The soft hum of the hospital TV barely registers in the background. Meera and Aryan aren't paying attention—until the news anchor's urgent voice cuts through the silence.
"Breaking news! We have just received shocking information regarding Aarohi Malhotra—Ratan Malhotra's only daughter."
Aryan frowns, turning toward the screen. Meera grips the edge of her seat, her heartbeat quickening.
A grainy video begins playing.
Aarohi.
Barefoot. Clothes torn. Hair wild in the wind. Fighting.
Not just fighting—winning.
She dodges a knife, twists a man's arm, knocks another to the ground. Her movements are sharp, precise—like someone trained for this.
She doesn't look like someone running away.
She looks like someone hunting.
The anchor's voice lowers, thick with tension.
"But is Aarohi Malhotra really who she claims to be?"
The screen changes. Blurred, old documents appear. Redacted text. A name—scratched out beyond recognition.
"Sources claim there is no official birth certificate for Aarohi Malhotra. No records before the age of five. And now, a bigger revelation has come to light."
Meera's stomach drops.
"Ratan Malhotra had a wife—Aasha Malhotra. She and her daughter reportedly died in a house fire years ago. But one question remains…"**
The screen shifts again—charred remains of a burned-down home. A faded newspaper article.
"Aasha Malhotra's daughter's body was never found."
Aryan feels a cold chill.
The news anchor's voice sharpens.
"If she survived… she should have burn scars. But Aarohi Malhotra has none."
A deadly silence fills the room.
Then—a new video feed.
A shadowed alley. A live press conference.
Aarohi—no, whoever she is—stands in the center. Flashing cameras surround her, reporters shouting over each other.
A microphone is shoved toward her.
"If you are not Aarohi Malhotra, then who are you?"
The girl lifts her head. Her lips curve into the faintest smirk.
And then—she speaks.
"My name is Reyza Vale."
The world seems to stop.
The reporters freeze. The news anchors stammer.
Meera grips Aryan's arm. "What did she just say?"
The camera zooms in on her face. Calm. Unshaken. Dangerous.
The anchor's voice trembles through the speakers.
"Who… is Reyza Vale?"
No one knows.
The name lingers in the air.
Reyza Vale.
It shouldn't mean anything. It should be just a name. But the moment she says it, the world shifts.
The press conference erupts into chaos, but Reyza doesn't hear it. The voices blur, the flashing cameras dim.
Because she remembers.
Not all of it. Not yet. But something is unraveling inside her, something sharp and cold, something buried so deep it should have stayed lost.
She feels the weight of it pressing down—like fingers gripping the back of her neck, a whisper in the dark.
You shouldn't have said that.
The world sharpens again when someone grabs her wrist. A reporter, desperate for answers.
"Who are you really?"
Reyza exhales. "I don't know," she admits.
The truth feels heavier than a lie.
Somewhere, in the city she thought she knew, doors are unlocking. People are watching. The name she spoke—it was never just a name. It was a signal. A warning.
And now, they are coming.
For her.
For the girl who was never meant to remember.