Page 88 of Knot Their Arrangement

From where I sit, I can't tell how badly he's injured. The rain makes it difficult to distinguish blood from water, and the growing darkness masks the true extent of the damage.

But there's something else holding me here, something beyond fear of future punishment. A force I can't quite identify keeps me tethered to this spot on the cold asphalt, watching rain mix with gasoline and blood.

My body aches in places I didn't know could hurt. The saree that was so carefully arranged hours ago now clings to me in wet tatters, the fabric probably ruined beyond repair. Blood –my own, this time– has created abstract patterns across the silk, turning the traditional garment into something almost avant-garde.

Like my life – traditional expectations shattered into modern chaos.

The sirens grow louder, their urgent cries echoing through the trees that line this stretch of road. Soon this quiet moment will be shattered by emergency personnel, by the machinery needed to free Maharaja, by all the chaos that follows destruction.

I should move now, while I still can.

Should disappear into the mist like a spirit, leaving no trace behind.

It would be poetic justice – him trapped in metal and glass while I slip away, just as he planned to trap me in walls and traditions while my spirit died.

Yet I remain, watching and waiting.

As if answering my unspoken questions, a figure emerges from the mist like an apparition. The fog parts around them, creating an almost theatrical entrance that makes my skin prickle with unease.

My concussed brain struggles to piece together the missing fragments of the crash.

Was it a truck that hit us? Another car?

The impact exists in my memory as nothing more than a blur of light and sound. But this solitary figure walking toward the wreckage doesn't move like someone who's just been in an accident.

They move like someone with purpose.

Relief floods through me as I assume it must be help arriving. My legs cooperate surprisingly well as I attempt to stand, though every movement feels like wading through molasses. The rain has soaked my saree completely, the fabric now weighing me down like chains of silk and water.

The stranger approaches Maharaja's car with deliberate slowness, heading straight for the driver's side. My emotions war within me – dread at the thought of his rescue competing with relief that his death won't be another weight on my conscience.

I narrow my eyes, trying to focus through the curtain of rain and probable concussion. Something about the figure seems... off. They're tall –perhaps Kieran's height, maybe 6'2" or 6'3"– and dressed entirely in black. But it's not their height or clothing that sets off warning bells in my mind.

The stranger crouches beside the wreckage with an almost predatory grace, one arm resting along the mangled frame where the roof should be. That's when I see it – the mask that covers their face, glowing with an otherworldly light that cuts through the misty darkness.

Oh Goddess...

The mask's design freezes my blood mid-flow.

Two X patterns where eyes should be – one burning ruby red, the other an electric ocean blue. But it's the smile that truly terrifies: a zigzagging electronic grin that shifts between serene blues and plague-red, creating an effect that's both mesmerizing and deeply wrong.

My heart nearly stops as the figure reaches into their pocket, producing something small that catches what little light remains. Even at this distance, I recognize the distinctive shape of a lighter.

Understanding crashes over me like a wave of ice water.

My jaw goes slack as I process what I'm witnessing, and what's about to happen. My mind rebels against the implications, trying to find some other explanation for what I'm seeing.

Surely no one would go to such extremes...for me?

The thought barely forms before the masked figure tilts their head at an unnatural angle, the movement reminiscent of a curious predator examining its prey. With deliberate slowness, they let the lighter fall from their fingers.

No... No, he's not...

But he is.

The flame catches the pooled gasoline, and fire explodes outward like a blooming flower of destruction.

He…did it…

---