A girl was running on the empty road, her anklets’ sound filling the silence of the night. Lifting her bridal lehenga, she kept running—without looking back, without stopping, as if her life depended on it.

Behind her, a group of men chased her relentlessly, their footsteps heavy, their shouts sharp and threatening. Fear clung to her skin, her breath uneven, her heart pounding so loudly that it drowned every other sound. She didn’t know how far she had come, or how far she could go—but she knew one thing that stopping was not an option.

Her eyes fell on a restaurant ahead. A family was stepping out, laughing, unaware of the storm racing toward them. Hope sparked in her chest. Gathering whatever strength she had left, she ran faster, closer—

And then—

Crash.

Before she could control herself, she collided into a man from that family. The impact sent both of them crashing onto the road, the man falling flat on his back, the girl landing right on top of him.

For a second, time stopped.

Her trembling hands pressed against his chest, her veil slipping forward, partially hiding her tear-streaked face. His breath knocked out of his lungs, the pain sharp—but what stunned him more was the weight of her fear.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice breaking as her fingers clutched his shirt. “Bacha lo mujhe.”

Her eyes met his.

They weren’t just scared—they were shattered. As if she had been running for years, not minutes.

Before he could even ask what was happening, loud footsteps echoed closer. The men.

She tried to get up, panic overtaking her. “I’m sorry… mujhe jaana hoga—”

“Ruko,” he said instinctively, his hand wrapping around her wrist. His voice was firm, commanding—yet gentle.

The men reached them, breathing hard. One of them growled, “Yeh ladki hamari hai.”

The man beneath her slowly sat up, placing a protective arm around her trembling frame. He looked calm, dangerously calm, as he asked, “Humari hai? Ye koi cheez hai jo tum keh rahe ho ki tumhari hai?”

The girl froze. No one had ever spoken like that—for her.

“She’s my wife,” one of the men snapped.

The man let out a dry chuckle. “Wife?” His eyes dropped to her empty hairline, the bridal lehenga, the bangles digging into her wrists like chains. Then he looked back at the men, his jaw tightening. “ Accha Agar yeh tumhari biwi hai, toh yeh bhaag kyu rahi hai tumse.”

Her grip on him tightened, as if he was the only solid thing left in her world.

The family maybe that man's family stopped completely now, watching. The road was no longer empty.

“Madam,” the man said softly, not looking at her but somehow making her feel seen, “agar aap inke saath jaana chahti ho, toh main aapko nahi rokunga.”

Her head shook immediately, violently. Tears spilled freely now. “Nahi… please.”

That one word was enough.

He stood up, pulling her with him, positioning her behind his back like a shield. “Toh phir yeh yahin khatam hota hai,” he said coldly. “Ek kadam aur badhaya, toh mai abhi police ko yahan bula leta hu. Theek hai?”

The men hesitated. Too many witnesses. Too much risk. With one last glare, they backed off, melting into the darkness they came from.

The silence that followed was heavier than the chaos before.

Her knees gave way. She would’ve fallen—if he hadn’t caught her in time.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, steadying her. “You’re safe. Ab koi aapki chhoo bhi nahi sakta.”

She didn’t know his name.

He didn’t know her story.

But as she stood there, wrapped in fear, pain, and unanswered questions—one thought echoed in her heart, louder than the anklets that had betrayed her escape.

Yeh ajnabi… kyun ekdum apna sa lag raha hai?