The night was unforgiving.
Delhi's skyline bled with shadows as smoke spiraled upward from riots long extinguished, their scent still stitched into the city's veins. The air was heavy, carrying an electricity that made even silence sound violent. Somewhere deep inside the ruins of an abandoned textile mill—once a humming hive of workers, now just another scar of the city's unrest—stood Alok.
His silhouette was sharp against the flickering lights of burning garbage outside. The man who once laughed under banyan trees with Shree was gone. His hair, once neatly kept for university lectures, now fell wildly across his forehead. His eyes—bloodshot, unblinking—were no longer human. They burned with the fire of vengeance, the kind of flame that doesn't warm but consumes.
His hands tightened around the cold steel of the pistol. Each click of his knuckles echoed like war drums in his head. He had slaughtered leaders, silenced traitors, and ignited a wave of fear in the hearts of those who once laughed at his pain. Tonight, he wasn't just Alok Kumar—he was vengeance incarnate.
But fate had planned one last betrayal.
The sound of boots on broken glass echoed through the cavernous hall. Alok's ears twitched. His heart, instead of skipping, beat harder, like a beast sniffing blood. He knew who it was.
Shakti.
She walked in with the calm precision of someone who had rehearsed every step. Her leather jacket clung to her frame, her holster gleamed under the dim moonlight slicing through shattered windows. But her eyes weren't those of an agent tonight—they were those of a woman carrying a storm inside her chest.
"Alok," she called out, her voice slicing the silence. Not commanding. Not begging. Just… raw.
Alok turned slowly, his gun still loose at his side. Their eyes met—and for a heartbeat, the air wasn't war-torn, it was a memory. A flash of Shree laughing in the university library. A cricket match where Shakti had cheered for him in secret. A time when love was simple, not lethal.
But the present crushed it.
Alok smirked, though his voice cracked with suppressed rage. "So…RAW finally sent its favorite pet dog to put me down?"
Shakti's lips trembled but her stance was steady. "They didn't send me,Alok. I came on my own."
His jaw tightened. "Then you've come to die."
---
The Pull Between Love and Duty
Shakti took two steps closer, her boots crunching on glass. Her hand hovered near her weapon but didn't pull it yet. "You think I don't understand your pain?You think I don't know what losing Shree did to you?"
"Don't." His voice was thunder, sharp enough to rattle even the shadows. "Don't say her name with your lying tongue. You weren't there when they pulled her out of that fire. You didn't hold her hand as the light left her eyes."
His grip on the pistol tightened. His arm trembled, not from weakness, but from rage.
Shakti's own eyes watered. She whispered, almost to herself, "I held your hand, Alok. After. When you wanted to burn with her, it was me who stopped you. Remember?"
Silence. For a flicker, Alok's gaze softened, a ghost of the man he was. Then it hardened again, iron replacing flesh.
"That man you loved is dead," Alok said. "The one standing here—he belongs to her killers. And they… belong to me."
---
The First Blow
Without warning, Alok raised his gun. A deafening crack split the air as the bullet ripped past Shakti's shoulder, embedding itself in the crumbling wall behind her. Dust rained down.
Shakti didn't flinch. She looked him dead in the eyes. "If you wanted me dead,you wouldn't have missed."
Alok's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Who said I missed?"
And then, like a predator, he lunged.
The clash was explosive. His pistol slammed against her forearm as she blocked, twisting his wrist. The weapon clattered across the concrete floor. In the same second, she drew her own sidearm and aimed—but Alok was faster, grabbing her elbow and slamming her against a pillar.
Their breaths collided, hot and furious.
"Do it," Alok growled, pressing her wrist against her own weapon. "Pull the trigger. Kill me like the rest of them want."
Her voice broke. "Damn it, Alok, I don't want to kill you!"
"Then get out of my way!"
---
War Between Heartbeats
The fight spiraled. Shakti kicked him backward, her boot connecting with his chest. Alok stumbled but recovered instantly, launching into a barrage of strikes—military, precise, but wild with anger. Shakti countered each one, her training evident, her motions sharp.
Fists met flesh, elbows clashed, knees cracked into ribs. Each hit wasn't just combat—it was their history tearing itself apart.
At one point, Alok pinned her down, straddling her with his hand around her throat. His breath was fire against her face.
"Shree was my world," he snarled, veins bulging at his temple. "And this world took her away. Now I'll burn the whole damn thing to ash."
Shakti choked, her hands gripping his wrist. Tears pooled in her eyes—not from pain, but from heartbreak. "And what about me,Alok?!" she screamed. "What am I to you? Just another enemy?"
For a second, his grip loosened. His jaw clenched. His eyes… flickered with something human.
Then he roared, shoving away that weakness, tightening his hold.
---
The Breaking Point
With a desperate surge, Shakti twisted, using his own weight against him. They rolled across the floor, her gun skittering back into her palm. She rose, breathless, bruised, her hands trembling as she aimed at his chest.
Her vision blurred. Not because of fear—but because she couldn't see through her tears.
"Don't make me do this," she whispered.
Alok stood tall, his silhouette framed by shattered glass and the bleeding moonlight. His eyes locked onto hers, unyielding.
"You already lost me once, Shakti. This time… finish it."
The silence was suffocating. Only their heartbeats spoke—hers, ragged and broken; his, steady and resigned.
Her finger hovered over the trigger. Her entire body screamed against it, but her training… her duty… her love twisted into agony.
And then—
The shot rang out.
Alok staggered back, a crimson bloom spreading across his chest. He looked at her, not with hatred, but with something crueler—relief. His lips curved into the faintest smile, one that broke her into a thousand shards.
"Tell her…" he whispered, falling to his knees. "Tell Shree… I kept my promise."
Then he collapsed, the ground swallowing him whole.
---
The Aftermath: A Sky Full of Memories
The air grew still. The wind, which had howled through broken windows just moments before, now whispered softly, as if paying its respects. Dust motes danced in the pale moonlight, ethereal and transient, like souls seeking peace.
Shakti stood frozen, the gun still smoking in her hand. Her breath hitched, each inhale a blade in her lungs. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands trembling as she cradled his head. Blood soaked through her fingers, warm and accusing.
"Alok…" His name was a prayer, a curse, a lament on her lips.
She remembered the stories they'd read together—Hindu scriptures where love and duty clashed like titans. Of Arjuna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, torn between his love for his family and his duty as a warrior. Of Lord Rama, who chose his kingdom over his queen, leaving a love story etched in tears and tragedy. Alok was her Arjuna, her Rama—a man destroyed by the very ideals he sought to uphold.
The wind picked up again, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and jasmine. It wrapped around them like a shroud, gentle yet relentless. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell rang, its sound clear and mournful, cutting through the night.
Love is in the air, she thought bitterly, but it's a love that kills.
She looked down at his face, now peaceful in death. The rage was gone, replaced by the softness of the boy she had once known. The boy who quoted Mirza Ghalib under the stars, who believed that love could change the world.
"You kept your promise," she whispered, her tears falling freely now, mingling with his blood. "But at what cost?"
Her fingers brushed his eyelids closed, a final act of tenderness. In that moment, she felt his soul—not as a weight, but as a presence, light and unburdened, rising like smoke toward the sky. She imagined it soaring above the mill, above the city, above the world that had failed him, finally free.
His soul is in the sky now, she thought, with Shree. Where it always belonged.
But hers remained—anchored to the earth, to duty, to the unbearable weight of what she had done.
She stood slowly, her body aching, her heart shattered. The wind whispered through the ruins, a lonely, haunting sound. It was over. The war, the vengeance, the love—all of it.
But as she turned to leave, the echo of his last smile stayed with her, a ghost in the moonlight, a reminder that some fires never truly die.
They only sleep.
The warehouse fell silent, save for the ragged echo of Shakti's sobs. The air, once charged with violence, now hung heavy with the scent of gunpowder and loss. In the stillness, the woman who had loved him, the agent who had killed him, and the friend who had failed to save him collapsed into one trembling form.
But this was not an end. It was a brutal, bloody genesis. The world would not speak of Alok Kumar in simple terms—not as a mere monster, nor a pure martyr. His name would become a complex, painful question: What happens when love is forged into a weapon?
And Shakti, cradling the weight of what she had done, would ensure the world never forgot the answer. She would make sure they remembered the man, not just the myth; the love that preceded the fire, and the duty that extinguished it. Her war was over. His story was just beginning.