Nine years. A lifetime apart. And this was how she came back into my world.

  In that moment, I wanted to cry—but I couldn’t. I wanted to fall to my knees—but my body refused. I had convinced myself that I had moved on, that my love for Disha had faded with time. But the truth was crueler. I hadn’t lost that love—I had only buried it, wrapped it in silence, locked away so deeply that even I had stopped looking for it. Everything that had been happening in this hell of a place had forced me to forget her—but forgetting was never the same as letting go.

  I stood there, breathing like a stranger in my own body, feeling something hollow widen inside my chest. It felt as though the world had paused just to watch me break, slowly, without mercy. I could hear voices around me, feel the weight of uniforms and authority, but none of it reached me. All of it felt distant—irrelevant—because the only thing that mattered had already been taken.

  For years, while trying to control the fire that had been burning Kashmir, she had lived quietly inside me—in half-remembered smiles, in dreams I woke up from too quickly, in a future I never allowed myself to imagine again. She had survived inside me when everything else had turned to ash. And now that fire had swallowed her too, leaving nothing behind but smoke and regret.

  Every memory we shared came crashing into me at once—her laugh that always arrived before she did, the way she said my name, and the life we were supposed to live together. Moments I had ignored, postponed, convinced myself I didn’t deserve anymore, now returned with a violence that stole my breath. It felt as if all the love I had ever felt for her came back in a single, unbearable moment.

  I was drowning in it—choking on words I never said, on promises I never kept, on a future I abandoned.

  Vijay’s hand rested on my shoulder, grounding me. Somehow, I held myself together. He led me to the control room. The CCTV footage was already playing. I was terrified to watch it—but I owed her that much. Emotion had no place here. Not yet.

  The footage revealed the truth. The screen showed the marketplace from above—grainy, black-and-white, distorted at the edges. A normal afternoon, frozen in indifference. People moved between shops. Vendors leaned over counters. Children ran past stalls. A woman adjusted her dupatta. A man laughed at something I would never hear.

  Life—unaware it was about to end.

  Then the first gunshot.

  The camera shook slightly as people froze, confusion spreading like a ripple through water. Another shot. Then another. Screams erupted—but the microphone caught none of them. Just silent mouths opening in terror. Bodies jerking. People running in every direction, crashing into each other, slipping, falling.

  Men with rifles entered the frame.

  They didn’t rush.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  They walked.

  Calm. Purposeful. Like this moment had been rehearsed. Like they knew exactly who they were here for.

  They fired into the air first—not to kill, but to clear space. Panic exploded. The crowd scattered, exactly as intended. Then they fired selectively—short bursts, controlled movement—forcing people away from one section of the market.

  I felt it then.

  This wasn’t chaos.

  This was containment.

  I watched two men position themselves near a narrow corridor between shops—blocking exits. Another pair advanced straight toward the centre, eyes scanning, not shooting.

  They weren’t hunting randomly.

  They were looking for someone.

  Vijay leaned closer to the screen. “Pause.”

  The image froze.

  A young woman stood near the edge of the frame—flanked closely by two men. One kept his weapon low, eyes constantly moving. The other stayed half a step behind her, body angled to shield.

  Bodyguards.

  The feed resumed.

  The moment they were spotted, everything accelerated.

  One of the attackers shouted something. Another raised his rifle—not at the crowd, but directly toward her.

  The intent was unmistakable now.

  This was an assassination.

  Shots rang out. One bodyguard went down instantly, hit in the shoulder. The second reacted without hesitation—shoving the woman behind him as bullets tore through the stalls around them.

  That’s when we confirmed her identity.

  The daughter of CM Oqab Abdullah.

  The attackers closed in.

  More men entered the frame—from the opposite alley.

  Mansoor gang.

  My jaw tightened.

  Two rival gangs. Coordinated entry. Perfect timing.

  This wasn’t just an assassination attempt.

  This was a political execution.

  Abdullah was the son of a Hindu father and a Muslim mother. Because of his mother’s family ties to the current ruling party, he had adopted her religion—a balance he had maintained carefully throughout his political life. Fortunately, his daughter survived the attack with only minor injuries, saved at the last moment by one of her bodyguards. The other wasn’t as fortunate. He died shielding her.

  The primary target was gone.

  The assassination had failed.

  For half a second, the attackers hesitated.

  Then their leader gave a signal.

  And the punishment began.

  They turned their guns on the marketplace. On the people who had witnessed it.

  They fired indiscriminately into the crowd—most of the shops there owned by Hindu traders. Bullets tore through glass and flesh alike. Men dropped behind counters they had stood behind for decades. Someone tried to crawl away and was shot in the back. Someone else raised their hands—and fell anyway.

  They were sending a message.

  If we can reach the Chief Minister’s daughter, we can reach anyone.

  They emptied their magazines slowly, methodically, as if engraving that message into the ground itself.

  After emptying their magazines, they prepared to leave.

  That’s when I saw him.

  Iftab Malik. The leader of Malik gang.

  As he retreated, his eyes caught Disha and her husband, Ishwar. For a second, I foolishly hoped he wouldn’t notice her. I watched, helpless, as he pulled out his revolver. Ishwar stepped in front of her and took the bullet—doing what I should have been there to do.

  Iftab walked closer—calm, unhurried. And then he shot her at point-blank range.

  Something inside me shattered.

  The rage I felt was born from love—from years of unspoken promises, from a future stolen twice over. In that moment, I would have given up the entire world just to tear Iftab Malik apart with my own hands.

  Vijay and I exchanged a look. For months, CM Abdullah had restrained us from directly engaging the major gangs, fearing communal unrest. And he had succeeded—until now. An assassination attempt on his own daughter changed everything.

  This bloodshed had opened the door.

  And with it came the permission we had been waiting for—to dismantle the entire criminal network of Bandipora, all at once.