TESSA RATHOR

I’m Tessa. Brooklyn has been my home for four years – long enough to learn its chaos, but not enough to belong. I own a small dress designing shop, hidden in the noise of the city.

In all these years, I’ve only made two friends – Lily and Sophie – and somehow, that’s been enough. But family… that’s a story I don’t tell often. After my mother died her best friend Nisha aunty, too me in as her own. She didn’t have to – but she did. She gave me a home a name, something to hold on to when everything else was gone.

And Arav – her son. My brother, not by blood, but by heart. He never once made me feel like I didn’t belong. If anything, he gave me more respect than I ever expected, stood by me in ways no one else did. When I started my small shop, he was there – helping, supporting, and pushing me to grow, even when I doubted myself.

Truth is, my world is small. Just four… maybe five people. But with them, I’ve found something rare – something that feels like home.

I drag myself out of my delusions and back into reality. Outside, rain falls in a steady rhythm, soft but endless. I stand by the window, a cup of hot coffee in my hands, letting the warmth sink in as the city blurs behind the glass.

Lily and Sophie didn’t come today. Maybe they’re caught up in their own lives. It’s almost 9:30 pm, and for once, the noise of Brooklyn feels distance… almost lonely. After all that had happened, I was about to lock the shop door, clutching my bicycle keys, when suddenly my phone rang—an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. Without a second thought, I answered.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello,” came the voice from the other end. “Did I reach Tessa Fashion Shop?”

“Yes,” I replied, “you’ve got the right place. How can I help you?”

There was a pause, and then she said, “I wanted to place an order for a dress… could you please tell me the price of this gown?”

“Of course,” I said. “If you send me a picture of the gown, I can let you know the price by tomorrow. Will that be okay?”

“No, that’s fine,” she assured me.

The call ended, but from the tone of her voice, I had a feeling this was no ordinary order—she was about to drop a substantial sum.

Within fifteen minutes, a photo of the gown arrived. My breath caught. I couldn’t help but exclaim to myself. I had never imagined that in an instant, my world could tilt so abruptly. The gown was a white princess gown, dazzlingly ornate, as though ten people had measured and stitched it with meticulous care. Its length alone was enough to make anyone gasp—it was regal, almost royal.

I messaged back to confirm the order. The reply came swiftly: “Don’t worry about the cost; just make it exactly like this.” I sank back onto the sofa, a wave of relief washing over me. For a fleeting moment, I thought of calling Sophie and Lily to tell them everything—but exhaustion took over, and my eyes closed before I could. Sleep claimed me.

I wake up slowly, my eyes blinking open— and the first thing I see… Nisha aunty.

She’s sitting in front of me, a sandwich in her hand. “Good morning, sweetheart,” she says softly. “I know you work a lot, but don’t push yourself too hard.

It’s not good for your health.” A small smile forms on my lips. She’s always like this—gentle, caring, patient.

The way she understands me… it makes something inside my chest feel lighter.

She never lets me feel it—

the absence of my mother. Not even for a second. “Sweetie…” Her voice pulls me back again.

“I’ll be going to Jersey City for about three… maybe four months.

It’s for a corporate training.” I don’t think. Not even for a second. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “Of course.” A small nod escapes me. “That’s… actually really good.” And I mean it.

        LUCIUS BLACKWOOD

A flicker of irritation crossed my mind as I looked down, a faint sense of disgust settling in. It felt unnecessary—like dirtying my hands over something insignificant, like killing a rat that wasn’t even worth the effort. A dry, humourless smirk touched my lips before fading away. These local gangsters… are fucking bastards. Loud, reckless, and completely devoid of discipline.

The alley stretched ahead in an unnatural silence. Not the quiet of an ordinary night, but something controlled—deliberate. Every stray sound had been erased with purpose. I knew exactly what that meant. Someone had arranged this. Nothing here was accidental.

The gunshot shattered that silence without warning, sharp and precise. My body reacted instantly, shifting just enough for the bullet to miss. It grazed past my skin—closes enough to feel, but not enough to matter. The sting registered for a brief second, then disappeared. Pain had never been something that slowed me down.

My instincts moved toward retaliation, ready to deal with the source of the attack, to end it before it could escalate into something more. But then something else pulled my attention away. At the far end of the adjoining alley, where darkness blurred the edges of everything, there was movement—faint, unsteady, out of place.

My focus shifted instantly, sharpening as my gaze locked into that direction. The presence didn’t belong to the situation unfolding around me. It carried a different weight—quieter, but far more significant. For a moment, everything else became irrelevant. The attack, the silence, the unseen shooter—none of it mattered anymore.

Because whatever was there wasn’t part of the plan. And in my world, anything that falls outside the plan demands attention. I remained still for a second longer, observing, letting the details settle. The uneven stance, the fragile movement, the way the figure struggled to stay upright—severely injured, but not dead. Not yet.

Someone had been careless. Fucking careless. And carelessness was something I never ignored.

Slowly, deliberately, I shifted my direction toward that alley, each step controlled and measured. The air grew heavier the closer I moved, carrying the aftermath of something violent—something unfinished. The figure became clearer with every step. Fragile. Fading. And completely out of place.

This wasn’t a coincidence. It never is. And whatever this was—it had just become my concern. It was a girl. At least, that was what it seemed from a distance. The way she moved, however, felt wrong—unsteady, as if her body was barely holding itself together. Each step looked forced, unstable, like she was pushing herself forward on nothing but will.

My attention was fixed on her as I watched her balance give out, her body hitting the ground without resistance. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then, against all logic, she tried to get up again. She managed it somehow, barely forcing herself upright—only to collapse once more, harder this time.

She didn’t move after that.

I moved without hesitation. The sting along my arm, where the bullet had grazed me, registered but didn’t matter. The alley wasn’t safe—I knew that. Still, I didn’t stop.

By the time I reached her, the damage was clear. Blood had dried at the corner of her lips. Her breathing was uneven, strained, each breath coming with effort.

Alive.

That alone changed everything. If the objective had been to kill her, it could have been done cleanly. Instead, this was excessive—uncontrolled, more force than necessary. Sloppy work.

The kind done by people who didn’t understand limits. No discipline. No precision. Just violence without control.

I remained still for a moment, observing. She didn’t fit—not the place, not the situation. Something about her felt out of place, like she didn’t belong in this kind of mess. Even in this condition—broken, unconscious—there was something about her that refused to be ignored.

My gaze lingered a second longer than necessary before I pushed the thought aside.

I bent down and lifted her. She felt light. Too light.

The SUV was already waiting. The door opened immediately. I placed her inside, got in, and started the engine. The car moved, leaving the alley behind.

A public hospital wasn’t an option. Too many questions. Too much attention.

I contacted my personal doctor. No unnecessary explanation—just clarity. There was no hesitation. He understood immediately and assured me everything would be ready before I arrived.

The call ended. For a moment, my attention shifted to my arm. The bullet graze was still there. Minor. Ignorable.

It could wait. She couldn’t.

Leaving her in that alley had never been an option.

TESSA RATHOR

My eyes fluttered open as the ceiling light struck them, too bright and too sudden, forcing a faint sting behind my vision. For a few moments, I lay completely still, blinking slowly, trying to adjust, as if even the act of waking demanded more strength than I had left. Nothing around me felt familiar. A quiet confusion settled deep within as I tried to understand where I was, yet my thoughts refused to form properly, slipping away each time I tried to hold onto them. Everything felt distant, disconnected, as though I had been taken out of my own reality and placed somewhere unfamiliar without warning.

My body felt unnaturally heavy, as if it no longer belonged to me. The slightest attempt to move sent pain spreading through me, sharp in some places, dull in others, but always present, always reminding me that whatever had happened to me had not been minor. I tried to remember, forcing my mind to search through the emptiness, and slowly, fragments began to surface—broken, incomplete, and refusing to connect. A strong hand gripping mine, tight and unyielding, a sudden pull, and then a violent impact against my head. After that, there was nothing. Only darkness.

My brows drew together slightly as I tried to push further, but the rest remained out of reach, hidden behind a thick, unbreakable fog. A faint scent reached me then, clean, sharp, unmistakably clinical, grounding me just enough to pull my attention outward. I slowly looked around, taking in my surroundings. The place resembled a hospital, with its white walls and controlled stillness, an environment meant for recovery, yet something about it felt off. The silence was too complete, too deliberate, with no distant sounds or movement to break it. It felt contained, safe, but in a way that made the air seem heavier, almost restrictive.

A subtle awareness settled over me, quiet but undeniable. I wasn’t alone. The realization came without reason, without sound, just a presence that could be felt rather than seen. Something still. Something watching. Slowly, I shifted my gaze, and that was when I saw him. He stood at a distance, his height immediately noticeable, almost imposing without effort, his broad shoulders and solid build giving him a presence that seemed to claim the space around him. His posture was controlled, composed, with no unnecessary movement, carrying a quiet authority that didn’t need to be asserted. Soft curls fell slightly over his forehead, framing a face that was sharp and precisely structured, nothing careless, nothing accidental.

His eyes were fixed on me, steady and unmoving, holding a calm, measured focus that felt deliberate, as though he wasn’t simply looking but observing, assessing, and understanding without needing a single word. For a moment, everything else faded—the pain, the confusion, the questions—dulling beneath the weight of that gaze until it became difficult to focus on anything else. Only when my attention shifted did I notice his hand, bandaged and wrapped neatly in fresh white cloth, the sight stirring a quiet question in my mind that lingered briefly before dissolving into uncertainty.

Then he moved. Slow, controlled, every step deliberate, as if nothing he did was without purpose. As he came closer, his presence felt heavier, not overwhelming but impossible to ignore, grounding the space around him in a way that made everything else seem secondary. I tried to respond, to say something, but my lips barely moved, the words refusing to form, breaking apart before they could take shape, and the effort sent a wave of dizziness through me, scattering what little clarity I had managed to gather.

Another presence entered the room then, older, composed, carrying a quiet professionalism that brought with it a sense of stability. He observed me briefly, his demeanor steady, as if assessing my condition with practiced ease, and the reassurance in his presence suggested that whatever state I was in, it was something that could be fixed with time. The words meant to comfort barely reached me, fading into the background as my attention drifted once more.

It kept returning to him.

The man who still stood there, unchanged, silent, composed, watching in a way that felt intentional rather than passive, as though nothing in the room held more importance than what he was observing in that moment. He was unfamiliar, completely unknown to me, and yet, despite everything, despite the uncertainty and the lingering pain, there was no fear. Only a strange, unexplainable sense of stillness.

And somehow, in a place that felt both controlled and unfamiliar, that was the only thing that felt real. I should have felt safe.

But the way his eyes lingered on me—steady, unreadable—

made me wonder if I had been rescued… or simply taken.