Weeks passed.

The city of Bhubaneswar tried to forget the horrors that had spilled into its streets — the missing, the murdered, the exposed rot festering behind smiling faces.

They lit candles.

Held prayers.

Erected memorials.

But the dead didn’t hear prayers.

And the living didn’t forget.

Jagendra sat on the hospital rooftop, the evening air cool against his skin, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He stared out over the city skyline, neon lights flickering like dying stars.

A faint shuffle of footsteps behind him.

He turned — hand instinctively brushing the pistol tucked at his waist —

only to see Arjun limping toward him, a heavy bandage around his torso, a grimace etched into his face.

"You look like shit," Jagendra muttered, a rare ghost of a smile tugging his lips.

Arjun chuckled, wincing at the pain.

"Better than dead."

They sat in silence for a long moment. No words needed.

Both had faced death.

Both had survived.

Barely.

"You hear about Nikita?" Arjun asked finally.

Jagendra’s jaw tightened.

She had left Bhubaneswar a week after the temple incident.

No goodbyes. No forwarding address.

Just a note:

> "I need to find my own answers now. Some wars… you have to fight alone."

He missed her more than he’d ever admit.

Jagendra nodded slowly.

"She’s doing what she has to."

Arjun didn’t press. He understood.

Both of them had ghosts now. Different shapes. Same hunger.

**

Down in the streets, life went on.

Newspapers spoke of arrests — Mishra among them, dragged out screaming, begging for mercy he had never given.

Other names followed.

Businessmen. Politicians. Priests.

The Sangha had been gutted.

But not destroyed.

In the dark corners of the world, new seeds were already being sown.

Jagendra knew this.

He could feel it — like a blade against the back of his neck.

Somewhere, someone else was whispering to the shadows.

Plotting.

Waiting.

The Lotus had bloomed once.

It would bloom again.

And when it did…

Jagendra would be ready.

No mercy.

No hesitation.

No forgetting.

He crushed the cigarette under his boot, staring out into the blood-red sunset.

The war was far from over.

It had only just begun.

***

[Thank you for reading]