Paritraan tensed, ready to strike. His instincts screamed at him to fight, but before he could move, Anahata's voice echoed in his ear—calm, almost amused.
"If all it takes is a needle, why wield a sword?"
A soft hiss followed as Anahata released the colorless, scentless gas.
The men barely had time to react before their movements slowed, their legs giving out one by one. Within seconds, silence.
"See?" Anahata said smugly. "No broken bones, no messy cleanup." Just peaceful dreams."
Paritraan exhaled, shifting his attention to the house. It was quiet. Too quiet.
"Scan the house," he ordered.
A brief hum. Then—
"No threats inside. The girl is there… alone."
Paritraan moved. Stepping over the unconscious men, he pushed open the front door and slipped inside. The house was clean, well-kept—but something felt off.
No warmth. No sign of life.
As if the house was just… a house. Not a home.
He moved deeper, the darkness swallowing him. "Anahata, where is she?"
Anahata scanned again, then pinged a room at the end of the hall. "There. But—"
Paritraan didn't wait. He slowly pushed the door open.
Inside, the girl was curled up in the corner of her room, her phone clutched in her hands.
The dim light from the screen flickered across her face. She was asleep—but the dried streaks on her cheeks told him she had cried herself there.
Paritraan stood still for a moment.
Then, breaking the silence, Anahata spoke. "Hmm… abandoned at night. How tragic."
Paritraan glanced at the sleeping girl, something heavy settling in his chest. His mind drifted—memories of cold nights, of empty spaces where warmth should have been.
For a second, guilt crept in.
Then he caught himself.
He sighed. Anahata was just trying to lighten the mood. Without a word, he stepped forward, grabbed a nearby blanket, and gently draped it over her.