He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, maybe sixteen, his lanky frame trembling under the weight of her gaze.
His wide, panicked eyes darted between the gun and Siya’s face, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Sweat glistened on his forehead, catching the faint glow of the streetlight, and his hands shook as he raised them in surrender, palms open, pleading.
“Please… please don’t kill me!” His voice cracked, raw with desperation, each word a fragile thread holding his courage together.
“Mujhe mat maro, please!”
[“Don’t kill me, please!”]
Siya’s lips tightened into a thin line, her fingers twitching around the gun’s handle. She stepped closer, her boots clicking against the cracked pavement, her presence commanding despite the storm of emotions raging inside her.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice low but sharp, cutting through the stillness of the night.
“You’re the one who sent those pictures to my husband, aren’t you? The morphed ones?” Her eyes narrowed, searching his face for any hint of a lie.
The boy swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded, his confession spilling out in a shaky whisper.
“Haan… maine kiya.”
[“Yes… I did it.”]
Siya’s heart twisted, a pang of betrayal slicing through her. She took another step forward, raising the gun until its barrel hovered inches from his forehead. The boy flinched, his knees buckling slightly, but he didn’t dare move.
“Why?” she hissed, her voice trembling with barely contained rage.
“Why would you do something so vile?”
His eyes glistened with unshed tears, his voice barely audible as he stammered, “Mujhe… mujhe apni class ki fees bharna tha.”
[“I… I needed to pay for my class fees.”]
The words hit Siya like a slap, but she didn’t lower the gun. Her gaze hardened, studying him the way his worn-out shirt clung to his thin frame, the dirt smudged on his knuckles, the fear etched into every line of his young face. He was scared, yes, but there was something else in his eyes. Desperation. A kind of raw, aching need that she recognized all too well.
“Where are your parents?” she asked, her tone softening just a fraction, though the gun remained steady.
The boy’s lips quivered, and for a moment, she thought he might collapse.
“Woh… woh nahi rahe,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he fought to hold back a sob.
“Main thodi si cheezein karta hoon… bas jeene ke liye. Please, mujhe mat maro. Main jeena chahta hoon.”
[“They… they’re no more. I do little things… just to survive. Please, don’t kill me. I want to live.”]
Siya’s breath caught in her throat. The gun felt heavier in her hand now, its cold weight a stark contrast to the warmth of pity beginning to bloom in her chest. She studied him the way his shoulders hunched, the way his eyes pleaded not just for mercy, but for a chance to be seen, to be understood.
He was just a kid, caught in a web he didn’t weave.
“Who told you to do this?” she asked, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. She needed answers, needed to know who had orchestrated this cruel game that had torn her life apart.
The boy shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. “Mujhe nahi pata… ek aurat thi, shayad 40 ya 50 saal ki. Uska chehra dhaka hua tha.”
[“I don’t know… it was a woman, maybe 40 or 50 years old. Her face was covered.”]
YOU ARE READING
Her innocent king
Romance"Her innocent King" He never wore a crown, never held a gun... but still, he ruled her world. She was born with blood on her hands and fire in her veins-the mafia princess everyone feared. A girl who could break ribs without breaking a sweat, yet s...
