ARNA

"Do you want to have s—" before I could complete the sentence, he walked into the adjoining room without a word. The door clicked shut.

I folded my arms, waiting — counting the seconds. One minute. Two. Five. Then he came back out.

"You came all this way just to change your shirt?" I blurted, my tone caught somewhere between disbelief and exasperation.

He didn't bother to answer, just adjusted his cuff as he stepped fully into view. The new shirt — white, crisp, perfectly fitted made him look every bit the controlled, dangerous man the rest of the world seemed to fear. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, veins visible along his forearms.

I tried not to notice.

Not that it was attractive.

Okay maybe slightly.

He ran a hand through his hair, unbothered.

"For the sake of sanity," I snapped, crossing my arms, "will you please tell me what's going on? Why did you pull me out of there? Did you actually save me or is this some new kind of punishment? I need answers, not silence."

"Stop acting brave, Arna," he said, voice low and condescending, slicing through the air like a scalpel. "You know this isn't your territory to play silly games. You don't get to demand answers from me like that."

His words dug into me like thorns, but I didn't back down. I couldn't.

"Then what do you expect from me?" I snapped, my voice sharp, refusing to tremble. "To beg?"

"I told you not to raise your voice," he said, eyes steady, blinkless. "I don't like repeating things."

The stillness in his voice was worse than a shout. It was controlled, clinical—like I was just another variable in some sick experiment he was too bored to explain.

"I hate you, Hridhan," I spat, each word burning like wildfire in my throat. "I've never hated anyone like this. Ever. I don't even believe in hate. When I dislike someone, I move on. I let them go. I don't give them the power to stay in my mind. But you..."

My breath stuttered. My chest tightened. I pushed the words out anyway.

"You're the exception. I hate you from the very core of my heart. Every beat of it."

And that was the truth.

I didn't throw hate around lightly. Never had. But with him, it wasn't just hatred—it was something deeper, something vile and tangled and hard to name.

Every word he spoke, every calculated silence, dragged me further into this strange, suffocating spiral I couldn't escape.

Why couldn't he just tell me?

Why he'd kidnapped me.

Why the riddles, the silence, the deliberate cruelty.

Instead, I got this—

"That's good," he said evenly, not flinching. "I don't want you developing any silly feelings for me just because I claimed you as my wife."

The word landed like a slap.

Claimed.

Wife.

"But," he added, a smirk curving the corner of his mouth, "learn to act like a good girl."

A pause. One beat. Two.

Then he said it—like a curse disguised as a joke.

"Deep in love."

I scoffed, louder than I meant to. "With you?" My voice dripped with venom, with mockery, with all the loathing I'd been holding back.

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His gaze was unshakable.

"Can't you?"

I stared at him, stunned. "I just told you I hate you. How could you possibly expect me to pretend I love you, when every part of me wishes I never met you ?"

I said it with force. So he'd feel it. Hear it. Let it burn through that armor of indifference he wore like skin.

"You prove you don't have a brain and a heart every time you open your mouth, heartless jerk."

I didn't expect a reaction—not from him. Usually, he'd respond with an eye roll or another bored insult. Something detached. Something safe.

But this time, something changed.

He stood.

And then he walked toward me.

The movement was quiet. Sudden. Too calm. Too deliberate.

I stepped back without thinking. Instinct. Reflex. My body moved before I could tell it not to. My pride cracked as my back hit the cold wall behind me, a soft thud I felt in my spine.

And still—he didn't stop.

He kept coming, every step purposeful, until he stood just inches away, towering above me like a shadow that had taken shape.

I could feel the heat of him. The weight of him. His presence was suffocating—thick and inescapable.

He leaned in, slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. They scanned every inch of my face, studying me with unsettling precision—like he was cataloguing my fear, my resistance, my heartbeat.

My breath caught. My heart skipped.

And without meaning to, I closed my eyes.

He was going to kiss me.

Don't.

Don't.

Don't.

His breath brushed my lips—warm, deliberate, maddeningly close. He didn't press in. Didn't claim. Just hovered there. Poised. Silent. Every muscle in my body screamed to shove him away. To fight. To scream.

But I didn't move.

His hands slid around my waist, slow, measured. And still, he didn't pull me in. He just held the space. Occupied it.

Like it was already his.

Like I was already his.

I hated it.

Push him, Arna. Do it. Now.

But before I could raise my hands, he let go.

No warning. No words.

He stepped back.

"That's it," he said, maddeningly calm. "Simple."

His eyes flicked over my face, reading something.

"This is how you act," he continued, as if he were giving stage directions. "Like you expect your handsome husband to kiss you every time he walks in. Like your heart races when I come close. That's all I need. That's more than enough."

His voice dipped, cool and precise.

My legs were still trembling, but I forced them to hold. He'd already taken too much—I wouldn't give him that, too.

What the hell just happened?

Was it a lesson? A warning? A test?

Or was it all an act ?

"You play your part well," he added. "As long as you keep your mouth shut."

He looked at me.

"I know you hate me," he said. "I don't care. Think whatever you want about me. I'm used to it."

There was no heat in his voice. No defensiveness. Just indifference. And somehow, that made it worse than anything else he could've said.

"I didn't save you, Arna," he continued, tone stripped of mercy. "Don't romanticize this. I'm not here to rescue you. I'm just giving you a chance to live. That's it. Take it. Or don't."

The silence stretched between us like a drawn blade.

"But we both know," he said softly, "you want to live. So let's not waste time talking about the alternative."

My throat tightened.

"You're under a death sentence," he said, coldly. "And no one—no one—can save you from the Arxline unless they're one of them."

He pointed to himself. "Like me." I stared at him, stunned into silence.

"The others ?" he added, voice lowering to something almost regretful. "They don't have the power. They can't even try."

As much as I hated to admit it—even to myself—I knew he was right.

No one could save me from the Arxline.

The rules were tight. Brutal. Absolute.

I'd never truly expected to survive this—not after the sentence was passed, not after they sealed my fate.

Not until him.

"I'm not saying this to scare you," he said. "I'm telling you so you can think. And decide."

His gaze darkened, and in that moment, I saw something unfamiliar in his eyes. Not cruelty. Not arrogance. But something buried.

"Sector 17 breaks everyone," he said quietly. "You know that better than anyone else here, I guess."

It felt like he saw straight through me. Like he'd already read the pages I hadn't shown.

"Either you use the kiss... or the kill," he said.

He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting.

"You decide."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Aww, what perfect advice. A devil dressed in shirt and pants — looks a lot like you." I met his gaze, refusing to flinch. "Who said I want to live? I don't want your mercy. I don't need it."

He watched me for a moment, eyes unreadable. "Is that so? You're not afraid of death?"

"Not even close."

"Okay then," he said simply. "Come with me."

We got back into the car. The roads narrowed as we drove — concrete giving way to cracked dirt, the distant hum of the city fading behind us. The skyline dissolved into a blur of shadows and trees, the faint outlines of the forest pressing closer from the other side of the barrier.

He stopped the car.

The engine's low rumble died, leaving only the sound of the wind moving through the trees.

"Get down. Go stand in front of the car," he said.

I blinked at him. "You're going to hit me?"

No way. He couldn't possibly be that heartless. Could he?

"Oh, yes. Of course." His voice was calm, almost too calm. "You said you don't need my mercy. Then I'll be merciless."

I stared at him at the emptiness in his tone, at the way his hands rested so casually on the steering wheel and something in me snapped.

Fine. If this was how he wanted it.

I opened the door, climbed out, and slammed it shut hard enough to echo through the trees. The night air hit my face like cold steel. I walked around to the front and stopped, folding my arms across my chest.

Maybe I was insane. Maybe I'd already lost too much to care.

But my ego was too loud to back down now.

He wasn't a savior. He wasn't a hero. He was a man with an agenda and I was part of it.

Either he needed me... or he needed me gone. There was no third option.

He started the engine. The headlights flared to life, blinding, slicing through the darkness. The car revved — once, twice — the sound sharp enough to rattle the ground beneath my feet.

I stood there, motionless, hands still crossed over my chest.

He accelerated. The car surged forward —fast, furious, unstoppable straight toward me.

"I will always love you."

My brother's voice echoed in my head — faint, distant, but clear enough to pierce through the roar of the engine.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "No..."

When I opened them again, the car had stopped — the front bumper just an inch from me. Sand and dust swirled violently around my legs, stinging my skin.

Hridhan sat behind the wheel, calm as ever, one eyebrow slightly raised. Like this had all been a test and I'd just barely passed.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. I could still feel my brother's words pulsing through me like a lifeline.

I couldn't give up. Not on him. Not now.

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