Raneya ran like a woman possessed- like the world had caught fire behind her—and maybe it had.
Not with flames, but with betrayal. With the twisted smiles of those she once trusted. With the blood of her dreams, spilled by hands she once thought would protect her.
Her breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, her heartbeat roared in her ears, louder than the slap of her worn-out slippers against the asphalt. The first light of dawn filtered through the polluted skyline, washing her in a dull glow, turning her bruises into ghostly art. Her hair stuck to her face, sweat and tears indistinguishable as they fell down her cheeks.
But this time… she wasn't running empty.
But this time… she wasn't empty-handed.
She had her bag clutched tight to her chest—her savings, her degrees, some clothes. She had worked for years before the marriage, educated herself, fought for independence inch by inch.
And now, those inches were her only armor.
She clutched the bag tightly to her chest like a lifeline. Inside—her savings, some crumpled certificates and degrees, a change of clothes, and her scholarship letter. Proof that she had once had a life. A life before Zaryab, before the cage they called marriage. Before her father's voice—the one she had once curled into on stormy nights—became the harbinger of her death.
She had studied. Worked. Built a spine from the ashes of every "no" she had ever swallowed inch by inch.
And now, those inches were her only armor.
The streets around her began to stir—hawkers setting up carts, rickshaws whirring to life, the city waking up as if it wasn't a graveyard of broken girls like her. She moved like a shadow through it all, unseen, ignored. Her mind screamed directions, but her body had no map—just the instinct to run. To disappear.
And then… her knees gave out.
She collapsed on the cold, dirty sidewalk, the world spinning. The ache in her legs was molten, every breath burned her throat. Her body shook like a leaf torn from its tree , a thin sheen of sweat clinging to her forehead.Her eyes stared into the distance—her gaze locked on nothing and everything. Her soul felt like it had been ripped out, her spirit hollow. Everything ached—her legs, her back, her chest. And yet nothing hurt more than the betrayal that ran in her veins like poison.
And yet, something primal inside her still whispered: move.
Then she saw it.
A black car. Slow. Circling.
It slowly crept into view until it turned once, then again… and then slowed down.
Her breath caught in her chest like a knife. Her skin crawled. Her muscles tensed.
No. No. No.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
They'd found her.
She didn't think about anything else. Heart pounding again, she launched to her feet, stumbling, limbs barely responding. She darted into a narrow side alley—a place forgotten by maps. Crumbling brick walls. Overturned bins. Rats scampering. Wires like veins hanging from the buildings. It smelled like decay.
It was a skeleton of a streetPerfect for someone who wanted to vanish.
She pressed herself against a crumbling brick wall, her breath shallow, eyes trained on the mouth of the alley. Her breath came in silent sobs, fists clenched around the straps of her bag. Her ears strained to catch the sound of footsteps, tires, anything.
The car passed.
It didn't stop.
One minute. Two. Five.
Stillness. The coast was clear.
Only then did she dare to emerge. Slowly, cautiously, she peeled herself from the wall. Her eyes darted around, sharp with fear. Her body trembled with adrenaline, exhaustion, and the ache of betrayal. And then—like a beacon carved from fate—her eyes locked onto a faded sign behind a chain of trees.
POLICE STATION.
Her legs moved before her mind did.
She had no more family, no one to trust. But she still had one thing left: truth
The inside of the station smelled like old files, stale tea, and sweat. The constable at the desk was mid-yawn when he looked up—and froze.
Raneya looked like death had spat her out.
Hair tangled, face streaked with dirt and dried blood, her clothes disheveled, one sandal half-broken, eyes glassy and far too old for her young face. Her body swayed on its own axis.
"I… I need help…" she whispered, before collapsing into the chair opposite him.
What followed wasn't a story—it was a confession of survival. She spoke in broken syllables at first, her voice hoarse, trembling. But once the words started flowing, they didn't stop, like a river breaking free.
Zaryab's sadism. Her father's deception. The trap they laid. Her narrow escape.
And how the people she had loved once plotted to kill her like she was disposable filth.
The constable didn't interrupt.
He simply stared, fingers interlocked under his chin, jaw tight. His eyes darkened deeper with every sentence.
When she finally fell silent, his chair creaked as he leaned back.
"You're lucky you made it," he said gruffly. "You look like hell."
Raneya flinched.
Then he softened, just barely.
"That's not an insult. That's why I believe you. You don't fake this kind of fear."
He studied her. Haunted eyes. Split lip. Nails broken and filled with blood and grime. The kind of damage that didn't come from theatrics—it came from war.
"But belief doesn't make arrests," he continued. "We need evidence. Witnesses. Surveillance. Something to hold against them in court."
She looked down. Her voice cracked like dry glass. "I only have me…"
Silence stretched between them like a taut wire.
Then he stood.
"You'll be taken to a shelter under our protection. We'll start the investigation. The names you gave—Zaryab. Qureshi. They're not new to us." His voice dropped. "But you're the first to make it out alive."
Raneya's lips parted in a silent gasp.
His eyes narrowed. "You have guts. That might be the only weapon that matters right now."
She blinked, and for the first time in what felt like years… something stirred inside her.
Not quite hope.
But it was fierce.
And it refused to die.