Beep. Beep.

The sound drilled into my skull, rhythmic, relentless.

My eyelids felt like lead, but I forced them open.

White.

Too white. Too sterile. A sharp scent of antiseptic clung to the air.

Shit.

I tried to move, but a dull, dragging numbness weighed me down. My body wasn't my own. Something tugged at my arm—a needle. An IV.

Hospital.

I swallowed, my throat raw.

Then, a whisper—soft, shaking.

"Zavian?"

My gaze flickered to the side.

Iman.

Eyes red-rimmed, lips trembling, hands clutching mine like I'd disappear.

My heart twisted.

I tried to speak, to tell her I was here, that I wasn't leaving, but my voice barely scratched out a whisper.

"Iman."

Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent, unrelenting.

And then, in a breath so broken it shattered me—

"You almost left me."

I didn't even realize I was crying until I felt the warmth of my own tears slipping down my skin.

"I would never," I rasped, my throat raw, burning.

Iman let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around mine like she was grounding herself—like she was making sure I was real.

"Then why does it feel like you did?" she whispered, voice breaking.

A sharp pain twisted in my chest, worse than any bullet wound.

I tried to sit up, a groan escaping me. Pain flared, sharp and unforgiving, but I didn't care. I needed to hold her. To pull her close.

Her hands flew to my shoulders, panic flashing in her tear-filled eyes. "No! Don't—just—just stay still."

But I couldn't. Not when she looked at me like that. Like I had already been buried six feet under.

I lifted a trembling hand, cupping her face. My thumb brushed away the tears, but more followed, slipping past her long lashes.

"Iman... I came back to you."

Her breath hitched. And then—she broke. A sob tore from her throat as she crashed into me, her arms wrapping around my neck.

Pain exploded in my stomach, but I welcomed it.

Because she was here. In my arms. Holding onto me like she'd never let go.

And I swore—I would never give her a reason to fear losing me again.

_

Iman narrowed her eyes, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. She pressed the spoon to my lips again, her patience thinning.

"Open your mouth, Zavian." Her voice was firm, but I caught the tremble beneath it.

I pressed my lips into a stubborn line, shaking my head slightly. I hate soup. Always have, always will.

Her nostrils flared. "You got shot, you idiot. You can't live on sheer willpower alone."

I smirked. "Watch me."

Big mistake.

Before I could react, she gripped my jaw, her small fingers pressing just enough to force my lips apart. And then—warm liquid invaded my mouth.

I choked, coughing as I glared at her through watery eyes. "What the hell, Iman—"

She crossed her arms, unapologetic. "Swallow."

I did. Begrudgingly. The things I did for this woman.

She huffed, shaking her head as she picked up another spoonful. "You're worse than a child, I swear."

I leaned back against the pillows, watching her with half-lidded eyes. My Iman. My fierce, stubborn, beautiful wife.

"You love me anyway," I murmured.

She stilled. Just for a second. Then, softly—"Unfortunately."

But the way her fingers lingered against mine told me the truth.

I smirked despite the dull ache in my body. "Liar," I murmured.

Iman rolled her eyes, but I saw it—the way her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for another spoonful. The way her lips pressed together like she was holding back words too heavy to spill.

I reached out, ignoring the pull in my stitches, and caught her wrist. She froze, her eyes snapping to mine.

"You were scared," I whispered.

Her throat bobbed. "Shut up, Zavian."

I tugged her closer. She didn't resist, but she refused to look at me. Instead, she kept her gaze locked on the bowl in her lap, her breaths uneven.

"I saw you, Iman," I continued, my voice softer now. "Back in that warehouse. The way you looked at me when I fell. I saw it."

A shudder ran through her. "You almost died."

I exhaled, my grip tightening around her wrist. "But I didn't."

Finally, she looked up, and damn—her eyes were drowning in unshed tears. I hated it. Hated that I put that look there.

"You keep throwing yourself in the fire," she whispered, her voice cracking. "One day, you won't come back, Zavian. And then what?"

I pulled her onto the bed, into my arms, ignoring the pain that flared in my side. She stiffened for a moment before melting into me, her forehead pressing against my chest.

"Then I'll fight my way back to you," I murmured, kissing the top of her head. "Every time."

She let out a shaky breath, her hands fisting my shirt. "You better."

I held her tighter. I would. Always.

"Major Hafiz Muhammad Zavian Noraiz," she whispered, her breath warm against my chest. Then, tilting her head up, she met my gaze, something unreadable flickering in her tear-soaked eyes. "Mystery man."

A corner of my lips twitched, but I didn't smile. My fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns along her back, grounding myself in the feel of her. "Still scared of me, Iman?" My voice was low, raw.

Her lashes fluttered. "I don't know."

That stung. I pressed my lips together, my grip tightening around her. "You don't have to be."

She let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "Don't I?"

Silence stretched between us. The beeping of the monitors. The distant hum of hospital life. And her—curled against me like she belonged there, but breaking like she didn't know if she ever did.

I exhaled, tilting her chin up with two fingers. "You're not scared of me, Iman."

She swallowed hard. "I'm scared of what loving you means."

Something twisted inside me, sharp and unrelenting. "And what does it mean?"

She hesitated. Then, her voice barely above a whisper, "Losing you."

My chest ached. Not from the wound. From her. From the way she stripped me bare with just those words.

I pressed my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling, hearts hammering in sync. "You won't."

A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on my skin like fire. "You can't promise that, Zavian."

No, I couldn't. But I could promise this—I would fight. For her. For us.

"I'll always come back to you, Iman," I murmured, sealing the vow with a kiss to her forehead. "Always."

"Are you tired?" she whispered, her voice soft, uncertain.

I leaned back against the pillows, shaking my head. "No."

She narrowed her eyes, clearly not believing me. "Liar," she muttered, then sighed. "Well, Hafiz... read me the Qur'an."

I stilled. My heart clenched at the request, at the way she said Hafiz. Not Major. Not Reaper. Just Hafiz. The name that belonged to the boy I once was—the one who memorized the Qur'an before he ever held a gun.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the verses come to me like second nature. Then, with a steady breath, I began.

"أَلَمْ نَشْرَحْ لَكَ صَدْرَكَ..."

My voice was low, gentle, carrying the words as if they were the only truth left in the world. I felt her shift, her head resting against my shoulder. I could feel her breathing, slow and even, as if each verse unraveled the weight she carried.

"وَوَضَعْنَا عَنكَ وِزْرَكَ..."

I ran my fingers through her hair, absentmindedly, my voice unwavering. My Iman. My light in the darkness. I could kill a thousand men, burn down the world for her, but this—this was how I truly protected her. With faith. With the words of Allah.

Her grip on my shirt tightened slightly. I knew she was listening, letting the words seep into her soul.

"فَإِنَّ مَعَ ٱلْعُسْرِ يُسْرًۭا..."

Ease after hardship. A promise. A truth. I continued.

I felt her exhale against my chest, a deep, shaky breath, and then, in the quietest voice, she whispered, "Again."

So I did.

She listened. Listened until, finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "Stop."

I let the last verse settle in the air between us, heavy with meaning. My throat was dry, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the way she looked at me, something unreadable in her gaze.

Then, without a word, she stood. The rustle of her clothes, the quiet shuffle of her footsteps—small sounds in the stillness of the night. She picked up a glass of water and came back, lowering herself beside me.

"Drink."

She pressed the rim of the glass to my lips. I didn't argue. I let the coolness coat my throat, soothing the rawness left behind by the recitation.

But my eyes never left hers.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the glass. I reached up, covering her hand with mine. Her breath hitched.

"You okay?" I murmured, my voice rough.

She didn't answer immediately. Just exhaled shakily, her fingers still wrapped around the glass. Then, finally, she whispered, "I don't know."

My chest ached.

I set the glass aside and cupped her cheek, my thumb brushing the dried tear stains there. "I'll fix it, Iman." My voice was low, hoarse. "I swear to you, I'll fix everything."

She searched my face, her own filled with something I couldn't name. Hope? Fear? Or maybe... maybe it was love—love that was shattered but not lost.

And then, after what felt like forever, she whispered back, "Then start now."

I told her everything. No lies, no half-truths. Just raw, unfiltered reality.

I told her about my uncle—the man who shaped me, who planted the dream of the army in my heart when I was just a boy staring at medals, mesmerized. I told her how I grew into that dream, how I became not just a soldier, but a shadow—a ghost in the night, hunting the monsters that thrived in the dark.

"I am a Major," I said, my voice steady. "A spy in this country. Tracking down trafficked women. Criminals. Murderers." My fists clenched. "I am a good man, Iman. But I do terrible things to terrible people."

She didn't flinch. She just listened.

I told her about the car races—the underground world filled with more than just fast cars and reckless bets. The real game was bigger. Darker. Those races were the breeding grounds for crime, a hub where the worst of men gathered—smugglers, traffickers, drug lords. That's why I went there. That's why Reaper was born.

"Reaper." I saw the way she shivered at the name. "Why? Why do they call you that?"

I swallowed. The weight of it pressed against my chest, a name given, a name earned.

"Because I never let the guilty live."

She exhaled shakily, but I saw it—the way her fingers curled into her lap, her body tense but unmoving.

I told her about my wounds, the scars etched into my body and my soul. About the lives I'd taken, the nights I'd spent washing blood off my hands, knowing I was doing the right thing, but also knowing it would never be enough.

And then... I told her why I pulled away.

"Because I love you, Iman. Because I wouldn't destroy you with me."

Her breath hitched.

"But you did." Her voice was small, a broken whisper. "You left me alone. You shut me out. Do you even know how much that destroyed me?"

My throat burned.

"I know," I admitted, voice thick. "And I swear to you, I will spend the rest of my life making it right."

She stared at me, silent. Then, finally, she spoke. "And Daniyal?" My body stiffened. The air around us grew heavier.

"Don't think about him Mashal-e-Mehtaab... he's under my men's control," I said, my voice dropping an octave. I reached out touching her bandaged neck.

She inhaled sharply at my touch, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. I traced my fingers lightly over the bandage, rage coiling in my chest like a living thing. This shouldn't have happened. He shouldn't have touched her. Shouldn't have gotten that close.

She pulled away, her gaze searching mine. "What are you going to do with him?"

I exhaled through my nose, slow and controlled. "He's under my men's control," I repeated, my voice dropping lower. "But not for long."

Iman frowned, shifting slightly, as if she knew—knew—what I meant.

"Zavian..."

"No." I cut her off gently, cupping the side of her face. My thumb brushed against the swelling on her cheek, a silent promise burning in my touch. "He laid his hands on you. He will pay for it."

A flicker of hesitation passed through her eyes, but she didn't argue. She just pressed her lips together and looked away.

"I don't want you to kill him," she murmured after a long pause. "Not for me."

My jaw locked. "Not for you, then." My voice was dangerously calm. "For every woman he sold. For every child, he tore from their home. For every life he destroyed, thinking no one would come for him."

She didn't respond. Maybe she knew there was no stopping me.