Chapter One: The Assignment
man lay on the cold, unforgiving ground, his body battered and bleeding. Each breath was a struggle, his vision fading in and out.
As his eyes grew heavy, he glimpsed a figure
approaching—Summoning the last of his strength, he whispered, "Is it you..?
before darkness claimed him.
Scene change to six months earlier,
The black SUV glided through the rain-slicked streets of Mumbai, its tinted windows shielding the two men inside from the chaotic world beyond. The city outside was alive—neon lights flickering, vendors shouting, the ever-present hum of distant traffic.
But inside the car, it was silent, save for the soft clink of ice against glass.
Krish sat in the passenger seat, his posture relaxed but alert. His sharp features were
illuminated by the dim glow of passing streetlights. He was 27 now—lean, muscular, with the kind of body hardened by years of discipline. His skin bore faint scars from past fights, but they only added to his rugged appeal, remnants of his past, but nothing excessive.
His jet-black hair was always neatly styled, and he carried himself with an effortless confidence, a gentleman's grace that masked the storm beneath.
Beside him, Dravid exhaled a cloud of smoke from his cigar, his cold, calculating eyes fixed on the road ahead. He was a man in his late forties, broad-shouldered with the presence of
someone who had long ruled over others. He is 50 year old man but he maintained body. His salt-and-pepper beard was trimmed to perfection, and his tailored black suit spoke of wealth and power.
He had been married twice—once to the daughter of a businessman, once to a politician's sister. Neither had lasted. Love had never been the goal. Power had, he married them to become more powerful and get more connections!, because he was not happy to be just a drug dealer.
Dravid wanted to rules the underworld. He did all bad or worst things to get in that position, now there he is ruling the underworld and have a clean image to the world with the help of his connections,
Krish knew better than to speak first.
Dravid liked to enjoy his drinks before getting to business.
Finally, Dravid swirled the whiskey in his glass and smirked.
"You've never failed me, Krish.
That's why I trust you with this."
Krish remained silent. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.
"Aarohi," Dravid said, almost lazily, watching Krish's face for a reaction.
"I think she's up tosomething."
Krish had heard the name before—only in passing, usually when Dravid was drunk.
But he knew nothing more. He had never met her, never even seen her. Just another woman in Dravid's world.
Dravid continued, his tone shifting from amusement to something colder.
"Find out if she's seeing someone. If she is, I want to know. And if it's true…"
He paused, taking another slow sip of his drink before finishing,
"You know what to do."
Krish gave a slow nod. He had no choice. He never did.
Dravid chuckled, tapping the ash from his cigar.
"I pulled you out of that hellhole, didn't I?"
His voice was casual, but the weight behind it was undeniable.
"You owe me,Krish."
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
I owe him.
His fingers curled slightly against his knee, memories clawing their way to the surface.
A cold prison cell. Fists landing against flesh. The taste of blood in his mouth.
The night he killed his father.