The silence after a gunshot is never truly silent.
It hums, like a scream trapped in a bottle. Like thunder waiting to remember how to roar.
Arpan lay on the floor, the world spinning around him, the metallic taste of fear thick on his tongue.
His wrists were no longer bound. The rope had been sliced — but by whose hand, he didn't know.
His shoulder burned. A deep, agonizing sting. He reached up, fingers trembling, and touched something warm and sticky.
Blood.
His.
The gunshot hadn't missed.
The lights flickered back on.
A pale, flickering white stuttered through the room like a dying heartbeat.
Across from him stood Samruddhi.
The gun was still in her hand, arm lowered. But her eyes—
Her eyes looked like they'd died a minute ago.
Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, streaking mascara into war paint.
"I didn't mean to…" she whispered, her voice barely there.
He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. He coughed. "Where's Rivan?"
She didn't answer.
Because Rivan was gone.
The door behind her hung open, the faint sound of an engine revving somewhere distant.
He'd left her behind.
On purpose.
Arpan's breath came in shallow pulls. "You… you shot me."
Samruddhi dropped the gun like it burned her.
It hit the floor with a clatter, echoing like judgment.
"I didn't know," she said, stepping forward. "He—he told me things. Showed me files. Photos. It felt real. Everything felt real."
Her fingers trembled as she reached for his wound. "Let me stop the bleeding—"
He flinched. Just a twitch. But enough to make her freeze.
"I don't trust you right now," he said, eyes narrowed in pain.
Her face crumbled.
And then she laughed—a broken, bitter thing.
"That's funny. Because I don't trust me either."
She found a towel from a corner of the room, tearing it into strips, pressing one to his wound.
He hissed. "Samru…"
"Don't. Please." Her hands shook. "Don't say my name like that. Not now."
"I still love you."
Her hand stopped moving.
Tears dripped onto his shirt.
She sat down beside him, resting her head on the cold concrete wall.
"I was ready to kill you, Arpan," she whispered. "Do you understand what that means?"
"You were scared."
"I was poisoned."
"And yet… you didn't pull the trigger."
"I did," she said softly.
The silence between them was sharp.
And then she said it.
The truth he hadn't dared to ask.
"The bullet wasn't meant for you."
His eyes widened. "What?"
"Rivan tried to make me shoot you. But the second I saw your face… something in me shattered. So I turned the gun toward him."
"But he escaped…"
She nodded. "It grazed your shoulder. I thought—maybe it was my punishment. A way of fate saying I wasn't ready to choose."
Arpan gritted his teeth as he sat up, groaning against the pain.
They were alone. But they were also being watched.
He could feel it. Surveillance. Traps. Lies woven through the air like invisible wires.
This was never about revenge.
This was about war.
He turned to her. "We can still make it out."
Her expression darkened. "You don't get it, do you?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Rivan's not after you anymore, Arpan. He's after me. He's after what we have."
Arpan frowned. "Why?"
"Because love is the only thing you ever gave him that he couldn't return."
She stood up slowly, her breath ragged.
"He said… if he couldn't have what we had, he'd destroy it. From the inside."
"That's why he turned you against me."
She nodded. "That's why he left me with the gun. So I'd live with the guilt. So I'd never look at you the same way again."
He reached out, grabbing her wrist. "We still have time."
"No, Arpan," she said, eyes wide with rising dread. "You don't understand. He's not done yet."
She turned and walked to the wall, pressing on a tile.
It slid open.
Inside—was a small tablet.
She turned it on.
A video began playing.
It was a livestream.
Of a classroom.
Their school.
And inside it, bound to chairs—
Their friends.
Their teacher.
Even Rohini Ma'am—Samruddhi's mother.
Bombs wired to chairs.
A countdown at the bottom of the screen:
00:29:52
"Rivan wants us to choose," Samruddhi whispered, barely breathing. "Them… or each other."
Arpan stared at the screen, every breath a dagger.
This was no longer about vengeance.
This was terror.
[To be continued…]