꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
Chapter 1: The Fugitive in delhi
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
The city of Delhi pulsed with life, its streets teeming with vendors, honking cars, and restless crowds moving in chaotic harmony. Beneath the glaring neon signs of Connaught Place, a lone figure stalked through the bustling marketplace—Zayne, a man who had once commanded fear in Russia's underworld, now reduced to an outsider in a foreign land.
Dressed in a worn-out leather jacket, his dark eyes flickered with exhaustion, scanning his unfamiliar surroundings. He had barely escaped Moscow with his life, leaving behind a past tangled with blood and betrayal. The Arabic mafia had put a price on his head, and if they found him, death would be merciless.
But now, hunger gnawed at his stomach more than fear.
He stopped at a juice stall, where a man with a thick mustache studied him, recognizing him as a foreigner. Zayne pointed at the juice, hoping the universal language of gestures would suffice.
"Four hundred rupees, sir," the vendor announced with a smirk, his voice dripping with greed.
Zayne didn't need to understand Hindi to know he was being scammed. His jaw clenched. In Russia, such deceit would have earned the man a broken nose.
Before he could respond, a sharp, authoritative voice sliced through the air.
"Yeh kya bakwas hai?!" (What nonsense is this?!)
A woman in a crisp khaki uniform strode forward, her dark eyes flashing with righteous anger. She was IAS officer Priya Thakur, and her presence alone made the vendor recoil.
"Foreigners ka yeh matlab nahi ki tum paise loot lo!" (Just because he's a foreigner doesn't mean you can rob him!) she scolded, hands on her hips.
Zayne raised a brow, surprised by her boldness. His lips curled slightly as he muttered in Russian, his deep voice amused yet guarded.
"Spasibo." (Thank you.)
Then, shifting into thickly accented English, he added, "But I can take care of myself. I don't need some pretty… police officer."
He saw the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. He had never liked women, and this one was no different—except for the fact that she had just saved him from being overcharged.
Priya turned to him, arms crossed. "Mr., do you know Hindi?"
"Нет." (No.) Zayne shook his head, watching her reaction. He pointed to himself. "Russian." Then, after a pause, he pointed at her. "Indian?"
She sighed in frustration but nodded. "Fine. You speak English?"
"A little," he admitted, his Russian accent thickening with each word. His gray eyes studied her, measuring whether she was a threat or just a nosy officer. "You Indian police?"
"Yes, I'm an IAS officer—Priya Thakur. Where are you staying? Let me drop you off."
Zayne stiffened, his body tensing like a cornered animal. He didn't trust anyone.
"No need." He waved her off, forcing his posture to remain indifferent. "I'm used to sleeping on streets. Don't waste your time on me."
He reached for his bag, ready to disappear into the night. But something about her presence unsettled him—she was watching him with curiosity, not suspicion.
Before he could stop himself, he spoke. "What's your name?"
"IAS Priya Thakur."
He repeated it slowly, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. "Pree-ya Tha-kir."
She corrected him. "Thakur, not Thakir."
Zayne smirked slightly but then grew serious. "Forget it. I don't need your help. I can sleep here." He gestured to the pavement, pulling his jacket tighter around him. "And stop being nice."
Priya raised an eyebrow. "It's my duty. Did you not book a hotel?"
He hesitated. Finally, he admitted stiffly, "No money. Spent all on food and this jacket."
His stomach grumbled loudly, betraying his pride. Priya tried not to smile.
She reached for his hand, her grip firm yet warm. "No worries. Come, let's have dinner."
Zayne flinched at the touch. He hated physical contact. But instead of yanking his hand away, he let her pull him up.
"Fine." He muttered grudgingly. "But I'm not sitting at the table."
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꧁༒༻༺༒꧂ ꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
༶•┈┈┈༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓┈┈┈•༶
༺ To be continued… ༻
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧂༒༻༺༒꧂
…
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