❝Our love douses us in flames. It's terrible and deep and wingless, but I'll burn here if you burn here too.❞
───※ ·❆· ※───
Kabir and Meher
Two polar opposites; or that's what they think they are. They are both burnin...
"Dil mein ek himmat hai, par daayre mein dar bhi hai"
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~ Author ~
Mumbai, India
Kabir and Meher sat frozen in their living room, the weight of Rishabh Jaiswal's murder pressing down on them like an invisible shroud. The image that had just flashed on Meher's phone still lingered in both their minds—a pair of bloodied, severed hands, and the haunting message scrawled beneath a statue of justice:
Everyone has a secret to die for.
The silence between them was thick, pulsing with a mixture of fear, confusion, and disbelief. Kabir's jaw was clenched tight, his eyes dark as he stared at the ground, lost in thought.
"How could this happen?" Meher whispered, her voice barely audible. "One moment he was there, and then—" She trailed off, unable to find the words. Rishabh was dead, and it felt frightening, as though it were all part of some twisted nightmare they couldn't wake up from.
Kabir reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly, trying to ground them both. "I don't know, Meher. I don't even know what this— this message means," he said, shaking his head. "Why is this man sending us these messages?"
"Do— do you think this person killed Utkarsh Patil and Rishabh Jaiswal?"
A heavy silence settled over them again as they tried to make sense of the horror they'd just witnessed. They both had questions, but there were no answers— only a gut-wrenching sense of dread that was slowly growing inside them.
But before either of them could begin to gather their thoughts, the doorbell rang, piercing the silence and jolting them both upright. They exchanged a quick glance, and Kabir's face instantly shifted from confusion to alertness. He slowly stood up, his gaze steady as he moved toward the door.
As he opened it, a group of police officers stood in the doorway, their faces stoic, unreadable. The officer in charge, a tall man with a stern expression, stepped forward, holding out his badge.
"Kabir Raizada?" he asked in a firm voice, though it was more a confirmation than a question.
Kabir's eyes narrowed, but he gave a sharp nod. "Yes, that's me."
"We're here to take you in for questioning," the officer said. "The CCTV footage we retrieved from a nearby café shows you were the last person to meet Rishabh Jaiswal before his demise."
Meher's face drained of colour, and she instinctively reached for Kabir's arm, her fingers digging into his skin as if to anchor him in place. "Wait," she managed, her voice shaking. "You— you think Kabir?"
The officer looked at her briefly, his expression unreadable. "We're not here to make assumptions, ma'am. We're here to investigate. And the fact is, Mr. Raizada was the last known person to see Mr. Jaiswal alive."
