POV: Meher
The night tastes metallic.Like blood.Like regret.Like the universe is chewing glass and spitting it back at me.
The city roars below my apartment balcony, oblivious — cars honking, people laughing, dogs barking at ghosts they can't see. Life goes on. That's the problem. Life always goes on, even when it shouldn't.
I shouldn't be alive.Nivaan shouldn't be alive.Yet here we are — stubborn ghosts haunting each other.
I lean against the railing, the breeze flicking strands of hair across my face. My hands are still shaking. Not from fear. From restraint. I can't remember the last time I held back this hard.
Should've ended it at the morgue.Should've cut the cord clean.But the second I saw him breathing…my logic melted into chaos.
Dying once changes people.Dying twice should've made him smarter.But no — he's running around with Kiyan like this is some side quest in a poorly written game.
Kiyan.Who the hell is that man?Why is he still there?
He's not trained.He's not armed.He's not supposed to be relevant.
But he stayed.And that makes him dangerous.
I pull out a battered notebook — edges torn, pages yellowed. I flip to an old entry:
"If he ever returns from the other side —make sure he doesn't remember."
Well…He remembers enough to be a problem.
I scroll through the burner phone, tapping an encrypted thread.The screen lights up:
STATUS UPDATE: FAILURETARGET: STILL ACTIVE
The cursor blinks.Expecting me to explain what went wrong.As if I know.As if I understand why the dead refuse to stay dead.
I type slowly:
INTERFERENCE. ESCALATING.
Send.
My chest tightens.I hate reporting.Feels too much like corporate nonsense — tell them everything, get nothing in return.
My job was simple:
Monitor.
Confirm.
Eliminate if necessary.
But nothing is simple when the man you were sent to bury… is the same man you once loved without knowing his name.
I met him in shadows.Loved him in silence.Lost him in fire.
He wasn't supposed to come back.
Yet when I saw him at the morgue, cold and still, I thought — finally. The story ends.
Then he BREATHED.
Not like a gasp.Not like resurrection.
Just…calm.Quiet.Like waking from a nap.
No panic.No shock.Like death was familiar.
I grip the balcony harder, knuckles whitening.There's a line between the living and the dead — and Nivaan walks it with the casual arrogance of a man who's forgotten which side he belongs to.
A buzz.Another message:
YOU ARE COMPROMISED. PULL OUT.
I scoff.Cowards.Always so quick to run when things get spicy.
I type:
NEGATIVE. I SEE IT THROUGH.
A pause.Three dots appear.Disappear.Appear again.
THE KEY IS STILL MISSING.
My stomach flips.Of course.That's why they want him erased.
It's always the key.Everyone wants it.No one knows where it is.
If Nivaan has it —game over.
For everyone.
And if he doesn't…someone close to him does.
Which means Kiyan might not be a clueless side character after all.Which means I might have to kill him too.
Just my luck.
I slam the notebook shut and toss it onto the table. My apartment is dim, dusty, nothing like the sleek operation HQs I should have. I like it messy — like my decisions.
My holster sits beside the mirror, black metal glinting. I strap it on with muscle memory and no hesitation. I'm not going to wait for the enemy to knock politely.
Because they won't.
They'll kick down the door and shoot first.And I'd like to return the favor.
I grab my jacket.Flick off the lights.Step toward the door—
—then pause.
Movement.In the reflection.
Shadows shift in the mirror — too slow for breeze, too deliberate for my imagination. My pulse spikes. Silence thickens under my skin.
I turn.Smooth. Controlled.
A figure stands in the dark corner of my room.
Tall.Still.Face hidden.
Their presence is like a cold hand around my spine.
"How did you get in?" I ask, voice steady.
No answer.Just breathing.
Soft.Measured.Predatory.
My fingers slide toward my gun—
"Don't," they say.
The voice?Intentional.Unhurried.Like they already know the ending.
I keep my hand hovering near the weapon."Say something useful," I snap.
Their head tilts slightly — curious, amused, maybe both.
"You should've stayed gone."
My laugh is dry."Trust me, I tried."
They step forward —one quiet footstep at a time.Not threatening.Not timid.
Confident.Like they owned the room before I ever walked in.
"You're interfering," they say."It was not your task to protect him."
Ice slides through my veins.
"Protect?" I repeat."You think that's what I'm doing?"
Another step forward.Close enough that I can see the edge of their jaw beneath the hood. Sharp. Unfamiliar. Or maybe too familiar.
"You had your chance," they murmur."He should've stayed dead."
"Then why didn't you finish it?" I shoot back.
Silence.Then—
"Because someone else already claimed him."
My stomach drops.Heat drains from my face.
"What?"
They lean in.Voice barely a whisper:
"The key is no longer his…and Meher—you're not the only one hunting him."
My grip tightens.
"And who are you?"
They lift their head just enough—
A sliver of a smile.Wrong.Too calm.Too knowing.
"Someone you've met before."
I blink—and they're gone.
No sound.No door.Just empty darkness where a body stood.
My heart thunders.My instincts scream.
This just got bigger than a missing key.Bigger than Nivaan.Bigger than me.
I lock the door — pointless, but ritual helps.Then I sit on the floor, breathing through the madness.
There are three truths I can't ignore:
Nivaan should be dead —and someone wants to fix that.
The key exists —and no one knows who holds it.
Another hunter is in play —one who knows both of us.
The city outside laughs, clueless.
I whisper to myself —not for comfort, but for clarity:
"This time, Meher…don't hesitate."
Because hesitation is what got us killed the first time.
And we're out of extra lives.