Shadows Strick First
669 Words
The photo arrived in an unmarked envelope the next morning.
Rehaan opened it at breakfast, expecting paperwork. Instead, he found a grainy picture—him and Aanya outside the clinic. Her hand on his chest. His eyes only on her.
A second photo was clipped behind it.
Aanya. Alone. Smiling, unaware. Taken from a distance.
A note was scrawled in red ink:
“Pretty things break easy.”
His fork clattered to the floor.
Zayn looked over Rehaan’s shoulder. “It’s Aryan. He’s watching her.”
Rehaan’s voice was ice. “Then he’s too close.”
Aanya walked in moments later, tying her hair back, casually talking about breakfast. She stopped when she saw their faces.
“What happened?”
Rehaan didn’t answer.
He handed her the photo.
Her hands trembled, but she didn’t flinch. “He’s playing a game.”
“No,” Rehaan said. “He’s declaring war.”
—
They left the estate within the hour.
Zayn rerouted the guards. Aanya’s phone was switched. Rehaan personally checked the safehouse twice.
But deep inside, he knew—hiding wouldn’t save her.
“You can’t live like this,” Aanya said softly that night, curled beside him in the quiet apartment.
“I’ve always lived like this,” he replied.
“But not for someone else.”
He didn’t respond.
She continued, “I don’t want to be your weakness, Rehaan. I want to be your weapon.”
He turned to her, startled. “What?”
“I’m tired of running. If Aryan wants to test me, fine. Let him see what I’m made of.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re a poet.”
“And poets survive wars by rewriting them.”
—
The next day, Rehaan and Zayn staged a fake drop—rumor spread through Aryan’s informants about a weapons convoy Rehaan was personally guarding.
But Aryan didn’t bite.
He was waiting for something bigger.
And it came that evening.
Aanya was alone in the safehouse library, reading. Just minutes after the guards changed shift, the power cut.
Total silence.
Then—
A voice.
Smooth. Cruel. Familiar.
“Didn’t think you were the type to fall for a killer.”
She didn’t turn around. “You didn’t come to talk.”
Aryan laughed. “True. I came to collect.”
He stepped closer—but suddenly, the lights snapped on.
And Rehaan was standing behind him.
Gun raised.
“Step away from her.”
Aryan didn’t flinch. “You’re slower than I expected.”
Rehaan c****d the gun. “You’re dumber than I remembered.”
Aanya stood. Calm. “You’re in my home now, Aryan.”
He turned, confused—just as Zayn stepped from behind a hidden panel and jammed a pistol into Aryan’s back.
Aryan’s smirk faltered.
“I underestimated you,” he muttered.
Rehaan stepped closer. “You made one mistake.”
Aryan raised an eyebrow.
“You forgot I’m not afraid to end things.”
And with that, he signaled Zayn. Tranquilizer. Clean. Fast.
Aryan dropped.
—
Hours later, Aryan Verma was locked in a private cell far outside Mumbai, guarded by ex-military loyalists Rehaan trusted with his life.
“He won’t talk,” Zayn said. “And if he does—only to himself.”
But Rehaan wasn’t relieved.
He looked at Aanya, who stared out the balcony window, arms crossed.
“You okay?”
She didn’t turn. “He got too close.”
“He won’t again.”
She nodded slowly. “I didn’t think I’d be brave enough if it came to this.”
He stepped beside her, gently taking her hand.
“You were,” he said.
“But it changed me.”
“So did I,” he replied. “And maybe that’s the price.”
They stood in silence for a while.
Then she looked at him and asked, “What now?”
Rehaan thought for a long moment before answering.
“Now,” he said, “we build something they can’t burn down.”
- Writer
