The days that followed blurred into a haze of white walls, IV drips, and the steady beeping of machines.
Arjun lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling as memories played on repeat — Meera's laugh, her hand resting gently on her belly, the way her eyes sparkled when she teased him about baby names. Every memory was a blade, cutting deeper than the last.
His injuries were severe — a fractured rib, a gunshot wound to his side, and a concussion. But none of it hurt as much as the emptiness in his chest.
The doctors said he was lucky to be alive.
He didn't feel lucky.
The Recovery
Each morning, nurses arrived to check his vitals and change his bandages. The bullet had missed his vital organs by a hair's breadth. The painkillers dulled the agony but couldn't touch the grief.
Detective Kang visited daily, updating him on the aftermath of the market shootout. The rival gang, the Iron Shadows, had lost their leader. Thirty-nine civilians were dead. Dozens more wounded.
A city in mourning.
Arjun barely spoke.
He stared at the wall, fingers absently brushing the spot on his wrist where Meera had once held him, promising forever.
The nurses tried to coax him to eat. He refused most meals, his stomach knotted in grief. The world felt hollow without her.
The Funeral
A small, hastily arranged funeral was held at a Buddhist crematorium on the outskirts of Busan.
Korean customs were unfamiliar to Arjun, but the staff tried their best to honor Meera's memory. A simple white casket. A table of incense. Her photograph framed in white chrysanthemums.
Only a handful of people attended — hospital staff, Detective Kang, and a few bystanders who had survived the market attack.
Arjun stood by her side one final time, his face a mask of quiet devastation.
He placed a folded silk scarf, the one she'd bought hours before the attack, into the coffin with trembling hands. It still held her scent.
When the flames consumed her, a part of him burned too.
Tears blurred his vision as the incense smoke rose into the sky.
Forgive me, Meera.
The Call to India
That evening, in his hospital room, Detective Kang handed him a satellite phone.
"You should call them," he said gently. "They deserve to hear it from you."
Arjun's hands trembled as he dialed the number. The distance between Busan and Delhi felt like a chasm he could never cross.
It was Meera's father who answered.
"Hello, beta! How's Korea? Is Meera, okay? She didn't answer my calls yesterday…"
Arjun's throat closed.
For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Then, with a voice raw and broken, he spoke the words he'd dreaded.
"Uncle… Meera… she's… she's gone."
The silence on the other end was deafening.
It stretched on, seconds becoming centuries.
Then came the sobbing. Heart-wrenching, soul-shattering sobs. Her mother's voice joined the line, wailing in the background. The sound made Arjun's chest tighten until he could barely breathe.
"How?" her father managed through tears.
Arjun told them everything.
The market. The gangs. The gunfight. The woman with cold eyes.
He left nothing out.
"I failed her," Arjun whispered, tears spilling down his face. "I couldn't protect her… I should've—"
"Beta," her father's voice cracked. "You… you brought her joy. She loved you. This isn't your fault."
But it didn't ease the weight of guilt.
Her mother's sobs continued as Arjun promised to bring Meera's ashes home, to lay her to rest in the land of her ancestors.
When the call ended, Arjun sank back against the pillows, his heart shattered beyond repair.
The Promise
That night, Arjun dreamt of Meera.
She stood at the edge of the market square, bathed in soft golden light, a gentle smile on her face.
"You'll find peace," she whispered. "And you'll make them pay."
When he woke, his pain was still there — raw, vicious, unrelenting. But beneath it was something else.
A cold, focused fire.
Ji-Yeon had taken everything from him.
And soon, he would return the Favor.