Zoya's heart hammered as the shadows of the facility closed in. The man's words echoed in her mind, "You are not a bird set free, little one, you are a wolf unchained. The question is, will you howl or will you run?" Her limbs felt like lead, but the feeling of escape—the cold air brushing against her skin, the undeniable pull to leave—propelled her forward, even as chaos erupted around her.
Alarms blared in the distance, nurses' panicked shouts slicing through the silence. The sound of footsteps, too swift, too deliberate, pressed on her as shadows moved around her. She couldn't see them, but she could feel their presence, a silent, terrifying force. The man's people moved like ghosts, the way shadows should, never needing to speak, but always near. They surrounded her, their cold hands gripping her arms, pulling her through the narrow halls of the asylum. She tried to break free, but they were like iron, unyielding and relentless.
"This isn't freedom, little one," the man's voice slithered through the chaos. "This is a deal, not salvation. You are mine now, a part of something far bigger than your pathetic little world."
Zoya's chest tightened, but she didn't have time to respond. She didn't even know what to say anymore. There was no going back, no returning to the life she had known. They dragged her through corridors that twisted, unfamiliar, until the sharp scent of rain reached her. They pushed her into the night, the cold air biting into her skin like needles.
She stumbled, the world dizzying around her. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe—her mind a blur of shattered memories and fragmented thoughts. She didn't know where she was, didn't know where to go.
She looked up, only to see the darkness stretching endlessly in front of her. The ground beneath her was slick with rain, her feet sinking into the mud as she stumbled, aimless.
It was then that she remembered.
Azaan.
He was the only one left who might know something. He was the one person who could give her the truth, no matter how much she hated him. He was the only one who could help her unravel the mess of lies, the one who might understand. Even though she'd never loved him—no, she had manipulated him, poisoned him, discarded him for another man—he had always been kind. In his cold, distant way, he had treated her better than anyone else. So, she clung to the thought of him, her only hope in a world now bent on breaking her.
Zoya turned, her body aching, her mind numb, and stumbled through the rain toward the house she once knew as home. The familiar sight of the grand gates loomed ahead, but something was different. The sign that once bore her family's name was gone. In its place was another name, foreign to her, unfamiliar, yet chillingly real.
"What…?" she whispered to herself, her heart sinking. She stepped closer, the maids inside noticing her disheveled state. Their eyes narrowed with disdain.
"What do you want?" one of them snapped, her voice sharp like broken glass.
"I—" Zoya's throat tightened, her words strangled by disbelief. "I used to live here. I need help."
The maids exchanged a glance before one of them sneered. "Help? You're just a crazy woman. Go somewhere else."
Zoya's mind spun as the door slammed shut in her face. She stood there, soaked to the bone, her heart pounding with a sickening mixture of fear and desperation. Where else was there to go? She was nothing. She had nothing.
Her only option, her only chance, was Azaan.
The hours dragged on as she stood by the gate, the rain relentless, her clothes clinging to her skin, her bones aching. She watched the driveway, knowing he would come. He always came.
And then, finally, there he was.
Azaan's car came into view, sleek and black, cutting through the rain-soaked street like a predator stalking its prey. He slowed as he passed, his gaze falling on her as though noticing an unfamiliar shape in the dark. The car came to a halt, the engine purring softly, and Azaan stepped out, his presence imposing even from a distance.
Zoya's breath hitched as she saw him approach. He hadn't changed, yet everything about him felt different. There was a coldness to him, a disconnect that hadn't been there before. She reached out a trembling hand, her voice barely a whisper.
"Azaan…" She choked on his name. "Please… I have nowhere else to go."
He didn't rush to her. He didn't say anything at first, just looked at her with those cold eyes, unreadable, distant. Then, in a voice that felt like ice over her skin, he spoke.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his tone devoid of warmth.
"I—I don't have anyone… I need answers. Please. I need to know what happened… with my father."
Azaan's face didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "You really think I owe you anything after everything you did?"
She flinched, his words like a slap to her soul. "Azaan—"
"Don't," he interrupted, his voice harder now, final. "I owe you nothing."
Zoya stepped back, feeling the walls closing in on her. He was right. He owed her nothing. She had poisoned him, used him, broken his heart for her own gain. She had been the one to turn away, the one to abandon him. But still, she expected something from him. Kindness, pity, anything. But there was none.
He didn't care.
He motioned toward the door. "Get inside," he ordered, voice cold but with no hint of sympathy. "You can stay for the night. But don't expect me to be your savior."
Zoya didn't know what to say. She couldn't say anything. He had already given her more than she deserved. But she had no choice.
He led her through the house, the servants all avoiding her gaze, silent as shadows in the background. Azaan showed her to a room, the space sterile, cold, and uninviting. He handed her some clothes, turning away before she could speak.
"You're on your own now," he said, his back to her. "Don't expect anything more."
The door shut behind him with a finality that left her breathless. She stood there, staring at her reflection in the mirror, her face pale and drawn, her eyes hollow. She didn't recognize herself anymore. She was a stranger in her own skin.
Her fingers hovered over the phone on the nightstand. It rang, once, twice. Hesitation gripped her, but she reached out, picking up the receiver. Her heart raced.
And then, in the silence of the room, a whisper.
"You wanted the truth. Now tell me, little one… was the lie more merciful?"
Zoya froze, the blood draining from her face. She slammed the phone down, but the words lingered, a suffocating presence in the room. The mysterious man, always watching, always knowing. It didn't matter where she was. He could reach her, break her, control her.
She felt the coldness in her chest, the sharp realization that he had never been lying. He had always known, always been one step ahead.
And she was terrified.