Guys, since the votes are not coming I feel that I am not writing well. Now I don't even feel like continuing the book. I published this book on the request of my friend Ishman_x_Shubish, but now I feel that I made a mistake by publishing the book. This book is almost complete because I had started writing it a long time ago. It will be completed in a few days but I am now thinking whether to publish it or not. ______________________________________

Ishan’s breath burned in his lungs as he ran, his heart pounding like a war drum against his ribs. The city blurred around him—cars honking, pedestrians glancing curiously at the two men sprinting past them.

Abhishek kept a firm grip on his wrist, pulling him through side streets and alleyways, weaving through the early morning rush.

“We need to disappear,” Abhishek muttered, glancing over his shoulder.

Ishan struggled to keep up. His mind was still spinning. “Where—where are we even going?”

Abhishek stopped in front of a small, run-down internet café, yanking open the glass door. “Inside. Now.”

The place smelled of old coffee and overheated computer fans. A bored cashier barely glanced at them as they slipped into a booth in the back.

Ishan collapsed into the seat, his hands trembling as he ran them through his hair. “This is crazy. He had a key, Abhi.” His voice was hoarse, laced with fear. “How does he have a key to my apartment?”

Abhishek exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. But we need answers. And I know exactly who can help.”

He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message.

Ishan leaned forward. “Who are you texting?”

Abhishek looked up, his expression grim. “Mayank.”

Ishan blinked. “The hacker?”

Abhishek nodded. “If someone tampered with your identity, Mayank can find out.”

Ishan swallowed hard. He had only met Mayank a few times—Abhishek’s mysterious, tech-savvy friend who always seemed two steps ahead of the world.

A few minutes later, Abhishek’s phone vibrated with a reply.

Mayank: Meet me at the safe house. Bring him.

Abhishek met Ishan’s eyes. “Looks like we’re going underground for a bit.”

Ishan’s stomach twisted. Underground? He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t supposed to be on the run.

But right now, the whole world thought otherwise.

And the only person who could prove his innocence… was a man he had never met.

A man who claimed to be his husband.

---

The cab ride to Mayank’s location was tense. Ishan sat stiffly in the backseat, his fingers curled into fists on his lap, while Abhishek kept watch through the window, his knee bouncing with nervous energy.

The driver didn’t seem to notice their tension. He hummed to an old song on the radio, oblivious to the fact that his passengers were fugitives—at least, that’s what the world believed.

Ishan swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if this doesn’t work? What if we can’t prove I’m not lying?”

Abhishek turned to him, his expression firm. “We will prove it. You’re not alone in this, Ishan. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Ishan wanted to believe that. But the weight of everything crushed down on him, making it hard to breathe.

The cab came to a stop outside an old warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The place looked abandoned, with rusted metal doors and graffiti-covered walls. The air smelled of damp concrete and gasoline.

Abhishek paid the driver quickly and stepped out, motioning for Ishan to follow.

Ishan hesitated. “Are you sure about this?”

Abhishek shot him a wry look. “No. But it’s our best shot.”

Taking a deep breath, Ishan followed him toward the entrance.

Abhishek knocked three times. A small metal slot slid open, revealing a pair of sharp, calculating eyes.

“Password?” the voice behind the door asked.

Abhishek smirked. “Screw your passwords, Mayank. Open up.”

A beat of silence. Then the door unlocked with a metallic click.

Inside, the space was dimly lit by the glow of multiple computer screens. The hum of servers filled the air. Wires ran across the floor, leading to complex setups of monitors displaying lines of code and security footage.

At the center of it all sat Mayank Markande, dressed in his signature hoodie, eyes scanning the screen as his fingers flew across the keyboard.

Without looking up, he spoke. “You brought me a man who doesn’t exist.”

Ishan stiffened. “What?”

Mayank finally turned his gaze to Ishan, his expression unreadable. “According to every official record I could dig into, you—Ishan Verma—don’t exist. At least, not in the way you remember.”

Ishan’s blood ran cold.

Mayank leaned back in his chair. “Someone wiped your past clean, my friend. The real question is—who? And why?”

---

The room fell into a suffocating silence.

Ishan’s hands felt clammy as he gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. “That’s… impossible.” His voice cracked. “I’ve lived here my entire life. I have a job, an apartment—”

Mayank cut him off with a sharp look. “Oh, you had a job and an apartment. But if you check now, neither exist under your name anymore.”

Ishan felt his stomach twist violently. He turned to Abhishek, searching for reassurance, but his friend looked just as shaken.

Abhishek swallowed hard. “What do you mean, Mayank?”

Mayank spun one of his monitors around so they could see the screen. “I dug into the government records, bank transactions, medical histories—anything I could get my hands on.” He pulled up a document and pointed to the screen. “Ishan Verma did exist, but something changed recently. His records were erased, overwritten with a different identity. His social security number? Gone. His birth certificate? Tampered with.”

Ishan felt dizzy. “Then… who am I?”

Mayank studied him for a moment before sighing. “You’re still you. But someone wants the world to believe you’re not.”

A chill ran down Ishan’s spine. This wasn’t just a misunderstanding—someone had gone to great lengths to erase his existence. But why?

Abhishek let out a frustrated breath. “And let me guess… all trails lead to Shubman?”

Mayank leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin. “That’s the problem. There’s no direct connection.” He clicked on another file, showing a series of financial transactions. “Whoever did this is good. Really good. But I found traces—large amounts of money being moved, digital footprints leading to dead ends. It’s professional work, not something a random guy could pull off.”

Ishan’s heart pounded. “So, you’re saying… Shubman might not be acting alone?”

Mayank nodded. “Exactly.”

The weight of those words sank deep into Ishan’s bones. His so-called husband—a man he had never met—was powerful enough to manipulate records, erase his past, and control the narrative. But for what purpose?

Ishan ran a shaky hand through his hair. “What do I do now?”

Mayank’s lips curled into a smirk, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. “We fight back. But first, we need to set a trap.”

Abhishek frowned. “A trap?”

Mayank’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Shubman thinks he has all the power in this situation. Let’s make him believe he won.”

Ishan swallowed, dread and determination mixing in his chest. Whatever Mayank was planning, one thing was clear—this was only the beginning.

And the worst was yet to come.

---

The air inside the courtroom was thick with tension. Cameras flashed as journalists whispered among themselves, their eyes flickering between the defendant and the man who claimed to be his husband.

Ishan sat stiffly in his chair, his nails digging into his palms beneath the table. The weight of the world seemed to press down on his shoulders. He had barely processed what Mayank had told him the night before, yet here he was, forced to face the one man who had turned his life upside down.

Shubman Gill.

He stood on the other side of the courtroom, tall and composed in a crisp black suit. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, were locked onto Ishan. There was something almost unreadable about his expression—possessive, confident, as if he had already won.

Ishan clenched his jaw, forcing himself to meet Shubman’s gaze. He refused to show weakness.

The judge cleared his throat, bringing the room to order. “We are here to determine the legitimacy of the claims regarding the alleged marriage between Ishan Verma and Mr. Shubman Gill.” He glanced at the prosecution. “Mr. Gill, please state your case.”

Shubman stepped forward, his voice smooth and unwavering. “Your Honor, my husband is simply confused.”

A hushed murmur spread through the audience.

Ishan’s body stiffened.

Shubman continued, his tone dangerously calm. “Ishan has been suffering from severe memory loss, likely due to trauma. I have medical reports to support this.” He handed a folder to his lawyer, who passed it to the judge.

Abhishek leaned toward Ishan, whispering, “Medical reports? That’s bullshit.”

Ishan gritted his teeth.

Shubman continued, his voice dipping into something almost affectionate. “We have been married for years. I have proof—photos, financial records, and witnesses who can confirm our relationship.” He turned to Ishan, his lips curving into something that resembled a smirk. “My love, you don’t have to be afraid. You know me.”

Ishan’s breath hitched. The audacity. The lie.

He shot to his feet. “I don’t know you!” His voice rang through the courtroom. “I have never met you in my life!”

Gasps echoed in the room. The judge rapped his gavel. “Order in the court!”

Shubman didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened. “You did know me, Ishan. You just don’t remember.”

Ishan’s hands trembled. His mind raced, searching for any memory, any fragment of truth.

But there was nothing.

He turned toward his lawyer, Shreyas, whose sharp eyes were trained on Shubman. “He’s playing a game,” Shreyas muttered. “And we need to find out why.”

Ishan swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Because one thing was certain—Shubman Gill wasn’t just a liar.

He was dangerous.

---