Twisted Thrones

Glimpses of Shadows 1

Tuesday, 01:20 p.m.

Shanchayita stepped out into the muted chaos of the city. Rainwater still glistened on asphalt, reflecting the muted Sun behind the clouds. Barricades and police vans threaded slowly along narrow streets. Vendors packed up early, their voices lost in the residual hum of sirens. The faint smell of wet earth and exhaust filled the air, pressing gently against her senses.

She tightened the strap of her sling bag, adjusted the beige kurta she had chosen, and pulled her bobbed hair back into a tidy ponytail. No makeup, just herself. Confidence and caution folded neatly together as she made her way toward the Mall, where Ashmit had said he’d meet her.

Her footsteps splashed lightly over puddles as she moved, alert, observing. The city had changed in the past few days. The airport blast had left it tense, quiet in the wrong places, too alert, too unpredictable. People avoided lingering, as if aware that chaos could lurk behind every corner.

She reached the designated spot near the Mall entrance. Ashmit was already there, sitting on a bench , checking his phone. He looked impossibly confident, tall, the faintest smirk teasing the corner of his lips. His shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled, and there was a subtle glint of a gold watch on his wrist.

“Shanchayita,” he said, voice smooth, as she approached. “Right on time. Impressive.”

“Hello, Ashmit,” she said softly, offering a polite smile. She kept her hands loose at her sides, alert but calm.

He straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “I thought we could grab lunch at the Mall café first. Heard they have some excellent biryani.”

She nodded. “Sure.”

As they walked, he started talking about his life: his father, an influential MLA, the sprawling family home, vacations in Europe, and subtle hints about the kind of social circles he moved in. There was pride in his tone, a little boasting, as if every word had been polished for impact.

Shanchayita listened, eyes scanning the reflective streets, noting barricades, the occasional police patrol, the wet leaves skittering across sidewalks. The city had a quiet vigilance now. Her pulse matched its rhythm, a mix of nerves and curiosity.

“You see, my father always says,” Ashmit continued, leaning slightly closer, “connections matter. You have to know people, not just for yourself… but to get things done.” His grin broadened, the kind that suggested charm but also self-assured entitlement.

She smiled faintly. “I see. Sounds… strategic.”

He laughed softly. “Of course. Life’s a game. You play to win.”

They reached the café. Inside, the air was warm, smelled faintly of spices and fresh bread. The hum of conversation filled the space, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and distant music. They sat by the window, watching the wet streets outside.

Lunch was a careful balance of polite conversation and light teasing. Ashmit leaned closer occasionally, brushing his fingers near hers, testing boundaries subtly. Shanchayita held herself still, calm, letting him talk, keeping a mental note of each gesture, each word.

“You always look so calm,” he said suddenly. “Like nothing ever surprises you.”

“Maybe I just don’t let things,” she paused, smiled faintly, “surprise me easily.”

He chuckled, leaning back, clearly enjoying the tension. She noticed the subtle arrogance, the confidence that bordered on entitlement. He didn’t mean harm, not yet, but she felt the faint unease that had been growing since their first meeting.

Lunch ended. They walked through the Mall corridors, the smell of coffee and fried snacks mingling with polished floors. By 2:30 p.m., they reached the theater.The movie started. She sat, alert to his movements, noting every gesture. He leaned in once, arm brushing hers. She shifted slightly, polite but firm.

As the minutes stretched, Ashmit’s subtle attempts increased, a closer shoulder, a hand resting near hers, a gentle pressure of proximity. Shanchayita’s pulse quickened. She was aware, cautious, ready.

Tuesday- 6:14 p.m.

Kolkata streets outside the theater were quieter, the rain now a thin mist. Neon lights shimmered on wet asphalt. Ashmit suggested a café nearby.

“I know a place. Cozy. Private,” he said, eyes gleaming slightly.

Shanchayita agreed, her mind alert. The city’s tense atmosphere seemed to press in from all sides, empty streets, flickering streetlights, distant sirens.

Inside, the café was dim, the smell of roasted coffee and damp air mingling. Ashmit moved closer, trying to guide her toward a secluded corner. “It’s quiet here,” he said, voice lower, leaning in.

Shanchayita took a deliberate step back.

“I think we should just sit.”

He smiled faintly, misreading her distance as playful hesitation. He leaned closer again. “Come on. One kiss won’t hurt…”

Her heart raced, not with anticipation, but with alarm. “No,” she said firmly, voice cutting through the dim warmth of the café. “I’m not ready for that. Not now. Not like this.”

His face hardened. “What do you mean, not ready?” His tone sharpened, frustration creeping in. “I thought… I thought you liked me.”

“I do,” she said, careful to remain calm. “But I like myself more than your impatience. I’m serious, Ashmit. Stop.”

He rose, anger visible now. “Stop? You think you can just...”

She shoved him lightly, her resolve hardened. “I said stop!”

Panic and urgency surged. She turned and bolted from the café, slipping through the empty street. Her sandals splashed through shallow puddles. Rain misted around her face, hair damp, breath sharp in the cool air.

Ashmit hesitated at the door, realizing pursuit might damage his carefully polished image. Reputation mattered more than immediate satisfaction. He paused, thinking of options. College influence, maybe even his father’s underground contacts. But for now, she was gone.

Shanchayita’s legs carried her instinctively, heart hammering. And then, unexpectedly, she stumbled into someone familiar.

"Shanchayita?” Arnab’s voice was calm but sharp, slicing through the humid mist of Kolkata streets.

She skidded to a stop, shoes splashing in puddles, hair damp and clinging to her forehead. Her chest heaved with rapid breaths.

“Arnab…” she whispered, voice trembling. “I… he..Ashmit...he tried to…” Her words caught in her throat.

Arnab’s eyes scanned the empty street instinctively, alert, calculating, the mist curling around the dim streetlights.

“It’s okay. Slow down. What happened?”

She clutched her kurta, her fingers tight around the fabric. “He… he tried to kiss me. I said no. He got… angry. I ran…” Her eyes darted to every shadow, every reflective puddle as if expecting him to appear behind her.

Arnab’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. Inside, a surge of fury coiled like a tightly wound spring. Ashmit! That fucker! Thinking his father’s influence and a brash smile could override decency. Arnab’s fingers flexed; his body remained perfectly still, calm, unshakable, but beneath that exterior, the storm brewed. Every instinct screamed to chase, to strike, to tear that arrogance apart.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, a measured calm that belied the storm inside. “Nothing’s going to happen now.”

Her shoulders sagged fractionally, the first hint of relief softening her rigid stance. “Arnab… what are you… doing here?” Her voice was barely audible.

“I was meeting Aditya,” he said smoothly, voice casual, unassuming, almost mundane. She blinked, nodding. The explanation felt normal enough; she didn’t question it.

The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened, reflecting neon lights from the distant shops, the occasional passing taxi. Arnab held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

She hesitated, then took it, her fingers brushing his. He didn’t flinch. He led her down the quiet lane to a waiting taxi, the engine humming softly, a low constant beneath the distant city chaos.

Inside, the car smelled faintly of leather and rain. Shanchayita pressed her palms to her lap, hands trembling slightly. Arnab remained still, his eyes forward, but his mind raced. Every street corner, every flicker of movement in the rearview mirror, every honking car registered subconsciously.

“Shanchayita… tell me everything,” he said finally, voice calm, steady.

She inhaled shakily, her eyes glistening. “We… we had lunch near the Mall. Everything seemed fine. He...he wanted to watch a movie afterward. I didn’t think anything of it.”

Her voice trembled as she recalled the cinema lights, the laughter that had died abruptly.

“Afterward, he… he suggested a café… or… or something. And then he tried to...kiss me. I said no. I...I just ran. I didn’t know where to go.”

Arnab’s fingers curled subtly around the edge of his seat. His jaw tightened, the fury boiling beneath a calm mask. Ashmit, that pretentious, arrogant motherfucking son-of-a-b***h! He imagined the slick, overconfident smile, the shallow charm that masked entitlement, and the blood boiled. Yet his expression remained neutral, unreadable.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly.

“That’s what matters. Everything else… we deal with later.”

She looked at him, finally allowing herself to breathe. The presence of calm authority, the sheer confidence in his tone, made her chest unclench. He wasn’t patronizing. He wasn’t exaggerating. He simply… was.

The taxi maneuvered through half-empty streets, puddles shimmering like shattered glass in the faint neon glow. Shanchayita’s gaze drifted outside, noticing the silence in the city, the aftermath of the airport blast still haunting the lanes. Broken shop shutters, cautious pedestrians, murmurs of the news on car radios, a city tense, aware, fragile.

“I… I didn’t know what to do,” she admitted, voice small. “I was so scared… I ran without thinking.”

“You did the right thing,” Arnab said softly. His eyes flicked to hers briefly, calculating. “And you ran into me. That’s all that matters.”

She exhaled, leaning slightly against the door. “Arnab… I...thank you. I didn’t know what to…” She trailed off, words lost to the hum of the taxi engine.

He offered a small nod, turning his gaze forward. Inside, thoughts churned relentlessly. Ashmit’s father, the MLA. The wealth. The arrogance. The potential reach. But right now, it was about her safety, her trembling hands, the faint tremor in her voice. Everything else could wait.