We don’t go looking for her.

Not because we don’t want to.

But because we know—when something is meant to cross your path again, it will. And this… this doesn’t feel like coincidence.

It’s been five days since we saw her by the Ganga.

Five days since a girl in white offered a diya with closed eyes and changed everything.

Five days since something in our chest started burning—and refused to go out.

We’ve killed for less. We’ve conquered cities with colder reasons.

But this girl… she appeared like a whisper and now she echoes inside us.

And now—here she is again.

Not by the river this time, but in the world she belongs to.

A street wrapped in calm, lined with bookshops and cafés. It’s afternoon. The kind where the sun is lazy, shadows soft, and the breeze carries no noise. But in our heads? It's anything but quiet.

We see her before she sees anyone.

She's sitting on a wooden bench near an art gallery—alone. Her back is straight, posture perfect, ankles crossed gently. A sketchbook rests on her lap, pencil dancing between her fingers. Her long braid spills over her shoulder, catching the sunlight in strands of dark silk. She's not wearing makeup, not posing, not looking for eyes.

And yet—our eyes stay on her. Like they belong there.

She’s dressed in a simple yellow cotton kurti, soft embroidery near the sleeves. Modest. Elegant. She doesn’t flaunt her beauty. She simply is.

We don't speak. We don't need to.

Uday steps back into the shade, arms crossed, jaw set. His silence is louder now. Not from anger. From hunger. A hunger he doesn’t understand yet.

He watches her like a man who knows how to take—but doesn’t know how to ask.

Abir’s fingers are curled around a disposable coffee cup, untouched. He keeps his gaze low, hidden beneath sunglasses. But we know him too well. He’s calculating every detail—her expression, the curve of her lips, the way her brow creases when she sketches something wrong.

He’s trying to memorize her like a map. A map that leads straight into danger.

Samar leans against the wall with his hoodie pulled halfway up, chewing gum like this is any other day. But it’s not. He watches her like she’s a song only he can hear—eyes dark, focused, lips parted like he’s about to say something but doesn’t.

We don’t approach.

Because none of us know what we’d say.

Because men like us? We don’t get girls like her.

We get blood.

We get fear.

We get control.

But she—she moves with grace. Lives with softness. Draws with care.

She laughs at a child running past her, offers a polite smile to an old man selling flowers nearby. Her world is small, clean, untouched.

And we…

We don’t know how to step in without breaking it.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. We don’t keep track.

We just watch.

We see her stand. Stretch lightly. Close her sketchbook and press it to her chest like it’s a part of her. Her dupatta flutters behind her as she walks, and our eyes follow every step. There’s no rush in her movement. She moves like time bends for her.

And maybe it does.

Maybe God Himself is slowing the clock just to watch this girl walk down a quiet street, completely unaware that three men—dangerous, deadly, devoted—are watching her like she’s the last sacred thing left in the world.

She turns a corner.

Disappears.

And still, none of us move.

The air feels heavier now. Like she took something with her.

Uday runs a hand down his face, his voice low. “We need to know her name.”

Abir only nods once. “And what time she comes here.”

Samar licks his bottom lip, jaw clenching. “And what would happen if she ever looked at one of us.”

We stand in silence, the three of us.

Mafia kings. Devotees. Killers.

But now, something more.

Something helpless.

Something obsessed.

And this is just the beginning.

She stops at a small temple built at the end of the street—dedicated to Kaali Maa. She removes her slippers, folds her hands, and steps inside. Her head lowers in respect. The world goes quiet again.

She kneels. Lights a diya.

The flame flickers once, then steadies.

And suddenly, we understand.

This girl isn’t just grace.

She is fire—hidden in calm. A soft shell wrapped around something fierce.

She prays to Kaali Maa.

The goddess of destruction. The mother of rage and protection.

Of course she does.

A girl like her wouldn’t follow a path of comfort.

She walks with gods who wear garlands of skulls and dance in storms.

We watch. From across the road. From behind tinted glass.

No camera. No spy. No goon.

Just us.

We don’t breathe too loud.

We don’t blink too fast.

We just… watch.

And when she steps out of the temple, the sun hits her face.

Her eyes open.

For one second—just one—

She looks up.

Not directly at us.

But enough.

Enough for Uday’s fingers to twitch.

Enough for Abir’s throat to dry.

Enough for Samar to whisper under his breath, “I’ll kill for that look. Even if it wasn’t meant for me.”

She walks away after that.

Still unaware. Still untouched. Still glowing.

And we know.

This isn’t over.

We’ve never chased something this slowly before.

Never wanted something so badly that we’re afraid to touch it.

But she isn’t something to touch.

She’s something to claim.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

They don’t want to love her.

They want to own her. Mind, body, soul—every breath, every heartbeat.

She doesn’t see them.

But they see her. All the time. Every day. Like a ritual.

When she finally feels the weight of three obsessions wrapping around her like fate—

Will she run?

Or will she realize…

she was never meant to belong to herself?

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To be continue........