The house is quiet, far too quiet for a summer afternoon in Srinagar. You put down the book in your lap, the sunlight catching the fading embroidery of your dupatta. Rudra isn’t due back for another two days. You should feel safe—this home, this station, this posting—it was handpicked by your husband for its calm.

You move into the kitchen, planning his favorite meal for when he returns with a pure heart. That’s when you hear it—the soft scrape of a door, deliberate but unhurried. You turn.

Zaheer. He shouldn’t be inside. He was never allowed in the private quarters. You look at him politely, confused. “Is everything alright?” But he doesn’t answer. He shuts the kitchen door behind him. And locks it.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—resentment? Something darker, long buried and now rising like bile. Before you can ask again, he lunges. You don’t even scream at first, so shocked that your voice vanishes in your throat.

The blade flashes—sharp, large—stabbing deep into your arm. You stagger back, crashing into the cabinet. Pain blooms instantly, hot and sharp. You try to push past him, your blood staining the tiled floor, a knife sticking out of your arm, as he blocks the exit.

“You… I watched you walk through this house as if you owned it. You think you're better than us? You and your soldier husband?”

Your arm ached a lot, but you force yourself to be still. “Zaheer, your Abbu worked for us. Rudra sent you to school. He paid for your education—”

His face twists. “That’s why I’m here. Because I’ve learned what men like him do. What women like you represent. I won’t be a dog at your feet anymore.”

He grabs you by the wrist, and you think of screaming, but screaming's of no use. This house is at the edge of the base, and no one will hear. So you just quietly stand there terrorized like a wounded animal, your pure heart not even realizing what atrocity is going to be committed against you.

Except—

The door bursts open.

Not kicked, not gently opened—blown open by the fury of a man who has tasted battle and returned home to find war on his doorstep.

Rudra.

Your Rudra.

His face turns to stone at the sight.

Blood on your arm. A large knife, completely stabbed through your arm. Your dupatta torn. Zaheer’s hand on you. His eyes—your husband’s eyes—go dark with a rage so absolute it’s terrifying.

Zaheer stumbles back instinctively, caught off guard.

“Put your hands off my wife.” The words are quiet, but they strike like thunder.

Zaheer tries to explain, tries to back away—but it’s too late. Rudra doesn’t listen. He doesn't need to.