Avni's POV
The sharp buzz of my alarm sliced through my dreams like a blade. I groaned, fumbling for the snooze button, but then paused. Just five more days. Five more days and I'd finally be a doctor. The thought was enough to make my lips curl into a sleepy smile.
It had been years of relentless effort, sleepless nights, and caffeine-fueled study marathons. And now, the finish line was in sight. I could almost feel my mother's warm hug, hear my father's proud silence, and smell home—really smell it, not just remember it through pictures and old T-shirts.
I stretched lazily, but just as I reached for my toothbrush, my phone lit up. Professor Mehra.
My stomach dropped. It was rare for him to call this early. Heart racing, I picked up.
"Good morning, Avni," he said without any small talk. "I hope I didn't wake you up."
"No, sir. I was just—" dreading rounds "—getting ready for the day."
"Well, I won't take much of your time. I wanted to personally inform you—you've been selected for the upcoming Model United Nations conference. You'll be representing our university along with two other students. It's a great opportunity."
My eyes widened. "I… What?"
"You were always a natural at public speaking. I remember your debates in third year. This is a prestigious event. Check your email. Details are there."
"Thank you, sir! I'm—truly honored," I managed, blinking away the sudden flood of excitement.
As I hung up, a rare wave of giddiness washed over me. I hadn't participated in MUN since school, but I used to love it. The arguments, the adrenaline, the structured chaos of diplomacy—it had always made me feel powerful, intelligent, seen.
And here it was again. A second chance.
But just as I stood beaming in my small apartment, my stomach growled—loud and indignant. Laughing softly, I grabbed my coat and headed to the nearby café for a coffee strong enough to resurrect a corpse.
Four Days Later
I closed my last file of the day and exhaled deeply, rolling my shoulders to release the tension from my overworked muscles. After four straight days of hospital shifts, with barely three hours of sleep each night, I finally had a free evening. No night duty. No emergency calls.
Just me, my bed, and the long-overdue task of writing the MUN position paper.
The apartment greeted me with its usual silence. I threw off my shoes, walked straight to the bathroom, and stood under a steaming shower until the water ran cold. Every inch of me ached, but I felt a little lighter—cleaner, mentally and physically.
I made myself a plate of creamy pesto pasta, lit a vanilla candle for no reason other than the need for comfort, and opened my laptop.
There it was—the email from Professor Mehra. I hadn't had a chance to even open it before. The subject line read: Delegate Country – Italy | WHO Committee Guidelines.
Perfect. I clicked it open and read through, taking notes, cross-referencing sources. Hours passed in a blur of focus. Despite the exhaustion, it felt good to use my brain in a different way—away from diagnosis charts and patient histories.
By the time I typed the last sentence of the paper, it was 10:07 PM. I stretched, cracked my knuckles, and glanced at the mirror across the room.
Dark circles. A battlefield under my eyes.
"Great," I muttered, grabbing my moisturizer and massaging it in with gentle fingers.
I opened my wardrobe and pulled out the outfit I had been saving for months—sleek, stylish, a confident navy-blue blazer with tailored trousers and a silk blouse. It made me feel like I could stand before any world leader and make them listen.
Tomorrow, I would wear it. Tomorrow, I would speak.
And maybe… something inside me whispered… tomorrow, something would change.
Abhimanyu's POV
"Merda! Merda! Merda!"
(Shit! Shit! Shit!)
I slammed my glass of whiskey on the counter, the sound slicing through the silence of my penthouse like a warning shot. The email about the MUN program had been buried under mafia meeting briefs and territorial reports, and now the reminder had come—not from my team, but from my mother.
She'd found out somehow, of course she had. She always did. And now, she was insisting I attend.
"You always had a gift, beta. Even your teachers said you were born to lead. Go… Debate. Win. For me."
She didn't understand that my life no longer revolved around academic trophies. I led men, not mock councils. I negotiated real ceasefires—ones that involved blood, not words.
But she was my maa. And her word was law.
So yeah… I'd do it. Just this once.
Not for the damn program. But for her.
I called my secretary.
"Yes, sir?" she answered, breathy and hesitant.
"Arrange an outfit suitable for that stupid MUN thing tomorrow," I ordered, tone icy. "Keep it simple. Sharp. No bullshit."
"O-okay, sir."
She was terrified. Good. That's how it should be. Respect wrapped in fear.
As she hurried off, I cracked my neck and turned to my laptop. Midnight. I still had time. I could finish the position paper in under an hour. Italy—World Health Organization committee. Easy enough.
I began typing, fingers moving fast, brain already calculating every strategic point I could weaponize in that polished arena of false diplomacy.
This wasn't about participating. It was about domination.
And no one—even those playing pretend with peace—would outshine me.
Not tomorrow.
As the night deepened and the city slept, two minds worked under separate moons—one dreaming of rising, the other of ruling.
Neither knowing the other waited at the same crossroads.