“Teri saanson mein ghul jaaun, toh khud bhi zinda rahoon,
Tujhse door ho jaaun, toh mitti ki tarah bikhar jaaun.
Main sirf chaahun nahi, Haya—
Main tujhmein basna chahta hoon,
Tere andar, tere khoon mein,
Tere har ek dhadkan ke beech mein.”

The Entrance

The moment he stepped into the house, silence fell like a curse.
It wasn’t just his height, or the way his black shirt clung to broad shoulders—it was the weight of him. The kind of presence that bends the air, the kind that makes every sound stutter into nothingness.

Rudraansh.

Sameer nearly tripped over himself, stammering words that made no sense. “R-Rudraansh bhai, main… main samjha sakta hoon—”

But the man didn’t look at him.
His gaze had already found her.

Haya.

She stood in the hallway, clutching the edge of her dupatta, heart hammering as though it wanted to flee her chest. She had never seen eyes like his—dark, endless, and yet burning with something that wasn’t human. It wasn’t interest. It wasn’t curiosity.

It was possession.
As if he already knew her. Already owned her.

Her lips parted to breathe but the air refused to enter her lungs.

“Main hi teri saans hoon, Haya,” his gaze seemed to whisper though his mouth hadn’t moved.

(I am your breath itself, Haya.)

Sameer’s voice cracked the spell. “Bhai, woh… woh kal raat ka—sirf mazak tha! Main bas gusse mein keh gaya—deal todne ka koi irada nahi tha.”

Rudraansh’s head tilted slowly, finally acknowledging the boy. His silence was worse than any threat.

Then, in a voice low and deep enough to rattle bones, he spoke.
“Tum samajhte ho mazak kar rahe ho, Sameer? Mera naam zubaan par laane ki bhi ijazat tumhe kisne di?”

Sameer flinched, sweat beading on his forehead.

Haya felt her stomach twist. She had seen her brother arrogant, careless, even cruel—but never like this. Never so small.

Shabana tried to interject, wringing her hands. “Beta, aap gusse mein—Sameer toh bachcha hai, kabhi kabhi—”

Rudraansh’s eyes flicked toward her. Just one glance. She fell silent immediately, as though her voice had been stolen.

He turned back to Sameer. “Ek din tumhari zubaan tumhe zinda dafan kar degi. Lekin agar dobara mera naam tumhari jaahil harkaton mein suna… toh main tumhe dhoondhne nahi aaoonga. Main tumhare liye aakhri din laaunga.”

(One day, your tongue will bury you alive. But if I hear my name again in your foolish acts… I won’t come looking for you. I will bring your last day with me.)

Haya couldn’t look away. She wanted to. Every instinct screamed hide, disappear, don’t breathe—yet her eyes betrayed her. They stayed fixed on him.

Rudraansh was danger carved into flesh.
The veins in his forearms flexed when he moved, his jaw sharp and cruel, his voice threaded with steel and fire. But it wasn’t just fear that made her tremble.

It was something else.
Something she hated herself for feeling.

When his eyes flicked back to hers, briefly, deliberately, she felt her skin ignite.

Her breath caught. Main hi teri saans hoon.

She almost believed it.

Rudraansh’s POV

He drank in the sight of her. Wide eyes, fragile frame, the soft innocence of a girl untouched by the world’s filth—and yet, already trembling with a desire she didn’t understand.

Perfect.
Exactly as he’d imagined.

Sameer’s words were nothing but noise. The boy didn’t matter. The mother didn’t matter. Only she did.

“Ab tumhari duniya mein main utar chuka hoon, Haya,” his thoughts coiled like smoke. “Aur main tumhe saans lene ki bhi ijazat tabhi dunga, jab main chahoon.”

(Now I have stepped into your world, Haya.
And I will only allow you to breathe when I want you to.)

The confrontation ended as suddenly as it began. Rudraansh didn’t raise his voice, didn’t strike, didn’t threaten again. He didn’t need to. His silence was a blade sharper than violence.

He moved toward the door, but not before brushing past Haya.
Not touching—no. Worse.
He leaned just close enough for her hair to stir, for his scent to drown her lungs: smoke, leather, something darker beneath.

And then, low enough for only her to hear, he murmured—

“Tumhein darr lagna chahiye, Haya.”

(You should be afraid, Haya.)

Her blood froze.
But her chest… betrayed her. It rose, it fell, it ached for more.

He left without another word.

The door shut. Silence fell.

But Haya knew it was already too late.
Her life had been divided into before him and after him.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

That night, as she tried to sleep, her window clicked open with the faintest sound.

Her eyes snapped open.

On her desk, her notebook lay exactly where she’d left it. But now, a single line had been written beneath her unfinished poem—
words she hadn’t written.

“Tu meri khamoshi bhi hai… aur tu mera shor bhi.”

(You are my silence… and you are my noise as well.)

The pen still rolled softly against the page, as if recently set down.

Her breath caught in her throat.
He had been here.

She curled tighter beneath her blanket, trembling. Fear slithered through her veins, but so did something else—something far more dangerous.

Every nerve of her body still remembered his nearness. That faint stir of air when he brushed past her. The weight of his gaze that had peeled her open like a book. The words he had whispered—

“Tumhein darr lagna chahiye, Haya.”

Yes, she should be afraid. She was afraid. But her body didn’t understand fear the way her mind did. Her chest ached, her lips tingled, her thighs pressed together in restless heat she had never known before.

It was wrong. Shameful. Sinful. And yet, when she shut her eyes, she saw him—standing at the edge of her bed, waiting.

Her breath caught, and she sat up with a jolt, gasping.

The room was empty.
But the emptiness itself was heavy, as if he had left pieces of himself behind.

By morning, the house buzzed again. Shabana pretended nothing had happened, busying herself in the kitchen. Sameer avoided her gaze, muttering curses under his breath, but Haya noticed the tremor in his hands when he lit a cigarette.

He was scared. Terrified.

And yet, no one spoke Rudraansh’s name.
As though saying it would summon him again.

Haya moved quietly through the morning routine. She helped Ammi, folded clothes, prepared tea—but her ears strained toward every sound, every footstep outside.

Her mind replayed the night over and over: the line in her notebook, the weight of his voice, the promise in his eyes.

She wanted to tell herself it was impossible. That he hadn’t been here. That it was her imagination.

But deep down, she already knew—
it was only the beginning.

Shadow POV — Rudraansh

From across the street, hidden in the tinted glass of his car, Rudraansh watched her move through the window.

So delicate. So unaware.

She thought last night was an accident. A threat. A moment.
He smirked.

No. It was a warning.
And a promise.

Every line of her fragile body belonged to him. Every tremble of her lips, every drop of fear in her veins—it was his. He wanted her to wake every day with her stomach in knots, her chest tight with dread, her thoughts tangled with his shadow.

Obsession wasn’t built overnight.
It was carved, slowly, until the girl forgot where she ended and he began.

He watched her pour tea for her mother, smile faintly, brush hair behind her ear.

Perfect. Too perfect.
And he would break her piece by piece until she understood—

“Main hi teri saans hoon, Haya.”
(I am your breath itself, Haya.)

Later that afternoon, Haya slipped out to the market. The alleyways hummed with life, vendors calling prices, the air thick with spices and dust. She clutched her dupatta close, weaving through the crowd.

It felt good to be outside, away from the heavy silence of home.
But the relief didn’t last long.

Because she felt it.
That same weight. That same pull.

Her steps faltered. The world was crowded, noisy—but her body reacted as though the air itself had thickened. Her pulse raced.

And then—

A hand brushed her wrist.

Not an accident.
Not a stranger.

Her head whipped to the side, and for the briefest second, she saw him.

Black shirt. Dark eyes. A faint curl of his lips.
Rudraansh.

Before she could speak, he was gone—swallowed by the crowd.

Her breath shattered. She pressed her hand to her chest, trembling.

Was she imagining it?
No. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her skin.

That night, when she returned home, her notebook waited again on her desk. The new page bled with words written in his sharp hand:

“Main jo haath tumhari kalai par rakhta hoon… woh tumhein kabhi azaad nahi karega.”
(The hand I place on your wrist… will never let you go free.)

The pen had been left there deliberately, mocking her.

Her knees weakened, and she dropped onto the bed, clutching her dupatta like armor.

He was here again. He was watching. He was touching her life, her things, her breath.

And for the first time, she whispered his name aloud into the dark.

“Rudraansh…”

The sound of it on her lips felt like a prayer.
And a curse.