COFFEE & COCAINE ( The Unforgotten Bloosm)

The night had grown heavier, though the rain had long stopped. Moist air drifted into the quiet city streets, mingling with the scent of blood and the aroma of spilt coffee that still lingered outside Coffee & Cocaine.

Inside the café, the energy had shifted drastically. The library shelves stood crooked, chairs were overturned, and hushed murmurs surrounded the makeshift emergency corner where Dr. Aagartha had stabilized the wounded boy—Uttaraayan Shrivastava.

But outside, a black car had waited. Its engine purred like a predator waiting to strike.

Its occupant had watched it all unfold—Aagartha's swift first aid, the panic, the protectiveness in her eyes. The man in the backseat hadn't flinched, nor had he spoken a word.

The man in the car… was not a passerby. He was no relative. He wasn't even from this country.

He was Vittorio De Santis, the shadow-laced kingpin of the Italian underworld—the boss of La Confraternita di Sangue.

---

Scene Shift: Venice, Italy – Palazzo del Lupo

Under the gothic towers of Venice's silent canals, the headquarters of the Italian syndicate thrummed with intensity.

Inside a lavish chamber lit only by chandelier glow, a video feed played—the scene from Coffee & Cocaine, moments before the ambulance arrived.

Vittorio sat at the head of the obsidian conference table, his presence alone enough to hush the room.

Vittorio (coldly): "Chi è quella donna? Quella che ha salvato il fratello di Nayan?" (Who is that woman? The one who saved Nayan's brother?)

His consigliere, Franco Bellati, nodded at the surveillance team. Keystrokes echoed.

Franco: "Trovate ogni dannata informazione. Chi, dove, come. Subito." (Find every damn piece of information. Who, where, how. Immediately.)

Seconds passed.

Leonardo (tech analyst): "Dr. Aagartha Kashyap. Professoressa di anatomia. Nessuna parentela nota. Solo... una donna normale." (Dr. Aagartha Kashyap. Anatomy professor. No known family. Just… an ordinary woman.)

Franco (sneering): "Allora perché ci dà fastidio?" (Then why is she bothering us?)

Vittorio (lowly): "Perché ha toccato ciò che è mio." (Because she touched what is mine.)

He puffed a slow ring of smoke.

Vittorio: "Uccidetela. Prima che Nayan lo scopra." (Kill her. Before Nayan finds out.)

Franco: "E il ragazzo?" (And the boy?)

Vittorio: "Muore con lei. E ogni testimone." (He dies with her. And every witness.)

Franco lit his cigar on Vittorio's and nodded.

Franco: "Uno sparo. Nessun nome. Nessuna memoria." (One bullet. No name. No memory.)

The syndicate moved into action.

And the girl who bent to save a stranger's life… had unknowingly stepped into a war she couldn't see.

---

Back in the city, Nayan was walking away into misted shadows. A storm of secrets loomed.

But from that moment on, the one watching from the car—the man with death on his breath—had marked Dr. Aagartha Kashyap as the next name on his list.

She saved a life. And in doing so, put her own in the line of fire.

Scene Shift

The silence in the hospital corridors had become eerie.

Dim yellow lights flickered over white floors now smudged faintly with footprints of chaos from earlier. The faint echo of distant voices—nurses, phones, scribbled notes—bounced like whispers off the sterile walls.

Aagartha, still in her now slightly wrinkled white coat, stood by the reception desk, finishing up the last of the police formalities. Her handwriting was swift but elegant, eyes slightly puffy from exhaustion but her posture steady and controlled.

"Thank you, doctor," said the constable as she handed over the file.

Aagartha gave a polite nod. "Let me know if he regains consciousness. I'll check again in the morning."

She didn't know the boy's name yet. But something about him made her stay longer than she had planned.

She tucked the pen into her pocket and turned toward the hospital's underground parking lot, heels softly tapping against the polished floors.

The elevator doors slid open with a mechanical sigh, and she stepped in.

She wasn't alone.

A tall man, dressed in black from head to toe, had quietly entered behind her.

Black baseball cap pulled low.

Black surgical mask.

Black bomber jacket zipped to the collar.

His head remained down, face completely unreadable.

Aagartha didn't flinch, but her senses sharpened.

Her instincts—carefully honed through years in hospitals and emergency situations—rang a quiet alarm.

"Koi toh galat hai…"

The man said nothing. Didn't even press the button.

But the elevator already moved.

Descending.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Her heart thudded, and the digital floor numbers slowly blinked down from 3... 2... 1...

As soon as the basement parking floor arrived, the lights inside the elevator flickered for a split second.

They stepped out.

Aagartha's car was parked near the farthest corner—beneath a flickering lamp that cast long shadows on the concrete floor. The air smelled faintly of gasoline and rain.

She didn't look back—but she could feel it.

The tension.

The breath that wasn't hers.

The footsteps… not loud, but just close enough.

"He's following me."

Her fingers slowly closed around the small metal pen torch in her coat pocket—more useful than a weapon but could blind someone long enough to run.

As she approached her car, the man sped up slightly.

Before she could unlock the door, he lunged.

But not to stab.

He gripped her wrist—swift and practiced. In one hand he held a small syringe with a translucent, slightly yellowish liquid.

Aagartha twisted, her doctor's reflexes kicking in, but the man was stronger.

She fought—kicked against his knee, swung her arm, her elbow connected to his ribs—

But he stabbed the needle into her upper shoulder, depressing the plunger.

Aagartha gasped. "N-No…"

The world spun.

Everything around her slowed as the sedative crept through her veins like venom.

Her vision blurred.

The concrete below her tilted.

The last thing she saw… was his face partially lit under the parking light.

Not familiar. But cold. Robotic.

Everything went black.