Arjun's presence in the room tightened something inside me — not fear, not discomfort… guilt.
He was kind. Stable. Good.
And I… wasn't.
I avoided his eyes, staring at my phone instead. The last message from the unknown number flashed in my head like a neon sign:
Delete the picture.
Even though I hadn't taken any photo, the threat was real. Someone knew who we were. Where we lived. What we saw.
Arjun chatted with the girls easily, unaware of how danger seeped like invisible smoke through the walls of the apartment.
Unaware that I was the one who had inhaled too much of that smoke already.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number:
Come to the terrace. Alone.
My throat dried instantly.
I shoved the phone into my pocket before anyone noticed.
Arjun stepped toward me.
"You're unusually quiet today, Smithi."
I forced a smile. "Headache."
"Did Arun bother you?" he asked softly. "Be honest."
I swallowed.
The truth trembled on the edge of my tongue — burning, heavy — but I pushed it down.
"No. I'm fine."
He nodded, but his eyes followed me too long, as if sensing the lie I desperately wanted to bury.
For the first time, I wondered if Arjun knew more than he let on.
I excused myself and slipped out of the apartment.
The walkway felt too silent.
The building too empty.
Each step toward the terrace felt like climbing into the mouth of something waiting to swallow me whole.
When I pushed open the terrace door, a gust of wind slapped my hair across my face.
And then I froze.
A man stood there.
Helmet on.
Face fully covered.
Hands inside his jacket.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
The door creaked behind me as it closed.
I was trapped.
"Wh-what do you want?" I whispered, my voice breaking.
He stepped closer—slow, predatory.
Every instinct inside me screamed RUN.
But my legs refused.
His gloved hand came out of his jacket.
He held—
A small, silver knife.
Not big. Not dramatic.
Just deadly enough.
"Stop interfering," he said voice muffled by the helmet. "Stop seeing things that don't belong to you."
I stepped back until my spine hit the wall.
"I didn't take any picture—"
"We know."
His tone was low, dangerous. "But you ask questions. You think. You connect things. You're a problem."
Tears stung my eyes.
"I won't say anything. I swear."
He stopped inches away from me.
"People who swear," he whispered, "are the first to break their promise."
His knife gently tapped my cheek.
Just once.
A warning.
My knees nearly buckled.
"If you tell anyone about this," he murmured, "not even God will find your body."
Then he stepped back, swift and silent.
And vanished down the stairs.
My breath returned in ragged gasps.
I slid down the wall, shaking so violently my bones hurt.
I covered my mouth to stop myself from screaming.
I wanted to run back to the girls.
To tell them everything.
To beg for help.
But I didn't move.
Because one thought stabbed deeper than the knife ever could:
If I tell them the truth… they will die because of me.
And I won't let that happen.
Even if I have to break myself protecting them.