Shadow of redemption

Aaravi Kapoor saviour of Rakshit Khanna

Rakshit The Phantom stood alone in the aftermath, blood dripping from his wound. His body ached, the pain from the stab wound growing worser with every passing second. But even in this weakened state also, he proved everyone why he is called The Phantom=the legend who couldn't be defeated.

With his body on the verse of collapse, Rakshit staggered out of the warehous, his breath laboured, his vision blurred. The city's dim streets greeted him with silence as he stumble through the darkness, every step feeling like a battle to stay conscious.

Rakshit staggered through the empty streets, the deep wound in his lower abdomen throbbing painfully with each step. Blood trickled down, leaving a dark trail behind him, but he didn’t care. His breath was shallow, and his vision blurred. Faint music drifted in the air, soft, serene, almost otherworldly. For a moment, the melody dulled the sharp edges of his agony, wrapping him in a strange sense of peace. But as he stumbled against a dustbin, the noise it made shattered the fragile calm, and the music stopped abruptly. The silence was deafening.

He collapsed against the wall, every breath feeling like shards of glass slicing through him.   Was this how it ended? Alone, bleeding out in the darkness?   His chest tightened at the thought. He, Rakshit, the feared mafia boss, was going to die here in the shadows, unseen, unheard.

Then, faintly, there came the sound of running footsteps. His heart raced.   Vikram again?   He tried to steady himself, but his body was too weak. His vision darkened, but through the haze, he saw her—a girl, young, beautiful, and radiant, like an angel. Her soft features, framed by the faint glow of a distant light, seemed to carry a warmth he hadn’t felt in years.   Was this a hallucination? Or had an angel come to take him? 

His legs gave out, and he slumped to the ground. His world turned black.

 

Inside the NGO home, Aaravi was teaching music to the children, her voice gentle, guiding their innocent melodies. But suddenly, a crash outside broke the rhythm, and her heart skipped a beat. Frowning, she excused herself and rushed towards the source of the sound, stepping out into the dim street. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, they landed on a figure, slumped against the wall. Her breath caught in her throat.

A man. Wounded. Blood everywhere.

Her hands instinctively flew to her mouth as she knelt beside him.   Who was he?   His face was tense, pale from the blood loss, yet there was something about him—something powerful, even in his unconscious state, that struck her deeply. She didn’t know him, but seeing the deep gash on his abdomen and the blood seeping into the ground, panic and urgency surged through her veins. He was on the verge of death.

For a moment, her mind raced. She had handled critical patients before, but this was different. This wasn’t a hospital—this was real, raw, and right in front of her. The fear of losing someone, even a stranger, gripped her heart.   What if she couldn’t save him? 

But Aaravi quickly shook the thoughts away, taking control of the situation. Her medical training kicked in. She fumbled for her phone, her voice trembling but steady as she called for an ambulance.

“There’s a man—he’s severely injured—lower abdomen, excessive blood loss. Please hurry.”

She hung up, her heart pounding, and immediately went to work, using the first aid kit from the NGO. She applied pressure to his wound, her hands trembling slightly. "Stay with me," she whispered, her voice soft but determined.   Why did this feel so personal?   She didn't know this man, yet an overwhelming sense of responsibility and care flooded her.

As she worked to keep him alive, Aaravi’s mind couldn’t stop wandering.   Who was he? What had happened to him?   The hardness in his expression suggested a life filled with darkness, struggle, and danger. But here he was, vulnerable, on the edge of life and death. Her heart ached for this stranger, and she didn’t know why.

 

In the abyss of his unconsciousness, Rakshit felt something. A warmth. A softness.   Was he dead?   No, it wasn’t death—it was life, pulling him back. There was a gentleness in the touch that pressed against his wound, the same kind of care he had long forgotten. Even in his delirium, he could sense her—this girl, this angel, fighting to save him.   Why was she helping him?   She didn’t know who he was, didn’t know the monster lurking beneath the surface.

And yet, she was there, her soft voice reaching into the void.

 

Aaravi’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she continued her work. She couldn’t let him die, not here, not like this. Every second felt like an eternity. Her thoughts were conflicted—was she helping a criminal, a dangerous man? Or was he just a victim of cruel fate, someone who had been pushed to the brink?

  "Why does he feel like more than just a stranger?"   she thought, feeling the odd connection growing deeper, as if fate had brought them together in this moment of desperation.

The sound of sirens in the distance pulled her out of her thoughts. The ambulance was near, but Aaravi’s hands remained steady on his wound, refusing to give up. She whispered again, softer this time, “You’re not alone. I won’t let you go.”

In that fragile moment, the street was quiet except for the faint hum of approaching help. Two lives, so different yet inexplicably intertwined, hung in the balance.

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