Vardaan:

I don't remember the face of the first man I killed.

Not because of time. Time doesn't erase things for me. I remember blood like a reflection and voices like echoes. But the faces? Blank.

There was screaming I think that was mine because he was choking like the blood gushing through his windpipe when I slit his throat. And the sound it made– soft like a rotten fruit hitting the floor. Not loud and dramatic like in movies it was smooth and delicate and in a second his eyes were wide open, lifeless. I stood there in his blood, barefoot with a smirk I guess that's what everybody calls it.

I was fifteen.

Now I'm twenty-nine. And there are two bodies behind me that I count today. My memory is sharp, they say, but even it does not want to keep some things or remember them. Blood smells like iron and wet dust. It sticks to your clothes when they are soaked in it. The pulse fades slowly from a man's throat, slower than you think.

These are the details I remember.

Not their names. Not their stories. Just death. Clean, efficient and forgettable.

He was supposed to be a "traitor". Something about money, about running. At first, they always fight, a waste of time but eventually, they break and beg. They always beg for mercy. And I never listen to it. Why? Because I don't have it.

His blood is on my hands. Literally. I stare as it dries. Cracks in the creases of my knuckles. My gloves tore. I'll need new ones.

The radio crackles.

"You're done?"

"Yes"

"Get back. Boss wants you. And..." a pause. "She's here".

My stomach doesn't twist. My heart doesn't stutter. Those things don't happen to me anymore. But my hands tighten on the steering wheel.

She's there.

The wife.

His wife.

The girl he took. Claimed. Broke.

I never saw her before the wedding, but I've heard the whispers. She was just a student. A girl with dreams. A quiet thing with bright eyes and a soft voice. She said no.

He didn't care.

He took her anyway.

And then he married her. Just to prove he could. Not out of love. Not even obsession. Just for inheritance. He wanted to ruin something and he did it.

And now she's here. In the house. Walking its halls like a ghost he doesn't even see anymore.

I park near the back of the estate. Ignoring the guards. I always do.

I take the back stairs. Silent. Quick. Familiar. I know every creaking board, every blind corner, every shadow.

I'm almost to the study when I hear her voice.

Not laughing.

Crying.

"Quiet, like she's trying to hide it.

I stop. Press my back to the wall. Listening

"You've ruined my life, my everything. You can't stop me from going out away from these walls, from this cage, from you even if it is for some time".

Silence.

Then his voice– low, bored. "You really think I care".

Something shatters. A glass, maybe.

"You're a burden," he says. "A trophy I didn't even want anymore. Be grateful I let you breathe under this roof".

I hear her inhale sharply. No sobs. Just breathing. Controlled. Like she's trying not to fall apart.

"I've never wanted this and, you" she whispered

"I also didn't ask for a whore who cried like a bitch every night after I touched her once" he snaps

I move before I realise it. Away from the door. Far enough not to hear the rest. Far enough to keep me from doing something stupid.

Her door opens a minute later.

Eyes red. Shoulders curled inward. She walks like she's trying to disappear.

She sees me.

Stops.

Her lips apart, but no words come out. Her eyes search my face– not with curiosity, not even hope. Just recognition.

We've never spoken. Not really.

But something passes between us in that second.

Something heavy.

She steps aside, and lets me pass.

I should keep walking. Pretending I didn't hear anything but the aching pull I felt towards her. Like I always do and I glance back.

"Are you okay?" I ask

Her eyes widen a little like this question doesn't belong in this house.

"No," she said simply.

She turns and walks away.

I report to the boss.

He's drunk. He usually is.

"You're late," he mutters.

I say nothing.

He pours a drink. Doesn't offer me one. Never does.

"She's pathetic", he says. "You've seen her crying earlier? Like a damn child. You'd think she'd grown a spine by now."

He laughs. "I should've left her in the alley I found her in."

I clench my fists behind my back.

He doesn't notice. Or doesn't care.

"Anyway, Vikram's done?"

"Yes"

"Good". He grins. "You're the only one I trust. Everyone else...has something to lose."

He sips his drink. "But you've lost everything a long time ago".

He's right. I don't remember my parents. Don't remember their faces, their voices, their smell. Just screams and blood.

And then–silence.

After that, nothing felt real. Not the orphanage. Not the streets. Not the harsh training, or torture. Not even the kills.

Until her, she made it real again.

Not with the words. Not with the touches.

Just with pain.

"She wears it–quietly, heavily without apology.

I leave his study.

Don't go to my room.

Instead, I move on the edge of the balcony outside her wing. I stay in the shadows, careful not to be seen.

Her window's open. She's inside, curled up on the floor near the bed. She's not crying now. Just sitting there. Still. Hollow.

I don't know how long I watched.

But something in me stirs.

Something I thought was gone.

I reach up and press two fingers to my temple.

Don't feel. Don't remember. Don't want.

It's safer this way.