The Attack – Past and Present Collide

Dhruv's world had gone eerily silent.

Gunshots rang out, but they felt distant, like echoes from a past he had spent his entire life trying to forget. His breaths grew shallow as something dark coiled in his chest, something suffocating.

The air smelled the same. The tension felt the same.

He wasn't in his apartment anymore. He was ten years old again, frozen in place as his mother shielded him with her body, whispering against his hair—

"Don't move, my love. I won't let them hurt you."

Dhruv's fingers twitched, but his body refused to move. Not again.

And then—before he could stop her—Shruti moved.

His vision blurred for a second, his reality splitting into two. He saw his mother's trembling form protecting him in one moment, and then Shruti, stepping in front of him in the next.

No hesitation. No second thoughts. No fear.

Her arms stretched out, covering him just as his mother had, as if she could block out the danger with sheer will alone.

"I won't let them hurt you."

A loud crack tore through the air.

The impact sent Shruti stumbling backward into him. A choked sound escaped her lips—a sound that ripped through Dhruv like a blade.

His arms caught her before she could fall, but she was already slipping.

Blood.

It seeped through her clothes, warm and vivid against his skin.

Dhruv's hands trembled. He had seen this before. He had felt this before. The warmth of someone else's blood soaking into his hands. The fading life of someone he loved slipping through his fingers.

His mind screamed at him to act, but his body was paralyzed.

He was a boy again, cradling his mother as she bled out in his arms.

Her voice, weak but unwavering— "Run, Dhruv... run."

But he hadn't run. He had sobbed. He had begged. He had watched the light fade from her eyes.

And now—

"No. No. No."

His world snapped back into focus. The past shattered, but the fear remained.

His body moved before his mind could catch up.

"Shruti?" His voice was barely above a whisper, his hands pressing against her wound as if he could hold her together, keep her from slipping through his fingers.

But she was so still.

Too still.

The breath that had just been there—the faint warmth against his skin—was barely noticeable now.

Shruti's body sagged slightly in his grip, but he held her firmly, his chest tightening in unbearable dread.

And then something inside him cracked.

A switch flipped.

The helplessness evaporated, swallowed by something cold. Lethal.

He laid Shruti down as gently as his shaking hands would allow. Then, without a word, he turned.

The men who had fired the shots barely had time to react.

Dhruv moved like a shadow, quick and merciless. His fist met the first attacker's face with a sickening crunch. He didn't stop. He didn't hesitate.

Another one reached for his gun—Dhruv twisted his arm with a sharp snap, sending the weapon clattering to the floor.

His vision was red. His thoughts were consumed by one thing— destroy them.

They had hurt her. They had dared to touch her.

And for that, they would not live.

One after another, they fell, their screams cut short by the brutal efficiency of his attacks. He didn't just fight—he annihilated.

Each blow was fueled by the memory of his mother, by the sight of Shruti collapsing in front of him, by the agony of almost losing someone again.

When the last man dropped, gasping, Dhruv stood over him, his knuckles bruised, blood staining his skin. He could end it. He could end them all.

But then—

A small, pained breath.

Shruti.

Dhruv turned sharply, his chest tightening as he rushed back to her. He dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over her as if afraid to touch her.

For the first time in years, his hands trembled—not with rage, but with fear.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

No.

This couldn't be happening.

Not again.

He shook her—gently at first, then harder when she didn't respond.

"Shruti," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Open your eyes."

She didn't.

A cold, suffocating panic wrapped around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.

He pressed his forehead against hers, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

"Don't do this," he whispered. His voice was hoarse, desperate. "Don't you dare leave me."

She was still breathing—she had to be. She had to.

But so had his mother once.

And then, she hadn't.

A sharp, ragged inhale tore through him. He clutched Shruti closer, his entire body trembling as he pressed his lips to her temple.

He had never begged for anything in his life—not to his father, not to fate, not to anyone.

But now, he was pleading.

"Shruti... please." His voice cracked, the fear ripping him apart from the inside. *"You can't—" His throat tightened. "You can't leave me like this. You can't do what she did. I—" His breath hitched. "I won't survive it."

His fingers dug into her arms, his entire world narrowing down to her. To the fragile rise and fall of her chest. To the warmth that was slipping away too fast.

For the first time in years, he was powerless.

And he hated it.

But more than that—he was terrified.

Memories bled together—the last time he had held someone like this, the last time he had felt this unbearable weight of helplessness. His mother had looked at him with a smile that had barely held back her pain, her fingers brushing weakly against his cheek.

"You have to be strong, my love."

He didn't want to be strong. Not now.

Not if it meant losing her.

"Shruti," he choked out, his voice barely audible. "Stay with me. I'll do anything, just—stay."

He wasn't sure how much time had passed.

Seconds.

Minutes.

An eternity.

Then—

A weak movement.

Fingers, curling around his wrist.

A shallow inhale.

And then, barely audible—

"You're... warm," she mumbled, her voice drowsy from the blood loss.

Dhruv froze.

His breath caught in his throat. His heart slammed into his ribs.

Alive.

She was alive.

Relief hit him so hard it was almost painful. A broken sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a sob. He pressed his forehead against hers again, closing his eyes as he let the tension drain from his body.

She was alive.

Barely, but alive.

His grip on her tightened.

He wasn't losing her. Not tonight.

Not ever.

The Drive to the Hospital – A Battle Against Time

The world outside blurred into streaks of light as Dhruv sped through the empty streets. One hand gripped the steering wheel, the other pressed firmly against Shruti's wound, trying to stop the bleeding. His palm was slick with her blood, warm and seeping through his fingers. Too much.

"Stay with me," he ordered, his voice hoarse, breaking in places. "Just a little longer, damn it."

Shruti stirred slightly, her head rolling against the seat. Her eyelids fluttered but never fully opened. A soft, barely-there murmur escaped her lips—a sound that made his heart clench painfully.

"You always talk too much," Dhruv muttered, his grip on the wheel tightening. "Now isn't the time to stay quiet, Shruti."

A small shudder passed through her body, and his breath caught. His pulse hammered against his skull, an unbearable pressure building in his chest.

"Shruti." His voice dropped, raw, desperate. "Don't do this to me."

Her fingers twitched, weakly grasping at nothing. Dhruv latched onto that movement, his grip tightening around her cold hand.

"You're fine," he lied, his voice shaking. "You hear me? You're going to be fine."

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. Just a whisper of breath.

Dhruv pressed harder on the wound, ignoring the way she tensed in pain. "I know it hurts. I know, baby. Just hold on. I swear I won't let anything happen to you."

A flash of a memory—warmth, a woman's voice, fingers combing through his hair.

"You have to be strong, my love. Stay still, I've got you."

His mother's voice. Her arms wrapped around him. The way she had whispered soothing lies even as her life slipped away.

"You'll be okay, Dhruv. I promise."

That promise had been a lie. Just like the one he was whispering to Shruti now.

A strangled breath tore through his throat. "No, no, no. You're not leaving. You're not her. You're not…"

His grip on her tightened as if he could anchor her here, with him. Her lashes fluttered again, a flicker of awareness surfacing.

"Dru…" It was barely a sound, just air escaping her lips.

He exhaled sharply, nearly choking on relief. "I'm here," he rasped. "I'm right here, okay? Just hold on."

The hospital was in sight now, its glaring white lights growing larger. Almost there. Almost.

Shruti's breathing was shallow, her head tilting slightly toward him. And then, just as they reached the entrance, she shuddered violently, her entire body stiffening for a moment before going unnervingly limp.

"Shruti?!" Dhruv slammed the brakes so hard the tires screeched. He didn't waste a second before throwing the door open, scooping her into his arms, and rushing inside.

Present

A sharp, sterile scent burned through the fog in her mind.

Antiseptic. Alcohol. The faint, artificial chill of conditioned air.

Something beeped—rhythmic, steady. Machines hummed softly in the background, blending with distant murmurs of voices she couldn't place.

Her fingers twitched. Her body felt heavy, unmovable, as if she were sinking into the very surface beneath her.

Then it hit her.

The smell. The sounds. The numbness.

Her breath stilled.

No. No. Not again.

She was back.

Her chest tightened, the edges of her world suffocating her in invisible chains. The air was wrong. The walls—no, they weren't walls, were they? No windows. Just the cold press of confinement.

The scent of blood flooded her senses, thick and metallic, drowning her in memories she had fought to forget.

A voice somewhere in the distance—too muffled, too distant to understand.

She tried to move. Nothing.

Her breath quickened.

She needed to run. Hide. Escape. But her body wouldn't obey.

The beeping grew louder, pressing against her skull.

A door creaked. Footsteps.

Panic surged like fire through her veins. He's coming.

A phantom weight pressed down on her wrists, her legs—she felt it even though no one was touching her.

Her mind clawed at the past, dragging her under.

---

His hands. On her wrists. On her thighs.

Shruti's body was a cage of trembling muscles and burning skin. The smell of sweat and filth choked her, her throat already raw from screaming.

Her wrists ached where the ropes had bitten into them for days. She could still feel the sting of fresh welts across her back, the bruises blooming under her skin from their punishments.

But this—this was worse.

This was hell.

He loomed over her, his breath rancid with alcohol, eyes dark with something predatory.

"Stop…" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, shaking, broken.

He grinned. "Louder."

The weight of his body crushed her into the cold, damp floor. His fingers trailed down her face, brushing against her lips before curling tightly around her throat.

She thrashed. He laughed.

Her knee shot up, but he caught it effortlessly, his grip bruising as he forced her legs apart.

Terror turned to blind panic.

She fought—God, she fought.

Her nails raked across his cheek, drawing blood. Her head jerked to the side, teeth sinking into his wrist until she tasted iron.

He cursed, yanking her hair, slamming her head against the ground.

Stars exploded behind her eyelids.

For a second, everything blurred.

She was dizzy, gasping, struggling to stay conscious.

No, no, no—

Her arms trembled, the strength seeping from her bones.

He was stronger. He was winning.

His fingers dug into her thighs, prying them apart.

No. Please, no.

---

A Fight for Survival

The jagged shard of glass burned against her palm, slicing into her skin as she gripped it tighter. Blood—her own—dripped onto the cold, filthy floor.

But she didn't loosen her hold.

She couldn't.

His weight crushed her down, his breath reeking of alcohol and something rotten.

His fingers tightened around her throat, squeezing.

Dark spots burst across her vision. Her lungs burned, every desperate gasp swallowed by the suffocating pressure.

"You're mine," he growled. "No one's coming for you."

Her stomach lurched.

His free hand slid lower, fingers clawing at her torn clothing.

A broken whimper escaped her lips.

No. No.

A sickening chuckle rumbled from his chest as he pinned her wrists above her head.

The glass was slipping from her slick fingers.

Hold on. Hold on.

The pounding of her heart drowned out everything else. The fear, the exhaustion, the pain—everything condensed into a single, sharp realization.

It was now or never.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up.

She swung.

The shard of glass plunged into his shoulder.

His scream was guttural, a sound of pure shock and agony.

The weight lifted slightly as he recoiled.

Shruti sucked in a shuddering breath, twisting the shard deeper, watching his face contort in pain.

His grip loosened, and she shoved at him with every ounce of strength she had left.

He stumbled back, cursing, blood pouring from his wound.

But he was still alive.

Terror and rage twisted in his face. His hands curled into fists.

"You little—"

She didn't let him finish.

Shruti lunged.

She tore the glass from his shoulder, the warm spray of blood hitting her face, and stabbed again.

This time—his neck.

A strangled gurgle left his lips.

His hands shot up, clawing at the wound, but Shruti wasn't done.

She struck again, harder, fueled by every moment of helplessness, every whispered threat, every brutal punishment she had endured.

Blood splattered across her trembling hands, her face, her clothes.

His legs buckled. He collapsed, choking on his own breath.

But she didn't stop.

She brought the shard down again, and again, and again—

Until there was nothing left of him but silence.

---

The door burst open.

Shruti barely had time to react before they were on her.

A boot collided with her ribs. Pain erupted through her body, sharp and unbearable.

She gasped, clutching her side, but rough hands grabbed her hair, yanking her up.

A sharp slap cracked against her cheek. Her head snapped to the side.

"You really thought you could win?"

A fist crashed into her stomach. She crumpled.

Another kick. Another blow.

Somewhere in the haze, she heard them speaking.

"She deserves worse than this."

"She'll break. They all do."

Fingers gripped her jaw, forcing her to look up.

The words that followed were a whisper, slow and deliberate.

"We're going to make you beg for death, little girl."

---

Beep! Beeeep!

"She's panicking—hold her down!"

"Get the sedative!"

The voices blurred. The fluorescent lights overhead burned through her eyelids, too bright, too unnatural. Her own heartbeat pounded like a war drum, deafening.

She wasn't here. She was still there.

In the dark.

In the pain.

Alone.

"We need to bring her down before she hurts herself."

"Her body is healing, but her mind is still trapped."

"And the scar…?"

A pause. Then, a hushed voice.

"It appeared after we nearly lost her months ago."

A phantom ache pulsed through her body, right where the bullet had once torn through her flesh. The wound she had taken for—

For who?

The answer dangled just out of reach, slipping through her fingers like sand.

"She's had frequent panic attacks ever since. And now, she refuses to wake up."

A sharp prick against her arm. A cool sensation spreading through her veins. But it wasn't enough. It couldn't reach her, couldn't pull her back.

"Not working. Her mind isn't letting go."

Someone murmured her name. A voice—low, steady. Not one of the strangers.

A hand grasped hers—not forceful, not restraining. Warmth seeped into her skin, barely noticeable through the storm raging in her mind.

Not a threat. Not them.

"We need to ground her."

The beeping of the machines slowed. The voices around her softened.

A rhythmic touch—pressure against her palm. A presence anchoring her.

"You're safe."

Safe.

The word wavered in the distance, foreign and unfamiliar. But the warmth in her hand didn't fade. It stayed, steady, unrelenting.

Breath.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The grip on her hand remained, unwavering, as if refusing to let her disappear.

The darkness didn't vanish.

But it loosened—just enough.

The panic didn't leave.

But it dulled—just slightly.

She wasn't free.

But she wasn't falling anymore.