Aarvi found Rudra exactly where she didn't want to.
Leaning against the corridor pillar outside the humanities block, one foot propped up behind him, sleeves rolled just enough to look deliberate. The crowd flowed around him like he was a fixture—something permanent, unavoidable. Girls slowed when they passed. Some whispered. Some stared openly.
He noticed all of it.
And then he noticed her.
"Wow," Rudra drawled, straightening. "You again. Should I start charging rent for how often you chase me, Aarvi?"
She stopped three steps away from him, jaw tight, fingers curled into fists. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm not chasing you. I'm confronting you."
"Oof," he winced theatrically. "Big word for someone who still trips over library stairs."
Her eyes flashed. "You knew."
"Knew what?" he asked lightly.
"You knew something was wrong yesterday. In the auditorium." Her voice lowered. "You dragged me out like the place was on fire."
He tilted his head, studying her like she was a mildly interesting puzzle. "And you're welcome, by the way. Most people pay extra for dramatic rescues."
"I'm serious," she snapped. "Why did you tell me not to come to college? Why were you there before anything even happened?"
For just a second—so brief she almost missed it—something flickered behind his eyes.
Not panic.
Restraint.
"I get bored," he said easily. "I like giving unsolicited advice. Builds character."
She laughed once, sharp and humorless. "You think this is funny?"
"I think," he said, stepping closer, voice dropping, "that you should stop assuming the world revolves around you."
That did it.
Her expression crumpled—not into tears, but into something worse. Hurt she hadn't prepared for.
"I don't assume that," she said quietly. "I just thought—"
"Thought what?" he cut in. "That I care?"
Silence fell between them.
The air felt suddenly thinner.
Rudra's mouth twisted into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Cute mistake."
Aarvi stared at him for a moment longer, searching his face like she might find the truth hiding there.
She didn't.
"Fine," she said, voice steady only because she forced it to be. "Keep your secrets. Keep your stupid games."
She turned and walked away.
Rudra watched her go.
And hated himself for the way his chest tightened.
Aarvi didn't notice the rain at first.
It was only when it began falling harder—fat drops striking her skin, soaking through her kurta, tangling her hair—that she realized the sky had cracked open. She was already halfway across the old service road, steps uneven, mind buzzing too loud for sense to keep up.
Stupid.
She should've known better. She always did. And yet—
Rudra Malhotra didn't care. He never had.
The thought hurt more than it should have.
Then—
A screech ripped through the night.
Sharp. Violent.
Tires.
Too close.
Aarvi turned.
Headlights swallowed her whole.
White. Blinding. The world tilted violently, breath knocked from her lungs as something slammed into her from the side. She felt herself lifted off her feet, spun, the ground rushing up far too fast.
The car missed her by inches.
The horn screamed into the rain.
She hit the ground hard, palms scraping against wet asphalt. Pain flared hot and sharp, but she barely registered it.
Because—
Hands were on her.
Strong. Steady. Familiar in a way that made her chest ache.
"Aarvi—are you insane?" Rudra shouted, hauling her up with a force that brought her flush against him.
Her breath caught.
Not from the fall.
From him.
Rain plastered them together—his chest solid against hers, his grip firm on her arms, fingers digging in like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go. She could feel his heartbeat, fast and furious, echoing against her own.
"You—" she started, then yanked her arm free, even though her body protested the distance. "What are you doing here?"
"Saving your life," he snapped, eyes blazing. "You're welcome."
She laughed—a sharp, fractured sound that didn't belong to humor. Rain slid down her cheeks, mixing with something warmer.
"Didn't think I was important enough for that."
Something dark crossed his face.
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" she shot back, voice trembling despite herself. "Because it sounded pretty clear."
The rain came down harder, drenching them, clinging to every line of him. His hair was plastered to his forehead, water trailing down his jaw, his lashes dark with it. He looked unreal. Too close. Too intense.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
The world shrank to the space between their bodies.
Then he looked away.
"Go home, Aarvi."
"No," she said, stubborn and shaking. "You don't get to decide that."
His jaw tightened. "I'm trying to keep you safe."
She scoffed weakly. "Funny way of doing it."
That did it.
He grabbed her shoulders—not rough, never rough—but tight. Desperate. His thumbs pressed into her skin like anchors, like he needed the contact to stay upright.
"You have no idea what's circling you," he said, voice low and ragged now. "No idea what you are."
Her heart slammed so hard it hurt.
"What I am?" she whispered.
She could feel his breath on her face. See the war in his eyes. Feel the hesitation in his hands as if he were holding himself back with everything he had.
"Then tell me," she said softly.
He froze.
Completely.
Slowly, like it cost him something physical, he released her. Took a step back. Another.
Like he'd touched fire and finally felt the burn.
"I can't," he said hoarsely.
The rain blurred her vision, but she didn't look away. She searched his face, every line, every crack, as if the truth might finally slip through.
It didn't.
"Then stop pretending you care," she said quietly. "Because this—whatever this is—hurts."
She turned.
The rain swallowed her retreating steps.
This time, Rudra didn't stop her.
And that hurt him more than any punishment ever could.
The moment she was out of sight—
He slapped himself.
Once.
Hard enough that his vision sparked white.
"Idiot," he hissed, rain and breath tangling in his throat.
He stumbled into the abandoned service corridor behind the old lab block, the concrete slick, weeds clawing up through cracks like skeletal fingers.
The rain followed him in.
Dripped from broken ceilings.
Pooled around his boots.
And then the air changed.
It thickened.
Cold slid under his skin, straight into bone.
The shadows at the far end of the corridor twisted, stretched, and peeled themselves into form.
Tall.
Still.
Not fully human. Not fully smoke.
"You failed," the figure said, voice calm and merciless.
Rudra didn't look up. Water dripped from his hair onto the floor, mixing with something darker now seeping through the fabric at his back. "I didn't."
"You touched her."
His jaw clenched.
"You interfered."
"She would've died," he said hoarsely.
"That was not your decision."
The shadows moved.
Pain detonated across his back.
It was sharp. Whipping. Burning.
Rudra staggered forward, catching himself against the wall as rainwater mixed with blood, streaking down his spine in dark rivulets.
"Again," the figure said.
Another lash.
He cried out this time—couldn't stop it.
His knees buckled, hitting the wet concrete with a dull crack.
"You forget your place," the voice continued evenly. "Your kind was reduced to dust because of them."
His mother's face surged into his mind.
Her hands pushing him away.
Her scream.
The smell of iron.
"I remember," Rudra growled, breath tearing in and out of his chest.
"Do you?" The figure drifted closer, shadow bleeding into shadow. "Or do you remember her face?"
Another strike.
His vision blurred. Blood ran freely now, soaking his shirt, dripping onto the ground where rain washed it thin but could not erase it.
Rudra collapsed fully this time, palms pressed to the floor, shoulders shaking.
"You exist for one purpose," the voice said. "She must die before twenty-one. Or every scream, every corpse, every loss means nothing."
His chest hitched violently.
"She didn't choose this," he whispered, rain and tears indistinguishable as they streamed down his face.
"Neither did your mother."
The words landed heavier than the whip.
Silence followed.
Dense.
Unforgiving.
When Rudra looked up again, the corridor was empty.
Only rain.
Only blood.
Only him.
He stayed there, hunched over, back burning, hands trembling as he finally let the sound escape—a broken, choked sob torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
He pressed his forehead to the wet ground.
Rain poured over him as if trying—and failing—to wash away the past.
"Yeah," he whispered to no one. "I know."
And somewhere far away, unaware of the storm breaking a boy who would die for her and kill for her and hate himself for both—
Aarvi lifted her hand to her forehead.
The faint mark between her brows pulsed softly.
Once.
Like a heartbeat.