It began with thunder.

The kind that doesn’t just crack the sky but shakes something inside you, deep, primal, unexplainable.

Arhaan Ahmed had chased storms his whole life, on racetracks, in headlines, in the chaos of living fast and unafraid. But that night, as monsoon rains battered the dusty road winding through the forgotten outskirts of Maharashtra, he wasn’t racing anyone.

He was running from nothing.

And yet, something stopped him cold.

A girl, standing in the middle of the road, lehenga clinging to her legs like chains. Eyes wide, not in fear, but in defiance. As if she’d already survived the worst and refused to bow to what came next.

That image, her silhouette framed by lightning, would follow him for years.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t know the story.

Didn’t know that the biggest race of his life had just begun.

And this time, the finish line wasn’t a trophy.

It was freedom.

Hers.

And maybe, just maybe, his too.