They dug up the grave under moonlight.
No priest. No words. Just Kabir, Meher, and two of his most trusted men — the ones who knew better than to ask why the Butcher of Delhi was holding a shovel.
The dirt came up wet. Heavy. Silent.
Meher stood a few feet back, arms wrapped around herself, heart pounding in a rhythm she couldn't calm.
When Kabir finally hit wood, no one spoke.
He knelt, hands shaking, and pried open the coffin lid.
Empty.
Just old clothes. A rusted ring. And dust where a body should’ve been.
Meher stepped forward slowly. “So he’s alive.”
Kabir didn’t respond.
She crouched beside him. “Why would he fake his death?”
Kabir’s voice was hollow. “He didn’t. I killed him.”
Meher stared. “Then how—”
“I shot him. I watched him fall into that river. I never checked the body. I thought… I thought it was over.”
He ran a blood-streaked hand through his hair, eyes wide with something she’d never seen in him before.
Regret.
“What did he do to deserve it?”
Kabir looked up at her, darkness twisting in his gaze.
“He tried to take everything I loved.”
And now, a decade later—
He was back to finish the job.
Because blood wasn’t just spilled in Kabir’s world.
It returned
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