CHAPTER 8
The rain hasn’t stopped all day, drumming against the windows like a constant reminder of the weight Ayesha carries. She sits in her cramped apartment, surrounded by open files and scattered papers. The silence is broken by her phone buzzing.
Her handler’s voice is brisk, and straight to the point.
“We’ve confirmed Vikram Bhosale’s operations are funding something bigger. You’ll stay undercover as Meera. Dig deeper. And Sharma—there’s a link to the Hotel Amara bombing. Find out what it is.”
The mention of the bombing stirs something deep inside her. It’s a name she can’t forget, a puzzle she’s desperate to solve. She clenches her jaw and forces her voice to stay steady.
“Understood.”
Hours pass as she pours over evidence—photographs, surveillance footage, and reports spread across her table. Every piece connects to Vikram Bhosale, but the full picture still feels out of reach. Smuggling, robberies, trafficking—it’s all there, but what ties it together?
When the clock strikes ten, Ayesha switches gears. She’s no longer herself. Tonight, she’s Meera, an ambitious smuggler trying to make a name in the underworld. She throws on her leather jacket, ties her hair back, and steps into the night.
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AT KHAUF GHAR
Khauf Ghar is the same as always—loud, grimy, and reeking of sweat, alcohol, and cigarettes. Ayesha steps inside, ignoring the stares that follow her. She walks straight to the back room without hesitation.
Vikram Bhosale is already there, seated at the head of a table. His sharp eyes track her every move as she enters.
“You’re late,” he says, not bothering to hide his irritation.
“Traffic,” she replies, her voice calm.
She slides a package onto the table. Vikram unwraps it, revealing the rare electronics she’s smuggled as part of her cover. He inspects them, then gives her a curt nod.
“You’ve done well,” he says, his tone just short of praise. “Keep this up, and you’ll go far.”
The meeting is quick, but every second feels like a test. Vikram mentions a big shipment coming soon—a clue Ayesha files away for later.
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Outside, the rain has picked up, heavy and unrelenting. Ayesha gets into her car and sits for a moment, the tension of the evening still clinging to her. Her phone buzzes with a message:
“Good progress. Don’t lose focus. The next step is critical.”
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AT THE CLUB
Ashwin Nair sits in the corner of an exclusive club, the smooth hum of jazz filling the air. The polished wood and dim lighting contrast sharply with the chaos simmering in his head. He swirls his whiskey, trying to focus on anything but the whispers of missing shipments that won’t seem to fade.
“Mr. Nair,” a voice interrupts, sharp and confident. "Nice to meet you, I am Alya."
He looks up to see a woman in a sleek black dress standing beside him. Her piercing gaze locks on his, and her faint smile puts him on edge.
“Do I know you?” Ashwin asks, his tone cool.
“No,” she replies, sliding into the seat across from him uninvited. “But I know you. And more importantly, I know what you’ve been trying to forget for fifteen years.”
Ashwin stiffens, but his expression remains impassive. He doesn’t react to her words, though they cut through his practised calm like a blade.
“I don’t have time for games,” he says evenly.
“Oh, this isn’t a game, Mr. Nair,” she says, her voice dropping low. “Your memory loss—it’s not random. Do you know who your family was? Who you were? Or perhaps what you did?”
His jaw tightens.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but the edge in his voice betrays him.
Her smile sharpens. “Your handler does and so do I. So what if the whole world does too?”
Ashwin's grip tightens on his neatly pressed suit. He narrows his eyes. as he asks cautiously, “What do you want?”
Alya leans forward, her tone turning icy. “A shipment. Three nights from now. Smuggled goods, tied to your handler. Redirect it to my people, and I’ll stay silent. The truth about your past.”
Ashwin stares at her, for a little longer than expected. “How can I trust you? What if I refuse?”
Alya slides her phone towards him, containing pictures of the same Journal he has at home. “Then this gets leaked. Every detail of what you can’t remember. And trust me, you don’t want the world—or even yourself—finding out that way.”
Ashwin glares at her, the weight of her words pressing on him like a vice. The memory gaps have haunted him for years, but he’s always avoided chasing the answers. Now, they’re being thrust into his face, with a price he’s not sure he’s willing to pay.
He glances at the pictures, “Three nights,” he says at last, “But if this is a setup—”
“It’s not,” Alya interrupts smoothly. “Get the job done, I’ll be waiting.”
She rises from the table and disappears into the crowd, leaving Ashwin alone with his drink and a decision that could unravel everything he’s built—and everything he’s tried to forget.