The rain fell like an endless curtain over Raivelle that night, thick and merciless, as if the sky itself wanted to wash the city away. Streets that were normally alive with chatter and neon light were nearly deserted, the only movement coming from the streaks of water racing down glass windows and the occasional stray dog darting into the shelter of a broken awning.
Armaan adjusted the hood of his jacket as he stepped into Old Town. Most people avoided this quarter of Raivelle after dark. The abandoned cathedrals, leaning mansions, and cobblestone alleys whispered of secrets better left forgotten. But for Armaan, this part of the city was a kind of dark canvas. With his camera bag slung across his shoulder, he moved like a painter searching for the perfect stroke of inspiration.
Photography was not just a profession to him. It was his obsession. Through his lens, the decaying streets looked hauntingly beautiful. Every shattered window, every moss-stained wall told a story. He lifted his camera and focused on the ruined archway of St. Irelia's Cathedral, its broken spires cutting sharp against the storm. He clicked, the shutter sound barely audible against the hammer of rain.
But then—he froze.
At first, he thought it was just the echo of his own steps. But no. It was different. Quicker. Desperate.
Footsteps.
He turned. Through the misty veil of rain, a figure emerged at the far end of the street. A girl. Running.
Her dress clung to her as if it had become part of her skin, soaked in water, heavy and dragging. Her hair—long, dark, plastered against her pale face—whipped with each hurried step. And her eyes… even from a distance, Armaan saw the glint of fear in them. She kept glancing over her shoulder, as if something—or someone—was right behind her.
Armaan's instinct was to look away. This wasn't his business. But he couldn't move. The lens of his camera hung at his chest, forgotten, as the girl drew closer.
And then she collided into him.
The impact nearly knocked the breath out of him. Armaan instinctively steadied her, hands grasping her cold shoulders. Up close, her fear was even more palpable. Her chest heaved, her lips trembled, and her eyes—dark, wide, frantic—locked onto his.
"Please," she gasped, barely able to form the word. "Don't let them find me."
Armaan's pulse kicked. Them?
He opened his mouth to ask, but the low growl of an engine cut through the rain. Headlights flared at the far end of the street. A black car crawled forward, too slow to be casual, too deliberate to be harmless. Its tinted windows concealed the watchers inside, but Armaan could feel their gaze.
The girl's grip on his jacket tightened with desperation. "Hide me!" she whispered, her voice cracking.
Armaan didn't think. He acted. Pulling her hand, he dragged her into the cathedral ruins, ducking behind a collapsed pillar. The smell of wet stone and moss enveloped them. He could feel her trembling beside him, breaths shallow and quick.
The car rolled past, its headlights slicing through the skeletal remains of the cathedral. For one agonizing moment, the beam of light swept dangerously close to where they hid. Armaan held his breath, pressing the girl gently against the stone as if shielding her.
The car slowed. Stopped.
The silence stretched, filled only by the hammer of rain.
Then—just as suddenly—it moved again, vanishing into the storm.
Only then did Armaan exhale. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs. The girl slowly lowered her hands from his jacket, though her trembling didn't stop.
"Who are you?" he asked quietly.
She looked at him, water dripping from her lashes, her voice a fragile whisper. "My name is Aisha."
The name settled into his mind like an echo, as if it carried a weight beyond itself.
Armaan should have left it at that. Should have told her he didn't want any part of whatever trouble she was in. But something in her eyes—something raw and vulnerable, yet cloaked in secrets—rooted him to the spot.
"Why were they chasing you?" he asked.
Aisha shook her head. "You don't want to know. Trust me… if you get involved, it won't just be me in danger."
Her words should have pushed him away. But instead, they pulled him closer.
Before he could press further, thunder cracked above them, shaking the skeleton of the cathedral. Aisha flinched, her hand brushing against his. That small, accidental contact sent an unexpected spark through him.
Armaan swallowed, forcing his thoughts back to reason. "Look, I don't know what's going on, but you can't stay out here. Come with me."
Her eyes widened with suspicion. "Why are you helping me? You don't even know me."
Armaan hesitated. Why was he? Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was something in her gaze that whispered she was more than what she seemed. "Because… if I don't, I'll regret it," he admitted softly.
For a moment, she studied him—searching, measuring. Then she nodded.
---
Armaan's apartment was modest—a single bedroom tucked above a bookshop, with peeling paint and creaky wooden floors. But to Aisha, who hadn't stopped glancing nervously out the window the entire way there, it must have felt like a sanctuary.
She sat at the small table, her hands wrapped around the steaming cup of tea Armaan had made. The rain still hammered against the windows, a relentless percussion that filled the silence between them.
Armaan leaned against the counter, arms crossed. He hadn't stopped watching her. There was something magnetic about her presence, something that demanded his attention even when he tried to pull away.
Finally, he spoke. "You're safe here. But you owe me an explanation."
Aisha stared into her cup as if the swirling steam could answer for her. "There are things I can't tell you. Not yet."
"That's not good enough," Armaan pressed. "I saw that car. Whoever's after you—they're not ordinary people. You expect me to believe you just stumbled into this?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. For a heartbeat, she looked like she might cry. Then she met his gaze, her voice barely a whisper.
"If I tell you… you'll never see me the same way again."
Armaan's breath caught at the intensity in her eyes. He didn't know her—not truly—but he felt the weight of her warning settle deep inside him.
Still, curiosity gnawed at him. He had always been drawn to mysteries, to the beauty of what lay hidden in shadows. And Aisha… she was the most compelling mystery he had ever encountered.
He opened his mouth to push again, but her phone buzzed.
She flinched so violently that the cup nearly spilled. Armaan caught a glimpse of the screen before she snatched it up. A single message glowed on the cracked display:
"You can't run forever."
Aisha's face drained of color.
Armaan's chest tightened. Whoever she was… whatever she had done… her past was clawing its way toward her, relentless.
And somehow, he had just become a part of it.
The message on her phone still glowed like a knife in the dark. You can't run forever.
Armaan's gaze flicked from the screen to Aisha. Her face was pale, her hands trembling as she locked the device and shoved it into her pocket.
"Who sent that?" Armaan asked, his tone sharp.
Aisha shook her head, standing abruptly. "You shouldn't have seen that. I should go."
She turned toward the door, but Armaan stepped in her path, blocking her escape. His pulse raced—he didn't know why he cared so much, why this stranger mattered—but every instinct screamed that if she walked out now, something irreversible would happen.
"No," he said firmly. "Whoever that is… they want to hurt you. If you leave, you're walking straight back into their hands."
Her breath hitched. For a long moment, they stared at each other, the storm outside filling the silence. Finally, Aisha whispered, "You don't understand. If I stay, you'll be the one in danger."
"Maybe," Armaan admitted, his voice steady. "But I'd rather face that than wonder tomorrow if you're alive or not."
Aisha's eyes widened slightly, as if she hadn't expected such honesty. Something softened in her expression—just for a flicker—before she turned away, brushing a hand across her damp face.
"You don't know what you're offering," she murmured.
Armaan leaned against the wall, arms still crossed. "Then explain it to me."
But Aisha didn't. Instead, she walked to the window, staring down at the rain-slicked street below. Her reflection ghosted in the glass, her shoulders hunched as though the weight of the world pressed upon them.
Armaan wanted to step closer, to place a hand on her shoulder and tell her she wasn't alone. But something about the way she stood—rigid, distant—kept him rooted where he was.
---
Hours trickled past like water slipping through cracks. The storm refused to ease.
At some point, Aisha sat curled on the sofa, exhaustion finally claiming her. Armaan draped a blanket over her shoulders, careful not to wake her. He lingered for a moment, watching her features soften in sleep. Even in rest, a faint tension clung to her, as if nightmares haunted her every breath.
He should have left her there, retreated to his room. But instead, he sat at his desk, opening his laptop. The image of the black car replayed in his mind. The symbol he'd glimpsed on its license plate—a crimson serpent coiled around a dagger—stuck out like a brand. He began searching.
It took hours of trawling obscure forums and half-forgotten blogs before he found it: a mention of an underground group known only as The Crimson Veil. Whispers painted them as a shadow society, part syndicate, part cult. No official records existed, but stories spoke of influence stretching across borders, of corruption, of disappearances.
Armaan leaned back, rubbing his temples. Was Aisha connected to them? Or was she running from them?
He glanced at the sofa. She shifted slightly, her lips parting in a silent word. He moved closer, crouching beside her.
Her hand clutched the blanket tightly. "No… stop…" she whispered in her sleep, voice cracking.
Armaan's chest tightened. Without thinking, he brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead. She flinched, then stilled, her breathing evening slightly at his touch.
It was reckless, insane even, to feel this surge of protectiveness for someone he had known mere hours. But it was there, undeniable.
---
Morning arrived reluctantly, dragging gray clouds with it. The storm had weakened, but the city was still soaked, streets gleaming like glass.
Armaan brewed coffee, the bitter scent filling the room. Aisha stirred awake, sitting upright with a dazed look, as though she had forgotten where she was. Then memory rushed back, and her eyes darted around in panic before landing on him.
"You stayed?" she asked.
"Of course," Armaan said simply, handing her a mug. "You were safe here."
For a moment, her fingers brushed his as she accepted it. A warmth flickered between them, subtle but undeniable.
But it didn't last. Aisha set the mug down, her jaw tightening. "I can't stay here. They'll find me. They always do."
Armaan exhaled sharply. "So what's your plan? Keep running until they catch you? Because that's not a plan—it's a death sentence."
Her eyes snapped to his, fierce. "And what do you suggest, Armaan? That I let you play hero? That I drag you into this nightmare?"
"I'm already in it," he said. "The moment you ran into me last night, there was no turning back."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged. Aisha looked away first, her shoulders slumping.
"You don't even know who I am," she whispered.
"Then tell me," Armaan pressed.
Her lips trembled, caught between silence and confession. Finally, she whispered, "All you need to know is that they want something I have. And they won't stop until they get it."
"What is it?"
She hesitated—then shook her head. "If I tell you, you'll be marked too."
Armaan's frustration boiled, but he bit it back. Instead, he asked, "What happens if they catch you?"
Aisha's voice broke. "Then I disappear. Forever."
Her words weren't dramatic. They were final, filled with a certainty that chilled him.
---
That afternoon, Armaan had to force himself out for supplies. Aisha refused to come, insisting she would be fine. But the unease gnawed at him the entire time he walked the rain-streaked streets.
When he returned, the apartment was too quiet.
"Aisha?" he called.
No answer.
His stomach dropped. He searched the rooms—empty. The blanket on the sofa was tossed aside. Her mug still sat on the table, the coffee cold.
Then he saw the slip of paper by the window.
Thank you for helping me. But I can't stay. If they find me here, you'll suffer too. Forget me.
Armaan's hands clenched around the note. Forget her? Impossible. The thought of her out there—alone, hunted—was unbearable.
He grabbed his camera bag and jacket. If she thought he would let her vanish into the rain without a fight, she was wrong.
---
He found her that evening.
The trail wasn't hard—fear left marks. He spotted her near the Old Quarter again, slipping through narrow alleys, clutching something beneath her coat.
But before he could call out, the growl of engines surrounded them.
Two black cars.
Doors slammed, figures emerging—men in dark coats, masks obscuring their faces. The same crimson serpent-and-dagger symbol glinted at their collars.
Aisha's eyes widened in terror. She turned to run, but one of the men caught her arm. She fought viciously, but they were too many.
Armaan's body moved before his mind caught up. He swung his camera bag like a weapon, slamming it into the man's head. Aisha tore free, stumbling toward him.
"Run!" Armaan shouted.
They sprinted through the rain-slick alleys, shouts echoing behind them. The masked men gave chase, their footsteps pounding like thunder.
Aisha's hand found his, gripping desperately. Armaan felt the raw panic in her touch, but also something more—something unspoken.
They burst into an abandoned marketplace, weaving between broken stalls. One of the men lunged, nearly catching Aisha's coat. Armaan yanked her aside just in time, the two of them crashing behind a toppled cart.
Breathless, Armaan turned to her. "What do they want from you?"
Her chest heaved, her eyes wild. She opened her mouth—hesitated—then finally whispered:
"They want the diary."
"What diary?"
Aisha swallowed, her voice trembling. "The one that could destroy them all."
Armaan's blood ran cold.
Before he could respond, a shout pierced the rain. They had been spotted again.
Aisha's eyes locked onto his, fierce and terrified all at once. "If you stay with me, Armaan, you'll never have a normal life again."
Armaan's reply was immediate, instinctive. "Maybe I don't want normal."
And with that, they ran again—two strangers bound by danger, pulled together by something neither could yet name.