Part 14: The Shadows stop moving

Chhayika's POV

He stands still, staring at the board like it's the first time he's really seeing it. The lines, the pins, the faces we've gone over again and again. I stay quiet because I can feel something shifting in his silence.

Then he speaks, low and calm. "I found them."

I look up. "What?"

"The files Rudra kept on you. Real ones. Not just surface level reports."

My chest tightens but I don't interrupt. He keeps going.

"They were in a hidden cabinet inside his old safehouse near Hoshangabad. It wasn't even registered under intelligence property. I only got access because someone owed me."

I nod once. "And?"

"There were at least seven full documents. Logs. Psychological assessments. Surveillance photos from before your first deployment. Even older. Some from your school days, maybe even earlier."

His eyes meet mine.

"It wasn't random. You weren't just a recruit. You were being watched long before you even stepped into this world."

I don't speak. I just breathe slowly and keep my expression steady.

"I think Rudra isn't acting alone," he says. "He's not just doing this for some personal reason. He's part of something. Maybe something that started years ago. Something that still exists."

I move closer to the table, glance over the same documents we've already gone through a dozen times. None of this surprises me. But hearing it confirmed still makes something settle heavy in my chest.

"Then we go to RAW headquarters," I say. "We corner him on his own ground. He still shows up there. We can make it look official."

He shakes his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"That place is built to protect him. He's comfortable there. Every hallway, every camera, every blind spot. He's prepared for confrontation inside that building. You walk in trying to expose him, you'll come out alone. Or not at all."

I fold my arms. "So what? We let him keep hiding under the system? You said it yourself. He's part of something bigger. That means he's still active. Still dangerous."

"We wait," he says. "We don't go in while he's returning from a meeting with the PMO. That would be reckless."

I stare at him, eyes narrowing. "You thought about it."

"I did," he admits. "And I threw the idea out. That would be seen as an attack on the government itself. Not just him. We'd be labelled as threats overnight."

"He's the one manipulating the system," I argue. "He used me. Maybe others. We can't play this game forever."

"I know that," he says gently. "But we need proof. The kind that survives headlines. Not suspicion. Not instinct. We need something that connects him to the people behind him. And for that, we don't go charging in."

I let out a slow breath. The anger isn't just at him. It's at all of it. The layers. The lies. The time wasted chasing a man who always seems one step ahead.

"So what's your plan?" I ask, quieter now.

He turns one of the photographs face down on the table. The one with Rudra in the lab. The one with that woman beside him, the same woman he claimed to hate. Behind them, in the background, my face on a file.

"He's not coming back to Delhi for small meetings," Giriraj says. "He's here for something bigger. Maybe something final. So we don't chase him. We erase ourselves from the hunt."

I glance at him, unsure what he's trying to suggest. "Erase ourselves?"

He nods. "He knows you too well. He's studied you for years, Chhayika. He knows you wouldn't walk away. He's probably already expecting some move. Maybe expecting you to break into his safehouse again. Or worse. Come for him inside the system."

I say nothing. I know he's right. Rudra would expect aggression. Expect pride. Expect that I wouldn't let this rest.

"She would have told him," Giriraj says next, calmly. "The woman who gave me that address. She might not have wanted to, but she would've informed him eventually. People like her don't survive this world by being reckless. She was professional. She would've warned him."

I nod once, slow. "So he's already anticipating the storm."

"He's ready," Giriraj says. "And he knows that if you act without thinking, it won't be a storm. It'll be a mistake."

I look back down at the photographs, then at the pins and strings. "So then?"

"We do what he did," Giriraj says.

My eyes snap up to meet his.

He speaks with certainty now. "We wait. We watch. We don't strike first. Not yet. He wants something. From you. From me. That's the only reason he's still playing this slow. He hasn't won. He's working on something, building toward something. And whatever it is, it involves us."

I feel my body still as the idea begins to settle in.

"If we resign," Giriraj says softly. "Both of us. Step out. No drama. No trace. Disappear from the board... what happens?"

My breath catches. "We become useless."

"Exactly," he replies. "To the system. On paper. But not to him. He's worked too long for this. If his targets vanish, if his leverage dissolves, he'll have to act. And when he acts, he leaves tracks. No more perfect shadows. He'll rush. He'll expose something. Maybe someone. He'll make mistakes."

"And that," I whisper, "is when we don't work hard..."

He finishes for me, "We work smart."

There's a pause. Long enough for the silence to feel like agreement.

I let my arms fall to my sides and smile. Just a little. "Once a manipulator, manipulator for life... isn't it, Mr. Giriraj Singh Pradhan?"

He doesn't smile. But his eyes tell me everything I need to know.

He's not doing this for revenge.

He's doing it because he still believes the only way to win against monsters like Rudra... is to be just a little more patient.

And far, far smarter.

He exhales slowly and walks over to the window, hands tucked behind his back, like he's measuring something invisible in the air.

"This is not a win," he says. "It's a plan. And plans don't work on dopamine or adrenaline. We don't move because it feels good. We move because it makes sense."

I stay quiet, listening.

"We go to RAW headquarters. Like we always do. Nothing in your body language should shift. Not your eyes, not your jaw. When you see him, you react like it's just another Tuesday. No anger. No smirk that screams you're holding a secret. No tension that says you're holding back."

I nod once. He keeps going.

"Stoic. Calm. Exhausted, even. The kind of tired that looks too familiar. That speaks resignation without speaking anything at all. You don't overdo it. Just a few small gestures. A slow breath. A hesitation when you sign a file. Let it look like you're considering walking away from all of this. Nothing more. Nothing obvious."

I raise an eyebrow, just a little. "I'm not dumb. I get that much."

He turns back toward me and smirks. "You do. But your fire doesn't."

I narrow my eyes slightly. He waits a beat, then adds, a little too casually, "And yes, if you thought your long dress could hide the scratches on your back and hands when you came back with Azhar... you were wrong."

My face stays still but the air between us sharpens.

"If only I had been involved," he says with mock innocence, "that wouldn't be the case."

I smile. Sweet as a dagger. "You really want to die, don't you."

He smiles back. Innocent as a child. "Touché."

The quiet holds.

And in that moment, we both understand we're already halfway there. Not by force. But by choice.

The most dangerous kind of game begins not with war cries, but with silence.

At RAW headquarters

We walk in without words, just one small bag between us. Giriraj carries it, fingers loose on the strap, his other hand in his pocket like we're just here for a regular briefing.

At the gate, they check the bag. No weapons. No files. Just a charger, a pen, and a book. They let it through.

I feel the weight of eyes before I see them. Rudra, standing on the first floor landing, looking down. I don't look up. I don't need to. I feel it in my spine, the way his frown deepens. The way he tries to read my posture. I keep walking.

My desk is the same as I left it. Clean. Mechanical. I sit, open the drawer, and start with the small backlog of reports. I work like it matters. Like it still means something. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just enough to seem like I'm trying.

I feel the stares. Some curious, some cautious. One too long. One too familiar. I don't respond. My hands move like I've done this a thousand times before. My shoulders sink just a little. A moment where I pause with a sigh and rest my temple against my knuckle, like it's been a long week. I let it linger just enough.

Then I get up.

I walk to the cabin of my reporting officer. He sees me and smiles warmly, stands a little, gestures toward the chair.

"Chhayika. I didn't expect you today. You looked worn out last week. Feeling better?"

I smile softly, step in without sitting. I place the small white envelope in front of him.

"I have a small request, sir."

He frowns slightly but keeps the smile. "Request? You don't make those often. I'll try my best, I assure you."

He opens the envelope.

Stillness.

The kind that makes the room feel colder than it is. His smile disappears like someone pulled the light out from under it.

A minute passes. Then his voice rises, louder than he means to.

"Have you completely lost it, Chhayika Mishra? Resignation? You brought me a damn resignation letter?"

He looks at me like I've broken something sacred.

"I don't want to fight on this. I reject."

I meet his eyes with the calm I practiced all night.

"Reject it officially. With a reason. I'll look into it. Thanks."

His frustration shifts into disbelief, and then something gentler. He steps forward, lowering his voice.

"Chhayika, listen. If you have a problem, I can help. I can fix it. Just tell me what's wrong."

I take a breath. My throat is dry.

"I'm done, sir. Kindly excuse me." My voice cracks at the end. I bow. A full, deliberate bow. And then I step back.

That one step holds more weight than anything I've done in years.

And then, I walk away.

I return to my desk like I never left it. My hands move on their own, familiar keystrokes, systems that know me better than I know myself. No one says anything, but I feel them. The glances. Some direct. Some just linger too long. I don't react. I don't shrink. I don't challenge. I just continue. Like I'm tired. Tired enough to notice but not enough to fight.

I finish everything.

One task after another. Like it's just another Monday. But I know. I know this is the last time I'll do any of this. I don't let that thought settle. I let it float like background noise. Not heavy. Not loud. Just there.

Then as I am about to stand, I feel it. A shift in the air. A presence I never learned to ignore.

Rudra.

I don't look. I don't need to. The floor beneath me stills in a way only he can manage. Controlled silence that arrives before he does. My spine tightens but I force my breath even. I pick up my water bottle. Drink. Let the water cool the place between my ribs where rage tries to claw out. I think of Ma. Her smile. Her hands. The way she held silence like it was strength.

My fingers tremble slightly around the bottle. Not enough to spill. Just enough to feel real.

I put it down slowly. And then I turn.

He's there.

So close now.

I don't meet his eyes. I don't even try. I let my shoulders sink just enough. Not dramatic. Not weak. Just tired. I let the air between us carry the weight of everything I don't say. My inside screams. It wants to drag him to the floor, press a truth into his skin that no one can erase. But I do nothing.

I shiver. Just once. Natural. Subtle.

His gaze scans me. I feel it, sharp like a scalpel. But I don't flinch. I speak instead. Calm. Low.

"Excuse me, sir. I was just leaving."

I don't wait for permission. I step away. My legs move before my soul catches up. I keep my pace steady. Not too fast. Not too slow. I don't look back.

I exit the building without a single ripple.

The air outside hits me hard. But I don't break. I breathe once. Long. Then I pull out my phone and book a cab.

I don't go home. I go where my soul stays safe.

Riya.

She's saved as Riya in my phone, but her name is Priyanshi. The woman who takes Bhumi in when I can't. The woman who never asked questions. Only protected. Her house stands like a fortress in the quiet chaos of Gurgaon. Clean. Imposing. Always guarded.

I ring the bell.

She opens the door like she was already standing behind it.

Her face is calm, but I see the storm in her eyes. She offers me a glass of water without a word. I take it. Sip once.

She speaks softly, "Are you fine?"

I nod. Not too quickly. Just once.

"Where is Bhumi?" I ask.

Her eyes search mine for a moment before she answers.

"Upstairs. First floor. Second room from the stairs. Fourth from the lift."

I nod again. Just a small one. "Thank you."

She doesn't stop me. Doesn't ask anything more. And I walk. Toward the one person who makes all of this worth it.

I pause outside her door.

The wood feels heavier today. Not because of what lies beyond, but because of what I didn't say before leaving. She has always been kind enough to never question my absences, always trusted that if I had to go, it was for something important. But this time... this time I left without a word. No bedtime story. No warm forehead kiss. No promise of return.

My little princess has every right to be angry.

I knock thrice, soft and measured, hoping she'll be asleep or ignoring me, not because I want to be pushed away, but because I deserve it. There's no response. I wait a second longer, then slowly turn the knob.

The door creaks open, and there she is.

Lying sideways on the bed, facing the door like she waited with open eyes and a clenched heart. Her hair's a little tousled, her soft pink blanket tossed to the side, and the moment her eyes meet mine, something shatters inside me.

Her entire face lights up. There is no hesitation. No accusation. Just joy. Pure, blinding joy.

She springs off the bed, her little legs stumbling with excitement, and before I can steady myself, she runs with full speed, right into my arms.

I catch her, like instinct, like breath.

She wraps herself around me and I hold her so tight I forget what my bones feel like without her weight.

"I'm sorry," I whisper into her hair, "Maasi maa is so, so sorry for leaving you like that. No explanations. No excuses. Whatever punishment you decide... it's yours. I accept it all."

She doesn't say anything right away. She clings. Arms around my neck, her small fingers pressed into my shoulder like she's afraid I'll vanish again.

I don't move.

Not until she does.

After what feels like an eternity wrapped in four-year-old silence, she leans back. Just enough to look at me. Her eyes glisten, but her voice is steady, more than a child should be.

"This time," she says softly, "you don't get a small punishment. I'm not going to stop talking to you again, because when I do that, I punish myself too."

I swallow the ache in my throat. I nod. She continues.

"This time... you're not allowed to leave this house. Not for seven days. No work. No secret things. No missions. You're mine now. For one whole week."

Her voice doesn't waver. I smile. A real one. Tired and true. And I nod again. "Deal." She hugs me tighter, like the promise needs to be sealed in skin. I close my eyes and let myself feel it. This girl may not carry my blood, but she carries my heartbeat.

My first daughter. Always.

❀✧✸✩✺✧❀✩✸✧✺❀

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Love you all.💖

Until next time,

~ Kshyatri