Shriya woke up to white.
Not the clean white of hope, or the soft white of morning. This was harsh—bleached walls, fluorescent lights, the kind of white that erased time. Her head throbbed. Her mouth tasted like metal and regret.
For a moment, she didn't know where she was.
Then she tried to move.
Cold steel bit into her wrists.
Handcuffs.
The memory came back without warning—sharp, violent, merciless.
MK falling.
Blood soaking through her hands.
The sound of the gunshot that ended Silas.
The way MK's weight went slack in her arms.
Shriya screamed.
Her body jerked upright, heart slamming against her ribs, breath tearing out of her lungs like she was drowning on land.
"Easy," a voice said.
A man stood near the door. Uniformed. Expression neutral in the way that meant he'd seen this before and learned how not to care too much.
"You're at city hospital," he continued. "You've been unconscious for twelve hours."
Twelve hours.
Shriya's eyes darted around wildly. "MK," she gasped. "Where is she? I need to see her."
The man hesitated.
That pause was everything.
"No," he said finally. "You don't."
Something collapsed inside her chest.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, that's not—she was breathing. She talked to me. She said my name."
The man looked away.
The silence answered for him.
Shriya felt herself fold inward, like a star dying quietly instead of exploding. Tears came, but they weren't dramatic. They slid down her face without sound, soaking into the thin hospital pillow beneath her head.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered. "I didn't mean to kill him."
The man's jaw tightened. "That's not for me to decide."
Two more officers entered the room. One woman. One man. They carried papers instead of weapons, but the weight of them felt heavier.
"You're under arrest," the woman said gently, as if softness could soften the words. "For the homicide of Silas Miller."
The name landed wrong.
Miller.
The handcuffs were removed only to be replaced by thicker restraints. Cold. Final.
As they wheeled her out, Shriya craned her neck, searching corridors, doors—any sign of MK. A room. A body. A goodbye she hadn't been allowed to say.
There was nothing.
Just white walls and people who refused to meet her eyes.
The interrogation room smelled like coffee and old air.
They asked questions she barely registered.
Did you know Silas Miller?
Were you aware of his rank?
Did you bring the weapon with you?
Did you intend to kill him?
"I shot him," she said flatly. "I don't regret that."
The room went still.
The male officer sighed, rubbing his temples. "You understand who he was, don't you?"
She lifted her head slowly. "He shot MK."
"Yes," the officer replied. "And Silas Miller was also a decorated soldier. His family—"
"I don't care," she snapped, voice cracking for the first time. "He murdered her."
The woman officer exchanged a look with her partner.
"They're calling it a complex incident," she said carefully. "Self-defense is… being debated."
Debated.
As if MK's blood hadn't soaked through Shriya's clothes.
As if love was a variable to be negotiated.
Hours blurred together. Lawyers arrived she didn't recognize. Words like jurisdiction, classified operations, and national security were thrown around casually, like excuses that mattered more than the truth.
By nightfall, Shriya understood one thing clearly.
The Miller family was pulling strings.
Powerful ones.
They weren't trying to prove her guilty.
They were trying to make her disappear.
The transport van was cold.
Metal bench. Small window. No view.
As the city lights faded behind them, Shriya rested her forehead against the glass, watching the world move on without her. Somewhere out there, people were laughing. Eating dinner. Holding hands.
Her breath hitched, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
The prison gates loomed ahead—tall, unforgiving, final. Razor wire caught the moonlight, sharp as broken promises.
"Maximum security," one of the guards said to another. "Orders from above."
From above.
As if the sky itself had condemned her.
They processed her quickly. No kindness. No cruelty either. Just efficiency. Clothes exchanged for a uniform. Identity reduced to a number.
When they shut the cell door behind her, the sound echoed longer than it should have.
Shriya sat on the narrow bed, hands shaking for the first time since it happened.
This was it.
No MK.
No sunlight.
No voice calling her name in the quiet.
She lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling, its cracks forming shapes she refused to follow.