The clock ticked quietly in the background, lost in the heavy stillness that had settled between them.

Nikita sat frozen, heart hammering. She could feel him—Jagendra—moving around the room behind her, could hear the faint rustle of his towel against skin, the low rumble of his breathing.

When she finally stood and turned, he was watching her.

Not with surprise.

Not with confusion.

With understanding.

Jagendra crossed the space between them in two steps. No words. No pretense.

His hand came up to her face, thumb brushing her cheek, slow and deliberate. Testing the air between them. She leaned into his touch without thinking, her own fingers tangling in the damp fabric at his waist.

It was Nikita who made the first move—grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss that was brutal, hungry, honest.

Jagendra responded immediately—years of restraint, anger, frustration, all pouring into the way he gripped her waist, lifting her slightly against him. His body was hot, solid, unyielding against hers. The towel fell to the floor unnoticed.

They stumbled backward, knocking over a chair, neither caring, too consumed by the need to feel something real after days of death and fear.

Jagendra’s hands slid under her shirt, rough palms finding soft skin, tracing the line of her ribs with a reverence that surprised her. Nikita gasped into his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer.

He pushed her against the wall gently but firmly, pinning her there with his hips. His mouth trailed down her throat, leaving marks of ownership, of desperation, of life.

Clothes disappeared between frantic kisses and clumsy touches, until skin met skin, heat against heat.

When he finally entered her, it wasn’t slow or gentle—it was raw, claiming, necessary.

Nikita moaned into his mouth, clutching him like he was the only thing anchoring her to the world.

Their rhythm built fast, frantic, bodies crashing together like waves against stone, the tension from days of terror and obsession finding its only outlet in each other.

Jagendra groaned her name against her neck, low and broken, as he thrust deeper, harder, as if trying to erase the horror outside through the violence of their connection.

Nikita clung to him, matching his urgency, chasing the edge, her body burning, heart unraveling, until—

Release.

Blinding, shattering, freeing.

They collapsed together against the wall, breathless, bodies tangled, sweat cooling on their skin.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The world outside the apartment—the murders, the cult, the killer—ceased to exist.

It was just them. Raw. Alive. Real.

And in the back of her mind, Nikita knew—they would need this strength for what was coming next.