"When loyalty tangles with love, even warriors falter."
Giriraj stands at a few steps from Chhayika, his fury radiating through him, and his usually calm demeanour shattered by a cold fury seeping through his each pore. His eyes were burning with an anger that can only come from someone who understands and deeply fears the cost of breaking their own rules.
"You have a death wish, don't you?" Giriraj's voice drops to a tone he only uses in manipulation set ups to threaten. It does not have any other impact than straightening Chhayika's spine. "Or you have a baseless prenotion that you can walk into a battlefield with guns blazing and blood seeping without the very armour, and you would still survive. It appears that you have taken your 'Mrityu' identity too seriously to forget that you are a human, that you can die. Do you have any idea on Earth about what you did today? Like any! You. Broke. Each. And. Every. Rule. That. We. Ever. Established. Every single one. You walked to fight death without a weapon. Back to Earth Chhayika, good morning, You are a human."
Chhayika for a moment forgets the warriors' badges on her body that are letting out blood from them like water from glaciers. Her jaw and muscles tightens and eyes turn red. Her body is screaming for breath, but she wouldn't fall weak, not here, not now, not in front of him.
Giriraj takes a step closer with hard eyes. "You think this is strength, Chhayika? Charging in without a backup and getting yourself shot? That's not bravery, it is not, that is ego. Reckless and self-serving ego."
Chhayika doesn't back down either. She holds her ground strong and unwavering and says, calm and clear: "You have forgotten one thing, Giriraj." He blinked, just once. "I still managed the situation." Giriraj lets out a dry and incredulous laugh, but Chhayika's voice remains steady and edged with exhaustion that she isn't letting out, but unshaken. "We are in a better position than we were yesterday, with intel, leverage, and five fewer people trying to kill us. So maybe, just maybe, I stumbled, but I stumbled forward. That is victory, something I should be praised for, and if it is about the death wish, that was never one of your concerns."
He scoffs. "At what price, did you 'stumble' forward? Huh? At the price of these bruises, this loss of blood, nearly getting killed, we had better ways."
"I know because I am bleeding, I am wounded, I am feeling every inch of it, not you." She replies flatly. Taking a small breath while pressing her hands to her sides, she continues. "What do you think I am playing victim? I came to you crying, huh? Am I asking for help? Not even compensation. Then what in the hell is the problem? You got the resources, the leverage, enjoy! I am asking you just for some space, just enough to treat myself, just enough to fix this. I need to breathe. I am not asking you to fix this, but can you kindly just step back. Just please."
Giriraj's jaw flexes and fists tighten at his sides. "You are in this situation because of yourself." Chhayika interrupts mid-way, "And I'm dealing with it myself," she snapped. "I didn't call you to drag me out. I didn't expect a rescue. I didn't ask for your approval, either. So don't pretend you were ever part of this mission."
They stand locked in silence, that sharp, bitter kind which was forged not from hate, but from care that had curdled into resentment.
Then, softer and tired, Chhayika speaks, "Let me fix this my way, like I always do." Giriraj replies, his voice, colder than ice, measured but still like steel, "Like you always do, getting into problems."
He steps closer, and his presence towers, not just in height but also certainty, "You said that I forgot one thing, that you still managed the situation. But, you forgot three." He counts on his fingers, right in front of her face, "The rules. The basic logic of war. And our agreement."
He doesn't raise voice, because he doesn't need to. "I am involved in this mission. You reached here because of me. You operate under the shadow of my intel, my clearance, and my cover. Don't rewrite that truth just to ease your guilt."
Then comes with the cold blade, unsheathed with precision. "You know the difference between you and me? We're not the same. I am a master at this game. I manipulate situations, people, outcomes, but you, you just stumble into them, pretending you have control, when you really don't."
Chhayika blinks and leans onto the wall behind, she is tired, bloodied and breathing in short puffs, but still her voice doesn't falter. "I always gain control later." The defiance overcame the pain, sharp, quiet and undeterred.
Giriraj's expressions harden further. "You don't." His words landed even heavier this time.
"You should have been partially dead by the time I reached you. But someone helped you. Someone you are hiding." He narrows his eyes, gaze slicing through her defenses. "And Chhayika, before you mess this up further, I need the name."
There is a lingering pause humming unsaid things. Then she simply attempts to divert the topic, "I can handle my mess, thank you for your kind attention."
A flicker of anger and disappointment, with the faintest hint to betrayal passes through Giriraj's face. But then, in a blink, it again hidden under the cold conviction. "Breaking deals of war isn't Chhayika Mishra," he said, voice quieter now — and harsher because of it.
"And Bhumi is the living example of it." He uses her own words against her. "You can't clear this mess alone," he continues, "It's prewritten in the deal. So now we talk. And I need the name."
Chhayika stills, the pain, the blood, the past, the present, and the weight of Giriraj's words were already a bullet under her skin, but something tore her apart. Bhumi's name, not as a hope or a prayer, but a leverage, that too, from the only man she trusts in this world, Giriraj. She turns, her eyes bloodshot red, and voice quivering, not with sorrow, but anger, "You don't get to weaponize her." A pause. "Not you, not anyone else, I am bruised, but these bruises are my badges and I wear them proudly. They stop hurting me the moment I wish to fight, and I am completely fine with another round of war. If it is about her, I would happily burn as much world as I can, do not even dare. Just don't, if you want to live at all.
Giriraj doesn't really react, but Chhayika knows he registered it, by the flicker of his jaw and the brief inhale, he knew the line he has crossed. Still, she is nowhere near stopping now.
"You want the name?" Her tone was razor-thin now, honed from years of walking tightropes in foreign lands and enemy masks. "What will you do with it? Chase the shadow? Lecture them too? They didn't pull me into a mess, they saved me from it. And if I give you that name, you'll turn it into another war." Giriraj's voice was low, "If it's Ariz, I deserve to know." Something barely cracks in her composure, a flash in her eyes, a twitch at her lips and a flare of her nose, which are too quick to catch, but not for him.
He steps forward, slow and deliberate, "It is him, isn't it?" Chhayika doesn't answer, she doesn't have to. Instead, she just straightened her back, and despite the pain screaming through her side, she said, "You think I'm protecting him. I'm not. I'm protecting what's left of me." Silence fell again, and this time, it was heavy. Then softer, quieter, she added, "I'll tell you the truth. But not today. Not like this." She limps towards the sink where her kit was lying open, and with trembling hands she picks up the gauze and the antiseptic.
"Right now, I need to stop the bleeding. Before I can fight another war, even the one with you." Giriraj exhales, a sound between frustration and restraint. Despite the clenched fists and pale knuckles, something in Chhayika's last words struck him deeper than he expected. He watches her reach the antiseptic, and he also watches her stiff movements, and blood seeping through the shirt. He watches her unravelling, not out loud, she never did, but in the stubborn silences in between her breaths.
"You, you always bleed in silence." he finally says in a lower voice now. " Even when you drown, you make it look like a choice." Chhayika doesn't look back, she just presses the gauge at her side and a silent wince escapes her lips, but she hides it behind the soft smile that reaches her lips. "Why do you think of me as an enemy, Chhayika, when all I have ever done is fight beside you? I have never, ever fought against you, until now." Giriraj approaches her slower this time with nothing but raw vulnerability in his eyes.
She turns just enough to meet his gaze, her glassy eyes are still that sharp, "Then stop acting like you are here to conquer me." Giriraj studies her for a moment, and finds the hurt in her eyes, the exhaustion of her body, and the head held high, a clear depiction of the fact that she is too proud to admit defeat. His voice softens, not due to pity, but something older, years of loyalty, "You could have called me, or just informed me."
"And said what, that I am going to chase a ghost with no real clue, it will possibly be a trap. But, someone I used to be has returned in some other skin, and I, in no way can tolerate that. You, according to your traits, would have told me to wait and plan, and my boiling blood couldn't wait, so I just did what best I could think of."
"I would simply have you back, as always." He says the truth, brutal but honest. Chhayika looks away. "You still can, but if you continue to ask questions that I can't answer, then you just can't." Then the room turned quiet again. Few moments later, Giriraj nods just once, reluctant, yes, but real.
"Fine, fix yourself up. But you have twenty-four hours, Chhayika. After that, no more shadows, and no more silence. We talk about everything." And then he turned and walked out, leaving her alone in the quiet hum of the safehouse with the smell of antiseptic thick in the air, and her reflection staring back from a cracked mirror, bleeding, but alive.
The next day
The safehouse smells like medicinal alcohol and old dust. Outside, the Tunisian sun burns sharp lines through the cracked blinds, casting shadows across the wooden floor. Inside, everything is still, too still for Giriraj's liking.
He steps in without knocking.
Chhayika is seated at the small table, bandages wrapped tight around her side, a cup of untouched black coffee steaming faintly beside her. She doesn't look up when he enters, but the slightest lift of her shoulder tells him she'd been expecting him.
"You're early," she says, voice low but steady. "You're lucky I waited at all," he replies, moving to the opposite chair.
He doesn't sit immediately, he studies her first. The way her jaw is set, the way her fingers twitch near the rim of the cup, how she wears pain like it is stitched into her bones. But what catches him is her eyes. Sharp. Guarded. But not cold.
He finally sits.
"Sleep?" Chhayika gives a faint shrug. "Some. Enough." He nods, resting his elbows on the table, fingers laced.
"I've been thinking about yesterday." She looks at him now, but says nothing. "The way you defended Ariz," he continues casually, like he is talking about the weather, "it didn't sound like a soft corner anymore."
She stills.
"It felt like..." He tilts his head slightly, watching her closely. "Like you own him."
That hit. Just a flicker. But Giriraj catches it.
A beat. Two.
Chhayika doesn't speak right away. She picks up the cup, takes a sip, eyes fixed on something behind him, or within herself. "You think I'm making this personal," she finally says. "I think you already did."
"And what if I did?" she asks, calmly. "What if I owe him something I can't repay? What if I left a man to bleed out in a land that never belonged to either of us, and now I find out someone's wearing my face to finish what I couldn't?"
"You're not answering the question," Giriraj says. "What question?" Her voice is sharper now. He leans forward, his voice low, "Why does it feel like you're guarding him?" Chhayika looks at him now. Really looks. There is no hesitation in her voice this time. "Because maybe... I am."
Silence.
She doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch. And in that silence, Giriraj feels something shift, like a balance tilting just a little too far on one side.
He swallows the thousand things he wants to say. About how he should be the one she guards like that. About how he has always been there, steady, unchanging, unwavering. But he was a mentalist. A manipulator. He doesn't speak what he feels. He watches. He waits.
So all he said is: "That shouldn't include him."
And Chhayika replies, not with fire, but with something more dangerous, conviction. "But it does."
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Author's Note
I apologize for the delay in upload today, I will do my best to ensure it is not repeated again. If you like the chapter, kindly vote, and if you dislike something about it, please mention that in comments. Thank you for reading!