Ruhana woke up with a hangover. The bitter, metallic taste of alcohol still lingered on her tongue. She clutched her head tightly and winced as a sharp throb pulsed behind her eyes. The stale scent of last night's vodka clung to her skin. She tried to shake her friends awake, but they groaned in response. Of course, they weren't in the mood to get up just yet.
Rubbing her eyes, she sat up on the bed, feeling the crumpled fabric of her dress tug at her skin, and headed to the shower, hoping it would help sober her up. She was still wearing the crumpled dress from last night, which now reeked faintly of smoke and perfume. She took off her clothes on the way to the bathroom, letting them fall to the cold tiled floor.
The dorm bathroom wasn't as fancy as the one at home—no golden faucets or lavender-scented towels—but she was still more privileged than most students—thanks to her father's connections, of course.
The glass shower door slid open with a faint screech, and she turned on the water. Cold droplets drenched her curves, making her gasp as goosebumps flared across her skin. She didn't bother closing the door; she lived with girls who had seen each other naked countless times. Steam began to rise, curling in soft tendrils around her.
She exited the shower in a towel and was about to take the aspirin when her phone buzzed violently on the counter, its vibration echoing sharply in the quiet room. She groaned, annoyed, and left the medicine on the counter. It took her a few more minutes to find her phone. As soon as she found it in her purse, tucked under yesterday's clothes, she turned it on and her eyes widened—countless missed calls from her dad.
Ruhana murmured, "Shhhiittt!"
She sat on the couch as the weight of the day hit her. It was the end of her freedom. Her damp hair clung to her neck, and water dripped slowly down her spine. She didn't want to call her dad back. She already knew what he would say: to come back. It wasn't that she hated her homeland, India. She loved it. She just didn't love the fact that she had to bear such responsibility and be under constant surveillance. It made her feel like a science project, observed 24/7, as if everyone was waiting to see if the experiment succeeded.
After two rings, her father picked up. A bold, concerned voice came from the other end.
Papa:"Where were you, beta? Humne aapko kitni baar call kiya."
Before she could answer, he continued,
"Why are you so reckless, Ruhana? As a future queen, you should be more responsible."
Ruhana (slightly annoyed that her father cared more about her image as a queen than her as a daughter): "Dad—I mean, Papa," she quickly corrected herself. Her father had no affection for English endearments, especially not for titles. He believed it was ruining their culture. He wasn't even ready to let her study in sweden , ruhana had to throw quite a fit for it.
"Papa, I was just sleeping."
She couldn't tell him she had drunk too much in a club last night, surrounded by sweaty strangers probably high on something. The memory of loud bass thumping in her chest and the flicker of disco lights still played behind her eyes. He would just call her reckless again.
Her father didn't sound convinced but let the topic go. He spoke again—behind him, birds and people could be heard. Probably in the living room, she thought.
"Anyways, I'm sure you've packed your bags for the flight and said your goodbyes. My man will be at the airport to welcome you. See you soon, beta."
He ended the call before she could whine more. But she knew there was no stopping it now. She had to say goodbye.
With a heavy heart, she began to pack. Tshanaya and Janice helped her and said their goodbyes, promising to stay in touch. The faint scent of citrus from Janice's hairspray , lavender from tshanaya's perfume from last night and the soft sniffles between their laughter filled the air.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, 4,130 miles away in Washington, K leaned back in his chair, reading the file in front of him. The room was dimly lit, with only a flickering desk lamp illuminating his sharp features. The light reflects on the figurine of his initial "k" made of pure molten gold. A gift he received by his uncle a.k.a godfather as a reward after his first kill. He had begun work on his newest project: finding everything about his prey.
Yes, prey.
To him, he was a vulture, and everyone he killed was the prey. He loved the chase. it filled with instant adrenaline and for some reason chasing her- unconsciously makes it more fun. attracted?
He tilted his head as his eyes fell on a photo of Ruhana's late mother. The glossy print felt cold under his fingers.
A cold voice echoed :
"Nilima Tanshera. Born in 1966. Death: childbirth."
He tapped on the cause of death, as if remembering something. A flashback flickered—green eyes, a calm voice, her beautiful smile as she cooed at a baby... at him. Then his father, stabbing her with a chilling smile, drenched in her blood. He closed his eyes and took a long drag from his cigarette. The scent of burnt tobacco filled the room, mixing with the musty paper of the file.
He turned the page.
"Departure: 11:40 I.S.T."
Pause.
"Looks like I'm meeting my prey today."
He got up from the chair, which squeaked beneath him. He whistled a chilling tune, dissolving into the darkness. The floorboards creaked under his boots.
The thing about K was that he made every kill look like an accident. But this time, there was a twist—the reason Ruhana was still alive.
A voice with a slight Indian accent echoed in his memory:
"You have to make her sign these first... before killing her."
The man had thrown a stack of papers at K. He simply picked them up and placed them in the cabinet. He didn't need to read what was in them. That wasn't his job.
His job was to kill.
And for this job, the payment was huge.
And God... who doesn't bend for money? The one who says money doesn't buy everything are the billionaire itself;extracting their money from poors.
Especially when it's a million dollars.
The smell of ink and metal filled the cabinet drawer as he slid it shut. He picked up his coat, the leather creaking faintly, his mind already calculating his next move.
With a ghost of a smirk, he whispered to himself,
"Let's see how if princess bleeds as pretty as she looks"