Over the next two days, Simani was in and out of surgery. Both Ruban and Vikram spent most of their time on the uncomfortable steel chairs in the waiting area or the hospital cafeteria. Some of the other Hunters from the South Ragah Division flitted in and out, bringing supplies and news of the outside world, and in general trying to offer what help they could.

When they weren’t at the hospital, Ruban and Vikram would take turns to go attend to the kids, who were temporarily under the care of Vikram’s mother.

Sri and Hiya weren’t fully aware of the extent of Simani’s injuries. Nor had either of them been to school since the accident occurred. Even so, they couldn’t be wholly cut off from the internet. Hiya was antsy and recalcitrant. Sri was subdued, lethargic, and quieter than usual. He had no appetite and could barely be forced to eat a few morsels per meal.

Ruban wondered what cocktail of truth and lies they were imbibing through social media. But he had neither the time nor (truth be told) the energy to be monitoring their online activities at the moment. Every spare minute he had was spent at the Quarter, filing reports and fielding questions about the Hunt that’d nearly killed his partner.

It was on the third day that Vikram approached Ruban in the waiting area, where he’d been dozing off on one of the unupholstered steel chairs. He was holding a coffee in each hand, so nudged Ruban awake with a foot.

Ruban blinked up at him, momentarily disoriented.

“Vik,” he said, his voice groggy. He reached out, almost instinctively, to accept one of the styrofoam cups. “Any updates? How’s she doing? Did you talk to the doctor?”

“I did, yes.”

The tone of Vikram’s voice made Ruban sit up, suddenly alert. “What is it?” he asked, frowning. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Vikram drew in a deep breath and collapsed into the chair beside Ruban, clutching his own coffee with both hands. “The doctors believe…” he closed his eyes. “They say Simani has bruising on her body – on her back, specifically – that are not consistent with an Aeriel attack.”

“What-what does that mean?” Ruban asked. “She was most definitely struck by an energy-shell, Vik. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. Nothing else could cause that kind of damage—”

“Yeah, they’re not disputing that,” Vikram interrupted. “The bulk of her injuries were caused by an energy-shell, there’s no doubt about that.”

“Then what—”

“It’s hard to say for certain. But the doctors think…” he shook his head, as if wrestling with the very idea. “They say there’s a possibility that she was pushed in front of the energy-shell. Deliberately. The bruising on her back suggests that a considerable amount of force was applied, so it’s unlikely to have been an accident.”

For a moment, Ruban blinked at him, uncomprehending.

Ashwin’s words rang in his ears. “There shouldn’t have been a risk to her life. She was nowhere close to that Aeriel. Even if my shell had missed its target, there’s no way it’d have veered far enough off to hit Simani instead.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

When Ruban didn’t speak, Vikram continued. “Of course, all this is simply speculation, as of now. The only reason they even told me is because I’m friends with some of the senior doctors. They won’t be filing any official reports until Simani’s awake —”

“But why?” Ruban blurted, unable to help himself. “Who would do something like that? And for what purpose? All this nonsense in the media about a conspiracy. I thought—”

Vikram placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll know soon enough.” His grip tightened, momentarily. “The recovery’s going well. If things continue as they are, the doctors say she should be awake by tomorrow, if not sooner.”

Late that evening, Vikram coerced Ruban into returning to his flat for a proper night’s rest. He hadn’t slept in a bed for almost a week, and his neck and back were paying the price.

Ruban protested vehemently, but was ultimately too tired to put up much of a fight. With vociferous reluctance, he allowed himself to be packed into a taxi and shipped off.

Once inside the flat, he all but collapsed onto his bed. He was dead to the world the second his body hit the mattress.

He slept fitfully, mangled visions of his last, disastrous Hunt plaguing his dreams. Even that, however, was more rest than he’d managed to get in days. Hiya was still staying with Vikram’s mother. And while he’d never say it out loud, Ruban was embarrassingly grateful for the respite.

Which was perhaps why he didn’t immediately notice the muffled, intermittent noises coming from the other room, the one usually occupied by Hiya. The girl was a restless sleeper, and would often putter around the room in the early hours of the morning.

So, it took Ruban’s fatigued, disoriented mind a few seconds to remember that Hiya wasn’t home.

Ruban shot up in his bed, his heart racing. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and tapped on the screen. It was three in the morning.

The muffled sounds coming from the other room continued, unabated.

Moving slowly, silently, he got off the bed and pulled out the first drawer on his bedside table. He grabbed the sheathed sifblade and attached it to the waistband of the trousers he’d been too tired to take off last night. Then, he seized his pistol from under a pillow and made his way – as stealthily as possible – to the adjacent room.

Familiar with the layout of the flat, Ruban slunk easily along the darkened hallway until he was inches from the door of Hiya’s room.

Drawing in a deep breath, he secured his grip on the pistol and, simultaneously, turned the doorknob.

The door was locked from within.

Ruban took two steps back, then threw his entire weight against the door, crashing into it shoulder-first.

The door flew open with a bang and a screech of protest.

A flash of light, then a loud, deafening crash from somewhere right outside the room.

Instinctively, Ruban reached out – fingers fumbling momentarily on the switchboard next to the door – and flicked the light switch on.

Cool, white light flooded the room.

Ruban blinked. The room was empty.

And except for a few scraps of paper scattered around the floor, it looked undisturbed. Hiya’s bed was perfectly made, and every piece of furniture was where it should be.

If it wasn’t for the open window on the other side of the room, at the foot of Hiya’s bed, Ruban might’ve thought he’d been hallucinating.

That window was never open. Because one of the trees on the building premises had branches reaching right up to it. So, any time the window was left open, all kinds of insects (and on one memorable occasion, a small snake) would climb into the room.

Hiya wasn’t keen on sharing her room with the various creepy-crawlies that called the tree home, so the window remained shut around the year.

Except, now it was open. Ruban strode to the window and looked out. The tree outside had a few broken branches, and a few others that looked oddly bent out of shape. There were also a few bald patches where the leaves had obviously been torn out.

Whoever had been in the room had clearly used the tree to climb out.

And had, apparently, injured themself while doing so.

Ruban frowned, bending to look more closely at the dark, wet patch on the side of the wooden window frame.

Yep, there was no mistaking it. The intruder had cut themself on the way out, and (helpfully) left a patch of blood on Ruban’s window frame.

Well, at least he could now be sure of one thing. Whoever had broken into his home was human. Almost by default, that eliminated half his suspects.

Ruban laughed, barely knowing why he was doing it, and pulled the window shut.