Chapter 1: The Ash of Memory
1510 Words
The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the expensive, cloying scent of Tasha’s perfume. It was a smell Ruthran had come to loathe—it was a lie, a mask for the emptiness that followed him like a shadow.
"Ruthran, baby, come back to bed," Tasha murmured, her voice like silk over gravel. She reached out in her red silk lingerie exposing all the assets she has, “ having trouble sleeping dear, perhaps i shall keep u company” her manicured nails grazing the jagged scars on his back, but he flinched away as if her touch were a brand.
“ You must be tired from all the hard work of last hour, try to sleep tasha” ruthran is a monster in bed. He used to full his void by filling tasha And tasha loves it, who doesn’t to have that perfect body of his to be completely filled from inside to out.
“ for you, im not tired at all” she wake up from the bed and hug him from behind her hands was all over him.
"Go to sleep, Tasha," he growled, his voice a low vibration that commanded obedience.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. His mind was not here at all. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse, staring out at the city that groaned under his thumb. To the world, Ruthran was a god of the underworld—a man whose name was whispered in fear in back alleys and high-rise boardrooms alike. But as the clock struck 3:00 AM, the King felt like a beggar.
His eyes burned. For three days, he had fought the pull of sleep. Because sleep meant the fire. Sleep meant the girl.
His knees finally buckled, and he collapsed onto the leather armchair. His eyelids grew heavy, the darkness of the room swirling into a different kind of black—the black of soot.
The Dream.
Suddenly, the silence of the penthouse was replaced by the roar of an angry beast. The heat was instantaneous, blistering his skin and searing his lungs. “Help!” he tried to scream, but he was only seven years old again, a small boy trapped behind a fallen beam in a world turned orange.
Then, he felt it. The scent.
It cut through the suffocating smoke like a miracle—the crisp, cooling scent of wild jasmine and fresh rain. A small, soot-covered hand reached through the curtain of flames.
“Come on,” a voice whispered. It was soft, yet it held the strength of a thousand soldiers. “I know you’re scared, but take my hand... Come on, we have to go.”
He looked up. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the dancing demons of the fire, but they didn't waver. He reached out, his small fingers interlocking with hers. The moment their skin touched, the terror vanished. She pulled him with a strength that defied her size, leading him through the maze of falling timber and collapsing walls.
“Look! We survived!” she cried out, her voice a melody of triumph as they burst into the cold night air.
He saw a man—her father—only feet away.
“ daddyyy.... “ she cried at the sight of her Father
“ oh my little girl, thank god you are safe.” he run like a wave towards them, he scooped them both up, his arms a fortress of safety, handing them over to the faceless shadows of firefighters. Ruthran looked back at her one last time, her silhouette framed by the dying embers of his childhood home.
And then, he collapsed.
The Reality.
Ruthran jerked awake, a choked gasp escaping his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wiped the cold sweat from his brow, his breath coming in ragged hitches.
“Just a dream,” he whispered to the empty room. “Always the same damn dream.”
But it wasn't just a dream. He could still feel the phantom pressure of her hand on his. He could still smell that wild jasmine. He had spent years—and millions of dollars—searching for a girl who might not even exist anymore. He had combed through every orphanage, every school record, every hospital in the state. Nothing.
He stood up, his movements predatory and restless. He needed to bleed someone. He needed the physical pain of the world to drown out the spiritual agony of his mind.
“Sir?”
He turned to see his lead enforcer, Arjun, standing at the door. Arjun didn't flinch at the madness in Ruthran’s eyes; he had seen it too many times.
“The rat who leaked our plan to the Westside docks is in the downtown alley,” Arjun reported. “He’s ready to talk.”
Ruthran grabbed his coat, his face settling into a mask of cold, unfeeling stone. “He’d better be. I’m in a foul mood.”
The drive to the industrial district was a blur. Ruthran sat in the back of the blacked-out SUV, He arrived at the alley, the dampness of the night air clinging to his skin.
The interrogation was short. Ruthran didn't use words; he used his fists until the man was a sobbing mess of apologies and information. It was hollow. It didn't help.
Breathing hard, Ruthran walked away from the bloody scene toward his car, pulling a silver case from his pocket. He needed a smoke. He needed to feel the burn of nicotine to remind him he was alive.
Suddenly he sound of wheels hitting a pothole echoed through the narrow alley alone the soft velvety sound of a girl.
“Heyyyyyyyyy” she screamed in panic
Ruthran turned just as a blur of neon and silver slammed into his chest.
The impact was heavy, sending him reeling back against the cold brick wall. A small body collided with his, and they both tumbled to the wet pavement. For a moment, the world spun.
He felt a weight on his chest—soft, warm, and trembling. He looked down, ready to roar a threat that would end a life, but the words died in his throat.
A young girl was sprawled on top of him, her hair a tangled mess, one of her roller skates still spinning with a rhythmic whir-whir-whir.
But it wasn't the girl that stopped his heart.
It was the air between them. The smell of the blood and the garbage of the alley had vanished. In its place, rising from her skin, from her hair, from her very soul, was the scent.
Wild jasmine And rain.
Ruthran froze, his hands hovering over her waist. His mind screamed at him, a cacophony of recognition. It’s her. No, it’s impossible. She’s just a girl. But the smell... the smell is the same. How is this possible.. But now that smell vanished. Am i hallucinating...
The girl scrambled up, her face pale with terror. She didn't see a savior; she saw a man covered in blood, standing in a dark alley with a dead-eyed look.
“I-I’m so sorry!” she stammered, her voice trembling. “ usually no one will be around this time. And you came out of nowhere”
“ you should watch where you are going “ his voice with the stillness that cant be describe.
“ i know, sir im sorry for causing trouble. are you ok sir??” She started to inspect him through her eyes. She looked down at his hand, where a fresh scrape from the brick wall was oozing blood. She thought it was because of her.
“Oh no, you’re hurt! You are bleeding sir. I’m so, so sorry.”
Before he could speak, she reached into a small pouch at her waist. With shaking fingers, she pulled out a bright, ridiculous-looking bandage covered in colorful hello kitty characters.
" its nothing.. just bleeding it wont kill me"
" ofcourse it wont sir. but sir " she is visibly shaking right now. "you got hurt sir and i cant leave you in pain."
She grabbed his hand pressed the adhesive onto his skin.
“There, im sorry sir.” she whispered, her eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second. He looked at the bandage and something in him flipped. He liked the warmth that bandage gives. He smiled at the bandage
“ i have to leave sir. Im late for my job”
She turned and skated away, her small form disappearing into the fog of the street lamp.
Ruthran stood in the silence, looking down at the "funny" bandage on his hand. For the first time in twenty years, the fire in his mind didn't feel hot. It felt like hope.
He looked toward the street where she had vanished, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face.
“ who are you little muse?” he whispered to the night as her image descent into the mist of night and disappear.
- Writer
