December 21st, 2029 – Mumbai
The first sign came in silence.
It wasn't loud or obvious. No shattered glass, no screeching tires, no ominous music building in the background. Just a car—black, inconspicuous, and far too consistent.
Aanya noticed it before Dev did. Not because she was more observant, but because she had learned to be paranoid.
It had been three days.
Three mornings of stepping out of the elevator, adjusting her blazer, coffee in hand, and seeing the same damn car across the street. Same model. Same dusty windshield. Same exact position. Like a bad habit waiting for a reaction.
Most people wouldn't have looked twice. It was a perfectly forgettable vehicle.
But the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray? That was what stuck. Unchanged. Burnt down halfway and then abandoned, frozen in time like the car itself.
She didn't say anything on the first day. Just made a mental note.
The second day, she added a small red dot in the corner of her planner. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to track the repetition.
By the third, her instincts were screaming.
She didn't tell Dev immediately. He was rarely at the office and always too busy handling problems that felt heavier than her suspicions. But that evening, he was there.
Not as a consultant. Not as a strategist. Just… present.
He sat across from her in her office, long legs stretched, eyes occasionally drifting toward the door. He didn't ask about emails, reports, or timelines. He simply sat, silent, like he was waiting for something to arrive.
Aanya finally shut her laptop at 7:13 PM. The numbers glowed red on the corner clock.
"There's a car," she said without preamble.
Dev didn't blink. "License plate?"
She recited it.
He was already rising to his feet before she finished. "We need to go."
They left through the back exit, taking the freight elevator. Her heartbeat was steady, but her skin felt too tight, like it didn't belong to her.
The black car followed from a distance. Not aggressively. Not close enough to chase. Just there, lurking at the edge of every turn.
Dev didn't drive like a man in a hurry. No illegal turns. No speed. No panic. But his path was precise—a snake weaving through the back lanes of Tardeo, Jacob Circle, and forgotten pockets of the old mill district.
At one point, they passed the remnants of a textile factory, half-eaten by rust and vines. Just beyond it, he pulled into an underground garage, the kind that hadn't seen real use in years.
He killed the lights. Cut the engine. Silence returned.
Two full minutes passed.
Then the black sedan crept by, its headlights muted, its driver cautious. It paused—just for a second—and rolled on.
Dev watched it vanish. "They're not professionals."
Aanya leaned back in the seat, exhaling. "How do you know?"
"Because we're still alive."
Back at her penthouse, Aanya poured tea with hands that didn't quite tremble. But they weren't calm, either.
Dev stood near the window, his profile sharp against the glow of city lights.
"You said they're not professionals," she said, placing the cup down. "That means there are others who are."
He didn't answer at first. Just nodded.
"And they'll come too?"
His silence was louder than confirmation.
She let down her hair and sat opposite him, trying to gather herself in the quiet.
"Why are they following me?" she asked.
He turned from the window. His eyes were darker than usual. "They're not. They're following me. You're just in the picture now."
She frowned. "That doesn't make it better."
"No. But it means we still have time."
"For what?"
"Preparation."
She studied him closely. "You don't look worried."
"I've been watched before."
"That doesn't mean you're safe."
"No," he said. "But I know how long we have."
She waited.
"Three days. Maybe four," he continued. "Before they make a move."
"What kind of move?"
Dev didn't respond immediately. His silence left too much room for imagination.
The next morning, Aanya was a different woman.
She cancelled non-essential meetings. Called Anwar, her private security lead, and added two new bodyguards to her detail. All cameras were rerouted to encrypted backups. Facial recognition software was activated. Redundant alerts were programmed.
She didn't explain. She didn't justify.
And Dev—true to form—didn't question it.
But that afternoon, something shifted.
She entered the elevator alone, descending to the underground parking. Her bodyguard had gone ahead to start the car. She pressed the button and checked her phone. When the doors slid open, she stepped in—
—and paused.
A man stood inside.
Mid-forties. Athletic build. Cropped hair. Navy suit with a cut too sharp for a banker, too clean for a cop. His eyes didn't meet hers. He stood unnaturally still.
She said nothing.
Neither did he.
The silence was oppressive.
The elevator descended.
When the doors opened, she walked out slowly, every instinct on edge.
Then she heard it—soft footsteps behind her. Deliberate. Echoing against the concrete.
Dev was already waiting beside the car.
He saw her first, then him. His gaze sharpened.
"Get in," he said calmly.
"But—"
"Now."
She slid into the passenger seat.
From the rearview mirror, she watched Dev walk up to the man. No weapon drawn. No aggression.
They spoke.
Ten seconds. Maybe less.
No handshakes. No smiles. No contact.
Then the man turned and walked away, like none of it mattered.
Dev got in the car, shut the door, and pulled away. Five whole minutes passed before he spoke.
"That was a warning."
"From who?"
"Not the amateurs."
"You recognized him?"
"I recognized the way he stood."
She frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means the next time, they won't talk first."
That night, she didn't go home.
Dev took her to a "friend's" property in the outskirts—if "friend" was a euphemism for someone who owed him favors in exchange for secrets.
The place was a fortress.
No windows. Reinforced steel doors. Walls lined with concrete thick enough to silence screams. A basement full of equipment that looked like it belonged in a military operation, not someone's weekend retreat.
Aanya stared at the blinking monitors and humming servers.
"I'm not hiding," she said.
Dev glanced at her. "You're not. You're repositioning."
She narrowed her eyes. "Is that how you survive? Rebranding fear as strategy?"
He didn't flinch. "Only when it works."
They didn't sleep.
Instead, they sat in front of monitors, watching street cams, tracking license plates, cross-referencing CCTV.
Three cars. Five men. One drone.
They weren't amateurs anymore.
At 3:12 AM, one of the feeds went red.
An alert flashed across the screen.
Dev was on his feet instantly. Aanya followed.
A black SUV had pulled up outside the estate gates. Too new. Too quiet.
One man stepped out.
He walked directly up to the nearest camera. Looked into it. Smiled faintly.
Then he pulled a gun.
A single shot. The camera blinked out.
Darkness flooded the screen.
No movement. No retreat.
Just silence.
Dev's voice was steel. "They're not watching anymore."
Aanya nodded. "They're acting."
He looked at her seriously. "You need to leave the city."
"No."
"You don't have a choice."
"I always have a choice."
He stared at her for a long moment. "Then make one. Now."
She didn't blink. "We stay. We fight."
He exhaled slowly, like a man processing a risk he couldn't avoid. "That's not the safest option."
"It's the only one that makes sense."
Another pause.
But this time, the silence wasn't born from fear.
It was a decision being forged.
Not between strangers. Not even between friends.
But between two people who had just crossed a line together.
Their war had started.
And they weren't backing down.