Raneya ran like a woman possessed—like the world had caught fire behind her—and maybe it had. Not with flames, but with betrayal. With the twisted smiles of those she once trusted. With the blood of her dreams, spilled by hands she thought would protect her.
Her breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, each inhale jagged, her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. The slap of her worn-out slippers against the asphalt was drowned out by the roar of blood in her ears. The first light of dawn filtered through the polluted skyline, a dull, gray wash that painted her bruises into ghostly art. Sweat, tears—both indistinguishable—streaked down her face, stinging as they mixed with the dirt.
But this time… she wasn't running empty.
She wasn't running alone.
She had her bag clutched tight to her chest—her savings, her degrees, a change of clothes. It wasn't much, but it was everything. Years of education, fought for inch by inch before the marriage. A life she'd carved out for herself, only to see it nearly crushed by Zaryab, by her father.
But now, those inches were her only armor. Every crumpled certificate, every frayed note in her wallet, every sleepless night spent earning that meager survival—it was her lifeline. Her only shield against the storm that had consumed her.
She held her bag tighter, as if the leather straps could somehow protect her from the world that was closing in. Her heart thundered in her chest, not from exhaustion, but from the raw, jagged emotion of it all—the betrayal that now flowed through her veins like poison.
The city began to stir around her—hawkers setting up carts, rickshaws whirring to life. The world moved on, oblivious to her struggle, as if it wasn't a graveyard of broken dreams. She moved like a shadow, unnoticed, her body on autopilot, instinct guiding her, the rest of her mind too clouded by fear and rage to think.
And then… her knees gave out.
She collapsed onto the cold, dirty sidewalk, the world spinning like a top. The ache in her legs was molten, every breath feeling like shards of glass were tearing through her throat. She was trembling—not from the cold, but from the weight of everything—the pain in her body, the dread in her chest, and the deep, unrelenting ache of betrayal.
She pressed her hands to the pavement, nails scraping against the gritty surface, trying to ground herself in something real. Her eyes went unfocused, staring at nothing, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. Her spirit felt hollow, as if someone had ripped out the very essence of who she was. But even then, a primal whisper inside her urged: move.
She blinked, the world sharp and blurry all at once. And then—she saw it.
A black car. Slow. Circling.
It turned once. Then again. And then it slowed, coming to a stop just ahead of her.
Her breath caught in her chest like a fist. Her skin crawled. Her muscles locked in terror. No. No. No.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
They had found her.
Her instincts screamed at her to run, to hide, to disappear. She didn't think. She didn't hesitate. She just ran—stumbling to her feet, limbs heavy and unresponsive. She darted into a narrow alley, the world closing in around her as the dark, crumbling brick walls seemed to swallow her whole. The air smelled of decay—stale trash, rotting food, and mildew. It was the forgotten part of the city, where the streets didn't care about the lives that passed through them. It was perfect for someone who needed to vanish.
She pressed herself against the cold stone wall, her back straight, her body taut with fear. Her breath came in silent sobs, each one sharp and painful, as her fists clenched around the straps of her bag. Her heart hammered in her chest as she listened, straining for the sound of footsteps, of the car's tires, of anything that could give her a warning.
The car passed.
It didn't stop.
She waited, counting the seconds, each one dragging like an eternity. One minute. Two. Five.
The coast was clear.
Raneya's body shook with relief, but it was a fragile relief. She was still terrified, still running, still hunted. She peeled herself from the wall, moving slowly, cautiously, her eyes darting around, scanning for danger. She couldn't stay here. She couldn't.
And then, a flicker of hope in the distance.
Her eyes locked on a faded sign behind a chain of trees—POLICE STATION.
Her legs moved before her mind could process it.
She didn't have a plan, no destination beyond the sanctuary of truth. But she had one thing left—truth.
The police station smelled of old files, stale tea, and sweat. The constable at the desk was mid-yawn when he looked up—and froze.
Raneya looked like she'd stepped out of hell. Her hair tangled, face streaked with dirt and dried blood, clothes torn, one sandal half-broken. She was a shell of the woman she had once been.
"I… I need help…" Her voice cracked, barely a whisper, before she collapsed into the chair opposite him.
What followed wasn't just a story—it was a confession of survival. Her voice was ragged, hoarse, barely audible at first. But once the words started flowing, they didn't stop.
Zaryab's cruelty. Her father's betrayal. The trap they had laid. Her narrow escape.
She spoke in fragmented sentences, fighting to keep her composure, but the weight of her words crushed her.
The constable didn't interrupt. He just watched—his fingers interlocked under his chin, jaw tight, eyes darkening with every sentence she spoke. He didn't look at her like a victim. He looked at her like someone who had been to war and survived.
When she finally fell silent, her body sagging with the weight of it all, the constable's chair creaked as he leaned back. "You're lucky you made it," he muttered gruffly. "You look like hell."
Raneya flinched.
"That's not an insult," he added, softer this time. "That's why I believe you. You don't fake this kind of fear."
He studied her—the split lip, the nails broken and crusted with grime. The kind of damage that didn't come from theatrical stories. It came from real, brutal pain.
"But belief doesn't make arrests," he continued. "We need evidence. Witnesses. Surveillance. Something solid to hold against them in court."
Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers trembling. Her voice cracked as she whispered, "I only have me…"
Silence stretched between them like a taut wire. But then he stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"You'll be taken to a shelter under our protection. We'll start the investigation. The names you gave—Zaryab, Qureshi—they're not new to us." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "But you're the first to make it out alive."
Raneya's breath caught in her throat. Her chest ached with something sharp and unfamiliar. Not quite hope. But it was there—fierce, unwavering. It refused to die.
The constable met her gaze, his eyes narrowing with a look that spoke volumes. "You've got guts. That might be the only weapon that matters right now."
For the first time in years, Raneya felt something stir deep within her—a flicker of fire. And she knew one thing: she wasn't done yet.