33— Six months— later!

33— Six months— later!

“Our own thoughts hurt us more than the sharp tongue of others.” 

–Saumya Tripathi 

Who would have thought six months had already passed?

May he add—it hadn’t been easy.

The past few months had been exhausting, the workload more than enough to keep him constantly occupied. Days blurred into nights, and before he could truly realize it, half a year was already gone.

Six months apart from her.

Long enough for silence to become familiar. Long enough for absence to settle into something permanent.

And yet, not long enough for him to forget.

No amount of work, no amount of distance, had been enough to silence the thought of her.

If anything, time had only made it worse.

It had. Had it not? He swallowed. 

Each passing day, his thoughts found their way back to her—quietly, stubbornly, as if they belonged nowhere else.

Because the last time had been a disaster.

When he thought about it now, he knew he hadn’t gone easy on her. Not even close. His words had been harsh, his actions harsher—but it had been necessary. On that, he would never compromise. Not when she was the reason. 

Protecting her was never meant to be gentle.

Still, there were moments—usually in the dead of night, when silence stretched too long—when doubt crept in.

Had he pushed too far?

Had fear made him crueler than he intended to be?

He hated those thoughts. Hated how they lingered, how they made him question himself.

Because the questions never left him—they lingered, burdening his mind until silence itself became unbearable. Those thoughts, each one gnawing at his mind until peace felt impossible.

Because hesitation was dangerous. Regret was useless.

And yet… when he remembered the look in her eyes that day—the hurt, the anger, the betrayal—something in him tightened. 

She had looked at him like he was the very monster he kept warning her about.

Maybe, in that moment, he had been.

His jaw clenched at the thought.

What else could he have done? He hated the cruelty of it—but softness would have been far more dangerous.

No.

If being the villain in her story meant she stayed alive, then he would wear that role without complaint.

Let her hate him.

Let her misunderstand him.

As long as she was safe, he could endure the rest.

And despite everything, he still believed it would be okay now.

It had to be.

Because the only thing worse than her hatred… would be her absence.

He wouldn't dare compromise on that. 

Even after months, he was still trapped in the same conflict within himself.

And yet, there was a quiet relief in knowing she was safe. At home.

Leaning back in his chair, his head resting against the headrest, he let himself think of her—of that childish behavior of hers.

Even at eighteen—almost eighteen, he corrected himself instantly—she was still such a child.

Still a kid.

So full of innocence, of naïveté, and that stubborn childishness that somehow made her even more endearing.

What was he going to do without her?

A soft chuckle escaped him.

He had no idea.

If only he could…

And speaking of that, his mind drifted back to the time he had asked her about the ridiculous little endearment she used for him—

Grumpy Bear.

Her grumpy bear.

Strange, how someone so small could leave such an unbearable silence behind. 

It was absurd how much of his peace had begun and ended with her.

She was enough to turn up his whole world in seconds. And yet she didn't even know that. He let out a chuckle at that thought. 

Yet again his thoughts slipped back to the past, the memory unfolding before him with an almost painful clarity.

Those were the days he would never forget—the days when happiness had felt simple, effortless, and strangely complete with her beside him.

The past had been beautiful. Beautiful in a way that made remembering it hurt.

Wasn't it? He couldn't deny that. 

“Why do you insist on calling me Grumpy Bear all the time?” he had asked, feigning annoyance, though the fondness in his voice betrayed him.

The five-year-old looked up at him and burst into bright, careless laughter, her little eyes shining beneath the warm sunlight.

“Because you always look grumpy!” She declared proudly, as if she had just revealed the greatest truth in the world.

Before he could protest, she stuck her tongue out at him and ran—tiny feet carrying her as fast as they could.

“Hey—come back here!”

Before he could even respond, she turned and sprinted away, laughter trailing behind her.

“Where do you think you're going? Come back here!”

He chased after her, shaking his head, his jaw practically dropping at her shameless audacity.

Even then, she had known exactly how to make him laugh.

“We need to bring this under control—and soon, before it completely destroys the situation. We don’t have a choice otherwise.”

The firm, commanding voice of Don Shreyaanz on the matter of their latest mission snapped Uzair out of the daydream he had drifted into in the middle of the meeting.

He blinked a couple of times, forcing himself back to the present. He straightened subtly in his chair, masking the distraction that had momentarily taken hold of him.

His eyes met his—the Don, who looked straight at him. 

In a room like this, even a second of inattentiveness could be noticed.

And of course that didn’t escape unnoticed.

He should have known better. In front of the Don, even the smallest lapse could be seen as weakness.

“And what about the underbosses?” One of the most influential American-Italian leaders in the underworld, Angelo, spoke up, leaning back against his revolving chair, his expression unreadable. 

Angelo was not a man who spoke often, but when he did, the room listened. His silence alone carried more weight than most men’s threats.

“They’ve surrounded themselves with hackers to secure their illegal weapons network, while their operations continue spreading across different states of the country at an alarming scale.”

If the weapons system remained untouched, it wouldn’t just threaten their business—it would threaten the balance of power itself. Uzair agreed. 

Though, his gaze remained fixed on the Don’s, calm yet expectant, waiting for his response.

The room was silent except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional tapping of fingers against polished wood. Cigarette smoke lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the scent of expensive whiskey and expensive men. 

Don Shreyaanz didn’t need to raise his voice. Authority clung to him naturally—the kind built on fear, respect, and the knowledge that disobedience came with consequences. His words were the sentence to be followed. 

“That, you need not worry about. It has already been taken care of—thoroughly.”

Don Shreyaanz spoke without hesitation, his voice calm yet carrying the kind of authority that left no room for doubt.

“All you need to focus on is this—how, when, and where we dismantle them. Once and for all. May I need to add—it won't be easy. With our lives on the line.” 

Leaning back against the headrest of his chair, he let his gaze sweep across the room, reading the expressions of every man seated around that long table.

“No loose ends. No room for retaliation. Once we move, there will be no second chance,” he continued, “We end this completely.”

A heavy stillness followed.

~•~•~•~•~•~