POV: Kiyan
The hospital corridor smells like antiseptic and caffeine-fueled regret. It's too bright for the kind of darkness clawing inside me. Everyone here walks like they're chasing emergencies, and I'm just… chasing answers that keep slipping through my fingers.
Nivaan said he'd be fine.That's such a corporate-bro lie.He's alive, yes — but he's not fine.
And Meher?Vanished before I could even demand an explanation.
Classic.
I'm pacing like I'm waiting for my appraisal to drop, but the notification never comes. I check my phone even though I know there's nothing there except a few spam texts and a silent thread with Meher that keeps staring back at me like a punchline I don't get.
I scrub my face with both hands.My brain feels like a PowerPoint deck opened too many times — corrupted, outdated, refusing to load.
Someone tried to kill Nivaan.Then pretended he was dead.Then came back to finish the job.
That's too intentional to be random.
And now Meher's MIA after dropping that horror-movie reveal:
"He was already dead."
No pressure, right?
I lean against the wall, watching nurses sprint, doctors whisper, and security try to look relevant. My chest feels tight. There's a storm inside me that no weather app warned about.
I want answers.I want clarity.I want a frickin' project brief.But all I have is chaos with no bullet points.
A doctor finally steps out. He looks like he hasn't slept since Independence Day — whichever year that was.
"Mr. Kiyan?""Yeah.""He's stable."
My knees nearly sag.Stable is the sexiest word I've ever heard.
"He's awake?""Yes. He's disoriented, but lucid."
Translation:His brain is functioning, but good luck making sense of anything he says.
I follow the doc inside.
Nivaan's sitting up in the bed — pale, bloodied, oxygen cannula hooked across his face. He looks half-alive, half-haunted, and fully annoyed. Like death tried to onboard him and he declined the offer.
"You look like trash," I say.His lips tug — almost a smile. "Good to see you too."
I pull up a chair."You really died?""Apparently," he says, shrugging like we're discussing stock prices.
Bro.
"Meher told you?""Yeah. Then she left.""She had to.""No, she dipped. Like poof."
He sighs.His hand subconsciously drifts to his chest — the stitched wound that shouldn't exist if he were actually dead before.
Honestly, reality is feeling like an unpaid internship: too much work, zero understanding.
"I don't know who hit me," he says. "I remember the alley. I remember footsteps behind me… then nothing."
"Why would someone want you dead?"His eyes flicker — guilt, maybe."We've all done stupid things," he mutters.
Okay, cryptic.
"Nivaan.""Kiyan.""Stop being mysterious. You're not Batman."
He snorts, then winces at the pain.
"I think," he says slowly, "it's linked to Meher."
I blink."How? She's a stranger!""No. She's not."
The air turns heavier than my after-tax salary.
"She's…"He hesitates."…someone I used to know."
"That tells me nothing.""You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
He exhales."Years ago, I dated someone. Anonymously. We met on underground boards — no names, no faces. Just messages. We got involved… deeply. Then she vanished."
I stare."That's Meher?""I don't know. But she talks like her."
"Did you screw her over?"He looks away."Maybe."
Bro.This man is allergic to straight answers.
"Do you think she's trying to protect you or finish you?""Both."
Huh.Great.
Silence stretches — awkward, uncomfortable, like an off-site team bonding exercise.
Then he says:"I need to leave. The hospital isn't safe."
My head snaps."You just survived murder attempt part two — and you wanna go on a field trip?""They'll try again," he says flatly. "Hospitals are predictable. Easy targets."
Corporate jargon moment:He's not wrong.
But that doesn't make this any less insane.
"And go where?"He looks straight into me."To find her."
"Meher?""No. The other one."
There's ANOTHER mysterious woman?This man collects trauma like NFTs.
Before I can process, a ripple stirs outside — hurried footsteps, too many of them. Voices. Low. Urgent.
Nivaan stiffens."You hear that?""Yeah."
His monitor beeps faster — not medically, but narratively.
He swings his legs off the bed.Bruh can barely stand, but sure, let's go on a mission.
"Nivaan—""We go now."
Someone bangs on the door.Hard.
Instinct slams through me; adrenaline shoots like espresso to the veins.
"Who is it?" I bark.No answer.
Another bang.Louder.
Nivaan grabs the IV stand like a weapon. I grab a chair because my life is moving from 'office boy' to 'armed guard' with zero training.
The handle twists.Locked — thank God.
But for how long?
Nivaan's breathing rasps."We go out the back."
"We?"He throws me a look."You're already in this mess. Too late to resign."
HR would agree.
The banging escalates — now fists, maybe something metallic.
I yank the curtain aside.Behind it — a small service door. Unmarked.
"Let's move," I say.
We slip through just as the main room door SLAMS open behind us.
Voices erupt.Footsteps.The chase has officially begun.
We sneak into a narrow utility hallway — pipes, wires, low lighting. It's like being backstage at a concert nobody wants to attend.
We rush.Nivaan stumbles. I catch him.He's trembling — pain + adrenaline + trauma in equal parts.
"Kiyan," he whispers."Yeah?""If I lose consciousness… don't let them take me."
I swallow.My throat turns into concrete.
"I've got you."
Even if I'm not sure I've got myself.
We exit into a loading area. Night air slaps my face — cold, real.
Then—
A car screeches in the alley.Headlights flare.
A figure steps out.Tall. Hooded. Alone.
Nivaan steps forward, swaying."Is that—"
The figure lifts their head just enough for us to see:
It's the same strangerfrom the morgue corridor.
The one who didn't speak.The one who disappeared.
Their voice slices through the silence:
"Come with me if you want to live."
Bro really dropped a Terminator line on us.
Nivaan looks at me.His expression says:This is either our rescuer or our killer.
Zero in-between.
My gut screams RUN.But running where?
The stranger opens the back door of the car — urgent, impatient.
"No time," they growl."Others are coming."
I glance behind —the hospital doors BURST open.
Multiple silhouettes flood out.
No time to debate.No SWOT analysis.No KPIs.
Just survival.
I shove Nivaan into the car and jump in after him.
Door SLAMS.Tires screech.Engine ROARS.
The car rockets into the night.Bullets rain behind us —shattering glass, slicing air.
I duck.Heart doing bhangra inside my ribcage.
The stranger drives like their soul is allergic to speed limits.
I clutch Nivaan to keep him stable.
I thought this night couldn't get worse.I was so wrong.
Because the stranger finally speaks again —and their next words flip my brain inside out:
"Someone close to you is lying.And if you don't find out who…You'll both end up dead."
No context.No names.No mercy.
Just the truth —ugly, sharp, and way too late.
And in that split second,I realize something terrifying:
I'm not sureif the person lying…is HIM —or ME.