As soon as the sanitizer poured into her empty eye socket, her whole body jerked in raw, animal pain.

The eyes that weren't even there anymore still burned like they were being ripped out all over again.

 The place where her eyes had once lived already hurt like hell—ever since this bastard had mercilessly dug them out of her skull with his own hands. 

But this... this new liquid fire hitting the raw, exposed flesh inside her sockets felt like someone had taken that same hell and pushed it deeper, turning it into something worse.

She couldn't see.

The world was nothing but black, thick and suffocating. But she could feel him. She could feel him standing over her, close enough that his breath brushed her skin. She could feel the curve of his mouth twisting into a smirk. 

She could almost hear the laughter he was holding back, pressing between his teeth like it was the sweetest thing in the world to him—her pain, her suffering, her brokenness.

The pain shot straight into the hollowness where her eyes once were, as if the acid was crawling into her brain, burning everything it touched.

The ache between her legs—the one she had thought was the worst thing anyone could do to her—was forgotten in an instant. That ache, that tearing, that humiliation... all of that was drowned under this new inferno when he poured acid into her eyes. 

The acid did its work perfectly. Too perfectly.

Her body arched off whatever surface she was on, spine bowing under the shock. A hoarse groan tore through her throat, raw and strangled. 

She tried to push him away, to shove him back, to claw at his arms, his face, anything—but it felt like the whole weight of the world was crushing her down, pinning her in place.

It felt like an invisible force had tied every part of her to that spot.

Her arms felt like they were bound, like heavy chains were wrapped around her wrists and shoulders. Her legs felt caged, trapped under a pressure she couldn't see. She tried her best—tried to lift her hands, tried to shove at the air where she knew he stood, tried to scratch, bite, hurt—but nothing happened. Her palms met nothing. Her muscles gave up. The force holding her down didn't even move.

She wanted to scream.

Her throat burned with the need to scream, to spit out words, curses, pleas, anything. But not a single sound came out. Her mouth opened wide, jaw stretched to its limit, but the scream stayed locked somewhere deep inside her chest, stuck between her lungs and her tongue.

She tried to wriggle, tried to twist her body, tried to get out of the hold. Every muscle in her body strained, shaking violently, trying to push away whatever was crushing her down. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like her ribs would crack.

The hand on her waist felt heavy. Heavy like a mountain.

It pressed into her flesh, fingers digging in, claiming her body, pushing her down, owning every inch of her. The weight of that one hand told her everything—she had no control. No escape. No choice. The whole world could burn and that hand would still be there, pressing her into the mattress, into the table, into the darkness.

Before she could move, before she could even gather the strength to try again, that bastard—

Aarohi flinched and snapped upright in bed.

Her whole body jerked as if someone had pulled her up with invisible strings. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts, chest heaving, throat tight. Her lungs burned, dragging in air like she had been drowning. Her hands trembled badly, fingers shaking so much she could barely curl them.

Her entire body was shaking.

Sweat drenched her skin, clinging to her like a second layer. Her face was completely wet—her hairline damp, her neck sticky, her cheeks slick from a mix of sweat and tears she hadn't even realized were falling. Her eyes, wide and wild, were flowing freely now, tears spilling down without control, blurring her vision for a second before she blinked them away.

She looked around the room in a frenzy.

Her gaze darted to every corner, frantic, searching—for him. For that man. For the bastard who had taken her eyes. For the monster who had poured acid into whatever remained. Her trembling hand shot up to her hair, fingers tangling in her messy strands as she tried to push them back, tried to wipe the sweat from her forehead.

Her eyes darted across the room in panic.

Left. Right. Corner. Door. Window.

Searching instinctively for him.

For that presence.

For that voice.

For that feeling of being cornered again.

Her trembling hand rose slowly to her hair, fingers shaking as she tried to push it back, but even that simple movement felt difficult, like her body wasn't listening properly.

Then she stopped.

Mid-motion.

Something shifted in her awareness.

The room was silent.

Still.

Empty.

No movement. No shadow. No grip. No voice.

Just the rain outside hitting the glass in a steady rhythm.

Her breathing faltered as realization slowly settled in.

She could see everything clearly.

She was awake.

It had been a dream.

A harsh, violent, suffocating dream that felt too real to be dismissed easily.

A shaky breath escaped her lips as she leaned back against the bed, her shoulders collapsing as the tension finally broke in small fragments. But instead of relief, something heavier replaced it almost instantly.

A long, broken sob slipped out of her throat.

She tried to hold it back, but it came again, deeper this time, shaking her chest as if something inside her had been cracked open and refused to close.

Her hands moved instinctively, pulling the blanket up closer to her mouth, pressing it against her lips to muffle the sound. She didn't want to be heard. She didn't want anyone to see her like this. She didn't even want to acknowledge it herself.

But the tears kept coming anyway.

Quiet. Relentless. Exhausting.

She curled slightly into herself, shoulders shaking as the fear from the dream lingered too strongly in her system. It didn't fade like normal dreams did—it stayed, clinging to her skin, sitting behind her eyes, pressing into her chest like a memory she didn't want but couldn't reject.

Because it wasn't just fear.

It was recognition.

The same suffocation. The same helplessness. The same inability to understand what was real and what wasn't.

Her mind refused to accept the story she had been told.

The man claiming to be her husband.

The family claiming she belonged there.

The life she was being pushed into believing.

None of it sat right inside her.

And yet, nothing else made sense either.

Her grip tightened on the blanket as another silent sob escaped, her body folding inward as if trying to disappear into itself. Her breathing stayed uneven, broken between short gasps and pauses where she tried to regain control.

But there was no control.

Only fragments of fear repeating themselves in her head.

She could still feel everything as if it had truly happened.

The weight, the pressure, the helplessness—it all lingered inside her body like reality refusing to dissolve. Every inch of fear, every fragment of pain, every choking moment of confusion still clung to her senses so strongly that her mind couldn't separate dream from truth anymore.

Her tears kept flowing uncontrollably.

Her sobs deepened, shaking her whole frame, but the blanket pressed tightly against her mouth stopped any sound from escaping. It only made it worse—like her pain had nowhere to go except back into her chest, pressing harder with every breath she tried to take.

She couldn't understand what was happening anymore.

Nothing felt stable.

Nothing felt reliable.

Everything felt real... and everything also felt like a lie at the same time.

Her mind kept breaking the same thought again and again, unable to settle on anything solid. The man she was told was her husband, the life she was told she had, the child she was told she gave birth to—it all stood in front of her like facts she couldn't prove or deny.

And yet... her body remembered something else.

Something darker.

Something heavier.

The pain she had felt in those memories—or dreams—was too vivid to ignore. It had not felt like imagination. It had felt lived. Every emotion, every fear, every moment of helplessness was carved into her awareness as if it belonged to her.

But then—

Tanishka and Mohit were alive.

There were no marks on her body.

There were no scars on him.

And the child she had seen... the child they claimed was hers... somehow looked like both of them in a way she couldn't explain, yet couldn't fully deny either.

Her thoughts spiraled further.

What was true?

What was false?

What was her mind building, and what was someone else forcing her to believe?

Her head began to pound sharply, pain spreading through her skull as if her brain itself was struggling to hold too many conflicting realities at once. She pressed her fingers against her temple, trying to steady herself, but it only made the dizziness worse.

Her breathing turned uneven again.

Short.

Shallow.

Broken.

And then—

A sudden sensation.

Weight.

Right on her waist.

Her entire body froze instantly.

Her breathing stopped mid-cycle, her chest locking up as if even air had been taken away from her. The sound in the room seemed to vanish, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat growing louder, faster, and more violent inside her ears.

Fear crawled under her skin again, immediate and suffocating.

Her mind screamed at her before she even moved.

Not again.

Please not again.

Not him.

Her fingers trembled against the blanket as she slowly, barely, turned her head.

Her entire body refused to cooperate, but fear forced her eyes to search anyway.

She didn't want to see it.

Didn't want to confirm it.

Didn't want reality—or whatever this was—to shift again.

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Only a broken inhale, stuck somewhere between panic and disbelief.

Her thoughts scattered completely.

And for a moment, she couldn't tell if she was awake at all—or if the nightmare had simply learned how to continue without ending.

When she forced her eyes to focus on the source of the weight, her entire body froze instantly.

It wasn't him at first.

It was the child.

The same little boy—around three or four years old—whose name she still couldn't fully recall. His small hand was wrapped around her waist, clinging with the unconscious desperation of sleep, as if her presence was the only stable thing in his world at that moment.

His breathing was soft and uneven, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

His face was buried into her side, half-hidden in the fabric, completely lost in sleep. One of his small legs was loosely draped over her abdomen, heavy in the innocent way children sleep when they trust without thinking.

His grip wasn't careful or intentional.

It was instinctive.

Like his body had memorized her warmth as something necessary.

His slightly long, soft hair had fallen across his forehead, brushing his eyes, while his cheeks were pressed against the bedsheet, making them look fuller and slightly puffed. He looked peaceful in a way that didn't match the chaos she felt inside.

But that wasn't what froze her completely.

There was something else.

A second presence.

A larger hand, steady and controlled, was draped carefully over the child's small body. Not holding him tightly. Not restricting him. Just... resting there in a protective way, as if ensuring the boy wouldn't move or fall.

And that hand belonged to him.

Siddharth.

He was lying beside them, asleep in almost the exact same position as the child. His body was turned slightly toward them, one arm extended carefully over the boy, his fingers relaxed but positioned with precision—protective without being forceful.

Even in sleep, he looked composed.

Controlled.

Like someone who never fully let go, even unconscious.

The resemblance between them hit her in a strange, unsettling way.

The child and he.

Same facial structure in faint echoes.

Same calm stillness.

Same unconscious posture, as if one had unknowingly learned from the other.

For a moment, the sight didn't make sense to her mind. It clashed too sharply with everything she had been holding onto. The fear, the suspicion, the anger—all of it suddenly had no place to land in this quiet, still scene.

Her breathing stayed shallow.

Her fingers curled slightly into the bedsheet beneath her, not in aggression this time, but hesitation.

Normally, she would have pulled away instantly. The child's hand alone would have been enough to make her recoil, to break the contact immediately, to reject the closeness without a second thought.

But she didn't move.

Not because she accepted it.

Not because she trusted it.

But because something inside her—the fear still lingering deep in her nerves—refused to act.

His presence, even in sleep, still had weight.

Still had control over the space without effort.

She slowly reached toward the child's arm, carefully and gently removing his small hand from her waist. Her touch was slow, not out of affection, but caution—because waking him would mean noise, questions, calling out to her again in that soft voice she didn't know how to respond to yet.

"Mumma... mumma..."

The thought alone made something tighten inside her chest.

She shifted carefully, sliding out from under the child's weight without disturbing him. Every movement was controlled, slow, as if the slightest sound could pull reality back into chaos.

Once she was free, she stood up from the bed slowly, steadying herself as dizziness briefly returned. Her head still ached faintly, like the remnants of a storm that had not fully passed.

Her eyes moved toward the window.

The curtains were slightly parted.

Outside, the world was dark.

Night had fallen.

Her breath paused for a second.

The last thing she clearly remembered was being brought into this room during the day—everything after that felt blurred, fractured, like time had slipped through her awareness without permission.

How long had she been asleep?

Her hand instinctively rose to her temple as the headache pulsed again, stopping her from thinking too deeply. For now, her mind felt too overloaded to process anything logically.

She turned slightly away from the bed, careful not to make noise.

For a moment, she just stood there in silence, staring at the dim outline of the room, torn between the urge to leave and the inability to understand where she even belonged in it anymore.

She slowly pushed open the wide sliding balcony door, the glass panel gliding with a faint, reluctant whisper, as if it, too, resisted letting her step into that space again. 

Behind her, she eased it shut with careful precision, the soft click of the lock echoing like a final decision being made in silence.

The moment she stepped out, the cold air met her face sharply—brisk, almost unforgiving. It swept across her skin in restless waves, threading through her hair and lifting it in erratic strands that danced as though they no longer belonged to her.

 Fine droplets of moisture hung in the air, clinging to her lashes and cheeks like a memory of rain that refused to fully fall. 

Each touch of wind against her skin sent a faint shiver through her body, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps that rose without permission.

And then it returned.

The flash.

Not a light, not a sound—but a memory that struck without warning, flooding her mind with the same suffocating weight she had been trying so desperately to outrun. 

Her breath caught, uneven and fragile, as though her lungs had momentarily forgotten their purpose. This was the place. 

The same balcony. The same space where everything had begun to unravel—where words had twisted into fear, where silence had once felt heavier than any scream.

Her thoughts blurred as she stood frozen at the threshold of remembrance. Aarohi's gaze drifted slowly across the surroundings. Everything looked unchanged, painfully ordinary, as if time itself had chosen not to acknowledge what had once occurred here. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond the railing, vast and indifferent, its surface shimmering under a distant light. That view was the only thing different now—beautiful, almost mocking in its serenity.

Her feet carried her forward without certainty. She sank down onto the wooden swing near the corner of the balcony—the same place she had once sat while absentmindedly brushing her hair, unaware of how quickly her world would fracture. The wood felt colder than she remembered, or perhaps it was she who had changed.

Her chest tightened.

Tears gathered again, uninvited and unstoppable, slipping down her cheeks in quiet streams. She pressed her lips together, as though trying to hold herself together through sheer will, but it was useless. The questions inside her had begun to spiral, colliding against one another without resolution. Whom could she trust now? Him? Her family? His proof? Or even herself?

The cruelest thought of all lingered at the edge of her mind—what if her own judgment could no longer be trusted?

Because if she allowed herself to become that version of Ishita again... that obedient, hollow puppet he had shaped her into... then what remained of her? How would she survive something like that twice? And worse—how would she ever forgive herself for allowing it again?

She rose abruptly, as if the swing itself had begun to suffocate her, and moved toward the balcony railing. Her fingers curled around the cold metal edge, gripping it as though it might anchor her to something real. Leaning forward slightly, she shut her eyes.

The world inside her head was anything but still.

Pain pulsed behind her temples, a steady, merciless pounding that made her vision blur even with her eyes closed. It felt as though invisible hands were pressing against her thoughts, forcing them apart, scattering reason into fragments she could no longer gather.

Aarohi's breath trembled as she tilted her head downward, her forehead almost touching her hands. Silent tears continued to fall, disappearing into the wind before they could even reach the ground below.

She did not know what she was praying for anymore—clarity, perhaps, or truth, or even just an end to the relentless uncertainty clawing at her mind. Something, anything, that could cut through the fog of confusion tightening around her thoughts like a closing cage.

But there was no answer.

Only the ocean stretching endlessly ahead, the wind refusing to slow, and a silence that felt far too much like being alone inside her own mind.

She felt it before she even turned.

A shift in the air—subtle, familiar, suffocating. It was as though the atmosphere itself had recognized him before she had. The same presence. The same scent that once clung to her memories like a curse. The same aura of quiet dominance, of something dark and unspoken pressing into the edges of her awareness.

The balcony door clicked shut behind him.

And her world tightened instantly.

Her heart stuttered—once, then violently again—before accelerating into a frantic rhythm that pounded against her ribs like a desperate attempt to escape. She didn't need to see him fully to know it was him. Every instinct inside her screamed recognition, dragging her back into places she had spent so long trying to bury.

Footsteps.

Slow. Controlled. Certain.

Each step closer felt deliberate, like he had all the time in the world and she had none at all.

Then he was behind her.

Before she could even gather a breath, his hand found her waist. Firm. Possessive. He pulled her back against him in one smooth motion, as though her body naturally belonged there. His arms wrapped around her, locking her in place, erasing the distance she had desperately maintained.

His head lowered, resting against her shoulder, his breath brushing along the curve of her neck. He lingered there—too close, too familiar—his presence invading every inch of her personal space until it felt impossible to distinguish where she ended and he began.

Aarohi froze.

For a moment, her body betrayed her before her mind could intervene.

It reacted.

Not with comfort, not with peace—but with something far more terrifying. A conditioned response that rose from deep within her nerves, confusing fear with familiarity, control with submission. Her heartbeat spiked violently, her breath turning shallow as her body remembered patterns her mind refused to accept.

A whisper inside her screamed Ishita.

That name echoed in her consciousness like a fracture splitting open.

Her muscles trembled. Her knees weakened slightly, threatening to give in under the weight of her own confusion. Her body tilted backward almost imperceptibly, as though some part of her had been trained to yield—to stop resisting, to let go, to surrender control she had never truly consented to lose.

His grip around her waist tightened subtly, reinforcing that invisible boundary he had drawn around her existence.

And yet—

Something snapped.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. But sharply enough to cut through the fog clouding her mind.

Her elbow moved before hesitation could take form.

A sudden, forceful strike landed against his ribcage.

The impact broke the moment instantly.

He recoiled with a sharp, involuntary sound of pain, stumbling back as the air escaped him. His hand loosened immediately, breaking the hold he had on her. The expression on his face twisted—shock first, then discomfort, then disbelief—as he stepped away, clutching his side, trying to suppress the pain that had taken him by surprise.

Aarohi didn't wait.

She turned, stumbling forward until her hands collided with the balcony railing. Her fingers curled around it tightly, as though it were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly become unstable again. Her entire body trembled, not from weakness, but from the violent clash between fear and defiance still echoing through her system.

"Stay away from me," she said, her voice breaking slightly but carrying a raw, sharpened edge of panic and resolve. She swallowed hard, forcing the words out as she tightened her grip further, knuckles paling against the cold metal. "Or I swear—I will jump."

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended between them.

Behind her, she heard movement.

A step.

Then another.

Her breath hitched instantly.

She didn't turn around, but she felt it—the pressure of his attention, the weight of his presence shifting again as if he were deciding whether to close the distance once more.

Her entire body shook, caught between instinctive fear and a fragile, desperate need to survive this moment without breaking. The ocean stretched endlessly ahead of her, but even its vastness couldn't calm the storm inside her chest.

He lifted both his hands slowly into the air, palms open, as if trying to show surrender before the situation could spiral any further.

"Okay... okay. I won't touch you," he said, his voice deliberately calm, almost careful. "I'm sorry. It might've been uncomfortable... I understand."

He hesitated for a moment, watching her trembling figure at the railing.

"I just came to check on you. It's three in the morning. Are you okay? Are you feeling any pain—?"

"Stop." Her voice cut through his words like a blade.

Aarohi turned her head slightly, her grip on the railing tightening until her knuckles went pale. "I won't fucking fall for your sweet words this time. Either go away from me... or I swear I will—"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.

The threat already hung between them, heavy and unstable.

For a moment, he didn't move.

Then, instead of leaving, he walked past her toward the swing placed at the edge of the balcony and sat down, his movements unhurried, controlled. The contrast in his behavior only deepened the tension in the air. He looked at her for a long moment—studying her, not rushing her, as though waiting for something inside her to settle.

And before she could react, he reached for her hands.

Aarohi jerked instantly, trying to pull away. Her instinct screamed at her to break free, to create distance, to escape anything that felt like control. But his grip closed around her hands—firm enough to stop her movement, yet not forceful enough to hurt her. It wasn't dominance in pressure; it was certainty in presence.

"Relax," he said quietly, noticing her resistance without reacting to it. "Just... stay still and answer me."

The words should have frightened her more.

Instead, something in his tone cut through her panic just enough to slow her breathing for a fraction of a second.

Before she could process it, he pulled her forward.

Not roughly—but decisively.

Aarohi stumbled, her balance giving way as he guided her closer, positioning her between his legs as he remained seated. The shift made her freeze, her entire body rigid with confusion and alarm. Every instinct told her to pull away, but something about the sudden change in his voice anchored her in place.

His tone dropped—no longer sharp, no longer demanding.

Just low. Controlled. Almost dangerously calm.

"Either stay quiet and answer my question," he said, leaning slightly closer, "or I will throw you down myself."

The words weren't loud.

But they were final.

And somehow, that certainty in his voice did what force hadn't—it stilled her. Not in submission, not in agreement, but in momentary shock, her body locking up as her mind tried to process the shift in power, in tone, in intention.

He studied her for a second longer, then pulled her closer again.

Before she could protest, she found herself seated in his lap.

Aarohi went rigid immediately, her breath catching as her entire body froze in disbelief. His arms came around her—not restraining, but holding her in place with an unsettling steadiness. He drew her head gently toward his chest, his hand settling near her hair, grounding her without asking permission.

She hated it.

Hated how her body reacted differently from her mind.

Hated the confusion that rose in her chest, twisting fear with something dangerously close to familiarity.

His voice softened—but only slightly.

"What happened?" he asked. "Nightmare?"

The question landed heavier than she expected.

Her throat tightened. She didn't answer immediately.

Because the truth wasn't simple.

Because part of her still couldn't separate memory from reality, past from present, fear from something she didn't want to name.

And yet—his arms didn't feel like chaos.

They felt... steady.

Safe in a way that terrified her more than danger did.

Aarohi's fingers curled slightly, hesitating before she gave the smallest nod.

Almost imperceptible.

"Yes..."

A silence followed.

Then she felt it—his hand brushing gently through her hair, slow and controlled, as though testing whether she would break or stay still.

"You're all wet from sweat," he murmured quietly, his voice losing its edge completely. "Was it... me?"

Another pause.

Her eyes burned, and she nodded again.

Her tears didn't stop this time.

They spilled out silently at first, slipping down her cheeks in uneven trails, as if her body had finally stopped negotiating with her emotions. Then it worsened—her breath breaking apart, uneven and sharp, her entire frame trembling as though the memory itself had returned to sit inside her bones.

It wasn't just fear.

It was reliving.

Every fragment of that night came back with an unbearable clarity, as if it had happened only seconds ago instead of being locked away in the past. The sensation was too vivid, too real—her mind refusing to place distance between then and now.

Her fingers clenched into the fabric of his shirt without her realizing. A reflex. Not trust, not comfort—just something to hold onto while her body tried to keep itself from falling apart completely.

Her cries grew louder, uncontained now, breaking through the fragile restraint she had been forcing onto herself since the balcony door had opened.

He reacted immediately.

His arms tightened around her—not in restriction, but in containment, like he was trying to keep her from slipping further into the spiral she was drowning in. His hand moved slowly through her hair, steady and controlled, each motion deliberate as though he understood that rushing her would only make it worse.

"Hey... it's okay," he said softly. "Let it out. Tell me what you saw."

Her breath hitched violently.

Her voice came out fractured, broken between sobs. "Y-you p-poured s-sanitizer i-in m-my e-eye—"

She couldn't finish.

The moment the words formed, something inside her collapsed further, and her body shook harder as if the memory itself was physically pressing against her.

He pulled her closer again before she could continue, his hold firming slightly—not to silence her, but to ground her. His jaw tightened for a brief second, as if he already understood what she was trying to say, and didn't want her to relive it in detail.

"It's okay," he repeated, lower this time. "You don't have to say more."

Her cries muffled against his chest as she broke down completely. The sound of her sobbing filled the silence of the balcony, raw and unfiltered, while her body trembled in waves she couldn't control. He stayed still, only his hand moving gently along her back, slow and rhythmic, as though anchoring her to the present.

Time blurred.

Minutes passed without structure—fifteen, maybe more—until her breathing slowly began to shift. The sharpness of panic softened into exhaustion. Her cries faded into broken hiccups, then into quiet, uneven breaths.

Eventually, she pulled back slightly.

Aarohi sat beside him now instead of in his lap, her hands still shaking as she wiped at her face clumsily, trying to gather herself. Her eyes were red, swollen, but no longer drowning in immediate panic. The fear was still there—visible in the way her shoulders remained tight, in the way she avoided sudden movement—but it had dulled from something overwhelming into something she could barely hold.

Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she tried to regulate her breathing.

He watched her quietly for a moment.

"Are you feeling okay now?" he asked softly.

One of his hands remained on her back, a steady presence, not pushing, not demanding—just there.

Aarohi hesitated.

Then she shook her head.

A small, honest no.

A sigh escaped him—not frustration, but something heavier, more complicated.

"Do you still not trust me?" he asked after a pause, his voice quieter now, almost careful with the question.

She lowered her gaze.

Her lips parted slightly, as if the answer was simple, but the truth refused to be.

And after a long silence, barely above a whisper, she answered—

"No..."