The walk back to their apartment was a silent, funereal procession. The vibrant energy of the Garba, the colorful clothes, the joyful music—all of it felt like a memory from another lifetime. The night air, once festive, now felt heavy and cold. Each girl carried the alley within her, a pocket of horror tucked away behind their eyes.
They reached the sanctuary of their apartment, closing the door on the world. The lock clicked into place, a feeble barrier against the images seared into their minds.
Kusum made it to the living room sofa before her legs gave way. The high emotional intelligence that made her the group's gentle soul now became a curse, amplifying every flicker of fear, every drop of blood, every grunt of pain into a overwhelming wave. A small, choked sound escaped her lips before her eyes rolled back and she slumped against the cushions, fainted clean away.
Suman was at her side in an instant, chafing her wrists, her own sharp features softened by worry. "Kusum? Can you hear me?" Her voice, usually a weapon of wit, was now a thread of anxiety.
Sandhya moved with quiet purpose, fetching a glass of water and a damp cloth. Her silence was deeper than usual, a vast, observant ocean absorbing the shockwaves radiating from her friends.
Anya stood frozen in the center of the room, her back to them. Her entire body was rigid. Sweat beaded on her forehead and traced a cold path down her spine. Her face was a grim mask, but inside, a tempest raged.
*He could have died.*
The thought was a hammer blow, striking again and again. Gangesh Verma. Impulsive, principled, infuriating Gangesh. The boy with the quiet admiration in his eyes that she always pretended to ignore. The only one who ever stood his ground, who challenged the fortress of her logic without flinching. He was the only one who truly *saw* the architecture of her arguments, even when he misunderstood their foundation.
And now… that boy was lying in a pool of his own blood, a knife wound in his leg, because he saw a girl in trouble and his principles demanded action. Her principles lived in debates and presentations. His lived in his bones, enough to make him bleed.
Suman's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "Those boys… they have zero shame. Kicking an injured man. No decency." She said it, but the words lacked their usual bite. They were layered with something else, something awed and horrified.
Sandhya placed the cool cloth on Kusum's forehead. "They were afraid," she stated, her voice barely a whisper, yet it filled the room. "Terrified for him. Their actions were foolish and.. their loyalty… is absolute."
A sad, reluctant smile touched Suman's lips. Kusum stirred with a groan, her eyes fluttering open, filled with a fresh sheen of tears. "The blood… so much blood," she whispered. "And his friends… they were cursing, but their hands… they were so gentle when they moved him. Really how can they..." The words died in her throat.
The contradiction hung in the air. The shamelessness, the foolishness, the sheer, chaotic audacity of it all. They, the toppers, the planners, the systematic ones, had been frozen. Paralyzed by the visceral horror. But Gangesh's group… they had charged into a knife fight. Aditya, all hot-headed emotion, had pulled the blade out with his bare hands. Karan, the failed strategist, had tried to plan under fire. Sagar, the epitome of laziness, had found a reservoir of furious energy.
"How?" Anya finally spoke, her voice rough, startling herself. She turned to face them, her face pale. "How can they be so… daring? So stupidly, recklessly brave?" It was a question for the room, for the universe, for herself.
Before anyone could form an answer, a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. The sound was like a gunshot in the tense silence. They froze, looking at each other. Had the police followed them? Had the men from the alley come back?
Sandhya, ever the calm one, moved to the door and looked through the peephole. Her body went still. She turned back, her expression unreadable. "It is for Priya."
They opened the door to a scene that stole the breath from their lungs. A young man stood there, maybe a few years older than them. His clothes were simple, but his posture was a coiled spring. His eyes… his eyes were the most unsettling part. They were empty, a flat, dark calm. But that calm was a thin veneer over a condensed, bottomless fury that leaked into the very air around him. He did not look at the girls. His entire focus was on Priya, who had shrunk back behind Suman, a fresh wave of terror on her face.
"Priya," the young man said. His voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of finality.
Priya recognized him. The recognition brought no comfort, only a deeper, more complicated fear. She did not argue. She did not speak. She simply nodded, a tiny, defeated motion.
The young man stepped forward his face was in mask and, in one fluid, surprisingly gentle motion, lifted Priya into his arms as if she weighed nothing. She buried her face in his shoulder, her body trembling.
He turned to leave, his empty eyes finally sweeping over the four girls. He gave a slight nod to a large, quiet man who stood a few paces behind him—a guard. "Send them home," the young man instructed, his voice still that soft, dangerous monotone.
The guard nodded. "I will see you to your door," he said to the girls, his voice a low rumble. He offered no other explanation, no thanks, no names.
The young man with Mask carried Priya to a waiting black car, its engine purring. He placed her inside with exquisite care, his focus never leaving her. He slid in beside her, and the car pulled away, melting into the night.
The guard walked with them the short distance to their apartment building, a silent, imposing escort. As they reached their door, he finally spoke. "Thank you," he said, the words simple and heavy with meaning. Then he turned and left, following the path the car had taken.
The girls stood in their doorway once more, the night's absurdity complete. A rescued girl, a golden necklace, a bloody hero, and now a fury-filled young man who moved with the quiet authority of a storm.
Back inside, the silence returned, but it was different now. The horror of the alley was now mixed with the mystery of Priya's departure. But for Anya, the central image remained, playing on a loop: Gangesh's smile, the knife in his leg, the admiration in his eyes that saw right through her fierce pride.
Suman broke the silence, her voice barely a whisper. "He smiled at you, Anya. Even with… all that."
Anya's face was grim. She walked to the window, staring out at the indifferent city. The crush she had buried so deep, the admiration she had refused to name, was now a live wire in her chest, sparking and dangerous against the backdrop of his potential loss. The boy who challenged her was now the boy who might never walk properly again, and the thought was a physical pain, a nausea that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with a heart she could no longer fully control.The ambulance was a metal box of pure, undiluted fear. The siren screamed outside, but inside, the only sounds were the shaky hiss of oxygen, the beep of the heart monitor they'd hooked up, and the relentless, terrified nagging of his friends.
***
"You absolute, grade-A, gold-plated idiot," Aditya snarled. He was perched on a bench opposite the stretcher, his knees bouncing, his hands clenched into fists so tight the knuckles were bone-white. Inside, his mind was a screaming static. *Don't you die. Don't you die. Don't you die on me, you principled bastard.* Every bump in the road made his heart lurch. The towel around Gangesh's thigh was already blooming a fresh, dark red.
"My strategy for the night involved sleep," Sagar mumbled, his voice thick. He leaned against the wall of the van, his face a sickly green. The usual laziness was gone, burned away by a frantic, helpless energy. *He just ran. He just ran towards the knives. Why did he run?* "Not this. Never this. I need a nap. You need a nap. Everyone needs a goddamn nap."
Karan was staring at the IV line going into Gangesh's arm. "The tensile strength of human muscle is remarkable, but the femoral artery… if it was nicked, the probability of…" His voice trailed off, his great planning mind showing him flowcharts of blood loss and mortality rates. He saw Gangesh's life as a data point, and the graph was trending sharply downward. *I should have had a plan for this. A medical strategy. Why didn't I have a plan?*
Their hands were trembling. All of them. Aditya's were the worst, a wild, jittery dance he tried to hide by shoving them between his knees. He was sweating buckets, his shirt sticking to his back. The image of pulling that knife out, the wet, sucking sound it made, played over and over behind his eyes.
"Will you all just… shut up?" Gangesh's voice was a rasp, thin and strained. He cracked open an eye, glaring at them. "I am not dying, you fuckers."
"You don't get to decide that!" Aditya shot back, his voice cracking. "You decided to play hero! You don't get to decide the sequel!" The thought of a world without Gangesh Verma in it—without his stupid principles, his impulsive leadership, his solid, unmovable presence—was a void so terrifying Aditya felt dizzy. His best friend. His brother.
The ambulance doors flew open at the hospital. Chaos erupted as orderlies transferred Gangesh to a gurney. The boys swarmed around him, a frantic, cursing honor guard.
"Move with purpose, you donkeys!" Karan yelled at the orderlies, his own fear morphing into misplaced fury.
"Don't jostle him! Are you trying to finish the job?" Sagar added, his voice unusually sharp.
They followed the gurney at a run, down a bright, sterile hallway that smelled of antiseptic and dread. They were shoved into a curtained-off bay in the Emergency Unit. A doctor, a man with tired eyes and a calm demeanor, came in.
"Alright, let's have a look," the doctor said, reaching for the bloody towel.
"Be careful with him," Aditya blurted out, his body vibrating with tension. "He's… he's important."
The doctor gave him a weary look. "Son, I need you all to take a step back and let me work."
But they couldn't. They were rooted to the spot, a triangle of anxiety around the bed.
"He lost a lot of blood," Karan informed the doctor, as if this wasn't blindingly obvious. "I estimate at least 800 milliliters. The blade was serrated, approximately four inches in length, inserted at a 45-degree angle—"
"He pulled it out himself!" Sagar interjected, pointing a trembling finger at Aditya. "Just… yanked it! Like a loose tooth!"
The doctor paused, looking from the wound to Aditya's wild-eyed, pale face. "You removed the object?"
Aditya just nodded, his throat too tight for words. *Did I kill him? Oh god, did I kill him by pulling it?*
The doctor simply nodded and turned back to his work, cleaning the wound. Gangesh hissed in pain, his back arching off the bed.
"See! You're hurting him!" Aditya accused, taking a half-step forward.
"I need silence to concentrate," the doctor said, his voice firmer now. "Or you will all wait outside."
They fell into a restless, terrified quiet. The only sound was the rustle of the doctor's gloves, the clink of instruments, and Gangesh's ragged breathing.
Inside their heads, the noise was deafening.
*He's so pale,* Sagar thought, staring at Gangesh's face. *He looks like the ghosts in those old stories. He can't be a ghost. He still owes me fifty rupees for last week's momos.*
*The structural damage must be extensive,* Karan's mind raced, calculating tendon and muscle trauma. *Recovery time… weeks. Months. Permanent limp?* The idea of Gangesh, who stood so straight and firm, walking with a limp forever was a unique kind of horror.
Aditya just watched the blood-soaked gauze piling up in a metal tray. Each crimson wad was a piece of his friend's life, discarded as medical waste. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. He remembered the weight of Gangesh as he'd held him in the alley, the warmth of the blood soaking through his own clothes. *You stupid, brave, magnificent idiot. Why did it have to be you?*
Gangesh opened his eyes again. He saw their faces—Aditya's furious terror, Karan's analytical despair, Sagar's green-tinged worry. He saw the doctor's focused calm. A weak, pained smile touched his lips.
"I told you… I'm not dying," he whispered, each word an effort. "Too… too much to do. Have to… catch the sun."
The words, their private joke, broke the dam.
Aditya let out a choked sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. He swiped a trembling hand across his eyes. "You're a fucking poet now? Shut up and let the doctor fix your leg."
Karan nodded vigorously, his glasses slipping down his nose. "The sun can wait. The priority is tissue regeneration and avoiding sepsis."
"Just… stop talking," Sagar pleaded, slumping against the wall. "Conserve your energy. For sleeping. Lots of sleeping later."
The doctor finished suturing, his movements swift and sure. "He's lucky. The blade missed the major artery. It's a deep muscle wound. He needs rest, antibiotics, and no weight on that leg for a while." He looked at the three of them, finally seeing past the noise to the raw fear underneath. "He's going to be fine."
The relief that washed over them was so physical it was dizzying. The tension snapped, leaving them hollowed out and exhausted.
As orderlies came to move Gangesh to a room, Aditya reached out and, with a hand that was finally starting to still, punched Gangesh very gently on the shoulder.
"Don't ever do that again," he said, his voice thick with everything he couldn't say.
Gangesh just closed his eyes, the ghost of a smile still on his face. The fight was over. For now. And his brothers were still with him.