In the midst of cry, fire and chaos was She cradling her own husband's head in her lap screaming for help. She can feel faint breath, slowing heart beat with each passing second. Her own heart trembled anticipating the impending loss. Her hair scattered all over the face, duppata lost and her body filled with exhaustion and tiny bruises. So immersed was she in her own crumbling world that she failed to notice a pair of intense, prying eyes scanning her entire being from head to toe. In her desperation to stop the bleeding, and continuously failing at it, she suddenly looked up. Her brown orbs clashed with a pair of cold grey ones-calculating her every move. Amidst burning vehicles and the cries of now-orphaned children, he sat on the roof of a car like a god who had orchestrated a bloody play for his own amusement🔥 One hand held a rod wrapped in barbed wire, the other a half-lit cigar. If she had been in her senses, she would have noticed the predatory gleam in his eyes, the ruthlessness surpassing everything, and his unnervingly relaxed demeanor despite being surrounded by scarred and weapon-laced goons. She rose from her place, desperation driving her feet forward, and approached him. She wanted to beg for kindness, for mercy, but the tremors in her body refused to let any words escape. Finally, mustering her courage, she whispered: "𝑴𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒉𝒂𝒓 𝒌𝒊 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒅 𝒌𝒊𝒋𝒊𝒚𝒆... 𝒖𝒏𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒉𝒖𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒊 𝒉𝒂𝒊." (Please, help my husband. He is severely injured.) He smirked, as if he had seen something invisible to everyone else. His eyes scanned her disheveled hair, the misplaced dupatta, the missing sandal. His veiny hands moved slowly as he removed his shawl and placed it around her trembling body. Then, in a low, guttural voice, he finally spoke: "𝑱𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒓... 𝒑𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒊𝒏 𝒂