HIDDEN STRINGS : Who's playing who

The Unwanted REUNION

Hayat's POV

The auditorium hummed with the restless energy of hundreds of first-year students, their nervous laughter and whispered conversations rising like static in the cavernous space. I adjusted my position near the railing, the cold metal pressing into my palms as I leaned forward, trying to focus on the empty stage below.

*Why was I even rushing here?* The thought flickered through my mind, unbidden. I wasn’t late—in fact, I had arrived far too early, my nerves driving me to seek out my seat before the crowds swarmed in. But something had unsettled me the moment I stepped inside, a prickle at the back of my neck, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

*I’m forgetting things again.* The realization was bitter. *First my keys, then my notes, now even my own thoughts. What next? My own name?* A dry laugh threatened to escape me. *At this rate, I’ll be a senile grandmother by thirty—if I even live that long.*

I shook my head slightly, as if the motion could dislodge the unease clinging to me. The ceremony wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes, and the wait stretched before me, endless and suffocating.

Then—

A shift in the air.

A presence.

My gaze, almost against my will, drifted toward the front row.

And there—

*No.*

My breath stuttered.

A man sat in the center of the front row, his broad shoulders cutting a stark silhouette against the dim lighting. Even from this distance, even with only the back of his head visible, I *knew*.

*Mohammad Ibrahim Khan.*

Time slowed.

The noise of the auditorium faded into a distant hum, muffled as if underwater. My fingers tightened around the railing, knuckles whitening.

*It can’t be him.*

But it was.

The way he held himself—unbothered, regal, as if the world itself bent to his will—was unmistakable.

*What is he doing here?*

The question screamed in my mind, sharp and frantic. He should have graduated years ago. He should have been continents away, buried in his empire, in his power, in his *life*—one that had no place for me.

Then it hit me.

*Whose college is this?*

My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone, my fingers moving on autopilot. A quick search—and there it was, flashing on the screen like a taunt.

**Owner: Mohammad Ibrahim Khan.**

A choked sound escaped me.

*I asked him to get me into a good college. And he sent me straight into his own.*

The irony was cruel.

My chest constricted, my lungs refusing to cooperate. *I can’t be here. Not with him. Not now.*

The urge to *run* surged through me, primal and desperate.

*RUN.*

I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate.

I turned on my heel and fled.

---

Ibrahim’s POV

The delay was unacceptable.

I checked my watch for the third time, my fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the armrest. The stage remained empty, the lights dimmed, the murmurs of restless students swelling around me.

Alam, my newly appointed assistant, shifted beside me, his nervous energy grating. "Sir, there’s a technical issue—they’re saying it’ll just be a few more minutes—"

"A *technical issue*," I repeated, my voice dangerously soft. "In *my* university."

He swallowed. "I—I’ll go check again—"

"No." I cut him off. "Give me my coat. I’m leaving."

Alam scrambled to hand it over, but the moment the fabric touched my hands, I knew.

*This isn’t mine.*

I turned the coat over, my grip tightening. "Where is my coat, Alam?"

His face paled. "S-Sir, I had it with me—"

"That coat," I said, each word measured, "had something *irreplaceable* inside."

The blood drained from his face. "I—I’ll find it—"

"Lock down the university," I ordered. "No one leaves until I have it back."

His mouth opened, but the look in my eyes silenced him.

"And Alam," I added, my voice dropping to a whisper, "if it’s gone, so are you."

---

Two hours.

Two f*****g *hours* of searching, of guards combing through every exit, every hallway, every corner of the campus.

Nothing.

Mr. Han arrived, his presence a calm amidst the storm, but even his steady demeanor couldn’t quell the fury simmering beneath my skin.

"Alam," Mr. Han said, his voice patient but firm, "think. Where did you go after you took the coat?"

Alam squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting in concentration. Then—

"A girl!" he blurted. "I—I bumped into a girl outside the auditorium! The coats—they must have gotten switched!"

My pulse spiked.

*Her.*

I didn’t need a description. I already knew.

A single command, and within minutes, the admission records were in my hands.

**Hayat Khan. Music Department.**

My fingers hovered over her contact number before pressing *call.*

The first ring. Silence.

The second—

A breathless voice answered. **"Who’s this?"**

I didn’t hesitate.

**"IBRAHIM KHAN."**

A sharp inhale. Then—nothing.

The silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Then his voice came again - not louder, but *darker*, each word carefully measured like a judge pronouncing sentence.

**"Do you know how many times I've watched you run from me, Hayat?"**

A shudder ran down her spine. *Watched?*

**"Every. Single. Time."** The words dripped with quiet menace. **"Through crowded streets. Down empty hallways."** A pause. **"Did you really think I couldn't find you whenever I wanted?"**

He paused deliberately , letting the weight of his words stir something in her.

**"Hayat."**

Just her name. Just that one word, spoken in dangerously low and commanding tone.

**"I'm done with this. Done with your running. Done with your hiding."** A pause, deliberate. **"You have one hour to bring me my coat. If I have to come find you..."**

Another beat of silence. Then—

**"If I have to come find you, *jaan,* I won't let you leave again. This time, I'll cage you myself."**

The call ended.

Hayat's breath came in short, panicked bursts.

*Cage.*

Not a threat. A *promise.*