Author's pov...
A soft, peaceful Devika had fallen asleep.
Meanwhile, Ansh sat on a chair, absentmindedly switching the old night lamp on and off.
Because of his constant flicking, Devika’s eyes flickered slightly — he froze instantly, switching the light off. His expression changed from blank to tense, and then eased again when she didn’t wake up.
Leaning closer, he pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead before walking out to the balcony.
Outside, the night was heavy. He lit a cigar and took a slow, deep drag — releasing the smoke into the air like a sigh he couldn’t voice.
His eyes lifted to the moon, glowing pale and distant, before he took out his phone from his pocket.
He played a video — and as the screen’s light reflected in his eyes, they turned red.
---
On the other side…
Angad staggered toward his room, his steps uneven, his eyes half-shut and bloodshot. A bottle of whisky dangled from his hand as he took sloppy sips. He kicked the already open door.
“Behench**… ye batti kisne bujha di?” he slurred, his words breaking between hiccups and curses.
Still muttering, he stumbled forward and flicked on the night bulb.
His hazy eyes caught a figure sitting on the sofa — still, unmoving, shadowed in smoke.
Squinting, he rubbed his eyes, trying to see clearer. The smoke curled and thickened, almost alive around the figure.
With a shaky hand, Angad switched on the main light.
The room flooded with brightness, and slowly, the smoke cleared — revealing him.
The devil himself.
Sitting like a fallen king — legs spread, one arm resting lazily on the headrest, a cigar burning between his fingers.
“Ansh… dikra?”
Angad’s voice cracked in disbelief.
Ansh didn’t even move.
His red, agony-filled eyes stayed fixed on Angad — silent, dangerous, and unreadable.
“Are dikra, tu kyare avyo? Ketlo moṭo thai gayo chhe re tu!”
(Oh my son, when did you come? You’ve grown up so much!)
Angad spoke casually, trying to sound normal — but Ansh didn’t reply.
He stood up slowly, each step deliberate. Taking a deep drag from the cigar, he walked toward Angad. When only a few inches apart, Ansh bent slightly — face to face — and exhaled the smoke straight into Angad’s face.
The sharp, suffocating smell made Angad cough violently. Before he could even react, Ansh’s hand shot out and wrapped around his neck.
Years of alcohol and drugs had left Angad’s body frail — almost skeletal.
In front of Ansh, he looked like an insect caught in a giant’s grasp.
Ansh’s fingers tightened. Angad’s feet lifted off the ground, his hands clawing weakly at Ansh’s wrist.
The air caught in his throat; his eyes bulged, veins rising across his temples. He tried to scream, but his voice broke into silence.
And then—
Ansh suddenly released him.
Angad crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, coughing, gasping, patting his neck desperately as he tried to breathe again.
Ansh stepped back, his expression blank, the ember of his cigar glowing faintly in the dark.
“Have you gone mad? Ma—maar dalega kya apne chacha ko?” Angad shouted hoarsely, still coughing.
“Haan,” Ansh growled, his tone low and seething.
“Wh… why? Why are you doing this?” Angad stammered, fear shaking in his voice.
Ansh didn’t answer.
His eyes — hollow, red, merciless — stared through Angad as if possessed by something darker than rage. There was no emotion left in his face… only silence that screamed louder than anger ever could.
Taking a roll of tape from the table, Ansh crouched down beside Angad. With slow precision, he ripped a strip and pressed it tightly across Angad’s mouth.
Then, without a word, he caught Angad’s hand — his grip cold, merciless — and brought the burning cigar down onto his palm.
The sizzling sound filled the room. Angad’s muffled scream tore through the tape, his eyes widening in sheer horror. The alcohol in his system vanished under the sting of raw pain.
He struggled to free himself, writhing on the floor, but Ansh’s hold tightened further — until a sickening crack echoed in the silence, bones giving way beneath his strength.
Ansh leaned close, his voice a low, trembling growl—
“Tujhe pata hai, tune apne gande haathon se jise chhune ki koshish ki,
vo meri Devi hai.”
(Do you know whose purity you tried to taint with your filthy hands? She’s my Devi.)
“Jise chhune mein meri rooh tak kaanp uthti hai,
tune use maila karne ki koshish ki.”
(The very thought of touching her makes my soul tremble,
and you tried to stain her?)
“Saza-e-maut toh pakki hai teri, chacha.”
(You’ve earned only one punishment now, dear uncle — death.)
He pressed the cigar deeper into Angad’s flesh — the smoke rising, Angad’s muffled cries dissolving into the thick air — undeniable pain was already visible in his face,
Then, with a sudden movement, Ansh ripped the tape off Angad’s mouth.
A loud, guttural cry burst out—but no one could hear it beyond those four walls.
“You… you never cared about any of this,” Angad gasped between sobs, his breath trembling, “then wh… why are you suddenly stepping into others’ lives?”
Ansh’s face didn’t flinch.
“I never cared,” he said coldly, “until it was my Devi.”
He leaned closer, his voice falling to a growl.
“If you even see her with those eyes, you’re already messing with me.”
He grabbed the whisky bottle from the table, smashed it against the edge, shards glinting under the dim light.
“And messing with me,” he whispered, “means death.”
Angad’s eyes widened. “Ansh—wait—”
“Vaise bhi,” Ansh said, his tone suddenly calm, almost too calm, “bohot saal jee liye tum, chacha.
Ab mar jao.”
(You’ve lived long enough, uncle. Now die.)
The jagged edge of the bottle plunged into Angad’s neck.
Warm blood splattered across the floor, spreading slowly like spilled wine.
Ansh stepped back, his breathing steady—watching the life drain from the man who dared to touch his Devi.
He looked at him one last time, eyes void of expression, then pulled out his phone, made a brief call, and left the room.
In the washroom, he stood before the mirror. The reflection that stared back was neither angel nor man—it was something else entirely.
He washed the blood off his hands, the water running red for a few seconds before turning clear.
Closing his eyes, he splashed cold water on his face, trying to calm the beast still growling inside.
Finally, he returned to his room.
Devika was asleep—her breathing soft, steady, innocent.
Ansh carefully lay beside her, cautious not to wake her.
But the moment he rested his head, she turned in her sleep, her hand falling gently over his chest.
He froze.
Before he could move, she shifted again—one slender leg resting across his torso.
Ansh narrowed his eyes, unsure if she was awake or lost in dreams.
He waved a hand in front of her closed eyes. No response.
Instead, she snuggled closer, her face pressing against his chest.
“Childish,” he whispered, a faint smirk curling on his lips.
His eyes drifted toward the ceiling.
Sleep didn’t come—but for the first time that night, the storm inside him was quiet.
Her warmth had calmed the fire that blood could not.
Who knows whether Ansh slept or not, but the night had now carved itself into the soft hue of morning.
.
.
Devika’s lashes fluttered as the first touch of sunlight brushed across her face.
Her hand instinctively reached to her left—searching for the warmth that had been there all night.
But her palm met only the cold bedsheet.
Her eyes opened wider.
She turned quickly to the side—empty.
The space beside her looked untouched, the pillow neatly placed, as if no one had ever lain there.
Her chest tightened, a sudden restlessness crawling up her throat.
She looked around the room—the curtains gently swayed, the balcony door was slightly ajar, the morning breeze whispering in.
Her gaze darted to the clock.
11:00 a.m.
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