Rain drizzled against the windowpanes, soft and rhythmic—less like weather and more like a hush whispered by the world itself. The roads below gleamed under scattered streetlamps, the golden glow reflecting off puddles like forgotten memories. The storm that had threatened earlier had broken not with thunder, but with the steady patter of rain, almost as if it too was mourning something.
Devrathor stood beneath that muted sky, his figure cloaked in black, his mask still damp with condensation. In his arms was the woman who once haunted his nights and now lay unconscious in his embrace—Ania Malik.
Her breath came in broken gasps, skin burning through her thin blouse. Her shawl had fallen half from her shoulder, her dark hair tangled against his chest. She was limp, but her body betrayed signs of torment—a feverish flush, restlessness in her limbs, and a quiet, trembling whimper that cut through the otherwise quiet hallway of her apartment building.
Devrathor pressed the keypad with a gloved finger, the code still etched into his memory after all these years.
Beep.
Click.
The door swung open with a soft creak.
The apartment was dim, but warm. Familiar. It hadn't changed much. Framed photos still adorned the console table near the entrance—pictures of her with the children, and one with her mother smiling beside her in a faded sari. The scent of sandalwood lingered faintly in the air, a fragrance so uniquely hers.
Carefully, he stepped inside, gently kicking the door closed behind him. The lock clicked into place. Only then did he exhale.
He crossed the room in silence and laid her gently on the velvet couch—the one she always used to curl up in with Hana after school. The cushions sighed beneath her weight.
She stirred.
A soft moan escaped her lips. Her legs shifted restlessly, as if her skin was burning. He quickly removed his gloves and placed a hand on her forehead. Her skin was hot. Unnaturally so.
She was sweating, even though the room was cool.
Devrathor's sharp eyes scanned her—no sign of new injury beyond the bruises and welts she'd endured during her abduction. But there was something else. Something wrong.
Her breathing was shallow. Her pupils—when she managed to open her eyes—were dilated. Her skin flushed. Her body writhed slightly, as though she was trying to escape her own skin.
He knew this.
He had seen it before.
No. Not again.
A bitter chill swept through him. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
They hadn't just kidnapped her.
They had drugged her—with something vile. Something designed not to kill, but to corrupt. A designer compound developed in the underworld, used by human traffickers and sadists. It induced heat, longing, disorientation. Made the body crave touch. Any touch. It was a twisted weapon. A chemical violation.
His fists curled.
He could still hear the tremor in her whisper from earlier. "It's so hot…"
Her skirt had ridden up slightly during the scuffle, revealing the curve of her thigh. He didn't let his eyes linger. Instead, he grabbed a folded blanket and carefully covered her legs, tucking it around her gently like one might for a child. Her blouse clung damply to her collarbone, soaked from the rain, its fabric transparent under the moonlight, but he refused to let his gaze wander.
He wasn't here to touch her.
He was here to protect what little peace she still had left.
Ania moaned again, her hands twitching against the cushions. Then she whispered, "Don't leave…"
His breath caught.
He turned to her. Her lashes fluttered open.
For a second, just a second, her gaze met his behind the mask. There was glassiness in her eyes, but also a kind of desperate knowing.
Her hand lifted weakly. It brushed against the collar of his tactical gear. The touch was soft. Searching.
"Don't… go…"
He swallowed hard. "Ania—"
"You came," she breathed. Her eyes scanned his masked face. "You always come…"
He knelt beside her, hesitant. "You're not well."
"I know you…" she murmured, her voice thick, weighted with the drug coursing through her veins. "Your voice… I know it…"
Devrathor looked away, his fingers twitching with restraint.
She reached up—slowly, shakily—and touched the side of his mask.
"Why are you hiding…?"
Her voice cracked at the end, and something inside him split.
It wasn't lust in her voice. It wasn't seduction. It was pain. A cry for comfort. A cry for him.
"Ania," he said softly. "You've been drugged. You're not in control. You don't know what you're saying."
Her fingers slid down to his chest, gripping the fabric tightly. "But it's you," she whispered, eyes full of unshed tears. "Isn't it?"
He said nothing.
She pulled him closer—not with strength, but with desperation. Her lips were just a breath from his jaw. Her breath hit his skin, warm and trembling.
"I feel like I'll explode…" she gasped. "I don't understand. I just… I need—" Her voice broke off, and she arched toward him, her body flushed, craving contact.
His whole body tensed. Her pain was like a scream beneath her skin.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close. Her mouth hovered near his.
"Please…"
His heart cracked.
Because he knew what she needed wasn't just physical.
She needed the memory of safety. The memory of being held and not harmed. She needed her soul reminded that not every man would take what she didn't give.
Still, he didn't move.
His voice was low, ragged. "This isn't who you are right now, Ania. And I won't let this moment become something you'll regret."
She blinked. A tear rolled down the side of her face, sliding into her hair. "Why do you feel like home…?"
He inhaled sharply.
And then—he did what broke him.
He gently pulled her arms from around his neck. One hand at a time. Slow. Reverent.
She whimpered in protest. "Please don't—"
He laid her gently back on the cushions, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Rest," he said softly.
She tried to resist, her body rising again like a wave seeking a shore. But he pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, and her limbs gave way.
She blinked rapidly, confused, trembling.
"You're safe," he murmured, barely audible.
Her hand reached toward him again. "Stay…"
"I am here," he whispered, cupping her hand in his gently. "Just not the way you remember."
She blinked again. "Then take off your mask…"
He hesitated.
His fingers trembled above the clasp at the side of his helmet.
But he couldn't—not yet.
Not while she was in this state. Not while the line between memory and manipulation blurred.
"I will," he promised. "When you're you again."
She closed her eyes slowly, breath uneven.
"I think I loved you once," she said sleepily.
He felt tears sting behind his mask.
"You still do," he whispered. "You just forgot what it felt like."
Her grip on his hand loosened. Her head sank deeper into the cushions. Sleep—drugged, restless sleep—finally overtook her.
He stood and stepped back into the shadows of the hallway. For a long time, he just watched her.
And then, with one final look, he placed his glove on the coffee table, next to her hand.
She would find it. And she would remember.
Because no matter how far he ran, how long he stayed in the shadows—
He had never stopped being hers.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
But inside, a different storm had just begun—one made of memory, longing, and the fragile thread of recognition.