COFFEE & COCAINE ( The Unforgotten Bloosm)

Inside a black-tinted Rolls Royce cutting through Delhi's midnight chaos, Dakshinayan Shrivastava stood like a volcano in a silk suit.

The assistant, Sahil, read off the latest report.

"They've taken her, sir. We tracked her phone signal to a warehouse near Okhla. But she's off-grid now."

Nayan didn't blink.

He stared out the tinted window — his jaw clenched, his temple twitching.

The rain outside blurred city lights into streaks of silver and gold — but none of it touched the firestorm in his chest.

"They took her," he repeated softly, his voice deathly calm.

Sahil nodded, "We believe it's the Italian Syndicate. They know she saved your brother. They probably think she's important to you."

Nayan turned slowly, eyes blazing.

"She is," he said. "But they shouldn't have known that."

He tapped his earpiece once.

"Activate Black Protocol."

Sahil froze. "Sir—are you sure?"

"Yes."

Sahil's breath hitched. Black Protocol was Nayan's personal command. A last-resort extraction and destruction order.

"All agents to move toward Okhla. Kill the power grid. Jam the frequencies. Burn everything except her."

He exhaled, rubbing the tension from his forehead.

"And if I don't find her in 30 minutes…"

His voice darkened.

"...this city burns before dawn."

---

Scene 3: In the Shadows

Back at the compound, Aagartha was left alone again.

The man's words still echoed in her ears. His touch hadn't come — but the threat of it had weighed heavier than iron.

Then…

Boom!

A distant explosion.

The floor vibrated slightly beneath her.

Shouts in Italian erupted beyond the door.

> "Sono qui! I bastardi sono qui!"

(They're here! The bastards are here!)

Gunfire. Loud. Sharp. Echoing down the hall.

Aagartha turned her head instinctively — though her eyes saw nothing.

Another explosion. Then the scream of a man — guttural, abrupt.

The door slammed open.

She flinched.

A heavy silence followed.

Then…

Boots. The rush of someone running. She stiffened — ready to fight blind.

But then—her name.

"Aagartha!"

That voice.

Warm. Thunderous. Wrapping around her like armor.

She barely had time to react when strong arms lifted her.

The blindfold was still on. She couldn't see him — but she knew.

"Kaun (who)?" she gasped, weakly.

He didn't answer.

His grip tightened, protective, urgent.

She felt herself being cradled against his chest. The scent of him — smoke, storm, something old — filled her lungs. For the first time since the abduction, her heartbeat steadied.

Gunshots still rang behind them.

"Get us out!" he barked.

"Clear!" shouted someone else.

As they rushed through smoke-filled hallways, she whispered — barely audible —

"You came…"

He didn't reply.

He just held her closer.

As if to say — Always.

The moonlight was pale and distant now. Its soft glow barely touched the silent road as Nayan's sleek black car glided through the city, engine humming like a predator's breath.

Inside, cradled in his arms, lay Aagartha — her wrists bruised, the blindfold still loose around her temples. Her breath was steady, but her body carried the tremors of what it had just endured. Her head rested against his chest, as if it had always belonged there. A stillness settled over them — not of peace, but of fragile survival.

Nayan didn't speak. His eyes remained locked ahead, but his arms held her tighter every time she shifted or winced in her unconsciousness.

By the time the car pulled in front of her home, the horizon had just begun to warm with traces of blue and ash-gray dawn.

He carried her gently through the quiet corridors of her house — a space that was unfamiliar yet filled with scents that now felt deeply known. Lavender. Coffee beans. Ink and paper.

Nayan nudged open her bedroom door and laid her softly on the bed — the moonlight still spilling in from the large window behind her.

As he stood up and turned to leave, something caught his attention.

Outside the window, two cherry blossom trees stood like silent witnesses — delicate and still, petals swaying faintly with the cold breeze. Just beyond them, visible through the iron railings of her garden boundary, loomed an abandoned bungalow. Dark. Hollow-eyed. Like a forgotten secret watching her from the shadows.

Nayan's jaw clenched, and a storm passed through his gaze.

He murmured under his breath, "Your past hides close, Indu… even your house remembers."

He turned, taking one last look at the woman now resting on the bed, finally free — if only for a while — from the danger that haunted her. Then he stepped out of the room.

---

Scene Shift: Nightfall in the Care Unit

Far from the fragile calm of Aagartha's home, the Care Unit of Sector-9, a private medical facility under OneSky's classified protection program, buzzed with quiet precision.

Uttaraayan Srivastava — Nayan's younger brother — lay unconscious, a sea of wires connecting him to the beeping monitors. His face was pale, but the pulse was growing stronger. The soft rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sign of his steady recovery.

Nayan entered the facility with barely restrained urgency. His long black coat swayed behind him, his steps echoing across the sterile floor. But just as he reached for the glass door to Uttaraayan's room—

Sahil Singh, his ever-efficient assistant, approached quickly.

"Sir," Sahil said in a low voice, "The Italia Syndicate's scout team — the three who organized the hit— have been captured."

Nayan didn't even blink. "Bring them to my office. No delays."

"Yes, sir."

"And make sure they're not touched until I speak. I want to look into the eyes of the men who laid a finger on her."

Sahil nodded once and disappeared into the corridor.

Just then — a nurse ran up behind him.

"Sir— Your brother's awake."

Nayan's heart lurched.

He turned sharply and walked toward the care room, emotions tightening inside his chest like coiled wire.

Inside, the lights were dimmed. Uttaraayan lay with his head tilted slightly to one side. His eyes were open — groggy, red — but alert. The oxygen mask still clung to his face, fogging lightly with each breath.

Nayan stood still.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then, slowly — Uttar raised his hand, too weak to lift it entirely. His fingers twitched, then extended into a two-fingered salute — the index and middle finger raised like a soldier greeting his general.

Nayan's expression cracked. Just for a breath.

Then, he too raised his hand — two fingers mirroring the same gesture, wordless but powerful.

A bond sealed not by words — but by survival.

"Doctor," Nayan said, turning to the medical staff, "I want him to recover faster than anyone you've ever treated. Whatever you need — you have it. Just bring him back."

"Yes, sir!"

Uttar blinked, trying to speak, but Nayan leaned down and whispered, "No rush. You're safe now. I've got you."

There was so much left unsaid between them. So many questions. So much pain. But in that moment, under the sterile lights and between the soft beeps of life returning — there was only brotherhood.

And war drums, beating just beneath the surface of calm.

---