It happened on a rainy Thursday night.
Ayesha had stayed late at the hospital. On her way home, her car broke down in an empty street near Old Dhaka. Her phone battery was dead. The rain was pouring.
Then came the sound of tires.
A black SUV stopped beside her.
The window rolled down.
A man in a black shirt looked at her with unreadable eyes.
"Get in."
Ayesha stepped back. "I'd rather walk."
His mouth twitched. "In this storm?"
"I don't get into cars with strangers."
He opened the door and stepped out.
Rain dripped from his hair. He walked toward her slowly, like danger in human form.
"Three men have been following you for the last six minutes," he said quietly. "If you stay here, you'll be kidnapped in less than sixty seconds."
Her blood ran cold.
As if on cue, three figures appeared at the corner.
Before she could react, Rayan pulled her behind him.
The next thirty seconds changed everything.
Gunshots.
Screams.
Rain mixed with blood on the pavement.
Ayesha froze.
By the time she looked up again, the three men were on the ground, and Rayan was standing in front of her, breathing hard, one sleeve stained red.
"Now," he said, voice rough, "will you get in the car?"