Chapter 7: The Scar Revealed

13

Under Rohan Malhotra’s gaze, I placed a pill by his side. As I turned to leave, he suddenly grabbed my wrist.

His hand was ice cold, chilling to the bone. I looked down at him. We were very close, our eyes meeting.

“Who are you?” he finally asked, his voice hoarse.

The lighting was dim, but I still saw something flicker in his black eyes—a glimmer, quickly hidden.

He moved too quickly for me to react, hooking the mask off my face.

Rohan Malhotra’s black eyes took in the scar on my face. Too close—I saw his gaze tremble.

My face must have been frightening.

I raised my hand to hook the mask back on, noticing his hand suddenly go limp. A silver chain slipped from his palm—a watch face hanging from it, and in the centre, the faint image of a smiling young girl.

I looked away, left the pill, and turned to leave.

This time, Rohan Malhotra didn’t stop me.

Before I left, I glanced back at the door. He was still sitting there, dressed in cold black, but radiating only desolation.

The hush in the stairwell pressed on my eardrums. I walked away with hurried steps, my slippers squeaking faintly. As I turned the corner, I pressed a hand over my heart, feeling the old wound ache in time with each step. Somewhere, the city clock tower chimed midnight, its sound muffled but resolute—another day survived, if nothing else.

14

The bullet comments started “critiquing” me again, calling me stupid and clueless.

[I’m done...]

[She really is the most useless strategist I’ve ever seen.]

[She lucked into such a good opportunity and didn’t even know how to use it?]

[She just left?]

[Shouldn’t she have stayed to comfort and care for the villain?]

[She finally gets a chance to be alone with him, and she just leaves?]

[What is she even doing?]

Some even egged me on, suggesting I should just throw myself at Rohan Malhotra, use whatever means necessary to seduce him. Either way, I was doomed—someone like me could never finish the mission.

They couldn’t wait for me to anger Rohan Malhotra and die, so a new, more capable strategist could take my place.

If I died, they’d just move on to the next one.

Their words felt like the taunts of a crowd during a cricket match—always ready to cheer a six, even quicker to jeer a wicket. I bit my tongue, willing myself not to cry. I wiped my palms on my kurta, the fabric damp from the tension in my hands, and kept walking through the endless corridors of this city and this life.