Chhayika's POV
The monitor clicks off with a soft hum, and for a moment, the room is bathed in silence.
I don't move.
The face on the screen is burned into my skull - her smirk, the confidence in her gait, the way she owned my limp. Whoever she is, she's not just wearing my name.
She's performing me.
And in this business, impersonation is worse than betrayal. It means someone still believes the ghost of Fatima Qureshi has value.
That she can open doors I once closed.
I exhale slowly, force the tension out of my spine, and reach for the drawer under the desk. Inside: a flash drive, a worn leather notebook, and a cell phone I haven't powered on in months.
I turn it on now.
Only one number saved.
The eagle returns to the sky.
Within seconds, a message pings back. Coordinates. A name. No pleasantries.
Good. We're past that stage.
The message reads: "13.7297° N, 100.7751° E. Same rules. No names."
Bangkok.
Of course.
Giriraj never liked Delhi. Said it was too political, too personal, too predictable. Bangkok was his playground - dirty alleys hiding cleaner deals, tourists providing the perfect camouflage, and silence served best in iced tea glasses.
I close the drawer and pocket the phone.
The flash drive stays.
It's bait.
The real intel is already broken into parts, scattered across old networks only a handful of us ever used. If this ghost is smart — and she has to be, to survive this long — then she'll eventually try to access them. And when she does, the trail she thinks she's tracing...
...will lead straight to me.
Twelve Hours Later – Suvarnabhumi International Airport, Bangkok
The air is wet. Heavy with perfume and exhaust fumes.
I walk slow, no hurry. The world doesn't know who I am here, just another face beneath a cap, hoodie drawn low, travel bag strapped to my back. No entourage. No agents. No trace.
Just me.
And the man who taught me how to disappear.
Giriraj is already at the café when I arrive - outdoor seat, back to the wall, two iced teas on the table. No phone. No expression. Just a subtle tilt of his head that says "You're late, but I expected that."
I sit.
Neither of us speak.
The silence between us is a language older than trust.
He finally mutters, "You're chasing a ghost."
I sip the tea. "She's wearing my shadow."
He nods slowly. "The footage?"
"Too good to be coincidence. She's been briefed."
"Or she's been watching."
The chill from the glass seeps into my fingers. I don't like how that sounds.
"She knew to limp," I say. "Not just where the scar is, but how I carry it on bad days."
"That means she's seen you without knowing she's seen you."
He leans back, squinting into the crowd behind me.
"Problem is," he says, "you buried Fatima too well. No one should've had access to the behavioral files. Not unless someone internal made a copy."
My jaw tightens.
I never kept hard files. Never used cloud.
"IB?" I ask.
Giriraj chuckles darkly. "You think they're clean?"
I don't answer.
He slides a small envelope toward me.
Inside - a blurry print from port surveillance. But this one's new. Not Karachi.
Colombo. Three days ago.
"Same woman," he says. "Same signature. But this time, she wasn't just crossing borders. She was meeting buyers."
My blood stills.
"Arms?"
"No. Identities. Code names. Stolen passphrases. Old ones. Yours."
Cut to: Later that night – Rooftop, Bangkok
I stand alone, wind in my face, city lights blinking below.
She's not just impersonating me. She's trading me.
Selling Fatima Qureshi to the highest bidder.
And there's only one way to stop a ghost like that.
You become the hunter. Again.
My thoughts were a blur, scattered like a storm that refused to calm. The weight of everything pressing down on me - the imposter using my name, the wreckage I had to clean up, and the lingering sense of betrayal... was suffocating. I couldn't focus. I needed clarity.
I walked to my small corner of the study, where a prayer mat lay waiting. The room felt suffocatingly quiet, save for the faint hum of the computer screen. The city noises outside were distant, almost irrelevant. It was here that I could center myself.
I picked up the 14 mukhi rudraksha mala from the wooden stand beside me, my fingers brushing over the smooth, dark beads. This mala had been with me through countless trials, each bead holding a silent promise to calm my mind, to restore balance within me. The ritual was my anchor. The 14-mukhi was said to represent Hanuman's fearless mind and Shiva's all-seeing awareness. Perfect for a mind like mine - fierce, focused, and often fractured.
I sat cross-legged on the mat, closing my eyes for a moment to steady my breath. I held the mala in my right hand, and with my left, I started turning the beads, reciting the first mantra softly to myself, "वक्रतुण्ड महाकाय सूर्यकोटि समप्रभा, निर्विघ्नं कुरु मे देव सर्वकार्येषु सर्वदा" (O Lord Ganesha, with the curved trunk and the massive body, whose radiance is equal to millions of suns, remove all obstacles from my work and make every endeavor successful.)
The words slipped out, rhythmically, like a steady heartbeat. It felt natural, comforting. I counted 143 repetitions, each one pulling me deeper into the silence I desperately needed.
Once I finished the first mantra, I took a deep breath, feeling the tension in my body slowly unwind. Then, I moved to the second mantra, the one that always brought me peace: "ॐ गणेशाय नमः" (I bow to Lord Ganesha.)
I repeated it slowly, deliberately, 143 times as well. The mantra wrapped around me, creating a barrier against the chaos of the outside world. It was almost as if the world, with its noise and confusion, stopped existing. In this moment, there was only the steady rhythm of my breath and the calm of my thoughts.
By the time I completed the final repetition, my mind felt clearer. The fog of worry had lifted, and in its place was focus - sharp, unwavering focus. I could think now. I could plan.
I stood up, a quiet sense of purpose filling me. The next step was obvious, even if it would be dangerous. I had to track down the imposter, the one who was using my name, my past, to manipulate and destroy. It was a ghost I had to chase, and I would chase it until it was no longer a threat.
I went to bed with a clear plan in my head. The trail I was chasing was heating up, and I knew the next move would be risky, but necessary. Tomorrow would take me to the heart of Bangkok, to an unassuming street near Nana Station, where I could find answers. I wasn't after just any lead. I was looking for Rasmi.
She was the only one who might have the information I needed, and if anyone could help me understand who was pulling the strings behind the woman using my name, it was her. She owed me, and I knew she'd be cornered into giving up the truth.
Rasmi's betrayal still stung, but the guilt was something I couldn't afford to carry with me anymore. The real betrayal wasn't hers; it was the woman who'd been selling my name to the highest bidder. And I couldn't let her destroy everything I'd worked for.
The alleys behind Nana Station stank of diesel and sweat, just like always. But this time, there was a different urgency in the air. My steps were steady as I moved through the shadows. By dawn, I'd be face-to-face with the past, ready to settle the score.
Tomorrow, I'd find Rasmi. And then, the real hunt would begin.
Next day
The alleys behind Asok Station stank of diesel and disappointment. My hood was low, my eyes scanning every movement around me. I didn't come here to be noticed.
The fixer's stall was still the same, a metal shack, crammed between a counterfeit electronics shop and a noodle vendor. And so was she.
"Rasmi."
She looked up slowly, her gaze sharp, then it softened, shock flickering in her eyes.
"You..." she whispered, her voice thick. "They said you were dead."
I didn't let my face betray me. "You know better than that. In our world, dead is a temporary state."
Her expression twisted, the scowl she'd perfected over the years returning. "Then who's the woman using your name? Who's selling information to traffickers with your signature?"
The words hit harder than expected. Not because I hadn't prepared for them, but because they confirmed my deepest fear.
"She came here, didn't she?" I asked, my voice low.
Rasmi didn't hesitate. She nodded. "A month ago. Claimed she was running from Indian agents. I... I helped her. Thought I owed you. And now... a family I protected is gone. Gone, Chhayika." Her voice cracked. "She used your name, your legend, to destroy people. And I let her."
The weight of her words settled deep in my chest. I knew what I had to do. But I had to swallow the guilt first. I had to keep it buried - somewhere it wouldn't bleed into my decisions.
"It wasn't your fault," I said quietly, meeting her gaze. "She's not just using my name. She's using my past."
Rasmi's eyes searched mine, a flicker of uncertainty in them. "Then bury her. For good."
I didn't answer right away. The silence was thick with the knowledge that she was right. This was more than just a case of mistaken identity. This woman was a shadow, wrapping herself in the remnants of my life and using it to tear down what I'd worked for. What I had fought for.
I clicked open the locked file on my phone.
The screen flashed images of locations I knew too well: Karachi. Muscat. A weapons trail twisting through North Africa.
This wasn't just some woman wearing my face.
She was building something.
And Tunis was next on her list.
I turned away, not sparing Rasmi another look. My mission had just grown darker.
I clicked open a locked file on my phone, the screen flashing images of locations I knew too well: Karachi. Muscat. A weapons trail rerouted through North Africa.
This wasn't just some woman wearing my face. She was building something.
I took a deep breath. Tunis. Next on the list.
But before I could turn away, something caught my eye: the reflection in the café window. A shadow too familiar, moving in sync with mine. I was being watched.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping the ground behind me. My pulse quickened.
I didn't wait to confirm who it was. I already knew. A faint figure, distant but relentless, was tailing me.
The game had changed. No longer a simple hunt, but a race. A dangerous one.
I slipped through the café's back entrance into the alleyway, heart racing with a single thought: I had to shake them off. Now.
I darted through narrow streets, the lights of Bangkok blurring around me, each footstep pounding the pavement like a drumbeat urging me on. My hoodie clung to my body, barely shielding me from the sticky heat of the night air. I didn't look back.
Around me, tuk-tuks revved and pedestrians flowed like an unstoppable tide. I blended in, vanishing into the crowd. I could feel their eyes on me, but they couldn't see me. Not yet.
I weaved through the market, ducking into alleys where the neon lights flickered and the smell of street food mixed with exhaust fumes. The sound of my pursuers was growing louder, but I was faster. I knew the streets better than anyone.
The seconds stretched, each moment slipping through my fingers like sand. Just as I reached a dead-end alley, I heard it: the sharp clink of footsteps rounding the corner behind me.
No more time. I had one chance to lose them.
I turned on my heel, sprinting toward a rusted fire escape. The clang of my boots against metal was drowned out by the distant roar of traffic. I pulled myself up, my muscles screaming as I hoisted my body over the edge.
From the roof, I could see the whole city sprawling beneath me, but I couldn't pause for breath. I couldn't let my guard down. Not yet.
I turned back down the narrow streets, knowing the pursuers were closing in. They were good, but I was faster. I pressed on, moving like a shadow, until I collided with a man in the dark. The clash was sudden, the force of our bodies slamming into each other, but I was trained. I reacted fast, getting the upper hand, pinning him to the ground, my knee on his chest.
I ripped off his hood, meeting his cold, hardened eyes. And then it hit me. This wasn't just any agent. He had information.
Before I could act, he slashed at me with a blade, slicing through the air just above my arm where an old wound still stung.
Pain. Blinding pain, but I didn't relent. He tried again, another slash, another wound in the exact same place.
I had to end this.
I kicked him off, using the force to flip myself upright. He came at me again, but I was ready. I grabbed his wrist, twisting until the dagger slipped from his hand.
I saw my chance. I took it.
I stabbed him with his own weapon, skin peeling off as I cut through his flesh. He recoiled, fury in his eyes. But it was too late. He brought his dagger back up, this time driving it deep into the wound at my side. The familiar agony of my damaged internal organs flared.
I fought back, but my body screamed in protest. I couldn't let him win.
In the end, there was only one choice.
With a swift movement, I drove the blade deep into his chest, feeling the sharpness of the metal, his life slipping away beneath my hands. He was still, finally.
I stood over him, gasping, the world spinning, my body shaking with the remnants of the fight. I needed help. Giriraj. He was the only one who could clean up the mess I had made.
I sent a quick message to Giriraj, my hand trembling as I tried to steady the phone.
Minutes later, the familiar engine of his car rumbled through the alley. I didn't need to look; I knew it was him.
He stepped out, his eyes immediately scanning the scene. Without a word, he opened the trunk, took the body, and placed it inside. We didn't talk. We didn't need to. There was nothing to say.
The drive was silent, but the tension between us was palpable. I expected him to lash out at me for killing the man, for taking a vital source of information. But when we arrived at the safehouse, Giriraj didn't yell. He didn't chastise me.
He opened the door, ushered me inside, and immediately went to the first aid kit.
"Sit down," he ordered in his usual calm voice, but his eyes were full of something else. Something I couldn't quite place.
I sank onto a chair, my side burning from the wound, but I didn't show it. Giriraj disappeared for a moment, returning with three bowls of clean water, setting them down neatly nearby.
He brought over cotton, antiseptic, and gauze, leaving them within my reach without touching me.
Then, silently, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
I treated myself as much as I could, forcing my shaking hands to clean and bandage the wound properly. The blood was stubborn, the pain gnawing, but I didn't stop. I cleaned the wound, soaked the cotton pads in the fresh bowls of water, washed away the grime and blood, before applying antiseptic.
Just as I stood, swaying slightly, there was a soft knock at the door.
"May I come in?" Giriraj's voice was even, careful.
"Yes," I rasped.
He entered carrying more cloths and a small mop. Without a word, he cleaned the mess: the blood, the water, the discarded pads. Methodically erasing the evidence of violence.
Once done, he looked at me and nodded toward the couch.
"Lay back," he said, his tone soft but firm.
I obeyed, sinking onto the worn leather. Giriraj turned his attention to the body.
His hands moved with surgical precision, checking scars, pulling back sleeves to reveal tattoos partially hidden, examining calluses on the knuckles. Every detail told a story.
He muttered to himself, brushing his thumb across a faded, intricate tattoo.
"This is not random street ink," he said, voice low. "Older. Structured. Organized."
He checked the man's boots next, then the belt, finding a false seam in the leather. From inside, he retrieved a tiny chip, sleek and black.
"Encrypted," he mused aloud. "Military-grade."
Giriraj's face tightened. He paced once, twice, piecing things together with the grim certainty of someone who had seen too much already.
"This man isn't freelance," he concluded, finally meeting my gaze. "He's trained for infiltration, strikes, sabotage. This matches the profile of a group we've been chasing for a long time."
I said nothing. The silence stretched heavy between us.
Giriraj's jaw tensed. His voice, when it came again, was colder.
"And it's run by someone tied to us."
He hesitated, the words dragged from somewhere deep.
"Aariz's stepbrother. Azhar Khan."
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.
Azhar Khan - the ghost Aariz had never spoken about.
Now clawing his way back into our lives.
I felt the room tilt slightly, the strain finally cracking the wall I had held up all night. My lips parted, barely above a whisper.
"Aariz..."
Giriraj's head snapped toward me. For a moment, something flickered across his face - something hard, something heavy. His eyes darkened, like storm clouds gathering before a war.
Neither of us spoke after that.
We didn't need to.
The battle had already begun.
❀❀❀ ⫷ ⚔️ ⫸⫷ ⚔️ ⫸⫷ ⚔️ ⫸❀❀❀
Author's Note:
When Chhayika whispers Aariz's name, she believes Giriraj's eyes darkened in anticipation of the coming war. But was it really just that? Or was there something more - something heavier, more personal, hidden behind that fleeting, shadowed glance?
Some storms, after all, do not announce themselves with thunder.
If you'd like a glimpse into Chhayika's deeper bonds, especially her sacred relationship with Arvind, Bhumi's late father, I've shared a small teaser on Stck.me. It's free to read and will come later in the story when the time is right.
For those who enjoy more philosophical reflections, I've also posted on Medium. Again, it's free and entirely your choice to explore.
Rest assured, the Wattpad version of The Eagle: The Shadow of Power will remain complete and self-contained. Writing on other platforms is simply my way of sharing extra experiences, not cutting anything away from the main story.
Thank you for reading and walking this path with me. ✨
~Kshyatri