~ ♡AUTHOR'S POV ♡~
The Shadow Watcher
Manhattan |Late Night| Outside the Rathore Industries East Coast Tower
The neon-blue glint of the city caught on the chrome of a black Maybach that waited outside the tower’s private exit, its engine humming low like a beast trained to be patient.
The door opened before Kiyansh even reached it. His gait was relaxed, but purposeful like a man who knew that even shadows dared not cross him without permission.
A man leaned casually against a fire escape three buildings away, clutching a DSLR with a long-range lens.
He was no amateur ex-military turned mercenary photographer, now hired to “uncover the true face” of India’s most elusive businessman.
A seven-figure bounty was too tempting.
He adjusted the lens and zoomed in. The man in black. Six-foot-six. A hooded trench coat. Brown-tinted glasses. Neck gaiter still on. Same as always.
But the light was slightly brighter today, and just for a fleeting second, the corner of Kiyansh’s face had turned. Just enough.
Click.
He looked down at the screen.
Nothing.
White static. The photo was blank.
Confused, he clicked again.
Same result. Then his phone started glitching. The camera shut down.
The screen flickered. In the corner of his eye, the alley camera which had been recording for backup sizzled and popped. Literal smoke.
A low voice echoed from a small common device clipped to his shirt, one he didn’t even know had been hacked.
“You had one job. One warning. And now you have one minute to disappear.”
The voice was calm. Chillingly calm. As if whoever spoke wasn’t angry, just bored.
Before he could blink, the light from the rooftop behind him flared a soft blue laser grazed his sleeve.
Not fatal. But unmistakably a warning.
He looked up and saw nothing. No silhouettes. No figures.
A prey who was trying to chase a predator.
He ran as fast as his leg could take him.
Meanwhile, inside the Maybach, Kiyansh leaned back, tapping once on the armrest.
A built-in screen flickered to life. A face appeared a woman, sunglasses over her eyes even at night, headset on and stoic expressions on her face
“He won’t try again,” she said.
“No,” Kiyansh replied, voice low.
“But someone sent him. Trace the wallet transfer and scrub the metadata. And find out who thought this was a good idea.”
The screen cut off.
He sighed and looked out the tinted window at the Manhattan skyline calm, unreadable.
His fingers tapped lightly over the silver chain he always wore inside his coat. Hidden from the world. Like his past and his face.
-----------
New York – Kiyansh’s penthouse
Time: 12:18 AM IST | 2:48 PM NYT
The skyscrapers outside glistened like frozen stars.
Kiyansh sat on the edge of his bed, neck gaiter still around his neck, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tension coiled in his shoulders.
His smartwatch buzzed twice LITTLE ONE❤️ a familiar name glowing on his screen.
He hesitates just a second before answering.
Kiyansh ( quietly): “Hmm?”
Avantika (soft laugh): “You really have the worst way of saying hello bhai.”
Kiyansh: “ And You have the worst timing little one.”
Avantika: “And yet you picked up bhai. Accept it you love me.” she teased.
And despite not wanting to a small almost invisible smile appeared on Kiyansh’s face.
Then after a long pause.
Avantika: “I went to the courtyard today.”
His jaw clenches. The smile vanished from his face.The grip on his phone tightens. But he said nothing.
Avantika (continued): “The bougainvillea has bloomed again… purple this time. Remember how she always wanted it red?”
Still, he says nothing. Just listens.
Because he doesn’t know how to say "stop." Not to his little one. His precious sister.
Avantika: “The bench is still there. I sat on it for a while. Same cracks, same silence. Except this time… it wasn’t peaceful.”
Kiyansh (low): “Why would you go there?”
Avantika (gently): “Because someone has to.”
Kiyansh: “You don’t need to keep bleeding to prove you cared bachha.”
He tried to keep his voice in check not wanting to snap at her.
Avantika: “And you don’t need to pretend you’re made of stone to prove that it doesn't effect you bhai. Till when will you try to run away from it bhai. Till when.”
He exhales. That deep, nearly-silent kind. The kind that’s heavier than anger.
Kiyansh: “Not tonight, Avantika.”
He never called her by her name until and unless he was very serious and barely controlling his anger.
Avantika: “It’s never the night, bhai.” this time she said very softly nearly a faint murmur.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he tapped the side of his smartwatch quickly checking a new incoming coded message. “Operation shadow: confirmation needed. Traitor close. Final order pending.”
He pressed his thumb over the screen, locking it, and returned to her voice still waiting on the other end.
There was a long silence on the other end.
Then, very softly she said again.
“Ghar aa jaiye bhai. Sirf ek din ke liye hi sahi.Not for duty. Not for silence.Just for me. Aapki choti behn ko aapki jarurat hai bhai. Meri kya galti thi bhai, mujhe kis btt ki saja de rhe hn aap? Boliye bhai.”
(Come home bhai. Even if it is for one day. Your younger sister needs you bhai. What is my fault bhai, why am I being punished bhai. Tell bhai.)
He neither replied nor promised anything. He never made promises anymore. Not when he knew he couldn’t fulfill it.
He didn’t knew what to say because she was never at fault but still she had to suffer.
A beat. Neither of them speaks. The weight between them is old, but not forgotten.
Kiyansh replied his voice guarded but with a softness reserved only for her “Mujhe bhi nhi pta mein Kab wapis aaunga bacha. Or nhi Tumhari koi galti nhi thi or kabhi glti hogi bhi nhi."
(I don’t when will I return bacha. And no you weren’t at fault and never will be)
Avantika said her voice like a child seeking solance from the only person she knew could understand her pain.
“Jhoothe. Agar meri koi galti nhi hai toh fhir mujhe kis btt ki saja mil rhi h bhai. btaiye na bhai kis btt ki kyun mujhse mera bhai dur ho gya h kyun?”
(Liar. If I wasn’t at fault then why am I being punished. Tell me bhai. Why? Why is my brother taken away from me. Why?)
Kiyansh replied with same firmness and coldness but with a voice as if a father was coaxing a child.
"Tumhe saja nhi mil rhi h bachha. Or mein tumse dur nhi huin. Tumhara bhai hmesha tumhare sath hi Hai bas ek call ki deri hai. Samjhi little one.
(You are not being punished bachha. And i am not away from you. Your bhai is always with you. Just a call away. Understood little one)
Avantika simply replied " hain mein Samjh gyi"
Their was a silence after it not empty but deafening.
Avantika's voice was a murmur but audible enough on both sides of the call. “She wouldn’t want this version of us bhai.”
Kiyansh’s voice became cold and hard all traces of earlier softness vanishing.
“She’s gone. What she’d want doesn’t matter anymore.”
Avantika said immediately and fiercely “It matters to me. And i know it matters to you as well bhai.”
Tgere was a flicker of something in his voice. Regret? Maybe.
Kiyansh said with a gentleness which would suprise anyone from a man known for his coldness and stoic nature.
“You should get some sleep little one.”
“I sleep. Just not well bhai.”
“Then dream better. Try to worry less and focus on present little one.”
Avantika said smiling through her teary eyes “Then you’ll have to show up in the real, bhai. Not just in the fragments of my dream bhai."
He doesn’t answer. But she knows he’s still there. That’s enough, for now.
Then she added “Anyway… just wanted to hear your voice bhai. Even if you are grumpy and say nothing.”
Kiyansh said quietly with a light smile “I say what matters bachha. And i am not grumpy.” he grumbled at the end.
Avantika said with half teasing and half relief “Oh please bhai you are. Accept it."
"Whatever.Good night, little one. Sleep tight with better dreams this time."
“Good night, Bhai.”
He ended the call not abruptly, but with precision.
Like he always does.
Manhattan, New York | Time: 1:47 AM
Kiyansh hadn’t moved since the call.
His fingers rested on the edge of the table, watch still glowing dimly from the last tap.
Her voice echoed in the hollowness of the space.
"Bhai... bas aise hi... aapki awaz sunni thi."
He had responded like he always did. Steady. Unreadable.
But when she spoke when she chuckled softly, asking about the painting she’d once made of all four of them under a banyan tree with mango popsicles in hand something had twisted sharply in his chest.
He leaned back now, eyes trailing the faint reflection of city lights on the marble floor.
Once upon a time, they had no worries. They had each other.
He could still remember how she would run around barefoot in the palace courtyard, giggling as two shadows chased her one who always teamed up with her against the quiet girl with sharp wit and wild comebacks.
But then again, the game never stayed one-sided for long.
The silent one had her own tricks.
The prank where she replaced the mango ice cream with spicy pickle paste still remained legendary.
Their shrieks of betrayal, laughter, and sticky, furious chases echoed in his memories like an old lullaby.
And he the one who always tried to play peacemaker would scramble between teams, desperately trying to be on the "safe" side.
Which, of course, meant whichever side avantika was on.
The way his face would flush whenever he stood too close to her didn't go unnoticed by any of them.
They teased him mercilessly.
Especially him. The ringleader. The instigator. The calm chaos behind every plot twist.
Himself.
There was a time when they thought those summer afternoons would last forever.
That no war, no betrayal, no funeral would ever touch their sacred square of childhood.
That four voices, yelling over mango juice and silly dares, would echo across time unchanged.
But life had its own plans.
He rubbed his jaw, gaze falling to a tiny, faded paint stain on the sleeve of his hoodie which he wore when he was too young to understandthe cruelities of this world.
She had flung color at him once angry that he’d swapped her detailed canvas with a scribble of stick figures mid-way through her painting.
He’d laughed. She hadn’t. Not at first.
But later, when they all sat under the stars, legs tangled like puppies, she’d leaned against his shoulder and said, “You’ll regret growing up, you know Kishmish.”
Kishmish that is what she called him.
He didn’t believe her then. That he would regret growing up.
But now he did.
◇◇◇
~♡KAUSHIKI'S POV ♡~
I loved mornings.
Not for the light, or the silence, or even the chance to get ahead of the crowd though those helped.
But because mornings were my safeguard.
If i stayed up too late at night, i will wake up with a scratchy throat, stuffy nose, and a fog that refused to leave my chest. Not letting me even breath properly and Irritating me to core.
Mornings, to me, aren’t just a productivity hack. They are self-protection.
I stretched lightly and opened my eyes, whispering the first words of her day:
"NAMAH PARVATI PATYE HAR HAR MAHADEV"
“Srishti Sthiti Vinashanam, Shaktibhute, Sanatani
Gunashraye, Gunamaye, Narayani, Namostu Te”
The phrase lingered in the air like a silent protection as if sat up and reached for my phone to play some songs.
They were one of my source to sanity in this insane world.
The morning track began to play softly in the background.
Starting with with
‘Ya Devi sarva-bhuteshu bhranti rupena samstitha; Namastasye namastasye namastasye namo namaha
Continuing with mahadev and mahakali's songs and mantras.
Om Kali Kali Mahakali Kalike Parameshwari... Sarvanandakari Devi Narayani Namostute
Satyam Shivam sundaram
Sundaram aaaa
Satyam Shivam sundaram
Ishwar satya hai Satya hi Shiv
Shiv hi sundar hai aaaa
The melody, along with the curling sandalwood incense on a stand made me feel at home.
I ran my fingers through my straight, silky, black hair, letting the strands fall over my shoulders to let them dry in air.
My hair wasn’t very long just reached my mid back which was ok with me because managing very long hair wasn’t my cup of tea.
By 6:00 a.m.,
I was already showered, wrapped in a light cotton top with loose shorts, sitting cross-legged on my neatly made bed, sipping warm water and reading Section 299 of the Indian Penal Code.
On my desk, my planner lay open with three neatly written lines:
●Read IPC – S.299 to 304 (focus: intention vs knowledge)
●Submit case brief (Maneka Gandhi v. Union of India)
●Observe people in Group 3 today.
Though last one was to be cautious but was still a important one.
.
.
.
.
By the time I entered the law department, the building was humming with that particular chaos that came before a surprise assignment.
Professor Bhatia was back sharp-eyed, iron-voiced, and allergic to nonsense.
“We’re doing something real today,” she announced, tapping the whiteboard. “Split into groups of five. Topic: Capital punishment justice or revenge? You’ll discuss. Not debate. Understand the difference.”
I quietly adjusted my backpack and walked over to Group 3 where fate (and the class list) had placed me with three show-offs and one of them was:
Taraksha Singh.
Of course.
Brash, brilliant, and loud like a monsoon in May.
She wore sarcasm like perfume only if she wouldn't have been so annoying I would have approached her for sure.
We hadn’t spoken much till now.
But Taraksha had the same spark and straight forwardness which i have without any sugar coating.
But it's said that two headed people shouldn't be left in same room they will end up murdering each other.
And I totally agree with whoever said it.
Because co existing was not a option with a person with equal fire and boldness until and unless there was mutual respect between the two people.
Now we were in the same group. Let’s hope we survive.
.
.
.
.
“Let’s not act like we’re here to sing lullabies,” Taraksha said smoothly, folding her arms. “Some criminals don’t need redemption. They need endings.”
A murmur of agreement came from one of the boys.
I kept her gaze on my pen. Then:
“And who decides they’re beyond redemption?” she asked quietly, looking up.
Taraksha turned. “The law, obviously.”
I tilted my head. “A law that hangs more poor than powerful? That pretends fair trial exists for everyone?”
Taraksha smirked. “So we just hand out therapy sessions to murderers?”
I met her gaze, calm and precise.
“No not really because therapy is for sane but who has already crossed their limit of insanity can't be handed therapy sessions either. But what I am trying to say is the person we are doing trial for is really a criminal or just a man falsely blamed to cover up some rich or powerful person's bad deed."
The tension was immediate.
Not hostile. Not loud. Just sharp enough to silence the rest of the group.
We held each other’s eyes, two minds measuring depth and danger.
The professor passed by just then, catching a glimpse of the intensity and muttering, “At least someone’s taking it seriously.”
Later after the debate dusguised as discussion.
During the lunch break the canteen benches were half full.
I sat under the neem tree on a bench.
This was the spot i preferred more over loud and fake groups, sipping hot ginger tea my armor against cold and or changing weather.
I sensed someone approaching before i heard the footsteps.
“Didn’t know you have a working brain in you” Taraksha’s voice floated in.
I simply looked up. “Didn’t knew your single brain cell was this useless.”
Taraksha snorted, sitting on the edge of the bench. “At least i have one brain cell what about you?”
I smiled, unfazed. “So you accept that you have single non working brain cell” raising my one brow with a mocking smile on my face to which she just scoffed.
"End of comebacks?" I asked to infuriate her more since she started
She just rolled her eyes not saying anything.
For a moment, we just sat there. Not friends. Not enemies even.
“I heard you fought with the bitchy three girls of our class.” Taraksha said.
“They were trying to get on my nerves” I simply shrugged my shoulders.
Taraksha laughed. “ That’s something Interesting.”
I turned back to my tea with a sarcastic smile.
“Let’s see if you find it Interesting when you are the one i am roasting alive"
"We'll see" she said getting up.
.
.
.
The tea was still warm in my hands, but my mind had already drifted.
Taraksha’s words “Interesting” echoed faintly in the background.
The wind chimes outside the canteen clinked with the breeze.
But inside my mind, the sound was different.
It was quieter.
Colder.
.
.
.
.
Flashback: Two years ago in Varanasi.
The result screen had loaded in under four seconds.
But i had stared at it for twenty minutes without blinking.
My thumb hovered over the refresh button, as if another tap might change the number.
But it didn’t.
450 marks.
Out of 720.
My heart had dropped into a silence deeper than my room.
I didn’t cry.
There was no dramatic scream, no shattered mirror, no storm.
Just… stillness.
I had studied through every power cut, every taunt from relatives, every low-grade fever.
I had chanted Shiva’s name before every mock test. Skipped my cousin’s wedding for a physics revision and question practice for upcoming tests.
Still. 450.
A fail.
Outside my room, my parents were whispering.
Loud enough to be heard, soft enough to pretend i didn’t.
“She should’ve focused more. It was her choice.”
“Don’t say that. She tried...”
“Trying isn’t enough, Ashmita. Not when she’s wasting years.”
That word stuck with me.
Wasting. That I didn’t do enough.
As if my worth had an expiry date.
I climbed the stairs slowly. The rusted railing was cold under my fingers.
The terrace smelled of summer dry bricks and faint mango leaves from the nearby tree.
The sky was clouded but vast.
That kind of endless that made you feel both free and pointless. And even the moon was not in the sky as if mocking me in it's own way.
I stood barefoot on the rough ground. Closed my eyes.
“I failed,” I whispered to no one. “I… failed.”
Said it again, this time louder.
“I failed.”
It echoed off the empty night.
No one heard.
I sat down against the wall, hugging my knees. Because no one would really understand me. How can i explain when only results matter not the journey not the efforts.
For the first time in months, there was no timetable. No target. No revision schedule. Just this void.
My mind wandered back to that younger version of herself the one who once told her mother after the results of her class 12th exam with eyes lit up, and voice full of self confidence
“Maa, Mein doctor banungi dekhna aap”
(Maa, i will become a doctor. You will see)
I wanted to reach into the past and protect that younger me. Or warn her. Or tell her "Don’t hope too much. Don't dream too high. Kyunki agar wo sapne pure na hoin na toh na log jine dete hn na khud ichha reh jati hai aisa lgta h jaise ab apni life me kuch nhi kar paenge wo himmat wo hausla wo khwaishein sb toot jati hn or reh jati h toh sirf or sirf ek khalipan or failure ka tag."
(Because when those dreams don't come true neither the people around nor you have the hope to live. It feels as if you can't do anything in your life your courage your strength your dreams all shatter and which remains is just the hollowness and the tag of failure)
But I didn’t know how.
So i just sat there.
Head back. Eyes empty. Looking up at the sky or the nothingness.
The sky didn't care.
But maybe... maybe Bholenath did.
“Main kis disha mein jaa rahi hoon, mujhe kuch nahi pata,” I whispered.
(I don’t know what direction I’m going in.)
The wind didn’t answer.
But I felt it. Cold, brushing my cheeks like invisible fingers.
Not comforting just present.
I stayed there for hours, till the night began to melt into grey, and my eyes stung not from crying… but from staying open too long.
My chain of memory broke with noise coming from the commotion of the students rushing back to their respective classes.
I exhaled slowly, the memory fading like incense smoke into the air.
I sipped my tea again, the heat oddly comforting.
The NEET failure didn’t define me anymore.
But it had definitely built me.
In the silence that followed, I whispered under my breath, almost inaudible:
“Bholenath shi hi kaha h kisi ne ki … Har chiz ke piche ek karad Hota h,jo mila wo bhi achha or jo na mila wo bhi achha"
(Bholenath somebody said truth only that behind every thing happening there is a purpose what we achieved is also good what we couldn't achieve is also good)
◇◇◇
Hello everyone...missed me??
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Until next time keep loving and be healthy and happy!
Your author♡kaushi♡
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