The metro tunnel had no name. No light. No reason to still exist.
Once it carried lovers, dreamers, students, protestors. Now, it carried only ghosts—and one girl in stolen boots.
Aaravi Sen didn’t belong in darkness. Not by blood. Not by birth.
Her father, K.K. Sen, was the architect of the Purity State—the man who rewrote India’s laws with steel and silence. She was his legacy, his polished doll. She wasn’t supposed to walk alone through abandoned tunnels with a heart hammering in her chest and rebellion blooming beneath her ribs.
But here she was.
And she had come back again.
The first time was an accident. She followed a crow into a crumbled stairwell during one of her “escorted heritage visits.” But what she found there—past the broken “No Entry” sign, past the smashed Purity Scanner, past the leaking pipes—was a wall. A wall covered in poetry.
Not digital. Not filtered. Written. In ink. Illegally. By hand.
She hadn’t touched it the first time. Just stared, shaken by the boldness of it. Words—real words—that weren’t state-approved.
Now, her fingers knew the cracks between the bricks like a lover’s jawline. And tonight, someone had added more.
> We are not our chips.
We are not their silence.
Kiss the match. Burn the lie.
— R.V.
Aaravi exhaled. Her lips formed the last line in silence.
She’d memorized all his poems now. Every outlawed syllable.
R.V. — Raayan Veer.
She knew the name. Everyone did. The Regime called him the "Poet Butcher." Said his words incited mobs, burned districts, killed officers.
They showed him on screens like a monster: wild eyes, bloody hands, beard like fire.
But to her? His poems weren’t violence.
They were the first truth she had ever felt.
She crouched near the base of the wall, fingertips brushing a new verse—short, raw, almost unfinished.
> I dreamed of a girl in iron shoes, walking toward the fire.
She blinked.
That was her.
A sound echoed behind her.
Fast. Too fast to be nothing.
She froze. Then rose, turning slowly. The tunnel behind her was empty—almost. A flicker in the dark. She backed away.
A hand slammed her shoulder, shoved her hard against the wall. Cold steel kissed her neck.
“Move and I open your throat.”
His voice was low. Rough.
Real.
She didn’t scream.
Not because she wasn’t scared.
But because she knew it was him.
“Raayan,” she breathed.
Silence. A beat. Then the pressure eased just slightly.
“You know my name?” His voice was closer now, as if testing her face in the dark.
“I’ve read everything you’ve written here,” she said, slowly.
He pulled the blade back. Not far, just enough to speak.
“So you’re the rich rat sniffing through my words.”
“I’m not a rat.”
“You're Sen’s daughter. That makes you worse.”
Aaravi felt the insult land, but didn’t flinch. She met his gaze—eyes dark as the tunnel itself, ringed with sleepless fury.
“I didn’t report you,” she said.
“Yet.”
“I could’ve. Weeks ago.”
Another pause. Longer. Then a small, humorless laugh.
“You’re either stupid… or suicidal.”
“Maybe both.”
Raayan lowered the knife completely. She could finally see him clearly—leather jacket cracked, hands ink-stained, mouth chapped, hair tied back but wild at the edges. He looked like a man carved from exhaustion and defiance.
He looked nothing like the terrorist on the government screens.
“You still have your chip?” he asked suddenly.
She nodded. “Level Two. Emotional dampening only.”
He clicked his tongue. “Daddy didn’t trust you with full suppression?”
“Daddy wanted me to marry a Minister’s son with dead eyes.”
Raayan smirked. “Sounds romantic.”
Aaravi took a step closer. “You wrote about me. That last line—it’s new.”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m the girl in iron shoes, aren’t I?”
“You are in shoes that don’t fit you.”
“Then maybe you should help me take them off.”
The tension between them cracked like static. Raayan looked away first, rubbing his temple.
“You talk like someone who’s never paid a price.”
She stepped forward, unafraid now. “Then teach me the cost.”
That made him look at her again—sharply, deeply. His breath was uneven. For a moment, it felt like the tunnel stopped breathing altogether.
He reached forward slowly, touched the side of her temple. The chip glowed faintly beneath her skin.
“You know this thing reports emotional spikes, right? That it’s probably already told your father you’re aroused, scared, and lying to someone dangerous?”
“I disabled the external ping,” she whispered. “Only logs locally now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re smarter than you look.”
“And you’re softer than they say.”
Wrong move. His expression hardened instantly.
“I am not soft.”
“No,” she said, holding his gaze. “You’re bleeding.”
Raayan looked down. His left arm—beneath the sleeve—was stained with dried blood.
“Police drone clipped me yesterday,” he muttered. “Nothing fatal.”
“Let me clean it.”
He scoffed. “What are you? A rebel nurse?”
“I’m bored. And dangerous when bored.”
Raayan stared at her. For a moment, the fight left his body.
Then he said quietly, “Come back tomorrow. Same time. Bring alcohol. And silence.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see if you’ll actually do it.”
He turned and melted into the darkness like he belonged to it.
Aaravi stood alone in the tunnel, her chip still buzzing weakly.
Her heart still racing.
She had come here looking for poetry.
But she had found a man made of matches and madness.
A boy who bled ink and rage.
A criminal whose voice had no right to sound like music.
And she—daughter of the law—was already craving him like sin.
...****************...
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