Pain returned before thought.
It seeped into him slowly, like cold water creeping up from the ground, filling his chest, his ribs, his limbs. Consciousness followed reluctantly, heavy and disoriented, as if his body wasn't convinced waking up was a good idea.
Ayaan opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—dark wooden beams stained by years of smoke and age. Light slipped through narrow gaps in the walls, cutting thin lines through floating dust.
For several seconds, he didn't move.
He listened.
No voices.
No footsteps.
No signs of life nearby.
Just silence.
The realization hit him all at once.
He wasn't in the forest anymore.
His heart began to race.
Ayaan tried to sit up.
Pain exploded through his side, sharp and unforgiving. A broken gasp tore out of him as his body refused to cooperate. His muscles locked, his ribs screaming in protest, forcing him back down onto the cot.
A cot.
Rough wood beneath his fingers. A thin mattress. A faint smell of herbs and smoke clinging to the cloth beneath him.
He lay there, breathing shallowly, sweat gathering at his temples.
"Easy," he whispered to himself, though no one else was there.
His throat felt dry, raw, like he hadn't spoken—or swallowed—for days.
Because maybe he hadn't.
Time felt wrong.
Not slow.
Not fast.
Disconnected.
Ayaan turned his head slightly, ignoring the pain. The room was small and bare. A single wooden table stood near the wall, holding a clay pot and an empty metal cup. A narrow window let in muted daylight, just enough to show the packed-earth floor beneath the cot.
This wasn't a hospital.
This wasn't even a proper house by modern standards.
Bandages wrapped tightly around his arm and torso—rough cloth, carefully tied. Someone had cleaned the blood. Someone had treated his injuries.
Someone had brought him here.
The memory of the forest came back in fragments.
The girl.
The old man.
The sound of impact.
The darkness.
Ayaan swallowed hard.
"How long…?" he murmured.
His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.
No answer came.
He waited.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. It was hard to tell.
Eventually, Ayaan gathered what little strength he had and forced himself to sit up again—slower this time, careful not to provoke the pain further. His vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges, but he stayed conscious.
Progress.
He swung his legs over the side of the cot and placed his feet on the floor.
Cold.
Packed soil.
That single detail unsettled him more than the pain.
This place wasn't temporary.
It was lived in.
Ayaan pushed himself to stand.
His legs shook violently. He managed one unsteady step before the strength drained out of him completely. He collapsed back onto the cot, breathing hard, his heart pounding.
Before panic could fully take hold—
Footsteps approached.
Not hurried.
Not cautious.
Steady.
Each step carried weight, confidence, as if whoever was walking had no reason to worry about what waited on the other side of the door.
The footsteps stopped.
A shadow crossed the doorway.
Then a man stepped inside.
He was skinny.
Not fragile—just stripped down to essentials. Lean. Tight. Disciplined. The kind of body shaped by routine rather than comfort. His clothes were simple and worn, sleeves rolled up, revealing wiry forearms traced with veins.
He stood straight, his posture balanced, his stance relaxed but ready.
Always ready.
His face was sharp—narrow jaw, high cheekbones, thin lips set in a neutral line. But it was his eyes that held Ayaan's attention.
Dark. Calm. Measuring.
Eyes that didn't rush to conclusions—but didn't miss anything either.
The man studied him silently for several seconds.
"So," he said at last, his voice low and steady, "you're awake."
Ayaan swallowed.
"How long?" he asked.
The man tilted his head slightly.
"Four days."
The words landed heavy.
"Four days?" Ayaan repeated.
"You were unconscious," the man continued calmly. "Fever. Internal injuries. You nearly stopped breathing twice."
Ayaan stared at him.
Four days missing.
Four days he couldn't account for.
"Why am I here?" Ayaan asked.
The man looked at him for a moment longer than necessary.
"Because you survived," he replied.
That answer offered no comfort.
Before Ayaan could ask anything else, another presence entered the room.
Broader.
Heavier.
The air seemed to tighten around him.
It was the man from the forest.
The one who had arrived when Ayaan no longer could.
His build was solid, shoulders wide, movements direct. Violence clung to him in a way that didn't need explanation.
He looked at Ayaan briefly, then turned to the skinny man.
"He's awake," he said.
"I can see that," the skinny man replied.
The broader man stepped closer, his gaze sharp.
"What were you doing in the forest?" he asked.
No greeting.
No softness.
Just the question.
Ayaan took a careful breath, wincing as his ribs protested.
"I heard someone screaming," he said. "A girl."
The man's eyes narrowed.
"And?"
"I went toward the sound," Ayaan continued. "I didn't know who he was. I didn't know how dangerous he was."
"You fought him," the man said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Ayaan hesitated, then answered honestly.
"Because he was hurting her. Someone had to try."
Silence followed.
The broader man studied him for a long moment.
"You didn't stand a chance," he said flatly.
"I know," Ayaan replied.
That seemed to surprise him.
The skinny man spoke again.
"Where are you from?"
The question carried weight.
Ayaan chose his words carefully.
"I'm not from nearby," he said. "I was traveling. I got lost."
Not a lie.
Not the full truth either.
The man's eyes stayed on him.
"You don't sound like a traveler," he said.
Ayaan exhaled weakly. "I never said I was good at it."
A brief pause.
Then—
"You plan to leave?" the man asked.
Ayaan shook his head slowly.
"Not yet. I can barely stand. I'll leave when I recover."
The broader man frowned. "That's not your call."
The skinny man raised a hand slightly.
"He bled for a stranger," he said. "That counts for something."
He turned back to Ayaan.
"You'll stay," he said. "But you won't wander."
"I understand," Ayaan replied.
"Good."
The man turned toward the door, then paused.
"Kashifuddin," he said calmly.
Ayaan looked up.
"What?"
"My name."
Just a name.
But the way the broader man straightened slightly told Ayaan it carried more weight than it sounded.
"I'm Ayaan," he said.
Kashifuddin nodded once.
"That will be enough for now."
He stepped outside.
The broader man followed, glancing back once.
"Masleuddin," he said. "Remember that."
Then they were gone.
The room felt emptier after they left.
Heavier too.
Ayaan lay back against the cot, staring up at the ceiling, his body aching, his mind racing.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know who Kashifuddin truly was.
But he knew one thing with certainty—
This village wasn't safe.
It was controlled.
And men like Kashifuddin didn't control places by accident.