"THE FORGOTTEN ONES"

Article 356: The Last Resort

Honey, now poisoned and teetering on the brink of death, lay on the cold, unforgiving ground, his body trembling with the remnants of life. As darkness began to creep into the edges of his vision, his mind drifted through the fragile threads of memory. He remembered the laughter, the tears, the moments that once made his life feel so full and meaningful. But now, as he lay there, it all felt so distant, so unreachable, like a dream slipping through his fingers.

The man lying beside him wasn't just anyone; he was more than family. This man had been his guide, his mentor, someone who had filled the void left by his absent parents. Honey had learned so much from him—lessons in life, in love, in survival. And now, in this moment of despair, Honey wanted nothing more than to say a final goodbye, to express his gratitude, his sorrow, his love. But as his blurred vision tried to focus on the figure next to him, a wave of horror washed over him. The face he saw wasn't his uncle's. It was something else, something twisted and wrong.

Desperation clawed at Honey's chest as he tried to drag himself closer, his weakened body protesting with every movement. His fingers, numb and trembling, reached out to touch the man's face one last time. But instead, his hand brushed against something cold and wet. With a sickening realization, Honey saw the gaping wound in the man's chest, a wound he knew he had caused. The gun, still warm from the shot, lay heavy in his hand. The hole in his uncle's chest was deep, and the blood that flowed from it pooled around them both, sticky and thick.

A sob of anguish tore from Honey's throat as he realized the full weight of what he had done. He might die here, in this place of death and despair, beside the body of the man who had been like a father to him. There was no hope left for him, no future to hold onto. The fear of what he might lose next—his life, his soul, his sanity—was overwhelming, suffocating him. It was more than he could bear.

In the distance, Honey heard the faint sound of a car approaching. Hope flickered in his chest for just a moment, a tiny spark in the overwhelming darkness. But the car was too far away, and Honey was too weak to cry out. Even if it was someone Sukhman had called for help, they wouldn't find him in time. He was alone, trapped in this nightmare, with nothing but death awaiting him. But Honey couldn't give up—not yet. He thought of his mother, waiting for him at home, unaware of the danger her son was in. He couldn't leave her alone in this world.

Summoning the last remnants of his strength, Honey gripped the gun tightly, his finger trembling as it found the trigger. He aimed the barrel towards the sky, his vision swimming, and fired three desperate shots. The sound echoed through the stillness, each shot a plea for help, a cry of defiance against the darkness closing in on him. As the echoes faded, Honey's strength finally gave out. His body slumped to the ground, his consciousness slipping away like sand through an hourglass. In those final moments, he heard footsteps—urgent, frantic—drawing closer. And then, everything went black.

Honey's last thoughts were of hands—warm, strong hands—lifting him, carrying him to safety. The world around him faded, but the sensation of being cradled, of being saved, lingered. Vivaan and the others were there, pulling him back from the edge of death, taking him to a place where hope still existed. A place where he might live.

Meanwhile, Sid, a man who had always kept his emotions locked away, watched the scene unfold with a strange sense of detachment. He had never been one to let his feelings show, always the quiet observer, the one who barely spoke. But now, as he stood there, having just saved a life, something unfamiliar stirred within him. It was a feeling he couldn't name, couldn't understand. Was it relief? Happiness? Or was it sorrow, something darker, deeper?

His eyes stung, a sharp, painful sensation that he hadn't felt in a long time. And then, to his shock, he realized that tears were streaming down his face, unbidden, uncontrollable. He hadn't cried in years, hadn't allowed himself to feel anything so raw, so real. But now, the tears came, and with them, memories—memories he had buried deep, hoping they would never surface again.