The girl was gone.
Safe.
Somewhere the temple couldn't reach.
And Bharat felt nothing.
No relief. No pride. No sense of having done the right thing.
Just emptiness—cold and vast, like standing in a room where all the furniture had been removed and now there was nothing left but echoes.
He stood in the safe house basement, watching Ayesha arrange blankets on a makeshift bed. The girl—her name was Priya, they'd learned—was still unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady. Ayesha had used some kind of temple medicine to stabilize her. Bharat didn't ask what was in it.
Didn't want to know.
Didn't want to think about how many people Ayesha had seen in this state.
How many she'd failed to save.
"She'll wake up in a few hours," Ayesha said quietly. "When she does, we'll need to move her again. Somewhere further. The temple's tracking protocols are—"
"I know."
"Bharat—"
"I said I know."
Silence.
Ayesha looked at him. Really looked. Like she was trying to see past the walls he'd built, past the exhaustion and the bells and the countdown burning in his skull.
"You did the right thing," she said.
"Did I?"
"You saved her life."
"And shortened mine. And everyone else who'll die when I can't break the binding in time."
"That's not—"
"It's exactly how it works. The system doesn't care about morality. It cares about balance. I took something from the temple. So it takes something from me."
"So what? You should've left her?"
"I don't know."
The truth.
Raw.
Ugly.
He didn't know.
And that not-knowing was eating him alive.
His phone buzzed. Peacock.
"I need to go," Bharat said.
"Where?"
"To get answers. Or die trying. Haven't decided which."
"Bharat—"
But he was already walking up the stairs. Already leaving. Already running from the question he couldn't answer:
How many lives was his worth?
One?
Ten?
Everyone in Mumbai?
Where did the math stop making sense?
The rain had stopped.
Finally.
The city smelled like wet concrete and exhaust—that particular Mumbai smell that meant the monsoon was thinking about ending but hadn't quite committed.
Bharat stood outside a tea stall in Bandra, hands wrapped around a paper cup that burned his palms. The tea was too sweet. Too hot. He drank it anyway.
Countdown: 21:47:33
Less than a day.
Less than a fucking day.
"You look like shit."
Peacock's voice. She stepped out of the shadows like she'd been born there—black jeans, leather jacket, hair pulled back in a way that made her face look sharper. Dangerous.
"Thanks. You look like an assassin."
"I am an assassin. Technically."
"Comforting."
She took the tea from his hands. Sipped. Made a face.
"Christ, that's sweet. You trying to give yourself diabetes on top of everything else?"
"Why not? Might as well collect the full set of ways to die."
"Dark."
"Accurate."
She handed the cup back. Their fingers touched—just for a second. She didn't pull away immediately.
Neither did he.
And somewhere in the distance—
Watching from a parked car across the street—
Mira saw.
Peacock leaned against the tea stall.
Lit a cigarette.
Offered him one.
He declined.
"Smart," she said. "These things'll kill you."
"I've got bigger problems."
"Fair."
She exhaled smoke into the humid air. It hung there like a question she hadn't asked yet.
"I found something," Peacock said finally.
"The ring?"
"Better. I found who has it."
Bharat straightened.
"Who?"
"A woman named Kavita Deshmukh. Rajan's... let's call her 'special friend.'"
"You mean mistress."
"I mean the woman who knows where all the bodies are buried. Literally and figuratively."
"Why does she have the ring?"
"Because Rajan's smart. He doesn't keep his power objects where enemies can find them. He keeps them with people no one would think to look at. Mistresses. Drivers. Cleaning staff."
"So we steal it from her."
"We could. Except she doesn't know she has it."
"What?"
"The ring's disguised. Set into a bracelet. Gold. Expensive. She wears it every day, thinks it's a gift from Rajan. Has no idea she's carrying one of the three objects that could end the temple's entire power structure."
Bharat processed this. Turned it over in his mind like a puzzle with missing pieces.
"How do we get it?"
"Two options. One: we seduce her. Get close. Take it when she's not looking."
"And option two?"
"We break into Rajan's estate tonight while she's there. Find his ledgers. Use them to blackmail him into giving us everything—ring, bell access, sanctum coordinates."
"That's insane."
"That's the point. He won't expect it."
"Because it's suicide."
"Because it's bold."
Peacock took another drag. Her eyes were dark—calculating something Bharat couldn't read.
"There's a third option," she said quietly.
"What?"
"You don't do this. You walk away. Let the curse pass to Mira. She's stronger than you think. She might survive it."
"Or she might not."
"Everyone dies, Bharat. Question is who you're willing to sacrifice to delay it."
"That's a shitty question."
"It's the only question that matters."
She stepped closer. Close enough he could smell her perfume—something sharp and expensive, like the kind of danger that comes in small bottles.
"You know what your problem is?" she said.
"Enlighten me."
"You think you can save everyone. But you can't. So you're going to have to choose. Save yourself. Save Mira. Save random girls in boxes. But not all three. The math doesn't work."
"I'm not good at math."
"I noticed."
Her hand came up—slow, deliberate—and brushed something off his collar. A piece of lint. Nothing. But the touch lingered.
"You're playing a losing game," she said quietly. "And the only way to win is to change the rules."
"How?"
"Stop caring."
"I don't know how to do that."
"I know."
She smiled—soft, almost sad.
"That's why you're going to die."
Across the street, inside the parked car, Mira watched.
Hands gripping the steering wheel.
Knuckles white.
Face expressionless.
But inside—
Something breaking.
Slow.
Quiet.
Like ice cracking under weight it can no longer hold.
She'd followed him. Against her better judgment. Against every instinct that said don't look, don't know, don't care.
But she did care.
That was the problem.
That had always been the problem.
She watched Peacock lean in. Watched Bharat not pull away. Watched the way their bodies angled toward each other—that particular geometry of attraction that people think is invisible but never is.
Mira's phone buzzed.
Text from an unknown number:
"He's going to break your heart. Let me help you break him first."
No signature.
But Mira knew who it was.
The temple.
Always watching.
Always waiting.
Always knowing exactly where to press to make you bleed.
She deleted the text.
Didn't respond.
But didn't forget it either.
Peacock stepped back.
Professional distance restored.
"Tonight. Midnight. Rajan's estate. I'll send you the blueprints."
"What's the plan?"
"You and Mira go in. I run interference from outside. You find the ledgers. I make sure no one finds you."
"Why me and Mira?"
"Because you need to rebuild trust. And nothing builds trust like almost dying together."
"That's a terrible reason."
"It's the only one I've got."
She turned to go. Paused.
"Bharat?"
"Yeah?"
"That girl you saved. Priya. You know what happens to her now?"
"Ayesha's protecting her."
"For how long? A week? A month? Eventually the temple finds her. And when they do, they'll make an example. Publicly. Brutally. To remind everyone what happens when you interfere with the harvest."
"Then we stop the temple."
"With what? Twenty-one hours and a fantasy?"
"If that's all I have, that's what I use."
Peacock looked at him. Really looked. Like she was trying to memorize something she knew wouldn't last.
"You're either the bravest person I've ever met," she said quietly, "or the stupidest."
"Can't it be both?"
"It usually is."
She walked away.
Disappeared into the crowd like she'd never been there.
Bharat stood alone.
Tea cold in his hands.
Countdown burning:
21:39:08
His phone buzzed.
Mira.
"I'm parked across the street. Get in. We need to talk."
He looked up.
Saw her car.
Saw her face through the windshield.
Saw the expression that said:
I saw everything.
And now we're going to deal with it.
The car ride was silent.
Suffocating.
Like being underwater—sound muffled, pressure building, lungs starting to burn.
Mira drove. Eyes on the road. Hands steady. Face carved from stone.
"How long were you watching?" Bharat asked finally.
"Long enough."
"She was giving me intel. Nothing more."
"I know."
"Then why do you look like you want to kill me?"
"Because you let her touch you."
"She brushed lint off my collar."
"She touched you," Mira repeated. "And you didn't pull away."
"I—"
"Don't. Don't explain. Don't justify. I know what I saw."
Silence.
The city blurred past.
Lights and shadows.
Everything moving too fast.
"This isn't about her," Mira said quietly. "It's about you."
"What about me?"
"You're pulling away. From me. From us. From everything that isn't this fucking curse."
"I'm trying to break the curse. That's the whole point."
"No. You're trying to die a hero. There's a difference."
"That's not fair."
"Fair?"
She laughed—bitter, sharp.
"You want to talk about fair? You saved a stranger and lost two days. You're going to break into Rajan's estate with a plan that has maybe a five percent success rate. You're bleeding yourself dry for people who don't even know you exist. And you think I should be okay with that?"
"What do you want me to do? Let her die?"
"I want you to survive."
"Even if it means someone else doesn't?"
"YES."
The word hung between them like a grenade with the pin pulled.
"I want you to be selfish," Mira said. "Just once. I want you to choose yourself. Choose us. Choose the life we could have if you weren't so goddamn determined to be a martyr."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You've been a martyr since the day you signed that contract. Maybe longer. And I'm tired of watching you bleed."
She pulled over.
Engine idling.
Rain starting again—soft, persistent, like the city was crying.
"Tonight," Mira said. "We break into Rajan's estate. We get the ledgers. We find the ring. And if we survive—IF—you and I are going to have a very long conversation about what the hell we're doing."
"Okay."
"And Bharat?"
"Yeah?"
"If Peacock touches you again, I'll kill her myself."
Not a joke.
A promise.
Bharat looked at her.
At the woman he'd married in a temple basement while bells screamed in his skull.
At the stranger sitting next to him wearing her face.
"I love you," he said quietly.
"I know."
"Do you love me?"
Long pause.
Rain drumming on the roof.
Then:
"I don't know anymore."