Number 073
Najma did not sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, the hospital walls melted into something colder.
Metal.
Concrete.
White light without warmth.
She was five years old again.
She woke up on a narrow bed that wasn't hers.
The ceiling was unfamiliar. Too high. Too clean.
"Maa?" she whispered.
No answer.
Her small hands clutched the blanket as fear crawled up her spine.
The door opened.
A man stepped in—tall, expressionless.
He placed folded clothes on the bed.
"Change," he said.
She stared at the shirt.
A number was stitched onto it.
073
"What's my name?" she asked softly.
The man didn't respond.
"From now on," he said flatly, "this is who you are."
There were other children.
Dozens.
All wearing numbers.
No names.
No crying allowed.
The first time a girl sobbed, she was taken away.
Najma never saw her again.
That was the day Najma learned silence could save lives.
Meals were timed.
Movements were watched.
Mistakes were punished.
They were taught how to fall without breaking bones.
How to hold a gun before learning to write.
How to fight before understanding why.
At night, Najma curled into herself, whispering memories so they wouldn't disappear.
Maa's voice.
Baba's hands.
A sweet hidden in her pocket.
One night, a boy cried quietly beside her.
He was her age.
His number was 021.
"They took my sister," he whispered.
Najma reached into her pocket.
A small candy—melted, misshapen.
"My dad gave me this," she said softly. "Don't tell."
She placed it in his palm.
He stared at her like she'd given him the world.
That was how they became friends.
They trained harder as they grew.
Combat.
Weapons.
Languages.
Hacking.
Failure was not corrected.
It was erased.
Najma learned fast.
Too fast.
By ten, she could disarm grown men.
By twelve, she stopped shaking.
By thirteen, she stopped hoping.
She learned the truth by accident.
The boy—021—was not a prisoner.
He was the son of the man who ran everything.
Arya Khan.
Her chest had never hurt the way it did then.
"You knew," she said to him once.
He didn't deny it.
"I tried to protect you."
"There is no protection here," she replied calmly.
That was the day something inside her closed.
And something else awakened.
At fifteen, Najma stopped being watched.
She was trusted.
Given access.
Codes.
Cameras.
She began to erase herself.
One system at a time.
One record at a time.
Until one day—
She vanished.
No footage.
No trace.
No Number 073.
In the hospital bed, Najma's fingers twitched.
Her breathing turned uneven.
Ranveer stood abruptly.
"She's remembering," he said quietly.
Twinkle clutched the bed rail, tears streaming silently.
Saraswati watched her daughter shake under memories no child should carry.
And somewhere, far away—
A man stared at a blank screen.
And smiled.