The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and exhaustion.
It was always the same—white walls, hurried footsteps, muted cries that people pretended not to hear. Life and death walked side by side here, and most days, no one noticed the difference.
She did.
Dr. Aanya Sharma stood at the nurses' station, tying her hair into a loose bun for the third time that morning. A few strands escaped anyway, brushing against her cheek. She didn't bother fixing them again.
"Doctor, bed number twelve needs you," a nurse said, slightly breathless.
Aanya smiled—soft, warm, reassuring.
"I'm coming."
That smile was famous in this hospital.
Patients trusted it. Children felt safe around it. Even the most anxious families relaxed the moment they saw her face. She had a way of making people believe that everything would be fine, even when it wasn't.
She walked into the emergency room with calm steps, her white coat fluttering slightly as she moved. Inside, chaos waited—machines beeping, a young man groaning in pain, blood soaking through a hastily wrapped bandage.
"Relax," Aanya said gently, her voice steady. "You're safe. Look at me."
The patient's eyes found hers. He nodded weakly.
She examined the wound quickly—deep laceration, heavy bleeding, but manageable. Her hands moved with precision, confidence born from years of experience. Not the kind taught in medical colleges alone.
This was something else.
As she stitched the wound, her mind calculated faster than the machines around her. Blood loss, nerve damage, recovery time. She worked efficiently, smoothly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Within minutes, the bleeding stopped.
"Done," she said softly. "You'll be okay."
Relief flooded the room.
"Thank you, doctor," the nurse whispered, impressed as always.
Aanya just shrugged lightly. "Just doing my job."
If only they knew.
If only they knew how many times her hands had done far worse things in darker places, under dim lights, with no machines to warn of mistakes.
She washed her hands slowly, watching the blood spiral down the drain until the water ran clear. Her reflection stared back at her from the stainless steel surface—calm eyes, relaxed expression, a woman who looked… ordinary.
Normal.
Boring, even.
That was the point.
By evening, the hospital buzz softened into tired murmurs. Aanya changed out of her coat, slipped into a simple kurti and jeans, and grabbed her bag.
"Doctor, you're leaving already?" one of the junior doctors asked teasingly.
"Night shift hero again tomorrow?"
Aanya laughed lightly. "Someone has to make sure you don't mess things up."
They laughed with her.
If they only knew how carefully she had designed this life—
average clothes, average routines, average friendships.
Invisible.
Outside, the city breathed differently. Neon lights flickered to life, traffic hummed, and somewhere far away, danger woke up.
Aanya walked a few streets away from the hospital before stopping near a small café. She checked her phone.
One missed call.
Three unread messages.
All from the same contact.
R.
She didn't open them yet.
Instead, she stepped into the café, ordered black coffee, and sat by the window. From here, she could see people passing by—laughing couples, tired workers, college students arguing over something unimportant.
Normal lives.
For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be one of them. To worry about nothing more than deadlines and rent and weekend plans.
The illusion shattered when her phone vibrated again.
This time, she answered.
"Yes?" she said quietly.
"We have a problem," a male voice said on the other end. Calm, controlled—but tense underneath.
Aanya's eyes hardened instantly. The softness drained from her face as if it had never existed.
"How big?" she asked.
"Big enough that you need to come."
She closed her eyes for a second. Just one.
"Location," she said.
The café around her faded into irrelevance.
The warehouse stood at the edge of the city, abandoned by the law but very much alive after dark. Guards nodded respectfully as Aanya stepped inside.
Here, she didn't smile.
Here, no one called her doctor.
They called her Ma'am.
Or sometimes, when they were afraid enough—
Queen.
She walked through the long corridor, heels echoing softly against concrete floors. Her posture was relaxed, but everyone stepped aside instinctively. They knew better.
Inside the main room, three men knelt on the floor. Blood stained their clothes. One of them was crying.
R stood nearby, his expression grim. "They tried to get close to one of our people," he said. "Followed him from the hospital."
Aanya stopped in front of the men. Slowly, she crouched down until she was eye level with the one crying the hardest.
"Who sent you?" she asked calmly.
Silence.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him—not with anger, but with curiosity. Like a surgeon examining a tumor.
"I asked a question," she said softly.
The man shook his head frantically. "We—we don't know! Please—"
Her hand moved.
Fast. Precise.
The man screamed as pain exploded through him.
Aanya stood up, unfazed.
"Wrong answer," she said.
Within minutes, the truth spilled out—names, locations, whispers of an old enemy resurfacing.
When it was over, the room was silent except for labored breathing.
Aanya turned to R. "Clean it up."
"Yes, Ma'am."
As she walked away, she wiped a drop of blood from her hand with a tissue, as casually as she would after surgery.
Two faces.
One woman.
Later that night, back in her apartment, Aanya stood under the shower, letting hot water wash over her skin. She rested her forehead against the tile wall, breathing slowly.
The memories came uninvited.
A small house.
Shattered glass.
Her mother's scream cut short.
Her father's blood on the floor.
She swallowed hard, forcing the images away.
This was why she existed the way she did.
This was why mercy had limits.
She stepped out, wrapped herself in a towel, and checked her phone again.
Another message—this one from an unknown number.
"We're watching."
Her lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder.
"Let them," she whispered.
Tomorrow, she would go back to the hospital.
She would laugh with colleagues.
She would save lives.
And somewhere in the city, people would fear the woman they never suspected existed.
The doctor.
The mafia.
And this was only the beginning.