Sunday, 9:02 A.M.
Tokyo, Japan
One Month Before the Kolkata Blast
The morning sunlight spilt across their modest apartment, glinting off the polished rice bowls and sliding doors. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the low-rise buildings, and the hum of early traffic threaded through the neighbourhood.
"Issei! Get up! How long are you going to sleep? We're going to be late!"
Akano's voice was sharp but gentle. The kind of voice that carried both affection and authority. Issei groaned, stretching his limbs under the thin blanket, the smell of miso and fish from last night's preparations lingering faintly in the air.
He rolled over and peeked at her. Akano stood near the futon, arms crossed, a small frown creasing her forehead. Her dark hair fell perfectly across her shoulders, catching the morning sun.
Groggily, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
"Hey, you naughty! Not now! Go wash your hands and face first. You were mischievous enough last night. No more for now. We have to leave soon," she scolded, though her tone softened almost immediately.
Issei chuckled, rubbing his eyes.
"Alright, alright, I'm going," he muttered, pushing himself off the futon. The wooden floor was cool under his feet.
The bathroom mirror reflected a man in his late twenties, unshaven, with hair in disarray, but the moment he saw his own eyes, he felt something steady, something grounded. Six months of marriage and life with Akano had changed him in ways he hadn't anticipated. The thought made him smile.
By the time he returned, the aroma of freshly made breakfast filled the room. Miso soup simmered in the pot, tiny clouds of steam curling into the air. On the table, fried fish lay neatly on the plates, with soy sauce beside it, and a small bowl of natto gave off its characteristic pungent smell.
"Why do you make so much effort every day? You could just prepare it the night before," Issei asked, settling onto a cushion at the low table.
Akano shook her head, arranging the chopsticks neatly.
"You wouldn't understand. If you were in my place, you would," she replied, a faint smile touching her lips. Her eyes, dark and bright, held a mix of patience and gentle amusement.
Issei dipped a piece of fish in the soy sauce, thinking about her words. Maybe she was right. I would never understand. He had never cared much about the small routines of domestic life before Akano. Yet, now, watching her move around the small apartment with precision and grace, he felt a tenderness he hadn't expected.
"Okay, fine. Let's eat," he said finally, breaking the moment.
The meal passed in comfortable silence, broken occasionally by shared smiles or the clinking of chopsticks. Outside, the city thrummed to life, with schoolchildren in uniforms running down the narrow streets, old men sipping tea at the corner shop, and the faint rumble of subway trains beneath the city.
After breakfast, they packed a small bag. Akano was particular about what she carried, folding each garment with meticulous care. Issei watched her, a quiet admiration threading through his mind. I could follow her anywhere, he thought. Even through the chaos of the world.
The morning was a flurry of activity. They walked through the narrow streets, past the scent of street food stalls, the chatter of vendors calling out prices, and the distant clang of a bicycle bell. Akano paused occasionally, picking up trinkets or adjusting her scarf, and Issei waited patiently, a protective instinct rising in him.
The memory of their marriage flashed in his mind. It had been sudden, almost reckless. One week of dating, and yet the connection had been undeniable. He had seen her photograph on a marriage website, and something had clicked deep inside him. The next two days were a whirlwind of introductions, arrangements, and conversations. Her father, a bank officer with a sharp mind and softer eyes, had scrutinised him carefully.
"I assume you understand what marriage means," her father had asked, voice calm but firm, the first day they met in his living room.
"I do, sir," Issei had replied, keeping his posture straight. "I will protect her, respect her, and care for her."
Her father had leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. "You are in the military. Discipline is expected, yes. But life is not just order and strategy. It is compromise, trust, understanding."
Issei nodded. "I understand, sir. I have lived by discipline, but I know there is room for the heart as well."
A pause. Then her father's eyes softened. "Very well. You may proceed. But remember, marriage is not a mission with an objective. It is a journey with unknown paths."
It had been enough. Akano had smiled quietly, her hand brushing his as if to seal an unspoken promise. That moment had felt like victory and surrender, all at once.
Now, walking through the Tokyo streets, Issei thought back on that first meeting. I did not know then what I was getting into. Not fully. But I knew I would not let her go.
By mid-morning, they were standing outside a small park, cherry blossoms trembling in the gentle breeze. Issei took a deep breath. The air smelt of early spring, of damp earth, and of something unidentifiable, something that smelt like possibility.
"Issei", Akano said softly, "you remember how nervous you were when my father first spoke to you?"
Issei laughed, a low sound. "Nervous? Maybe. But I didn't want to seem unworthy. I wanted him to see… that I could care for you."
Her smile widened. "And you did. You still do. Every day."
Every day. Issei's mind returned to the rhythm of their life: briefings in the morning, emails from the military, quiet evenings with Akano reading manga, or sketches sprawled across the table.
I live for these moments. For her.
They walked together under the drifting petals, their fingers brushing but not quite touching. The world felt softer then, with gentle light, the faint laughter of schoolchildren, and the distant sound of trains. For a brief while, it felt as if time itself had slowed down just for them.
It was Akano who broke the silence first. "Let's go somewhere," she said suddenly.
"Somewhere?" Issei turned to her.
"Anywhere," she replied, her eyes bright with that familiar spark. "Just us. No calls, no orders, no walls."
He smiled. "You're serious?"
"Always."
They shared another love: travelling. Once a month, they would escape Tokyo, leaving behind the city's endless hum of traffic, the digital glow of screens, and the routine of offices. These trips were their secret, their little breaths of freedom. Today was one of those days. The plan had been simple, shop a little in the morning, then drive to a secluded beach outside Chiba, away from crowded tourists, away from the world.
The streets of Tokyo were already waking up as they drove, neon fading in the early sunlight, shop shutters lifting, and bicycles rattling along narrow lanes. Akano hummed softly, a melody that made Issei glance at her with affection he could barely contain. Her hair caught the sunlight, glinting like black silk, and he felt a quiet ache in his chest, an ache that only grew when she smiled.
At the beach, the air smelt of salt and wet sand. Waves lapped steadily at the shore, leaving foamy lace patterns on the sand. Seagulls cried overhead, circling in lazy arcs. The horizon stretched wide, a pale blue line where sea met sky. Akano ran ahead, barefoot, letting the surf tickle her ankles. Issei followed, the cool water seeping into his sandals, each step carrying the faint crunch of shells beneath his feet.
They reached the small changing cabins by the parking lot. Inside, the smell of sunscreen and damp towels lingered. Akano changed first, emerging in a new bikini. Her presence hit him like a jolt. He could not look away.
She was breathtaking. Her skin glowed under the sun, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief and warmth. Her features were soft yet defined, her lips curved naturally, and the hint of a smile tugged at them even as she noticed him staring. Her body moved with a graceful confidence, shoulders steady, waist slender, and hips curved in perfect proportion. Even in this casual setting, she radiated a presence that made the air between them heavier.
Akano froze for a fraction of a second, then smiled knowingly. "You're staring," she teased.
Issei rubbed the back of his neck, trying to mask his surprise. "I'm… appreciating," he said, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks. "That's all."
"And you call that subtle?" She laughed softly, her voice mingling with the ocean wind.
The morning passed in golden sunlight. They ran along the shoreline, laughing as the waves splashed over their ankles. Issei's hands found hers instinctively, fingers intertwining. No words were necessary. Their gazes spoke volumes. Every glance, every touch, every smile carried a language that belonged only to them.
Akano dived into the water, letting the waves curl around her. Issei followed, letting the cold shock of the sea wash over him, refreshing, waking him. When he surfaced, he watched her spin and laugh, hair plastered to her face. He felt a surge of something he couldn't name: pride, love, protection, and desire blended into one sharp, overwhelming sensation.
Hours passed like this, sunlight glinting off the waves, wind tugging at their clothes, and the scent of sea salt lingering in every breath. They lay on towels after having lunch, letting the sun dry their skin, side by side, words rare, thoughts dense with each other.
Evening came, painting the sky in deep orange and soft purple. The beach emptied gradually. Seagulls disappeared into the horizon. The waves now whispered instead of roaring. They changed into fresh clothes in the small cabin again. Issei caught her reflection in the mirror, her hair damp, still sparkling from the water, and her eyes soft but intense. His chest tightened, a mix of longing and admiration.
They sat in the car, parked on a cliff overlooking the sea. The scent of pine and salt filled the cabin. Akano leaned back against her seat, tracing her fingers along the dashboard absentmindedly. Issei reached over, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.
"You're quiet," she said, her voice low. "Thinking about work?"
"No," he answered, his thumb resting on her hand. "Thinking about you."
Her smile was soft, almost shy. "I like that answer."
They watched the sun sink below the horizon in silence, the sky fading from orange to violet and then to the deep blue of evening. Shadows stretched across the dashboard, across their hands, and across their faces.
Eventually, they decided to eat. Not a fancy dinner, but something intimate. They packed a small meal of sandwiches, fruit, and sake into the car and lit a single candle, placing it carefully between them. The soft glow highlighted their expressions. The smell of the sea mingled with the faint aroma of warm bread and salt air. They ate slowly, deliberately, savouring not just the food but the closeness, the shared warmth.
"Do you ever think about… the future?" 'Akano?' she asked, her voice thoughtful, almost a whisper.
Issei glanced at her, taking in the profile of her face against the dim candlelight. "All the time," he admitted. "But not in a worrying way. Just… in a wanting way. Wanting to make sure we have time. All of it."
She smiled, leaning her head gently on his shoulder. "I like that. I like the way you think."
The drive back to Tokyo was quiet, filled with the occasional hum of the engine and the soft rustle of passing trees. Streetlights flickered to life as the city prepared for nightfall. The contrast between the calm of the beach and the pulse of Tokyo felt surreal.
Outside their apartment, Issei stopped the car. Akano opened her door, stepping out with the same quiet grace she had always possessed.
"I'll park the car. You go inside," he said, voice calm, though a small knot of anticipation tightened in his chest.
She smiled sweetly and nodded. "Alright."
Issei watched her enter the building. Every step she took seemed to resonate in his chest, every movement etched into memory. He felt a warmth spreading through him, a quiet blush rising to his cheeks. He wanted to stay there, to memorise every detail, every line of her expression.
And then it happened.
The explosion.
It struck without warning.
The building shuddered violently, as if the earth itself had turned against it. Glass shattered, sending glittering shards into the street. Concrete groaned under the force, dust erupting into the night sky. The roar of fire and steel filled the air.
Issei tried to shout, tried to warn her, but the sound froze in his throat. He stumbled, barely maintaining balance as the car jolted from the tremor.
Instinct took over. He moved toward the building, heart hammering in his chest, every nerve screaming. Smoke thickened the air, acrid and suffocating. Flames reflected in his wide eyes as he searched desperately for her figure.
Akano!
Her image, her smile, the way her hair caught the light – all burnt into his memory.
He forced his legs forward, ignoring the heat, ignoring the panic that clawed at his mind. Another tremor rattled the street, knocking him down. Pain exploded across his skull. He felt the sharp sting of metal against his skin.
A bullet struck.
It was sudden and blinding, stealing focus and control in one cruel second. Darkness crept into his vision, shadowing the details of her face, the colour of the flames, and the chaos around him.
He collapsed to the ground, pain and shock mixing into a haze that blurred sound and sensation. His mind fixated on one thought, one desperate, shattering thought,
She's inside!
Tears streamed down his face. Hot, burning tears that he could not wipe. He whispered her name, barely audible above the roar, the crackle, and the screams:
"Akano…"
And then darkness claimed him.
Present,
Wednesday, 8:10 P.M.
Grand Ballroom, The Oberoi Grand, Kolkata
The chandeliers of The Oberoi Grand spilt molten gold across the polished floors. Waiters drifted between the guests with trays of wine, shrimp, and quiet gossip, their smiles polished, voices soft. Everyone here was polite, restrained, and civilised. Outside, Kolkata roared. Inside, we were all trapped in our own ambitions.
This gathering that appears to be a charity event for the victims of the airport blast—was just theatre. It smelt of perfume and politics, but it had teeth. Politicians pat themselves on the back while disaster creates chances for power. Arunava Sen moved through the crowd, shaking hands, nodding politely, each gesture measured, each smile calculated.
Kolkata runs on fear, money, and secrets. I intend to have all three.
He adjusted his sherwani, pearl buttons gleaming under the light. Cameras flashed. Glasses clinked. Hands shook. Smiles were exchanged. But under that silk-and-gold mask, he watched and listened. Names. Loyalties. Threats. Opportunities. Every whisper was a thread in a web only he could see.
Noise hides truth. Masks hide ambition. And everyone here thinks they're untouchable. I see the cracks. I see who bends and who breaks. They will play their parts, and I will move them like pawns.
Around him, the conversation floated like smoke. Complaints about damaged terminals, halted flights, and stranded ministers. Everyone seemed annoyed, no one afraid. Politics in Bengal rarely paused for tragedy; it only adjusted its mask. Beneath polite smiles, hidden transactions and quiet exchanges of information went unnoticed. Perfect distractions. Perfect covers. Arunava let his smile linger on a group of young party workers. They think loyalty is bought with chai and smiles. They have no idea how fragile their positions are.
A man approached from behind. Tall. Blond. Blue-eyed. His suit was too simple for the occasion, but his presence drew attention. The faint English accent in his "Mr. Sen" cut through the noise like a blade through silk.
Arunava turned, smile widening. "Mr Edgar Holt. You made it after all."
"Wasn't easy," Edgar replied, taking a slow sip of red wine. "Security's a nightmare since… the blast."
"Yes, yes." Arunava gestured to a quiet corner table, away from the crowd. "We'll talk there. Too many ears here."
They moved under the shadow of a large Rabindranath Tagore portrait.
They sat under a portrait of Rabindranath Tagore, its shadow falling across their table like a curtain. The waiter poured more wine and left without a sound.
"Your city", Edgar said softly, "is very loud these days."
Arunava's smile didn't fade. "Noise hides truth, Mr Holt. It keeps people busy." He paused, letting the words sink. "It's a convenient disguise. The public sees charity; we see efficiency."
And efficiency is power. Let the cameras think they catch me; they see only the reflection I allow. I move pieces they cannot imagine,
he thought, swirling the wine in his glass.
"So, when is the next consignment of 'white cloth' arriving?"
Edgar raised his glass, the amber light bending through it.
"The shipment's arriving tomorrow night. Usual route, same docks."
Arunava nodded, his tone smooth and assured. "Good. Raghav will handle it for now."
"For now?" Edgar tilted his head, a faint edge of amusement in his voice. "You still trust that man?"
Arunava smiled, a politician's smile, polite but distant. "Trust isn't the word, Mr Holt. Let's just say he still serves a purpose. And purpose, like this party, can be flexible."
Edgar chuckled quietly. "Purpose is a fragile leash."
"So are partnerships," Arunava replied, eyes flicking toward the crowd where cameras flashed and laughter rang. "But both can last if one knows when to tighten the rope."
The orchestra swelled again, a slow, elegant waltz filling the grand hall. Waiters drifted past with trays of champagne. The noise of conversation rose around them like warm fog, masking what truly transpired in corners where no one else looked.
Arunava glanced at his watch, finishing his drink.
"Excuse me, Mr Holt. Enjoy the evening. I have a few hands left to shake."
"Of course," Edgar said, standing with a courteous nod.
As Arunava moved back into the crowd, Holt watched him go, thoughtful, unmoving. Then he took out his phone and typed a brief message.
"Shipment confirmed. Local liaison: Raghav."
Cameras flashed. Hands shook. Smiles were everywhere. Beneath the silk, tension stretched like a taut wire.
"Ah, Sen-babu!" A young worker exclaimed, holding a half-empty glass. "Still no flights from Kolkata. I had to drive twelve hours to Delhi last week!"
Arunava smiled politely, voice dipped in dry sarcasm. "We must thank our efficient government," he said. A murmur of laughter followed, but his tone cut like a blade.
He moved through the throng, noting small details: a crooked tie, a security officer scanning too nervously, a photographer lingering too long. Every action was a clue, every distraction a tool.
They will dance. They will toast. They will trade secrets like children swap sweets, careless, delighted, and certain of their own cleverness.
I will stand where the light falls best and listen. Not to answer, only to count. A flick of a wrist, a pause too long, the way a laugh ends – those are the ledger entries I keep.
Tomorrow night the consignment moves. Raghav will handle things at the docks. Edgar will follow the paper trail and think he sees everything. Let him think that. I leave room, not for error, but for advantage. A misstep arranged carefully becomes someone else's panic.
I will bend them by degrees: a nudge here, a quiet question there. Ministers, aides, and officers, they are useful instruments, not confidants. Use is cleaner than trust.
Tonight the hall shines; they mistake glow for power. Tomorrow, that glow will light a different map.
Arunava sipped the last drop of wine, adjusted his sherwani, straightened the pearl buttons, and then disappeared into the crowd. Cameras flashed. Glasses clinked. Laughter echoed. And underneath it all, Kolkata whispered. And he listened.