R.K. Heart Institute – Private Wing

The air was colder in this part of the hospital.Too clean. Too silent.

Even the nurses avoided this hallway like it carried disease.Dr. Saanvi Mehra didn’t usually attend to post-op VIPs. But today, Room 707 had requested her by name — twice.

The man inside had survived an impossible surgery. No real name. No medical history. Just a stack of cash and a fake ID.Still, she was a doctor. And if he wanted a follow-up, he would get one.

She pushed open the door.

He stood by the window, gazing out at the Delhi skyline. Half his shirt hung open, bandages crossing his chest. He looked less like a recovering patient and more like a predator in temporary pause.

Veer Aarya Singh.

He turned the moment she entered. Like he’d been waiting.

“Dr. Mehra,” he said, voice low and deep. “You came.”

She nodded, keeping her expression neutral. “You requested me."

“I did.”

He didn’t smile. Just watched her. Studied her. Like she was something rare. “Your team says I’m healing fast,” he added. “But I don’t feel… normal.”

“That’s expected. We opened your chest. There’s trauma—physical and psychological.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not the pain. It’s something else.”She frowned slightly, adjusting her gloves. “Describe it.”He took a slow step toward her.

“Ever since I woke up… I keep thinking about your voice.”

Saanvi stiffened.

“Excuse me?”

“You were speaking during the surgery. Calm. Controlled. Telling them what to do.”

He tilted his head. “It was the last thing I heard before blacking out. And the first thing I heard when I woke up.”

“That’s common,” she said quickly. “Some patients imprint on familiar sounds. It’ll pass.”

“I hope it doesn’t,” he murmured.

She stepped around him, walking toward the monitors, needing space. He followed with his eyes but didn’t move again.

“You're not just a surgeon,” he said. “You’re… disciplined. Detached. Like you built walls around yourself brick by brick.”

“That’s how people survive in this line of work."

“No,” he said. “That’s how people hide.”

Her gaze snapped to him. “You think you know me?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I want to.”

Silence.

He sat back down on the edge of the couch, still watching her like a challenge he intended to unravel.

“Do you always speak like this to your doctors?” she asked, folding her arms.

“Only to the ones who cut me open and stitched me back together.”

“So you flirt with all your surgeons?”

“Only the brilliant ones.”

Saanvi looked away, biting back a response. This man didn’t speak in questions. Only certainties.

“Your recovery is on track,” she said finally. “But you’ll need to avoid physical exertion. Keep your stitches clean. No smoking, no alcohol, and no stress.”

“And what if I don’t listen?”

“Then you’ll tear from the inside.”

“Good,” he said, with a slow, dark smile. “I like pain. It reminds me I’m still human.”

She stepped back, collecting the tablet from the side table.

“Anything else, Mr. Singh?”

He stood.Too close.Too quiet.

“Yes,” he said. “You saved me.”

“That’s my job.”

No,” he said softly. “What you did… that wasn’t just medicine. It was precision. Mercy. Power.”

She didn’t answer.He took a step closer. Still not touching. Just existing too much in her space.

“I don’t forget the people who leave a mark on me, Dr. Mehra.”

“I didn’t come here to leave a mark,” she said tightly.

You didn’t have to,” he murmured. “You already did.”

She turned, opened the door.He didn’t stop her.But just before she left, his voice followed her — low and calm, like a storm promising to return.

“This won’t be the last time we speak, Saanvi.”

“It better be,” she said without turning.

> “You don’t believe that.”