased to exist.

Murtasim lay on the ground, motionless.

The sight of him ripped the breath from her lungs, sent a jagged, blinding pain tearing through her chest, through her soul.

She ran.

Stumbling, falling, barely catching herself before she crashed beside him, her hands trembling, her vision tunneling, the fire burning hotter, louder, brighter—

But nothing—

Nothing—

Was as terrifying as the sight before her.

His white kurta— the one she had seen just moments ago, the one she had prayed would lead her to him—was drenched in red.

Blood. His blood.

It soaked through the fabric, dark, spreading, seeping into the scorched earth beneath him. Too much. Too fast.

Meerab's breath hitched violently, her body shaking, violently trembling, her heart hammering against her ribs, desperate, frantic, pleading.

No, no, no.

She fell to her knees, her hands hovering, shaking, unsure where to touch, where to hold, where to start.

Because he was so still.

Murtasim was never still.

He had always been strong, had always stood tall, his presence larger than life.

He was a storm, untamed, unshakable.

And now—

Now, he looked fragile.

Meerab had never seen him like this before. But here he was, lying motionless, his body battered and broken, his breath so faint she could barely see the rise and fall of his chest.

His face—the face she had traced with her fingertips, the face she had memorized down to the smallest detail—was swollen, marred with fresh cuts, his lip split, his jaw darkened with bruises that hadn't even fully formed yet.

Her gaze caught on the deep gash near his temple, the way his blood slipped down his cheek like a tear, trailing slowly, pooling in the hollow of his throat.

His lashes fluttered slightly, as if caught in some inescapable nightmare, but he didn't wake.

He wasn't waking up.

A horrible, suffocating panic coiled around her ribs, tighter and tighter, threatening to squeeze the air from her lungs.

Meerab sobbed, a sound so raw, so broken, that it barely felt like it came from her. She cradled his face between her hands, her fingers shaking as she pressed her palms against his skin, only to feel warmth.

Not the warmth of life.

The warmth of blood. His blood.

It soaked her hands, her wrists, slipping between her fingers, hot and slick and so, so wrong.

"Murtasim," she whispered, her voice cracking, her thumb tracing the line of his cheek, begging for a response.

Nothing.

Her stomach twisted violently, the fear hitting her so fast, so viciously, that she felt like she might throw up, might collapse, might die right here beside him if he didn't wake up.

"Murtasim, please—wake up, talk to me—just open your eyes!"

Nothing.

The world around her was crumbling, burning, collapsing in on itself.

Somewhere behind her, the barn groaned, a deep, haunting sound like a wounded beast breathing its last breath. Wood splintered, beams cracked, flames snarled, eating away at everything. The air was thick—choking, suffocating, pressing down on her from all sides.

But she couldn't move.

How could she move when he wasn't moving?

How could she leave when he wasn't waking up?

A rough hand suddenly grabbed her shoulder, jerking her, pulling at her. Armaan.

"Meerab, we have to get him out of here—now!"

A deafening crash thundered behind her.

Meerab flinched, her head snapping up just in time to see a burning beam collapse just feet away, sending a violent spray of fire and embers into the air.

The fire was growing.

The heat was unbearable now, thick waves of it rolling over her, scorching her skin, pressing into her ribs like an iron brand.

Armaan was shouting, cursing, his gaze scanning the burning skeleton of the barn, looking for a way out.

The exit was too far. The fire had won that battle.

But his eyes landed on something—the weakened wooden wall at the far end of the barn.

Without hesitation, he moved.

The first kick sent violent cracks splintering across the wood.

The second shook the entire frame.

The third—

The wall gave way.

But the moment it cracked open, debris rained down.

Meerab barely had time to think before she moved.

Instinct.

Desperation.

Love.

She threw herself over Murtasim, shielding him with her body, pressing herself over him like she could absorb the impact, like she could become the armor he so often was for her.

She squeezed her eyes shut as something heavy struck her back, a sharp, searing pain flaring through her shoulders, knocking the air from her lungs.

But she didn't move.

Refused to move.

Because she wasn't letting anything else touch him.

The fire could take everything.

Could take her.

But it wasn't taking Murtasim.

"Meerab, go!"

Armaan's voice snapped through the chaos, yanking her back to the present, back to the reality she was fighting so hard to ignore.

She shook her head violently, gripping onto Murtasim tighter, harder, as if her touch alone could hold him together, could keep him anchored here with her. "No—I—"

She couldn't leave him. Couldn't.

But then Armaan grabbed her arm, pulling her up, forcing her to move.

"I have him!" he shouted, his voice strained, his muscles flexing as he hooked his arms under Murtasim's shoulders, trying to hoist him up. "Go—NOW!"

Meerab's breath caught painfully in her throat, the world spinning as she watched Murtasim's body loll lifelessly, his head dropping back, his limbs limp.

Too still. Too quiet. Too wrong.

Terror clawed at her chest, sinking its talons into her ribs, wrapping around her heart like a vice.

"Don't hurt him!" she choked out, her voice breaking. "Please—just be careful!"

He's already hurt too much.

She wanted to help—needed to help—but her hands were shaking too much, her body too weak, her knees nearly giving out beneath her.

Armaan didn't argue. Didn't snap at her, didn't tell her that none of this mattered if they didn't get out of here now. He just gritted his teeth, adjusted his hold, and started dragging Murtasim toward the opening.

Meerab stumbled after them, her hands reaching for Murtasim, clutching onto his arm, terrified to let go, terrified that if she loosened her grip for even a second, he would slip away.

Her tears mingled with the soot staining her face, the mix of sweat and ash making it feel like her skin was peeling away, burning from the inside out.

They barely made it out.

The second their feet hit the dirt outside, the barn collapsed behind them.

The sound was deafening, the roof giving way in a thunderous roar, flames exploding toward the sky, sparks and embers shooting out in all directions like fireflies made of hell. Heat seared against their backs, chasing them, trying to pull them back in.

But Meerab barely noticed.

Her world had narrowed to one thing, one person, one truth that she couldn't escape.

Murtasim wasn't waking up.

The barn was gone.

The night was too dark, too silent.

And he was still.

Meerab dropped to her knees, her fingers digging into his clothes, his skin, his life, her hands shaking so hard she could barely feel him beneath them.

"No, no, no, no, no—"

She cupped his face, her fingers trembling as they brushed over bruises and cuts, over blood that was still warm, still wet, still terrifyingly fresh.

His skin was clammy, too pale under the orange glow of the fire, his lips slightly parted, too soft, too lifeless.

He wasn't waking up.

Her breath came out in ragged sobs, the panic inside her swelling to a level she could no longer contain.

"Wake up."

Her voice was hoarse, broken, barely above a whisper. A plea. A prayer.

But when he didn't stir, when his lashes didn't even flutter, when his chest only rose in shallow, agonizingly slow breaths, her panic shattered through the night.

"Murtasim, wake up!"

Nothing.

Not a twitch. Not a sound.

Meerab let out a sound that wasn't entirely human, a sob so raw it scraped against her throat, her tears falling freely now, landing on his skin, mixing with the blood that was everywhere, too much, too much.

"You don't get to do this to me!" Her hands pressed against his cheeks, her thumbs smoothing over his brow, pushing his damp, blood-matted hair back. Her fingers shook so violently she thought she might break apart.

"You don't get to leave me! You don't get to—"

She couldn't finish.

The words collapsed inside her, choking her, clawing at her throat, strangling her from the inside out.

Her voice cracked, her breath catching violently in her chest, her lungs aching as if they couldn't hold enough air, as if they were collapsing under the weight of this moment, this horror, this unbearable, suffocating reality.

He was too still.

Murtasim was never still. Even in sleep, he moved, his fingers twitching against her skin, his body naturally gravitating toward hers, reaching for her. But now, he was cold, unmoving, lifeless in her hands.

Meerab shook her head furiously, refusing—refusing—to believe it.

"You better not die on me." Her voice was hoarse, a broken whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things, a thousand desperate prayers, a thousand silent screams.

A fresh wave of tears blurred her vision, making it impossible to see anything but the pale outline of his face.

"Do you hear me?" Her voice broke, her forehead pressing against his as she whispered against his skin. "If you die, I will follow. I swear to God, I will follow right after you."

She wasn't bluffing.

There was no world for her without him in it. No reality where she could exist if he didn't.

Behind her, Armaan's voice was a stark contrast to her own, loud, sharp, urgent. He was on the phone, barking out orders, his voice harsh and abrupt as he paced furiously, his shoes crunching against the dirt.

"We have to go! We have to get him to a hospital!"

His words should have been a lifeline.

They weren't.

Meerab's thoughts turned inward, spiraling, unraveling, connecting dots she didn't want to connect, dragging her into the kind of realization that changed the shape of her fear entirely.

Someone had tried to kill him.

Her breath hitched painfully, her chest seizing as the words formed themselves without her permission, clawing their way into her brain like a truth she could no longer ignore.

Someone had beat him up and left him to burn.

Someone had orchestrated this.

Someone had tried to take Murtasim from her.

Just like her father.

A sharp, sudden terror coursed through her veins, colder than the night, darker than the shadows pressing in around them.

"Hospital. Now."

Armaan's voice snapped her back to the present, but her body remained locked in that unbearable, gut-wrenching realization.

She whipped her head around, her eyes darting across the land, scanning, searching.

The fire crackled behind them, casting long, eerie shadows across the ground, stretching into the darkness. The wind carried the scent of ash and blood, mixing them into something nauseating, something unnatural.

Beyond that, there was nothing.

No movement. No sound.

But Meerab knew better. She knew better than to believe that meant they were alone.

Her hands trembled against Murtasim's skin, her fingers still pressed to his pulse point, feeling the weak, unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the slick warmth of his blood.

Still fresh.Not dried. Not cold.

Her breath hitched, her mind racing, pulling apart the details, piecing together the nightmare unfolding around her.

They had planned to burn him alive. She knew it with a certainty that sent a violent shudder through her body. Whoever had done this hadn't just wanted to kill him—they wanted him to suffer a slow death. They wanted to erase him. Leave behind nothing but ashes, make sure there was no body to bury, no evidence to find, nothing left of Murtasim Khan except whispers in the wind.

But they had failed.

Because the back of the barn hadn't been burning.

Not yet.

The smoke had been thick, the fire raging, but where she had found him, the flames hadn't fully reached. The fire hadn't been set too long ago.

Which meant...they had to be close. The realization sent a sharp, icy terror slicing through her veins, so cold it almost hurt.

Whoever had done this was either watching or they were planning to come back.

A cold dread wrapped around her ribs, pressing into her spine, curling around her throat.

"Not the closest hospital." Her voice was barely a whisper, but Armaan heard her.

His head snapped toward her, his gaze sharp, knowing, cutting through the night.

"They'll find him." She forced herself to swallow, forced her lips to move, forced herself to say the words even though they tasted like acid on her tongue.

"They'll try again."

The next time, they'll make sure he doesn't survive.

Her chest felt hollow, empty, like something had been torn from inside her and left gaping.

"Not even Hyderabad."

Armaan exhaled through his nose, his expression grim, unreadable.

"I know."

There was something in his voice—a deep, bitter kind of knowing. A sad sort of acceptance.

He had seen this before. He had lived through it before. She wasn't sure which was worse—that he understood, or that he was prepared. "I've called for a chopper."

Meerab stared at him, her brain struggling to process the words, to make sense of them in the storm of everything else.

A chopper? How? She wanted to ask.

But the words wouldn't come.

And in the end, she didn't care. Armaan had the money, the power, the connections. For once, she wasn't questioning it.

"We have to meet it," he said, already moving. Already planning. Already doing what she should have been doing.

She sucked in a shuddering breath, wiped at her tear-streaked face with blood-stained fingers, and nodded.

"Let's go."

Meerab swallowed back her panic, forcing herself to focus, forcing herself to move, because the only thing keeping Murtasim alive right now was her.

She and Armaan bent down together, their hands slipping beneath Murtasim's limp, unresponsive body, their movements frantic but careful, desperate but measured. Every second counted, every breath he took was a gift she was terrified he wouldn't be able to keep.

He was heavy.

Too heavy.

His body had always been solid, strong, but now, there was no resistance, no tension, no awareness in his muscles. He sagged between them, his head lolling forward until it fell against her shoulder, the warmth of his breath—weak, faint, barely there—ghosting against her collarbone.

That was the only thing keeping her from screaming.

He was still breathing.

Shallow. Unsteady. But still here.

The sound was too light, too fragile, too uncertain, but it existed.

Meerab clung to that sound, the way someone drowning clings to air, the way the desperate cling to prayer.

Together, they half-dragged, half-carried him toward the car, their feet stumbling, their bodies straining under his weight. The smoke was thick, wrapping around them like a suffocating shroud, burning the inside of her lungs, pressing into her skin, seeping into her hair, into her clothes, a permanent imprint of the nightmare they had just escaped.

The world around her didn't exist anymore.

There was no fire, no night, no dirt beneath her feet.

There was only him.

His skin beneath her fingertips, too cold where it should have been warm.

His blood, sticky, slick, soaking into her own clothes, staining her hands, her wrists, her soul.

His breath—so light, too light.

Meerab climbed into the backseat first, pulling Murtasim with her, refusing to let Armaan do it alone, refusing to let anyone else hold him but her.

Her arms wrapped around him tight, protective, desperate, holding him to her, against her, like she could fuse him to her very being, like she could become the tether keeping him here.

Like she could keep him alive if only she held on tight enough.

Her eyes blurred with tears, her vision swimming, her body trembling from the sheer force of holding back a scream that would rip through the night if she let it.

"I love you," she whispered, the words slipping from her lips, falling against his skin like a prayer, like a promise.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

Again. And again. And again.

Because if he could hear her...that's what she wanted him to hear.

Not her tears. Not her fear. Not the terror suffocating her chest, making it impossible to breathe. Just her love.

Because Murtasim always answered her back. Always.

"I love you more."

He always said it.

Where was his voice now?

The door slammed shut, jolting her, the car jerking forward as Armaan threw them into motion, the tires kicking up dirt, speeding into the darkness, away from the fire, away from death.

Meerab barely noticed.

Her entire world was cradled in her arms.

She pressed her forehead to his temple, her lips brushing against his hair, against his skin, against the crimson nightmare smeared across his face.

"I love you," she whispered again, but now, the fear cracked through her voice, slipping through the cracks of her resolve, bleeding into every syllable.

What if they didn't have enough time? What if every second wasted was a second stolen? Her hands shook violently, her fingers tracing his jaw, his cheek, his pulse.

Too slow. Too faint.

"I love you," she whispered again, her voice breaking, her lips trembling as she pressed them to his forehead. "I can't wait to marry you again."

A sob tore through her, shuddering through her ribs.

"And have babies with itty-bitty lungs and your eyes...so, I need you to hold on, Murtasim."

But there was blood.

So much blood.

Her fingers moved frantically, checking, searching, fearing.

No burns.

They had found him in time.

A sob racked through her, her body shaking so violently she thought she might fall apart.

She bent over him, pressing her forehead to his, her tears spilling down his face, mixing with blood, with smoke, with everything that she couldn't undo.

"I'm sorry. I love you." The words tumbled out of her, over and over again, as if they could rewrite the night, as if they could bring back time, as if they could erase everything that had happened.

She should have been faster to get to him.

She had wasted too much time just worrying, not thinking.

She should have known.

She should have felt it sooner.

Her fingers brushed his cheek, her voice dropping into a whisper, so soft it was almost lost to the sound of the wind howling through the open windows. "Murtasim, hold on."

Her fingers curled around his hand, gripping it tight, tight, tight.

"Please."

The car tore through the night, the road stretching endlessly before them, swallowed in shadows. The fire was long behind them now, nothing but a fading glow in the distance, but its presence still clung to her—the acrid scent of smoke thick in her hair, the taste of ash lingering in her throat, the heat still seared into her skin.

She kept whispering the words under her breath, her voice hollow, mechanical, as if saying them enough times would make them true.

"You're going to be okay. You're going to be okay. I love you."

The roads blurred past them, the car jerking violently over uneven ground as Armaan pushed the speed past anything safe, but she didn't care. Nothing mattered except the rise and fall of Murtasim's chest, the tiny, fragile proof that he was still breathing, that he was still here.

Somewhere between the desolation of the village and the outskirts of Karachi, the chopper met them. The sound of the rotor blades cutting through the night was deafening, sending dust and debris flying as the aircraft hovered just above the open road.

Then, everything became a blur.

Lights, voices, hands.

People swarmed them, paramedics in uniform, orders being shouted over the roar of the chopper.

They were trying to take him.

Meerab felt hands on her arms, pulling, separating her from Murtasim's body, and she snapped.

"No! No, don't touch him!" She fought.

She clung to him with everything she had, nails digging into his kurta, arms locking around his torso, refusing to let go. She couldn't let go.

"Ma'am, we need to take him now—"

"No! I'm going with him! I—"

Someone was prying her fingers away, trying to loosen her grip, but she wouldn't let them.

They didn't understand.

They didn't understand that she couldn't breathe without him.

Couldn't exist without him.

Couldn't survive if they took him from her.

"Meerab!" Armaan's voice, firm, urgent, cutting through the chaos. "You're going with him, just let them work!"

It took everything inside her to loosen her fingers, to let them lift Murtasim away from her, to watch them place his body on the stretcher.

She followed.

She was with him when they lifted him into the chopper, with him as the doors shut, as the noise of the world was drowned out by the deafening hum of the rotors.

With him.

She was crammed against the side, pushed out of the way as the paramedics worked around him, a flurry of movements and unfamiliar words.

Bandages.

IV lines.

Gauze.

Hands pressing down on his wounds, voices calling out numbers, wires being attached to his chest.

None of it made sense.

None of it mattered.

All she could see was his face.

Her Murtasim.

A deep gash marred his forehead, the skin split open, blood streaking down the side of his face, soaking into his hair. There were wounds on his scalp, small but bleeding endlessly, staining the sheets beneath him. His mustache and beard, usually so neat, were dark with dried blood, tangled, unkempt. His lip was swollen, cracked, and bruises had bloomed along his jaw, stark against the unnatural paleness of his skin.

Meerab's chest ached so deeply she thought she would die from the pain of it.

Her fingers itched to touch him, to wipe away the blood, to press against his cheek and will him back to her.

She couldn't.

She could only watch.

"He's going to be okay," she whispered, over and over again, as the chopper raced through the sky.

She whispered it as they landed, as the paramedics rushed him out, as she followed them blindly through the chaos of the hospital, the bright white lights blurring together, the world spinning around her.

She whispered it as they wheeled him away, as someone held her back, as she screamed his name one last time before the doors swung shut, separating them.

She whispered it as her legs gave out, as she crumpled onto the cold, hard floor of the hospital corridor, her body folding in on itself, shaking violently.

She curled into herself, her arms wrapping around her knees, rocking gently, whispering.

"Nothing is going to happen to him. He's going to be fine. He's going to be fine."

Her hands were stained red.

She could hear voices, people trying to talk to her.

"Ma'am, you're covered in blood—are you hurt?"

"Miss, do you need medical attention?"

"Someone get her checked, she's in shock!"

She didn't respond.

She didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't acknowledge anything except the long, empty hallway before her.

The one Murtasim had disappeared down.

The one that had swallowed him whole.

Her lips trembled as she whispered his name, over and over again, like a prayer.

"Murtasim."

"Murtasim."

"Murtasim."

-----------------------------------

Author's Note: Tadaaaa! So, what do you think? I thought I'd write some angst, brush up the skills, move the story forward. If you're throwing shoes, I love cute kitten heels and over-the-knee boots! Let me know what y'all think, and whatever shall happen. Why is someone after all the men in the Khan family?