Chapter One
Chapter One
Akanksha stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror of her college dorm, the fluorescent light casting harsh shadows across her face. It was just another evening, or so she told herself. The kind where the world blurred at the edges, and the weight of expectations—her father's, society's, her own—faded into a distant hum. But tonight, something felt off. A prickling at the back of her neck, like unseen eyes watching her every move. She'd agreed to the party only because Shefali had begged her. Tripiti's birthday—who the hell was Tripiti, anyway? Some girl from their circle, all fake smiles and Instagram poses. Akanksha hadn't even registered her face when the invitation came, standing awkwardly beside Shefali in the cafeteria. "Come on, Akki," Shefali had pleaded, her eyes wide with that infectious excitement. "It'll be fun. You need to loosen up." Loosen up. As if Akanksha hadn't been trying to do that her whole life. Ever since her mother's death two years ago, the house had felt like a mausoleum. Her father, Raghvir, buried in his corporate empire, had suddenly decided to play the doting parent. Dinners once a month, awkward questions about her studies, her friends. "I'm here for you now," he'd say, his voice thick with regret. But it was too late for that. The void her mother left wasn't something a steak dinner could fill. She'd invited Rohit on a whim, texting him as she slipped into her black dress. Party tonight. Come? His reply was instant: Hell yes. Rohit was her escape hatch—rough around the edges, with a laugh that cut through the pretense. Not the polished suitor her father would approve of. Raghvir wanted someone "sophisticated," someone who exuded confidence like a cologne. Rohit was chaos in human form, and that's what drew her in. But lately, even he felt like a cage. His touches too eager, his eyes too knowing. The plan with her father nagged at her as she applied lipstick, the red smear a defiant slash. They were supposed to meet for dinner, his one free hour carved from board meetings and mergers. She could picture him now, adjusting his tie, glancing at his watch. After her mother's accident—hit by a drunk driver on a rain-slicked road—he'd sworn off his absentee ways. But Akanksha couldn't shake the irony: her mother, the glue that held them together, gone in a flash of headlights. Now, Raghvir's "presence" felt like surveillance. She dialed him quickly, her voice light. "Dad, I'm going to a party with Shefali. I'll be late." Silence on the other end, then a sigh. "Fine. But take the driver. And be safe." Of course, the driver—old faithful Ramu, who'd ferried her since pigtails and school uniforms. Raghvir trusted him like a shadow, blind to the fact that shadows could hide secrets. The club pulsed like a living thing, bass thumping through her chest, lights strobing in epileptic fury. Akanksha melted into it, the crowd a sea of writhing bodies. Shefali vanished early, citing some excuse about an early class, but Akanksha didn't care. The first drink burned down her throat, a liquid fire that promised oblivion. Freedom. Nothing else gave her this—the way alcohol unraveled the knots in her mind, let her forget the whispers in her head. You're just like her, they said. Reckless. Doomed. Rohit appeared at her side, his hand on her waist, pulling her onto the dance floor. They moved together, bodies slick with sweat, the world narrowing to rhythm and heat. She drank more, shots chasing beers, the edges of reality softening. Her phone buzzed in her purse—her father, no doubt—but the music drowned it out. Ramu poked his head in once, his weathered face creased with worry. "Miss, it's getting late." She waved him off, laughter bubbling up. "Go away, Uncle. It's early!" By midnight, the club had thinned, but Akanksha was electric, invincible. Rohit matched her drink for drink, his eyes glazing over. She hated him sober when she was like this—too judgmental, too real. At three a.m., the room spun, her stomach revolting. She puked on the sticky floor, the acrid smell mixing with stale beer. Faces blurred,
retreating. Rohit hauled her to the bathroom, wiping her face with wet paper towels. "We gotta go, babe." Outside, the night air hit like a slap, but the laughter came anyway-hysterical, unhinged. Twenty missed calls from her father lit up her phone screen. She swiped them away, dialing Ramu instead. He answered groggily, the car rumbling to life. As it pulled up, something shifted in her. The alcohol whispered promises of thrill, of control. Drive, it said. Take the wheel. Feel alive. "I want to drive," she announced, her words slurring but insistent. Ramu shook his head, polite as ever. "No, miss. It's not safe." Rage flared-how dare he? She yanked the door open, shoving him out. He stumbled, hitting the pavement with a thud, his eyes wide with shock. Rohit protested, "Akki, this is crazy-" but she was already in the driver's seat, engine roaring. Rohit slid in beside her, buckling up with trembling hands. Ramu called Raghvir as the taillights faded. "Sir, she ... she took the car." Raghvir's voice cracked with fury, but exhaustion won. "Send a cab for yourself. I'll handle it in the morning." He hung up, the TV flickering in the empty living room, his mind replaying old nightmares. The road stretched empty under the sodium lamps, a black ribbon cutting through the city. Akanksha floored it, the speedometer climbing-eighty, ninety, one hundred. No seatbelt; why bother? The wind howled through the cracked window, whipping her hair. Rohit's warnings came in bursts: "Slow down! Please!" But she laughed, the sound echoing madly. This is power, she thought. This is what Mom felt before ... "Are you scared?" she teased, glancing at him. His face was pale, knuckles white on the dash. "Can you please go slow?" he begged. "Only if you pull down your pants and pull out your cock." The words tumbled out, a dark impulse she'd buried deep. Her kink, born from boredom and rebellion-the thrill of risk, of exposure. "You're kidding. Pull over, and we can-" "No fun in that." Her left hand darted over, fumbling with his zipper, squeezing. He gasped, shifting uncomfortably, but complied, pants pooling at his ankles. She gripped him, stroking roughly, her eyes flicking between the road and his lap. The car swerved slightly, tires screeching. Adrenaline surged, mixing with the booze into a toxic high. This is it, the voice in her head purred. The edge. Push further. But the flyover loomed too fast. Lights blurred into streaks. Her hand tightened, Rohit's moan turning to a scream. The wheel jerked- or did she let it? The car shattered through the barrier, metal screaming, the world inverting in a sickening flip. Upside down, tumbling into the abyss below. In that suspended moment, as glass shattered and pain bloomed, Akanksha's mind fractured. Was this accident ... or absolution? The whispers laughed, finally silenced in the crash. Raghvir's phone rang at dawn, the police on the line. But deep down, he'd known. The cycle complete. The daughter, lost to the same demons that claimed the mother. Or had she invited them in?
Chapter two
Chapter two
The call came before dawn.
Raghvir didn't remember hanging up. He only remembered driving.
The city blurred past him in streaks of orange light. He drove faster than he had in years-faster than he would have allowed his daughter to drive. The irony didn't register. Nothing did.
At the hospital gate he didn't park properly. The guard shouted something, but he was already inside.
"ICU," he demanded at the counter.
"Sir, please fill this form-"
The paper barely left the receptionist's hand before it struck the floor.
"Call Dr. Mehta," Raghvir said coldly, dialing his phone. "Now." Recognition dawned too late on the receptionist's face. Within seconds, doors opened.
Power clears hallways faster than emergency sirens.
The ICU smelled of antiseptic and finality.
Akanksha lay beneath white light, her body stitched and wired like something half-assembled. Tubes ran into her mouth. Machines breathed for her. Her head was wrapped in gauze. She did not look rebellious.
She did not look powerful. She looked small.
Raghvir gripped the glass partition. For a moment, he did not recognize the girl inside. Outside, on a plastic chair, sat Rohit.
A few bandages. A sling. A shallow cut near his eyebrow.
He looked like someone who had survived the wrong story.
When Rohit approached, Raghvir barely noticed.
"Sir ... she's strong," Rohit said quietly. "Doctors said the next four hours are critical. But she'll survive."
Survive. The word felt incomplete.
"Were you in the car?" Raghvir asked without looking at him.
“Yes.”
"What happened?"
Rohit hesitated. "She lost control." Lost control. Raghvir closed his eyes.
He did not ask who was driving. He already knew.
Hours passed like punishment.
Doctors moved in and out, speaking in clinical tones.
"Severe cranial trauma." "Diffuse axonal injury." "We're trying." At eleven in the morning, a senior doctor approached.
"We've contacted Dr. Khurana. He's in Hyderabad." "Bring him," Raghvir said.
And so a charter was arranged.
Because money bends geography. But it does not bend biology. At five in the evening, they wheeled her into surgery.
Raghvir did not drink water. He did not sit. He did not blink.
At eight, Dr. Khurana removed his gloves slowly.
"We saved her life."
The pause after that sentence was heavier than anything else.
"But the brain damage is extensive. She is stable. Her organs function. But the neurological response ... is minimal."
"Minimal?" Raghvir repeated.
"She may not regain full consciousness. She may never respond the way she used to." Raghvir stared through the ICU glass.
That girl - that breathing body - was not his daughter.
"Did you see her?" he asked quietly. "She had fire in her. That ... that is not her."
Dr. Khurana exhaled.
"The brain is not a bone we can reset. When neurons die, they do not grow back." Silence. Then, softer:
"There is ... something. Experimental. I dismissed it years ago."
Raghvir turned sharply.
"A professor I met at a neurological symposium. Cerebra Institute of Advanced Studies. He spoke about neural reconstruction. Cognitive restoration. I thought it was theoretical fantasy." "Name."
"Professor Ravichandran Ayyer."
The name lingered in the air like a forbidden idea.
Dr. Khurana held his gaze.
"If anyone is attempting what you are hoping for ... it would be him."