Chapter 7: Storm in the Alley
Raaz's POV
The rain fell like needles, sharp and relentless against the city’s glittering surface. From his penthouse window, Raaz watched the storm rage, his whiskey untouched on the table beside him. His mood matched the weather—chaotic, brooding, heavy.
He needed air.
Without informing anyone, not even Yash, he threw on a black hoodie and stepped into the elevator. The guards outside nodded, assuming he was just going for a drive. But Raaz had no destination. Just an urge to move, to breathe in something other than blood and betrayal.
The streets were quieter than usual. The storm had emptied them.
He walked, hood pulled low, letting the rain soak into his skin as if punishment might cleanse the weight on his soul. For once, the city didn’t look like his kingdom—it looked like a trap. Every corner echoed with Kartik’s laughter after slipping out of his grasp. Every silence mocked his rage.
As he passed an alley near Crawford Market, he felt it.
Too late.
The swift crunch of boots behind him.
He turned just as the first blade slashed through the fabric of his hoodie, grazing his shoulder. Another figure emerged from the shadows, knife glinting even in the low light. It was an ambush—five men, maybe more.
"Boss sends his regards," one of them smirked.
Kartik.
Raaz didn’t hesitate. Pain exploded in his side as a blade pierced his abdomen, but he fought like a cornered lion. His fists landed with brutal force, bones cracked, groans filled the alley. One man dropped after a savage kick to the neck. Another went down screaming with a shattered arm. But the bleeding didn’t stop.
He was weakening.
The alley spun. The blood loss made the world blur. Somehow, he elbowed his way through a gap, crashing through a side gate, stumbling into another narrow lane before collapsing behind a dumpster.
The rain kept falling, washing away the blood but not the pain.
His breaths were shallow. His vision flickered.
He would die here. Alone.
But fate had other plans.
Footsteps approached—light, hesitant, unfamiliar.
Aanya’s POV
Aanya cursed the rain under her breath. The library had closed late, and the storm had only worsened. She pulled her dupatta tighter and chose the alley shortcut, praying to reach the hostel before the roads flooded more.
Her sandals splashed through puddles until—
She froze.
A dark shape slumped near the garbage bins. A body.
Her heart raced. Maybe it was a drunk? Or worse?
She stepped closer, biting her lip. Then the face caught her breath.
Blood soaked through the man's shirt, and the cut over his brow had turned his pale skin red. But it was the intensity of his features—the clenched jaw, the scar on his left cheek, the wild hair plastered to his face—that struck her.
He groaned, trying to move.
“Hey! Oh my God—are you okay?” she whispered, kneeling beside him, her fear drowned by concern.
He blinked at her, barely conscious.
“Don’t move, please... I’ll help.”
She pulled out her phone, but there was no signal. She looked around. No one.
Without thinking, she tore part of her dupatta and pressed it against his wound to slow the bleeding.
“Stay awake,” she said softly. “I won’t leave you. Just... hold on.”
Raaz stared at her through half-lidded eyes. A faint whisper escaped his lips—he didn’t even know what he said. But all he could see before darkness claimed him was a girl with trembling hands and eyes like warm light cutting through the storm.
And for the first time in a long time, Raaz lost consciousness not in hate or rage—but in the comfort of a stranger’s kindness.
Aanya’s POV
The hospital lobby was cold and dim under the flickering fluorescent lights, the kind of place that echoed more with suffering than healing. Aanya burst through the doors, soaked to the skin, struggling to support the weight of the unconscious man in her arms. His blood had seeped through her kurta, warm and terrifying.
“Help! Someone please—he’s been stabbed!” she cried out.
A nurse rushed forward, eyes widening as she saw the extent of the injuries. “Get a stretcher!” she shouted, and within seconds, Raaz was lowered onto one. His face was pale, his lips slightly parted, and yet… when Aanya grasped his hand tightly, his fingers twitched in response.
They wheeled him into the emergency area, but the doctor stopped short outside the doors, eyeing the bloodied man suspiciously.
“This is a police case,” he said stiffly. “He’s clearly been in a gang fight. We cannot proceed unless a family member arrives to take responsibility. It's the law.”
Aanya’s throat tightened. “But he’s dying! You can’t just let him bleed out!”
“I’m sorry,” the doctor replied. “Without ID or a family member, we’re not allowed to—”
“I’m his wife,” Aanya blurted out, surprising even herself.
The nurse and doctor looked at her skeptically.
“I said I’m his wife,” she repeated more firmly, stepping closer to Raaz and placing her hands on his cheeks. “If you don’t treat him now, I’ll file a complaint. I’ll go to the media. You’ll be responsible for a man’s death.”
The doctor folded his arms. “Prove it.”
Aanya froze. Her eyes darted to Raaz, who lay there, unconscious—yet his lashes fluttered slightly, his chest rising and falling in weak rhythm. His face looked oddly peaceful when she touched him, as if even in pain, he found some kind of calm.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered—and before she could let fear stop her, she leaned down and pressed her lips gently to his.
Raaz’s skin was cold, but his lips, despite the dryness, were soft, still, absorbing.
For someone who never allowed anyone to touch him, Raaz didn’t resist. Somewhere in his blurred reality, this touch—the warmth, the scent, the tremble of her lips—reached a place nothing else ever had.
The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly and nodded at the nurse. “Take him in.”
Aanya backed away as Raaz was wheeled through the doors. His fingers, sticky with blood, brushed hers one last time before slipping out of reach.
“You’ll be okay,” she whispered. “You have to be.”
The doors swung closed.
A nurse approached her at the counter. “You need to fill out the admission form and pay the emergency operation fee. ₹25,000.”
Aanya stared at her, heart sinking. “I—I don’t have that kind of money.”
“No fee, no operation,” the nurse said flatly.
Panic. Despair. A ticking clock.
Then Aanya looked down at her hand.
Her mother’s gold ring—the only memory she had left of her, tucked around her finger since the funeral. It had never left her skin.
Until now.
With trembling fingers, she pulled it off and handed it to the nurse. “Take this. It’s real gold. Just please… save him.”
The nurse paused, softened by her desperation, and nodded.
As Aanya sank into the waiting bench, wet and cold, watching the red "Operation in Progress" sign light up above the door, she didn’t even know the name of the man she had just saved—or why his pain mattered so much.
But for the first time in her life, she had fought for someone with everything she had.
And somewhere on the other side of the doors, a man who had never known kindness whispered her name in his dreams—though he didn’t even know it yet.