The darkness was thick, endless, and suffocating.
Somewhere in the void, Arjun felt himself slipping between reality and nightmare. Distant echoes of gunfire crackled like cruel memories in the back of his mind. The metallic tang of blood clung to his throat, and Meera's scream haunted the silence.
Then came the pain.
A dull, pulsing throb in his side. His limbs felt heavy, weighed down by an invisible force. His head spun, images and sounds tangled in a confused haze.
Slowly, the world sharpened.
He opened his eyes to blinding white light. The sterile ceiling above him hummed with a quiet, mechanical buzz. Somewhere nearby, machines beeped steadily. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, clashing with the phantom smell of gunpowder still lodged in his senses.
His lips were cracked; throat parched.
Where was Meera?
A sudden flash of memory — the crowded night market alive with color, the bright stalls of Busan humming with life. Meera's laughter, her hand brushing against his as she admired a delicate, handwoven scarf. The way she cradled her belly when the baby kicked. Everything about that evening had felt perfect.
Until it wasn't.
The sudden eruption of violence.
It started with a sharp crack in the distance, like fireworks. People turned toward the sound, confused smiles fading. Then came a volley of gunfire.
Men in black jackets bearing the snarling serpent insignia of the Black Vipers stormed into the square, semi-automatics raised. Another group, equally armed, emerged from the opposite side. A street war ignited in seconds, bullets cutting through the festive air.
Arjun had reacted on instinct. His combat training kicked in.
He grabbed Meera, pulling her toward cover behind a vendor's cart. The world became a blur of screams and shattering glass. Neon signs exploded in a shower of sparks. Blood splashed across food stalls.
But fate was cruel.
A nearby grenade blast tore through the market, the force lifting the cart off its hinges. Arjun was thrown back, slamming against a steel post. Pain shot through his ribs, a hot burst of agony that made him taste copper.
Through the haze, he saw her — Meera, standing terrified, shielding her belly with both hands, her eyes wide with fear.
A figure approached her, moving through the chaos like a phantom.
Tall, ruthless, eyes cold as a dead winter sea.
Ji-Yeon.
Leader of the Black Vipers. A woman whose beauty masked a soul of stone.
She raised her pistol.
And fired.
A single, precise shot. The bullet struck Meera in the chest, and she crumpled soundlessly to the ground. Blood bloomed around her like a dark rose.
"No!" Arjun's voice was hoarse even now at the memory.
As he tried to crawl to her, a second bullet tore into his side, and the world went black.
Now, in the hospital
Arjun gasped awake, chest heaving.
The fluorescent lights of the hospital ceiling glared down at him. A dull ache gripped his entire body, but none so vicious as the hollow, gnawing sensation in his chest.
He tried to sit up, but pain flared through his ribs. A nurse hurried in, gently pressing him back.
"Take it easy, sir," she murmured in accented English.
"Meera…" His voice cracked. "Where's… my wife?"
The nurse's expression darkened, eyes welling up. "I'll get the doctor."
A few agonizing minutes later, Detective Kang Jae-Min arrived, the weight of tragedy evident in his expression. He sat beside the bed, removing his cap.
"The market… was hit hard," Kang began, voice low. "The Black Vipers targeted a rival syndicate. They… didn't care who was caught in the crossfire."
Arjun's pulse hammered. He gripped the sheet tightly, dread filling his lungs like water.
"Your wife… didn't survive," Kang said quietly.
The words were a punch to the gut. Arjun's chest constricted. He shook his head violently. "No. No, that's not possible. She was fine — we were together — she was—"
"I'm sorry."
Tears blurred his vision. His heart felt like it had been ripped from his chest and crushed beneath boot heels.
"I need to see her," Arjun rasped.
Kang hesitated, then nodded.
The Basement Morgue
The corridors were filled with the wounded — nurses dashing between rooms, the moans of the injured rising like a mournful chorus. A young boy lay unconscious on a stretcher, a blood-soaked bandage over his chest. A woman sobbed quietly in a corner, clutching her husband's severed arm. A man howled in grief as a doctor pronounced his wife dead.
Arjun felt like a ghost among the living.
In the basement morgue, the cold was suffocating.
Rows of shrouded bodies lay on metal slabs. The overhead lights flickered. The scent of death clung to the walls.
A nurse guided Kang and Arjun to one particular stretcher. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed red from crying.
"She's here."
The sheet was slowly pulled back.
And there she was.
Meera.
Her face was pale, lips tinged blue, but somehow serene — as though she'd simply fallen asleep. A bloodstain marred the fabric over her chest. Her hair, still slightly damp from the market mist, fanned across the pillow like silk.
Arjun's knees threatened to give way.
He reached out, cupping her cold cheek. "Meera," he whispered, voice breaking. "I'm here, jaan… I came back."
His tears fell onto her still face.
"I should've… I should've saved you."
He pressed his lips to her forehead, his heart shattering piece by piece. Every memory of her — the first time they met, the nights under starlit skies, the moment she told him she was pregnant — all collided into unbearable grief.
Kang placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, his face tight with sorrow.
"She didn't suffer," the nurse whispered softly. "It was quick."
But it was no comfort.
Nothing would ever be enough.
Arjun stayed with her until his strength gave out, speaking words only the dead could hear. Love, apologies, and promises.
Finally, Kang guided him away.
Back in his hospital room, a file lay waiting.
A photograph of Ji-Yeon stared up at him, her sharp eyes burning from the page.
Arjun's gaze hardened.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.