The evening sky was painted in shades of orange and grey, the city buzzing with its usual chaos. People rushed past each other, lost in their own worlds… no one stopping, no one caring.
Except her.
Anaya Mishra stood at the roadside, her worn dupatta slipping from her shoulder as her eyes locked onto a scene that made her blood boil.
A small beggar girl… barely seven… was being dragged and slapped by a man.
“Chori karti hai?!” he shouted, raising his hand again.
Before anyone could react—
“Bas! Stop it!”
Anaya stepped forward, grabbing his wrist mid-air.
The man looked at her, shocked. “Tum kaun hoti ho beech mein aane wali?”
Her eyes burned with anger. “Insaan hoon. Aur itna kaafi hai.”
The crowd began to gather, whispering but not interfering.
“Yeh chor hai,” the man snapped.
Anaya pulled the little girl behind her protectively. “Chor nahi… bhookhi hai.”
“Tumhe kya pata—”
“Pata hai!” she cut him off, her voice sharp. “Kyuki duniya ne tum jaise logon ki wajah se logon ko majboor dekha hai maine.”
The man scoffed. “Side ho jao, warna—”
“Warna?” she stepped closer, fearless despite her trembling hands. “Maaroge? Maar lo. Par isse haath lagaya na… toh police station tak main khud le jaungi tumhe.”
Her words carried a strange strength—one that silenced him for a moment.
People started murmuring louder now.
The man cursed under his breath and finally pushed her hand away. “Pagal ladki.”
He left.
Just like that.
The crowd slowly dispersed… as always.
Anaya knelt down beside the little girl, her anger melting into softness. “Tum theek ho?”
The girl nodded weakly.
“Naam kya hai?”
“Ch… Chutki…”
Anaya smiled faintly. “Dar mat. Kuch nahi hoga ab.”
From a small cloth bag, she took out the only food she had—two pieces of bread—and handed it to her.
“Yeh lo.”
“But didi, aap—”
“Main theek hoon,” Anaya said gently, even though she wasn’t.
Because she was used to giving… even when she had nothing.
“ANAYA!”
A voice came rushing from behind.
“Pagal ho gayi hai kya tu?” Trisha almost yelled, grabbing her arm. “Tu us aadmi se lad rahi thi?!”
Anaya stood up, brushing off her hands. “Toh kya karti? Dekhti rehti?”
Trisha ran her hand through her hair in frustration. “Tu na… ek din kisi badi problem mein phas jayegi.”
“Already phasi hui hoon,” Anaya muttered softly.
Trisha paused. “Phir bhi… tu rukti nahi.”
Anaya gave a small, tired smile. “Kuch cheezein ignore nahi hoti, Trisha.”
They started walking slowly along the road.
“Waise,” Trisha nudged her, trying to lighten the mood, “madam ne apne sapno ka kya kiya? Designer banna tha na tujhe?”
Anaya’s steps slowed.
For a second… silence.
Then she looked ahead and said quietly, “Sapne sabke pure nahi hote.”
“Par try toh kar sakti hai na—”
“Ghar jaake aunty se poochungi kya?” Anaya laughed bitterly. “Ki mujhe padhne do, jeene do? Woh mujhe khana deti hain, wahi kaafi hai unke hisaab se.”
Trisha’s expression softened. “Tu deserve karti hai better life.”
“Sab deserve karte hain,” Anaya said, glancing back at the little girl. “Par milta sabko nahi.”
Across the street…
A black luxury car stood still.
Inside it… sat Abhimanyu Raghuvanshi.
His sharp eyes had been watching everything.
The fight.
The courage.
The way she stood—alone, yet unafraid.
“Sir?” his driver spoke carefully. “Should we leave?”
Abhimanyu didn’t answer.
For the first time in a long time… something had caught his attention.
Not power.
Not fear.
A girl.
Simple. Broken. Yet… strong.
He watched as she walked away with her friend, her figure fading into the crowd.
“Find out who she is,” he said finally, his voice calm but commanding.
The driver nodded instantly. “Yes, sir.”
Abhimanyu leaned back, his expression unreadable.
But his eyes…
Still followed her.
Somewhere in the chaos of that ordinary evening…
Two worlds had collided.
One—built on darkness and control.
The other—struggling to survive, yet refusing to lose its light.
She didn’t know him.
But he had seen her.
And Abhimanyu Raghuvanshi…
Never ignored anything that caught his interest.
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