Flashback: Ira's Past, City D
The lavish Bansal residence hosted the "merger of empires," where Anupam Bansal, sole heir to India's oldest retail dynasty, married Neelima Kapoor, a City D University gold medalist from a distinguished academic family. Their initially passionate romance gradually deteriorated into a chilling silence, contrasting their opulent wedding.
Ira's first birthday, meant to be joyous, was overshadowed by unspoken tension. Bansal's business experienced substantial losses in its inaugural year, jeopardizing its future.
To mitigate these financial difficulties, Bansal devised a strategic plan involving a politically advantageous marriage. Left with no other perceived recourse, he divorced his wife, Neelima, and decided to marry Ravina Chaudhary.
Facing media attention, Neelima focused on her daughter Ira's welfare. During the divorce process, she discovered a second pregnancy but did not inform her husband. She finalized the divorce and later gave birth, choosing to raise both children independently.
Following her second child's birth, Neelima Kapoor tragically died in a domestic gas leak accident within her rented apartment.
Neelima's sudden death fueled rumors of foul play. Despite this, her Husband Anupam Bansal, did not pursue a private investigation or publicly express grief.
City D— Age 1.5 (Ira), Newborn (Aarav)
The air outside the crematorium still carried the bitter tang of sandalwood smoke, but inside the family van, silence reigned. A silence too heavy for children.
Too final. Ira sat buckled into the backseat, her chubby legs swinging idly. She held a soft wool rabbit by its drooping ear — a toy her mother had once bartered for from a street vendor with exact change and a loving smile. The rabbit still smelled faintly of jasmine and talcum.
Aarav, swaddled in a hospital-issued blanket, slept against their maternal uncle's chest. His head bobbed softly with the road's movement, unaware of the tremor his arrival had triggered.
Ajay Kapoor, Neelima's elder brother, stared out the window as City D blurred past — temples, honking autos, and a city that had closed its doors on his sister far too early.
Beside him sat his wife, Dr. Reema Kapoor, a quiet woman with a PhD in linguistics and a face lined by both wisdom and heartbreak.
"Are you sure about this?" she asked, her voice low. "You're taking them without his consent."
Ajay didn't blink. "He gave up the right to consent the day he let her die in a flat with a faulty gas valve and no help."
Silence again. He turned slightly to look at Ira, her wide brown eyes staring out the window at nothing and everything. He thought of the reports, the unanswered calls, the suspicious lack of media coverage. A fire. A woman dead. And within months, Anupam Bansal had remarried — to a powerful MP's daughter no less.
No investigation. No eulogy. Not even a sealed condolence letter to the Kapoor family.
He'd asked. Once. The Bansals sent a box of Belgian chocolates.
IGI Airport, Midnight Terminal
Two diplomatic passports. A one-way flight to Geneva.
Boarded in silence. Escorted by a man from the Swiss consulate who "owed Ajay a favor."
Ira gripped her rabbit as the aircraft ascended, leaving behind not just a city, but a name.
A legacy. A wound.
From the small porthole window, the golden lights of City D melted into night. And with them, her identity — unfinished, unclaimed, exiled...
Aarav listened, his eyes dark with shock, then understanding.
And when she was finished, he didn't ask her to run. He didn't demand proof.
He just said, "I'm with you."
Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance. The storm hadn't left — it had only taken a breath. And now, it was coming back.
11:52 PM | Ira's Apartment – Rooftop Balcony
Later, they stepped out onto the small terrace. The city lights shimmered under the thinning rain. Below them, the streets had grown quiet. Still.
Ira looked at her brother. "I'm glad you came."
He smiled faintly. "I almost didn't. But I couldn't ignore the feeling."
"What feeling?"
"That… this time, if I didn't come, I'd lose you forever."
She looked away, fighting emotion. "They'll try to take everything, Aarav. Even your name."
He turned to face her, defiant. "Let them try. I've just found my sister again. They're not taking you."
Ira nodded slowly. Her phone buzzed again — she ignored it. They had until morning. One final day before everything shifted.
But for now, for this moment, she wasn't alone. And that… was power enough.
City D | The Next Morning — 9:14 AM,Outside Studio Ira N.k
The city was slowly shaking off its monsoon daze. A dull sun filtered through silver clouds. Ira stepped out of her car, the hem of her long trench coat brushing the sidewalk. She held her coffee in one hand, sketches rolled under the other.
Aarav followed closely, checking his phone, half-laughing at a message he hadn't finished reading. They were just five steps from the studio gate. Then it happened.
Crack—!
The sound wasn't a car backfiring.
It was precise. Intentional.
Ira froze.
Aarav's instincts kicked in first.
"IRA—DOWN!"
A second shot rang out. Glass shattered somewhere behind them.
Before she could react, Aarav threw himself in front of her—
And the third shot tore through his shoulder.
She screamed.
He collapsed into her arms, blood blooming across the fabric like a sick crimson flower.
"NO! Aarav!" She dropped beside him, her voice raw, shaking. "Stay with me. Stay with me!"
The guards rushed forward. Someone screamed. The security sirens roared awake. The shooter had vanished into the alleyways behind.
City D | 10:07 AM – Hospital, Emergency Wing
The world became a blur of antiseptic air, running nurses, red-streaked gauze, and shouts of "BP dropping!" and "Call the surgical team now!"
Ira sat outside the emergency ward, covered in his blood, her hands clenched in silent prayer. The images wouldn't stop replaying.
His body in front of hers. The thud of the bullet. The warmth of his blood across her chest. She didn't know how long she sat there.
Eventually, a doctor emerged. "He's stable. The bullet missed vital arteries. He'll need time, but he's lucky."
Ira nearly collapsed in relief.
Same Day | 3:40 PM — Hospital Room
The hospital room was pale blue, sterile but quiet. Aarav stirred awake, groggy.
She sat by his bedside, holding his hand.
"You really took a bullet for me," she whispered.
He smirked faintly. "Guess I'm not letting you go alone this time."
Tears slid silently down her cheeks. Before she could respond, the door opened. Two figures entered. Elegant. Controlled. Haunted.
Mr. and Mrs. Kapoor.
Ira stood up, shocked. "You're… here?"
Her mother's older brother stepped forward, voice shaking slightly. "They flew in as soon as they heard."
Mrs. Kapoor — dignified in a beige cotton saree, grief shadowing her eyes — looked at her and whispered,
"Enough. Come home, Ira. Both of you. This country has already taken too much." But Ira, standing tall despite the fear, shook her head.
"No," she said. "They tried to kill me. They almost killed him. And they did kill her. I'm done hiding."
Mr. Kapoor's voice turned urgent. "Ira—this path leads nowhere."
"This path," Ira interrupted, "is the one she started. And I'm going to finish it."
Mrs. Kapoor stepped back, stricken. A heavy silence filled the room. Then, her uncle — the man who had once promised to keep them safe — stepped forward and opened his satchel. He pulled out a thin, sealed envelope.
"I didn't want to give this to you until I was sure," he said. "But maybe now… it's time."
She took the envelope with trembling hands. It was addressed in Neelima Kapoor's delicate, slanted handwriting:
To Ira N.K. When the silence becomes too loud to ignore.
Inside was a single slip of paper. No letter. No explanation.
Just a location. And a six-digit number. Coordinates? A locker? A vault?
She looked up at her uncle. "What is this?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But she made me promise to give it to you only if you chose to fight."
Ira's jaw tightened. Her voice was ice. She turned, looking at her wounded brother.
"…I'm coming for them now."
That night | Studio Ira N.k — Shuttered
The entrance to the studio remained broken, glass scattered like forgotten stars. But across the cracked pavement, someone had painted in gold thread—
"You erased her story. Now I'll stitch it back with blood."
The war had begun.