In a room, Anjali had sat vigil by Arnav's side all night, her eyes red-rimmed from tears and exhaustion. A nurse moved quietly, checking his vitals periodically, her clipboard noting his stable but fragile condition—stitches holding, sugar levels monitored, blood pressure steady but low. The weight of Arnav's near-fatal episode hung over Anjali, her guilt a heavy chain as she replayed the confrontation, Khushi's hate, and her brother's collapse.
Early in the morning, as dawn's light filtered through the curtains, Anjali stepped outside the room to splash water on her face, her body aching from the sleepless night. The quiet was shattered moments later by a raw, desperate scream—"Khushi!" Arnav's voice tore through the mansion, his consciousness returning in a flood of panic. His mind, initially blank, was assaulted by memories—Khushi's blazing eyes, her declaration of hate, Eklavya's push, the blood, the pain. He bolted upright from the bed, his stitches pulling, his heart racing as he stumbled to his feet, screaming her name again, "Khushi! Don't go!" His breath came in ragged gasps, a full-blown panic attack gripping him, his diabetic vulnerability amplifying the chaos in his mind.
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