𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂 - 𝙈𝘼𝙏𝙐𝙍𝙀 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙉.

This chapter contains graphic violence, torture, and intense scenes involving a character receiving a brutal form of justice. Reader discretion is strongly advised. This content may be disturbing to some readers.

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The room was a cage of steel - walls bolted shut from every side, sealed so tightly not a single ray of sunlight could breach its surface.

The only illumination came from harsh, fluorescent rods fixed overhead, casting a sterile, merciless glow that exposed every grotesque detail.

In the center sat a man - bound to a cold, steel chair - his arms shackled tight, skin broken and bleeding.

Blood slicked his body, soaked his torn clothes, dripped steadily onto the floor beneath him.

Not a single patch of flesh remained untouched; bruises, gashes, and burns marred him like cursed signatures of endless torment.

He didn't know how long he had been here. Days? Weeks? Time had twisted into a blur of agony and screams. Pain was his only companion.

Hunger and thirst were distant memories. Sleep came only in stolen seconds before pain dragged him back to consciousness.

The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air.

His breath rasped, shallow and uneven. Each inhale scraped against broken ribs. Each exhale trembled with the quiet hope that maybe - just maybe - this time, he wouldn't wake up again.

But hope was a luxury long stripped away in this chamber of torment.

He lifted his head weakly, vision blurred by blood and sweat. Lights above flickered. He didn't know who his captor was, or what hour he would return. But he knew this: death wouldn't come easily.

And perhaps... not at all.

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The silence was broken by the heavy groan of a steel door, its rusted hinges shrieking like tortured souls. Footsteps echoed - slow, deliberate, boots striking the metal floor with the weight of purpose.

He didn't need to look up. He knew that rhythm. It was the sound of pain approaching.

The tormentor emerged from the shadows, face concealed beneath a hood, only the glint of cruelty visible in his eyes.

He walked in circles around the bound man, boots splashing lightly in the blood pooling on the floor.

"Still breathing," he murmured with cold amusement, dragging a gloved hand across the man's bruised cheek.

The man tried to speak, but his voice cracked like dry leaves. Only a low moan escaped.

The tormentor knelt, bringing his face closer - too close.

"You know why you're here, don't you?"

No answer. Only the sound of a chain dragging as the man's head lolled forward.

"You took something that didn't belong to you. Ruined a life. Thought you'd walk away untouched." His voice, calm as death, sent shivers through the already broken soul.

"But Karma.....she doesn't forget."

Without warning, a blade gleamed under the light - small, thin, surgical. He dragged its tip slowly across the man's chest, carving through scabbed-over wounds, letting blood ooze anew.

A strangled cry escaped the man's lips.

"I can kill you now if I wanted...." the tormentor whispered, dragging the blade across the man's skin so delicately that it felt like fire trailing behind.

"But that's not what is meant for you. No. You deserve to rot."

With a violent twist, the tormentor slashed the blade deeper into his shoulder. Blood spurted.

The man shrieked - a raw, guttural sound that scraped his throat like gravel. His entire body trembled in shock, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to even collapse. The steel chair held him upright like a corpse on display.

Tears mixed with blood, flowing down his swollen cheeks.

"P-please... please," he gasped. "I didn't mean... I didn't-"

A cruel chuckle echoed.

The tormentor walked away for a moment, then returned with a bucket. He held it up slightly, just enough for the man to catch a glimpse of the liquid inside - clear, and glistening.

ACID.

"No more prays" the tormentor said, voice now stripped of all theatrics. Just a flat, matter-of-fact tone. "Time to pay."

The man began to scream before the liquid even touched him. But the scream became something monstrous - inhuman - the moment the acid hit his thighs. His flesh sizzled, the smell of burning skin filling the sealed chamber.

He thrashed wildly, but the chains only bit deeper into bone.

"Remember the shrieks of the onces you hurt ?" the tormentor growled. "This is the echo of their pain."

And with that, the lights above dimmed slightly, leaving the room drenched in a dull, reddish glow - as if hell itself was watching.

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His head lolled to the side, neck muscles too torn and weak to hold up the weight of his skull.

Dried blood crusted along his jawline, thick like tar, while fresh crimson oozed in thin trails from a gash above his brow.

Breathing was a labor - shallow, rattling, like each inhale scraped his lungs with razors.

He couldn't remember how many times he'd passed out. Time had blurred into one endless stretch of agony. But something caught his attention now - something that hadn't been there before.

A flicker.

A glint.

A presence.

His swollen eyelids lifted inch by inch. He squinted through the harsh white glare of the industrial lights that buzzed like a thousand flies circling rot.

There - directly in front of him, on the seamless steel door.

A letter.

Not painted. Not stickered.

Carved.

Deeply. Brutally. With purpose.

A bold, jagged " P "

Etched so harshly that the steel warped around its edges like it had screamed when it was made.

He stared at it, entranced, his broken mind clawing through fog to understand. It wasn't just a letter. It was a signature. A mark of ownership.

The door didn't open without that P.

This room didn't exist without that P.

This pain - this hell - all stemmed from it.

And for the first time, true terror gripped him - the kind that didn't come from fists or burns or blades. It came from realization.

He wasn't just being tortured.

He was being judged.

By someone who had planned every inch of this.

Someone who wore that P like a goddamn crown.

And suddenly, he remembered the news.

The posters.

The public outcry.

The girl.

Twelve.

School uniform soaked in blood.

Her tiny, broken body dumped in a drain like trash.

He had smiled when he'd done it.

And now...

Now someone was smiling back.

Behind that P.

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The man's breath came in shallow gasps, more out of reflex than survival. His skin hung loose over a battered frame, raw and torn, drenched in dried blood, pus, and sweat.

The metal chair beneath him groaned under his weightless body, bones almost protruding, flesh cooked by days of relentless torment. Ten days of hell. No food. No water. No hope.

And yet-his swollen eyes stayed fixed on that cursed steel door.

That letter.

A single, bold P, carved with surgical precision into the thick steel-taunting him, owning him. Branding the identity of the shadowy monster who orchestrated his demise.

He wanted to look away.

He couldn't.

That P was now etched into his soul.

Then it began.

The sudden hiss of the vents.

A mechanical hum rising from the corners of the chamber.

A low, vibrating growl like the underbelly of a beast awakening.

His eyes widened.

No. Not this. Not again.

He thrashed weakly, barely moving. His wrists were swollen, flesh fused to metal from the unrelenting cuffs. He whimpered-but no sound came out.

The temperature began to rise.

The air grew thick, suffocating. The steel walls glowed faintly orange. It was happening again.

The room had become his furnace.

And he-the offering.

His screams came next-raspy, broken howls that clawed at the steel, but died unheard.

"P-please..." he wheezed, "Not like this... please... mercy..."

But mercy never existed in this place. Not for men like him.

The temperature kept climbing.

Blisters exploded across his chest.

His lips sizzled as he gasped for cooler air.

His skin peeled away in patches, flesh curling, boiling.

The pain was beyond comprehension-beyond the realms of humanity. His eyes rolled back, and yet he remained conscious, cursed to feel it all.

Then, as the heat reached its peak, something snapped. His head jerked violently. His body gave one final spasm.

And then slumped, lifeless, smoke rising from the corpse like incense offered to karma itself.

Silence fell.

Thick. Final.

The door slid open.

Boots stepped in.

He was nothing more than ash and meat now, a thing once human.

The man in the shadows stood there for a moment, face unseen, gaze locked on the charred remains. His voice cut through the stillness like a blade:

"For her."

And then he turned and walked away, the steel door sliding shut behind him-sealing the furnace, the pain, the justice... with that one blood-branded letter:

P

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[BREAKING NEWS – 7:42 AM | CHANNEL 9 LIVE]

The screen flickered to life, showing a distressed female anchor at her desk, her voice crisp but laced with unease.

Anchor:

"Good morning. We begin today with a shocking and gruesome discovery right outside the Shivaji Nagar Police Station. At approximately 3:15 AM, a large suitcase was found abandoned on the steps of the station gate. What the officers found inside has left even the most seasoned investigators shaken."

Footage rolled of a charred suitcase, surrounded by yellow tape and stunned onlookers. The body inside had been burnt beyond recognition—only fragments of melted flesh and bone remained.

Anchor (voice-over):

"Sources say the suitcase contained the remains of a human corpse, burned so severely that identification by physical appearance is impossible. However, a partially scorched government-issued ID card was found placed deliberately on top of the body. The name on the card matches that of Ramesh Sawant—an auto driver who was under investigation for the brutal rape and murder of a 12-year-old schoolgirl ten days ago."

Anchor:

"Police are treating this as an extrajudicial execution. The corpse had clearly suffered unimaginable torture before being incinerated. Whether this is an act of vigilantism or a warning remains unclear. The suitcase was placed directly in front of the station’s main entrance—as if to mock the very system meant to serve justice."

The television blared softly in the background, its blue light flickering across the modest living room walls.

The room carried the scent of freshly brewed chai, its steam curling upward from the ceramic mug resting in Ajit’s palm. He sat back on the worn-out sofa, dressed casually in a grey vest and black sweatpants, his hair slightly tousled from sleep.

His eyes, however, were anything but drowsy. They were sharp. Alert. Waiting.

Ajit’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around the mug. A slow, knowing smirk crept across his face. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t gasp. He already knew.

Taking a sip, he let the tea coat his throat like victory.

He placed the mug on the table beside him, wiped the moisture from his palm, and picked up his phone. Unlocking it with a tap, he opened a secure app, one that didn’t leave traces. A single contact glared back at him: P.

He typed:

“The world may call it vengeance. I call it justice. Well done, P.”

Message sent.

Ajit leaned back again, resting one arm across the sofa’s edge, eyes returning to the TV. The reporters on screen frantically threw around words like “gruesome,” “unimaginable,” and “vigilante.”

But Ajit?

He just smiled.

Because he knew the truth. And the man behind it.

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Golden rays filtered through the towering windows, gently pulling apart the heavy black curtains. They stretched across the room, dancing over his powerful body.

Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing midnight black eyes that pierced through the dark like twin shards of silver, sharp enough to cut through anything in their path.

His gaze was magnetic, intense, and every bit the storm waiting to be unleashed.

The man beneath the sheets was no ordinary figure. He rose from the bed with an effortless grace, like a beast awakening.

His body was a sculpted masterpiece of strength—broad, commanding shoulders, a chiseled chest, rock-hard abs, and arms that were powerful enough to crush bones, yet tender enough to hold something fragile.

Every movement of his was deliberate, controlled, and commanding. He wasn’t just a man; he was a living force of nature.

He stepped onto the balcony, bare-chested and barefoot, the loose black cotton pants hanging deliciously on his hips, giving a tantalizing glimpse of the strength beneath.

His raven-black hair, damp from sleep, framed his clean-shaven face, the sharpness of his jawline so precise it could cut glass.

His lips, full and firm, were set in an unreadable line, exuding an undeniable air of dominance and mystery.

The mansion was vast, a solitary fortress of black stone, nestled deep inside the heart of a sprawling forest that he owned and ruled.

No one dared trespass here. It was his kingdom—his sanctuary. Only the animals and birds were welcome.

As he stepped out, the forest responded to his presence. The birds, those loyal creatures of his kingdom, gathered around him—sparrows, crows, and even an eagle, each of them fluttering toward him as if drawn by some unspoken bond.

They perched on his broad shoulders, some landing softly on his arm, others daring to sit beside him. There was no fear in their eyes, only trust and adoration.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. The way they flocked to him, the way they circled him, spoke of a respect and love that no man could ever hope to command.

The wild obeyed him, just as the world would.

He stood there for a moment, watching the birds flit about him, calm and patient. Then, without a word, he turned and walked back into the mansion, his presence leaving a silence in his wake.

The birds, as if on cue, returned to the trees, waiting for his next command.

The marble floors reflected his every step as he moved toward the bathroom. He didn’t hurry. He never did.

The shower roared to life, hissing like it feared what it was about to touch.

He stepped in, gloriously bare—no towel, no shame, nothing to hide.

Water hit him like a lover’s gasp, crashing against every inch of skin stretched over thick muscle and power. His body was a cathedral of strength.

Solid shoulders, ridged chest, veined arms that could crush or cradle. His abs clenched as the water traveled down, catching in the grooves of his V-line—taut, deep, sinfully defined.

There, between his hips, the water disappeared—rushing down the heavy, primal part of him that hung proudly, unashamed.

He tipped his head back, exposing his sharp, clean-shaven jawline to the warmth, throat stretching like a sculpture in motion.

Raven-black hair, now soaked, clung to his forehead and temples. Droplets clung to his lashes, his lips, before sliding down the strong lines of his neck like they, too, couldn’t resist the path.

Then he turned.

And the illusion of a god shattered—revealing the man beneath.

His back, though sculpted and broad, bore deep scars. Brutal reminders, slashed across muscle and bone. They ran like ghostly hands clawing at him from his past.

The water danced across them, tracing pain that never healed, washing over stories never told.

He leaned against the wall, head bowed, both hands braced wide on the tile. His body flexed—glutes tight, thighs powerful, legs built like a stallion’s—each muscle strained as steam curled around him like worshippers at his feet.

He was raw, untamed, beautiful.

And yet, there was silence.

A silence that screamed louder than any sound. A silence where scars whispered, and power pulsed.

He exhaled slowly. A breath full of ache, restraint, and something darker—a memory that refused to fade.

He wasn’t just naked.

He was bared to the bone.

All strength. All sin. All sex.

A vision no mortal could forget.

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Steam still curled through the hallway like a ghost of the shower he had just conquered.

Drops of water clung to his thick, muscled frame as he walked—barefoot, towel wrapped low around his hips, exposing the deep cuts of his V-line that disappeared beneath soft cotton.

Each step was silent, predatory.

He moved into his dressing room—walls lined with tailored suits, crisp shirts, dark watches, and everything minimalist, everything black. He didn’t take long. Power didn’t need time to dress—it simply needed presence.

He pulled on a charcoal black shirt, each button gliding through with practiced grace, sleeves rolled up to reveal his veined forearms, thick wrists, and that single thin black band he never removed.

His black trousers hugged his waist and thighs perfectly. The shirt clung to his sculpted torso like second skin, collar open just enough to tease the world with a glimpse of the chest beneath.

He walked across the polished blackwood floors of his private office. No ordinary room—this was his war room, his command center.

One entire wall was covered in an unbroken stretch of ultra-HD screens, each flickering with live feeds from every corner of his empire—PSR.

Security cameras, encrypted communications, financial graphs… everything flowed in real time before his sharp, calculating eyes.

He stood before them, tall and unbothered, sipping his black coffee.

Then—he stilled.

His gaze locked onto one feed. A narrow hallway. A woman walking, head slightly bowed, arms clutching a file. Her saree was soft blue, cotton, nothing elaborate. But something about her made the rest of the world blur.

Maya.

He didn’t know her name yet but his soul… it did.

But he saw her. All of her.

The camera angle captured her face clearly—half of it, flawless, glowing in the soft morning light. Lips shaped with grace, a delicate curve to her cheekbone. But the other half… the raw, jagged truth. Acid-scarred, marked by cruelty and survival.

Yet, he didn’t flinch.

If anything, he stepped closer to the screen.

His storm-gray eyes traced every detail, not with pity, but with intrigue. Not once did he see weakness. Her posture was straight, her steps slow but composed. The world may have tried to burn her—but she walked like she had survived the fire.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He didn’t even realize his fingers had tightened around the coffee mug until it creaked faintly.

And yet, he didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch.

His heart clenched.

It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t shock.

It was recognition.

A pull deep inside him. A nameless ache he had buried under years of silence and shadows.

He’d built empires, destroyed monsters, and walked alone for so long—thinking he needed no one, that he was enough.

But right now, watching her—brave, broken, beautiful—it felt like something missing had just fallen into place.

Like he’d found the one he’d been searching for all these years, without even knowing he was searching.

A woman the world may have cast aside, but whose presence reached into the deepest corners of his guarded soul—and shook it awake.

His fingers hovered over the control pad—but he didn’t zoom in.

He didn’t need to.

She was already etched into him.

A long, haunted silence filled the vast office, as his eyes remained fixed on her lone figure disappearing down the corridor.

And then, in a whisper only his own soul heard, he asked—

“Is it her…?”

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𝙏𝙊 𝘽𝙀 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙐𝙀𝘿..