VIRANSH'S POV -
The city never truly slept.
Not for people like him.
Even when the clock read 2:47 a.m., Mumbai’s belly still growled— a low, restless hum beneath his tyres as his car rolled through half-lit roads.
The neon signs of half-shut clubs blinked like tired eyelids. Some late-night wanderers lingered on sidewalks, smoke curling around them like ghosts. His eyes didn’t shift from the road, but his mind… it wasn’t here anymore.
It was stuck on her.
The girl with wild eyes and trembling limbs.
The one who didn’t scream when she saw the car coming—
but stared straight into the headlights like she wanted to disappear.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
He wasn’t new to blood.
He wasn’t new to broken bodies, cries, or consequences.
But that night…
That girl?
She didn’t look broken.
She looked… unwritten.
The first time he saw her— she had been lying on the pavement, face pale against the cold tar, dressed in simple, off-white clothes that clung to her like a second skin.
No makeup. No jewelry. Not even shoes.
Nothing about her made sense.
She looked like she belonged to another century.
Or no century at all.
The car had stopped with a loud skid, his brakes screaming.
And he had stepped out, his breath visible in the cold.
He hadn’t known what he would see.
Just that something had darted across the road like a whisper— and the whisper had crashed into his reality.
People don’t usually run towards danger.
They run from it.
But she—
She was running like she didn’t care where she landed.
The hospital’s corridor now smelled like chemicals and guilt.
He sat on the brown leather chair outside her room, elbows on his knees, rubbing his temples with his palms.
A nurse had told him she woke up.
Then added that she “doesn’t understand English.”
That was the first time something inside him shifted.
Because when he had spoken to her— her blank eyes didn’t match fear or confusion. It was as if she truly… didn’t know.
Not just the language.
But the world.
He stood up, adjusting his coat.
His mind had been screaming at him to leave.
To let it go.
He had done his part— brought her here, paid for everything. Even called his family doctor. What more was left?
But something wouldn’t let him walk away.
He pushed open the door quietly.
And there she was.
Bathed in the white light of the room.
She sat propped up against pillows, fingers tangled in the hem of her blanket, staring at the heart monitor like it was a living thing. Her eyes were wide. Not scared — just endlessly curious, like a child trying to make sense of shadows.
She didn’t turn as he entered.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t speak.
He cleared his throat gently.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
In English.
She blinked.
But gave no reply.
He frowned, took a step forward.
“I asked... are you alright?”
Still nothing.
Her eyes finally lifted to meet his— and they were blank. No fear. No anger. No response.
That’s when it struck him again.
She didn’t understand.
He inhaled slowly.
Then tried again— this time, in Hindi.
“Tum theek ho?”
A slight shift in her eyes.
Relief.
Recognition.
She gave a small, slow nod.
He felt something loosen in his chest.
“Main... woh hoon,” he said, walking to the side of her bed. “Jo tumhein yahaan laya tha.”
She looked at him properly now.
Like she was really seeing him for the first time.
And then she asked— in a voice that was so soft, so unfamiliar to this world it almost felt sacred—
“Kyun?”
He couldn’t answer right away.
Because what would he say?
That something inside him snapped when he saw her lying there like a story unfinished?
That even he, a man who had watched people bleed for years without blinking— felt panic when her breath came out ragged?
So he said the only truth he could offer.
“Pata nahi. Shayad... kyunki mujhe laga mujhe aisa karna chahiye tha.”
She looked down.
Her eyes scanned the machines around her. The drips. The wires. The screen that blinked green lines.
“Yeh jagah... kaisi jagah hai?”
He sat on the chair beside her bed.
“Hospital hai. Sheher mein.”
She repeated the word softly.
“Sheher…”
It sounded alien on her lips. Like she was tasting a new color.
And that’s when his brain truly caught up with what was in front of him.
This girl—
She didn’t just look lost.
She didn’t know the world at all.
Her clothes, her dialect, her stillness— they weren’t shy. They were untouched.
Unbrushed by any city, system, or sin.
“Tum kahaan se aayi ho?” he asked finally.
She paused.
“Ek ashram.”
That explained her clothes. Her silence. Her eyes.
But it didn’t explain the forest.
Or the fear.
“Ashram mein sab theek tha?”
Her throat moved as she swallowed.
Then— a nod.
But it didn’t feel honest.
Not to him.
Silence stretched between them.
She looked at his coat, his shoes, his watch like they were tools from another planet.
“Yeh sab cheezein… ajeeb hain,” she said suddenly.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Kya?”
She pointed to the monitor.
“Yeh... dil dekh raha hai?”
He nodded slowly.
“Haan. Tumhara.”
Her eyes widened.
“Woh kaise?”
And somehow, in the quiet hush of that sterile room, Viransh found himself explaining heart monitors to a girl who had never seen a ceiling fan until today.
It was absurd.
But it didn’t feel wrong.
He watched her as she listened. Her attention so present, so pure.
Not once did she check her reflection.
Not once did she ask for a phone.
Not once did she speak with entitlement.
She asked why, not when.
She looked at the world like it was a secret.
And in a world full of people faking innocence, she wore hers like second skin.
He stood up finally.
“Tumhe kuch chahiye?”
She hesitated. Then whispered—
“Kya main... paani le sakti hoon?”
He gestured to the glass beside her.
“Woh tumhara hi hai.”
She picked it up carefully. As if even water here needed permission.
Viransh turned toward the door.
“Main kal wapas aata hoon.”
She didn’t ask why. Didn’t stop him. Just nodded.
"Apka naam kya hai?” she asked softly.
He paused.
Then said, “Viransh.”
A name that wrapped around her chest like smoke.
Like she already trusted him.
That did something strange to his chest.
And then… he left.
Leaving her with silence again.
But this time, the silence wasn’t foreign.
It felt like something waiting.
Viransh’s POV
The night outside was quiet, but inside his head — storms brewed.
Viransh leaned back in the backseat of his car, eyes half-shut, one hand rubbing his temple. The roads blurred past, headlights cutting through fog and neon.
His assistant had been rambling something on the phone about a shipment delay. He didn’t even respond.
All he could think about — was her.
The girl.
Barefoot. Bleeding. Wild-eyed.
Running like the devil was chasing her.
And now… laying silent and injured in a hospital bed, with no idea how to drink water from a bottle or what an IV drip was.
She didn’t even know what a hospital is, he thought.
That wasn’t fear in her eyes.
It was purity.
It shook him more than any gun ever had.
Back at the mansion, his phone buzzed again. He ignored it.
He stood on his private balcony, looking out at the cold spread of the city, a glass of whisky in his hand.
The room behind him was silent, luxurious. Too quiet.
Too clean.
He was used to this life— darkness laced with gold, power soaked in blood.
But tonight, none of it felt real.
All he saw was her face.
How she flinched at English. How she seemed startled by light bulbs.
Where the hell had she come from?
What kind of life kept someone like that hidden away for seventeen years?
A wild, untouched girl.
Not broken.
Just… unseen.
He remembered the way her eyes softened when he spoke in Hindi.
The way she whispered his name.
“Viransh…”
He’d heard his name spoken by criminals, kings, traitors, enemies.
But never like that.
Never like it meant something.
He poured the whisky back into the bottle.
He didn’t need it tonight.
What he needed — was answers.
As he stepped out, he didn’t call his driver.
He walked down the corridor alone.
Each step heavier than the last.
Who is she?
Why was she running?
Why can’t I stop thinking about her silence?
And then a voice from deep inside him whispered a truth he didn’t want to admit yet—
Because her silence is the only thing that doesn’t feel like noise anymore.
The night outside was quiet, but inside his head — storms brewed.
Viransh leaned back in the backseat of his car, eyes half-shut, one hand rubbing his temple. The roads blurred past, headlights cutting through fog and neon.
His assistant had been rambling something on the phone about a shipment delay. He didn’t even respond.
All he could think about — was her.
The girl.
Barefoot. Bleeding. Wild-eyed.
Running like the devil was chasing her.
And now… laying silent and injured in a hospital bed, with no idea how to drink water from a bottle or what an IV drip was.
She didn’t even know what a hospital is, he thought.
That wasn’t fear in her eyes.
It was purity.
It shook him more than any gun ever had.
Back at the mansion, his phone buzzed again. He ignored it.
He stood on his private balcony, looking out at the cold spread of the city, a glass of whisky in his hand.
The room behind him was silent, luxurious. Too quiet.
Too clean.
He was used to this life— darkness laced with gold, power soaked in blood.
But tonight, none of it felt real.
All he saw was her face.
How she flinched at English. How she seemed startled by light bulbs.
Where the hell had she come from?
What kind of life kept someone like that hidden away for seventeen years?
A wild, untouched girl.
Not broken.
Just… unseen.
He remembered the way her eyes softened when he spoke in Hindi.
The way she whispered his name.
“Viransh…”
He’d heard his name spoken by criminals, kings, traitors, enemies.
But never like that.
Never like it meant something.
He poured the whisky back into the bottle.
He didn’t need it tonight.
What he needed — was answers.
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