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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Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

Over ten thousand minutes of silence.

And Rudra could feel every second crawling under his skin like insects.

He stood in his office-no, prison-suffocating under the weight of his own dread.

The lights were dim, curtains drawn shut as if shielding him from a pair of eyes he couldn't see but could feel.

Eyes that had once burned into his back years ago. Eyes that belonged to Him.

Rudra had stopped calling Priya after day four. The endless ringing had become unbearable.

The silence that followed each attempt had started to sound like a threat. On the fifth day, he sent men-three trusted ones-to wipe everything clean from her apartment.

Files, hard drives, phones, scrap paper-anything that could even whisper Rudra's name.

By the seventh day, the nightmares had started.

"𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗵𝗲?"

He mumbled now in the half-light, pacing barefoot on the cold marble, his shirt half-untucked, hair disheveled.

Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the AC. His phone lay on the couch-useless. No calls. No texts. Just Priya's last location from a week ago, blinking like a dying light on the map.

Rudra clenched his fists and slammed them into the wall.

"She wouldn't be this stupid. She wouldn't. Not unless..." His voice trailed off.

HE knew.

HE had to know.

That's why Priya vanished. That's why the air felt thicker. That's why even the silence had teeth now.

He staggered back, clutching the edge of the table. His breath came in sharp gasps. It wasn't just fear-it was terror. The kind that curdled in his stomach and bloomed like sickness in his chest.

"You said you'd vanish, Priya," he whispered, half-pleading, half-accusing. "You said you'd cover it. Just one clean job. But now you've gone and left me exposed."

A knock on the door jolted him. He almost leapt.

"Who is it?!" he barked, voice cracking.

Marley peeked in, his face drawn and pale.

Rudra exhaled, waving him in with trembling fingers.

"Sir... the cleaners handled her flat. No trace left behind," Marley said.

"Neighbors said they didn't saw her.No cameras near the exit. It's like... she vanished."

Rudra laughed, but it was dry and mad.

"Of course she vanished. Because that's what HE does, doesn't HE? Pulls people into shadows and makes them disappear-like fucking magic."

He looked at Marley, eyes bloodshot. "You think He's watching now? Right now? Maybe through one of these windows?"

Marley shifted uncomfortably.

"We can move you. Safer place. We can-"

"Nowhere's safe," Rudra hissed.

"Not when HE is in the picture. You don't understand, Marley. HE's not just a man-HE's a curse. HE doesn't kill with bullets. HE kills with time. With silence. With fear."

He backed away, suddenly feeling small, vulnerable, like a child expecting a monster to step out from the closet.

"Tell me we have leverage," he muttered.

"We're trying, sir. We have someone watching His associates. There's a whisper that HE's starting to sniff around the data leaks. But... nothing confirmed."

Rudra turned away, staring blankly at the shadows in the corner of the room.

If HE had Priya, Rudra knew what came next.

Not torture. Not threats.

Truth.

Because that was HIS method-HE broke people until the truth spilled from their mouths like blood.

And if Priya broke, Rudra was already dead.

He just didn't know the date of his funeral yet.

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The room was vast, its walls and floor made entirely of cold, brushed steel, polished smooth yet merciless in its reflection.

No windows. No ventilation. The ceiling lights above buzzed faintly, casting a clinical white glow that only made the blood stains glisten more grotesquely against the sterile grey surroundings.

The air was thick-too quiet, as if sound itself had been taken prisoner.

And there she was.

Priya.

Half-conscious. Half-broken. Fully terrified.

She was bound tightly to a heavy steel chair bolted to the ground, her wrists chafed raw by the thick leather straps that bit into her skin.

Her arms bore burn marks, angry red welts branding her flesh like cursed souvenirs of the torment she'd endured.

The burns weren't uniform-they varied in shape and depth, some circular as if pressed by heated coins, others long and jagged, like electrical arcs from a torture prod.

Her shirt-once pale blue-was stained with sweat, grime, and dark, dried blood. One sleeve was half-torn, and the other was soaked in streaks of red.

Sweat dripped from her temple, rolling down the side of her face, mixing with the dried trails of tears and ash.

Her lips trembled, split at the corners. Her eyes were puffy and red, and they darted toward every creak or click that echoed in the room, bracing for what might come next.

Her breathing was uneven-a whimper with every exhale, as if each breath was apologizing for her existence.

The steel beneath her was stained.

The silence around her was cruel.

And the camera's red light blinked above the door.

She knew he was watching.

He always was.

A mechanical hiss broke the stillness. The heavy steel door groaned as its massive lock disengaged-each clank echoing like a death toll in the chamber.

Priya flinched.

Her head jerked up, panic flooding her veins faster than blood. She knew that sound.

He was here.

The door opened slowly. Purposefully.

And then-he stepped in.

PRASHANT.

Clad in a jet-black shirt, the top three buttons undone, revealing the chiselled line of his collarbone and a faint glimpse of his toned chest.

The sleeves were rolled just below the elbow, revealing his forearms-strong, veined, covered by matte black gloves that flexed slightly with each movement.

His trousers were sharply tailored, every inch of him polished, elegant... lethal.

His thick, neatly combed black hair glistened under the light, not a strand out of place. His jawline-sharp, clean-shaven, perfectly sculpted-looked like it had been carved by a cruel god.

His face was calm. Too calm. Too perfect. Too terrifying.

There was no mercy in his expression. Only silence and beauty.

A beauty so unnatural it felt wrong.

He wasn't a man.

He was a beautiful demon in human skin.

His midnight-black eyes didn't blink as they locked on Priya. They didn't rage. They didn't flicker. But something burned within them-an obsession, a madness, a darkness named Maya.

Every step he took echoed like a war drum.

He didn't need to shout. He didn't need weapons.

He was the weapon.

A faint scent of attar and leather followed him in, like a phantom veil that clung to him, marking his territory. The steel walls reflected his image again and again, a haunting mirage of the man who was both art and executioner.

He stopped a few feet away from Priya.

His shadow fell over her like a blanket of death.

She whimpered, trying to look away, but even her shame couldn't block out his overwhelming presence.

Prashant tilted his head, expression unreadable. His gloved hands clasped behind his back like a king inspecting a traitor.

His lips didn't curl into a smile, nor did his eyes blink. He simply watched her-like a predator trying to decide which bone to break first.

Then, his voice broke the silence.

"Comfortable, Miss Priya?"

His tone was velvet-lined steel, neither loud nor soft-just calculated.

A tone that caressed and choked in the same breath.

He stepped closer.

The click of his boots on the steel floor was the only sound she heard-like nails on a coffin.

And then, gently, he leaned closer-only enough for his words to graze her ear.

"Switching off the CCTV.

Clever. But not enough.

My system is different.

My eyes-never stop watching."

He straightened, calm as a god.

Beautiful as a sin.

Deadly as a curse.

The beautiful demon had arrived.

And the real pain was just about to begin.

The sharp metallic clink echoed through the steel room as He plucked the surgical blade from the pristine tray beside him.

He didn't rush. There was elegance to his every move, as if he were an artist preparing a canvas - except this canvas was Priya's trembling, sweat-drenched flesh.

He slowly walked to her bound form - steel chair bolted to the ground, leather straps digging into her wrists and ankles, pinning her in place.

Her bloodied shirt clung to her chest, soaked in blood and perspiration. Her arms already bore the evidence of earlier torment - burn marks blistered on her skin.

Prashant crouched before her. His black gloves flexed. His obsidian eyes, gleaming with a storm of fury and cold calculation, stared deep into her soul. He tilted his head slightly - curious, studying her like a specimen.

"No... please-please, sir," she gasped, tears cutting lines through the soot and sweat on her face.

"I didn't know they were going to use it that way-I was just following orders... please, I swear-He made me do this-he paid me-"

Prashant said nothing.

Her pleading grew wilder, more desperate.

"I never wanted to hurt Maya! I didn't even know- I just needed the money-! Please, I'll do anything, anything-just don't-don't "

"Tell me, Priya..."

His voice was smooth, low, and chilling.

"When you switched Maya's pen drive, did you flinch? Did your hands shake? Did your conscience whisper anything at all?"

Priya whimpered, her throat dry and cracked.

"P-Please Sir... I-I didn't mean- I was just following his orders... I needed the money- I-I swear I didn't want to hurt her..."

His jaw clenched ever so slightly.

"You didn't just hurt her. You humiliated her in front of a room full of vultures. You made her cry,"

he whispered, gaze darkening.

"And for that... I will make sure your own reflection doesn't recognize you."

He stood up, towering, godlike and merciless. The blade gleamed in the dim white light.

Without warning, he reached for her arm, gripping it tightly, exposing the underside where the skin was softest. Priya thrashed weakly, sobbing.

"N-No! Please- I'll do anything, I'll- please! Mercy-!"

But Prashant's expression didn't flicker. Not even a blink. His face was the portrait of control and cruelty.

He pressed the scalpel down on a nerve point in her wrist—just enough to make her scream again—and held it there.

“This room,” he whispered, “doesn’t erase sins. It preserves them.”

And still, he wasn’t done.

Because pain was only half the punishment.

Fear would finish the rest.

And then, he turned, placing the blade back in its sterile tray. His steps were composed, cruel, beautiful — like a predator finished with a round of precision pain.

What followed next… was the needle.

The sterile room seemed to breathe with tension. The steel walls reflected cold, merciless light. Priya’s head lolled forward—shoulders twitching, lips trembling.

Her arms, marked with bloody cuts pulsed with agony. Her shirt clung to her like second skin—stained with blood, sweat, and defeat.

And then—he moved.

Prashant turned slowly, the metallic tray now gleaming with a fresh instrument: a thick glass syringe. Inside it, clear liquid shimmered like still poison.

He plucked it with care. No urgency. No emotion.

“You know, Priya…” he said softly, walking back to her with the syringe now cradled like a sacred relic,

“...you were clever. Switching off the CCTV before the meeting? Very smooth. Very loyal. To Him.”

She lifted her head weakly, her lips cracked.

“I-It was just orders… I didn’t— I didn’t know what it would cause…”

Prashant’s gaze hardened.

“You don’t need to know consequences to deserve them.”

He circled behind her.

“You thought disabling those pathetic cameras would blind me? Foolish.”

He leaned in close to her ear.

“My surveillance system is not built on electricity. It’s built on people. Fear. Loyalty. Greed. I see everything, Priya. Always.”

Her breath hitched. She began to cry again, violently shaking her head.

“Please, please,  Sir… please don’t— what is that—?”

He revealed the syringe before her weeping eyes, tapping it lightly.

“Strychnine,” he said with quiet delight.

“A classic. Derived from seeds. A convulsant. It causes every muscle in your body to contract. Painfully. Uncontrollably. You won’t be able to move. You’ll be aware of everything, and you’ll wish you weren’t.”

Her eyes widened in raw terror.

“Please… I’m begging you… I’ll confess, I’ll go public, I’ll expose him—don’t—don’t—”

But Prashant was deaf to mercy.

He sank the needle into her neck with surgical precision. The plunger depressed slowly, the venom sliding into her bloodstream like liquid death.

Within seconds, her body began to jerk—fingers curling into claws, her legs straining against the steel straps. Her jaw clenched as her back arched against the chair violently.

She let out a choked, broken scream.

And Prashant?

He stood and watched with eerie calm. Like an artist admiring his masterpiece.

“This pain…” he whispered, watching her writhe,

“…is but a fragment of what she felt when you turned her world upside down.”

Her eyes rolled back, every muscle stiff and taut. Her nails dug into her own palms, blood dripping. She couldn’t speak anymore—only scream silently through her locked jaw.

He knelt before her once again, brushing a speck of blood from his glove.

“Let this be your truth, Priya. Maya doesn’t even know what I’m doing for her…”

His smile darkened.

“And she doesn’t have to.”

He stood. Took a deep breath. Exhaled as though he'd just cleansed his soul.

The room was filled with muffled agony and the scent of burning steel and blood.

And then… silence.

Only the whimpering sound of a body unable to move… but fully aware.

The room was a cacophony of tension and fading gasps. Priya’s body twitched weakly now—her muscles were stiff, her eyes wide open yet glassy, lips parted in a frozen scream that no longer escaped her throat.

And Prashant?

He moved with slow elegance toward the small shelf bolted to the wall.

His black gloves trailed lightly over a matte-black headset—bulky, noise-cancelling, military-grade.

He picked it up gently, as if handling something sacred.

His silhouette was framed by the cold light—black shirt clinging to his sculpted form, the open buttons revealing skin like carved ivory. His beauty was haunting—unnatural. A demon cast in the image of a god.

He returned to her chair. Priya's bloodshot eyes twitched toward him, the only part of her body still capable of movement.

He crouched before her, eyes level with hers. Voice low. Controlled.

"I know you're trying to scream," he murmured, his gloved fingers adjusting the headset in his hands.

"But now… you won’t even hear your own suffering."

Her breath hitched as he placed the headset gently over her ears, fastening the leather strap tightly beneath her chin. He clicked the power on.

A sudden thunderstorm of sound erupted inside the headset—a distorted blend of industrial noise, screeching violins, and chaotic electronic wails.

It wasn’t music. It was madness. Carefully composed to shred the mind, to rattle the soul.

Priya’s already contorted face tensed further, fresh tears spilling down her temples. Her muscles, still locked from the strychnine, could only twitch helplessly.

" This…" Prashant whispered, rising slowly, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve,

"…is the sound of betrayal unraveling itself. You’ll hear it on loop. Until you either pass out…"

He stepped back, voice turning to ice.

"…or your mind breaks before your body does."

He walked to the door—each bootstep echoing like a judge’s gavel—then paused.

"You were a puppet, Priya. But puppets are still burned with the stage when the curtain falls."

The heavy steel door slid open with a mechanical groan.

Before exiting, he glanced once more over his shoulder—his sharp jawline catching the light, his eyes glowing with merciless fire.

“This is how I love, Priya. With fury. With fire. With silence...

...for Maya.”

And with that—he was gone.

The door slammed shut, sealing her in a tomb of steel, sound, and unspeakable pain.

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[Breaking News]

“We have some deeply disturbing updates in the case of Priya Dey, the young woman whose lifeless body was discovered early this morning near Highway. Viewers may find the following details distressing.”

“According to sources within the investigation, preliminary forensic analysis suggests that Priya Dey was subjected to severe physical torture prior to her death. Investigators believe her death was caused by poisoning — specifically an injection of strychnine, a highly toxic and painful neurotoxin.”

“Medical staff involved in the autopsy, who spoke under the condition of anonymity, revealed that Priya’s hands bore deep burn marks and cuts — likely inflicted while she was still alive. Experts suggest the burns could have been caused by direct exposure to heated metal or chemicals.”

“Additionally, there are signs of internal ear damage. Forensic experts suspect this may have been the result of prolonged exposure to extremely loud, high-pitched sounds via a headset, possibly used to disorient and cause psychological distress.”

“There are no signs of sexual assault or abuse, and the forensic team has confirmed that she was not violated in that manner. The brutality seems to have been aimed solely at inflicting fear, pain, and psychological torture.”

“Investigators are still piecing together the timeline of her last known movements. Anyone with information is urged to contact the local crime branch.”

“Stay with us for more updates on this horrifying case as it unfolds.”

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Maya knelt down slowly, her knees hitting the cold tiled floor. Her face was blank, a mask of numbness—but the silent tears slipping down her cheeks betrayed the storm within.

Rachi stood frozen beside her, one hand clutched over her mouth as she gasped softly. The harsh fluorescent light above flickered, casting a pale glow on the heartbreaking sight before them.

Inside the mortuary fridge, the lifeless body of Priya lay still—covered in a thin, white cloth.

A portion of her face, now drained of all warmth, was visible. The bruises and burn marks, once dark and frozen, had thawed enough to reveal the silent agony she must have endured.

Silence wrapped the room in a suffocating grip. No sobs, no cries—just the haunting stillness that comes with irreversible loss.

Maya’s fingers trembled as she reached out but stopped mid-air, unable to bring herself to touch the cold sheet again.

Just a few days ago, they were laughing over coffee, gossiping during lunch breaks, and teasing each other like sisters. How could life switch so cruelly, so suddenly?

The door creaked open, and a uniformed police inspector stepped in, his voice low but firm.

“Excuse me... Miss Maya, Miss Rachi.”

Both girls turned toward him, eyes still wet, shoulders stiff with grief.

“As you’ve identified the body, I’ll need you both to accompany us to the station to complete the formalities.”

They didn’t respond—there was nothing left to say. Only silence. Wordlessly, Maya and Rachi stood, their legs weak but minds bracing for the next step in this nightmare.

One final glance at Priya. One silent goodbye.

Then, they followed the inspector out of the room, into a world that no longer felt the same.

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The crowd outside the towering glass headquarters had swelled to a frenzy.

Journalists jostled with each other, microphones raised high like weapons, voices layered over one another in a chaotic chorus.

The air was thick with questions, tension, and the flashing strobe of cameras.

“Sir, what do you want to say about the brutal murder of an employee in your company?”

“Sir, why haven’t you taken any action so far?”

“Sir, do you suspect anyone behind this murder case?”

“Sir, we want answers. Why are you remaining silent?”

“Sir, aren’t you concerned about the well-being of your employees?”

The barrage of inquiries struck Ajit like a hailstorm. Every word echoed with accusation, every lens sought guilt. His expression remained unreadable, but beneath the composed surface, a storm brewed.

He moved forward with quiet command, flanked by vigilant bodyguards who formed a shield around him.

His presence—impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, the cuffs of his white shirt crisp and spotless—did little to dampen the chaos.

As he stepped through the lobby’s glass doors, a cold gust of central air brushed against his skin.

The clamor was shut out like a bad dream, replaced by the sterile hum of air-conditioning and the muted clack of polished shoes on marble.

Behind him, guards and police barricaded the doors, their hard faces reflecting the same unease that buzzed in the air.

Kavin was already waiting by the reception, pale and breathless. His phone trembled slightly in his hand as he approached his superior with hesitant steps.

Ajit turned to him, eyes blazing with restrained fury.

“What the hell is going on, Kavin?” he demanded, his voice low and sharp—cutting through the silence like a knife. His clenched jaw betrayed the control he was trying so hard to maintain.

“I… I didn’t expect this, Sir. The news got out faster than we could react,” said Kavin.

Ajit’s nostrils flared.

“Call the commissioner. Right now. I want this place cleared. Not a single camera, not a single goddamn reporter near this building.”

Kavin gave a swift nod and hurried away, already dialing.

Ajit didn’t wait. He moved towards his office like a storm cloud rolling in.

As the doors shut behind him, he ripped off his blazer and flung it onto the sofa. A frustrated curse escaped under his breath.

The questions hadn’t stopped at the door—they echoed in his mind, repeating, clawing. Not from the media, but from his own conscience.

Why had HE done this?

HE—the one who never slipped. The one who operated from the shadows, pulling strings with silent precision.

Ajit had always played the visible front, the clean face of the company. But the real power? That belonged elsewhere. To him.

And this time, Ajit hadn’t known. He hadn’t been informed, hadn’t approved, hadn’t even been warned.

An employee. Dead. Tortured. Brutally. And it had all happened under their roof.

Ajit sat down heavily in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The weight of silence pressed down on him.

If this was some kind of message, he needed to understand it. Fast. Because with every second, the walls were closing in.

He would meet HIM. He needed to.

Before the cracks spread too far to be hidden.

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The stench of stale air, old files, and burnt tea lingered in the small police station, mingling with a silence that felt heavier than stone.

The fan above ticked with each rotation, as if marking time in a place where time had long since stopped caring.

Maya and Rachi stood motionless in front of the inspector’s desk, both women worn out—not just by grief, but by the system they were now up against.

The man on the other side of the desk didn’t even lift his eyes as he reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper.

“Anyone of you sign this,” he said, voice flat as a ruler. “We’ll send the body to you. You can perform the last rites.”

The words dropped like ice in the room.

“What is this paper for, sir?” Rachi asked, her voice small but sharp, already sensing something wasn’t right.

The inspector finally looked up. His eyes were devoid of empathy—just another day, another file.

“It’s a case closure request. Declares the investigation shut.”

Maya blinked, as though trying to make sense of what she’d just heard.

“What… what do you mean closed?”

The inspector exhaled audibly, as if he were being burdened by their very presence.

“Look, Madam, we’ve got better things to do than chase ghosts. There’s no evidence. No witnesses. No fingerprints. No footage. Nothing to go on. We can’t keep dragging the file around with no direction.”

“But this wasn’t a petty theft or a traffic accident!” Rachi snapped.

“It was murder. A woman was brutally killed. Someone out there did this—and you’re letting them go?”

The inspector’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, his face now tinged with irritation.

“Madam, I suggest you stop raising your voice in a police station. This isn't a courtroom, nor a press conference. We’ve done what we could. No evidence. No suspect. No political angle. The file’s getting dustier by the day. So either you sign this or you waste more of your own time, not mine.”

Rachi looked ready to explode, her fists clenched at her sides. But before she could say a word, Maya reached out and gently touched her arm.

Maya’s expression had shifted. The fire in her eyes was gone, replaced by something calmer—colder.

She looked at the paper for a long moment, her gaze steady, lips tight. Without a word, she took the pen and signed. Her fingers didn’t tremble.

Rachi’s face twisted with disbelief.

“Maya?” she whispered, stunned. “You’re just… signing it?”

But Maya didn’t look at her. She slid the paper and pen back across the desk and stood up, smoothing the front of her kurti as if brushing away invisible dust.

She looked the inspector dead in the eye and said quietly, “Thank you, Sir.”

Then she turned, took Rachi’s hand, and walked out.

The inspector remained seated, watching them go. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly—neither a smile nor a smirk—before he returned to his files.

Outside, the sky had clouded over. A dry wind blew dust down the empty street. Maya didn’t speak. She just walked, her grip on Rachi’s hand firm and unshaken.

There was no anger in her silence.

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The old ceiling fan creaked overhead, stirring the warm, stale air inside the cramped living room.

Rachi stood near the narrow window, her arms folded tightly across her chest, watching the streetlights flicker outside. Her silence didn’t last long.

"This is unbelievable, Maya!" she snapped, turning to face her.

"How could you do this? How could you just sign that damned paper? They're brushing it off like Priya slipped and fell, like her life was nothing!"

Maya sat on the edge of the bed, the thin mattress barely cushioning her tense posture. She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, unmoving, her mind clearly far away.

"I know it’s wrong," she said at last, her voice low, almost hollow. "I know exactly what that paper meant."

Rachi blinked, frustrated and confused.

"Then why the hell did you sign it? We could’ve raised our voices, demanded action—"

"And then what?" Maya cut in, lifting her gaze. Her eyes weren’t empty—they were burning.

“You think they would’ve listened? You think they’d care? They don’t move for people like us, Rachi. To them, Priya was just another dead body in a stack of forgotten names.”

The fan continued its slow, uneven rotations, filling the silence that followed.

Maya stood up and crossed the room to where Rachi stood. She reached out and took her friend’s hand, her fingers cold but steady.

“But just because they’ve closed the case doesn’t mean it’s over,” she said firmly. “We know Priya. We know she wouldn’t be involved in anything reckless. This wasn’t just some random act. Someone made sure she wouldn't speak again.”

Rachi’s throat tightened. The hurt, the disbelief—it was all still raw.

“I’ve decided something,” Maya continued, her voice now steel wrapped in softness.

“If the law won’t bring justice, we will. I don’t have money. I don’t have power. But I have you. And I have the truth. And that’s enough to begin.”

Maya slowly extended her hand, palm open between them—a quiet call for solidarity.

Rachi stared at it. She saw in it not just Maya’s desperation, but her strength, her determination to do what no one else dared.

After a beat, she reached forward and placed her hand in Maya’s, squeezing it with all the force of shared pain.

“I’m with you,” she whispered. “We’ll do this… for Priya.”

In that dim, tired little room, where hope had no business surviving, a spark was lit—small, flickering, but relentless.

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The glass tumbled from his hand and smashed violently against the television screen, shards splintering like frozen lightning across the surface.

The news anchor’s voice died mid-sentence as static replaced Priya’s photograph—her face frozen in a soft, smiling still.

Rudra stood still for a moment, breathing heavily in the sudden silence, the flickering screen casting a pale, broken light across his sharp features.

His eyes didn’t blink. His jaw clenched.

“She’s gone…” he whispered, not in grief, but in recognition—like a player acknowledging the loss of a piece on the board. “𝙃𝙚 took her. 𝙃𝙚’s telling me something…”

He turned slowly, the room cloaked in a dangerous stillness.

Around him were the signs of a calculated, luxurious chaos—a dimly lit study lined with leather-bound books and files, scattered papers and photos pinned to the wall with red strings like arteries of a larger plan.

And in the middle of it all, Priya’s face once stood connected to a web of secrets. Now, her string hung loose, cut from the game.

"𝙃𝙚 is giving me an open challenge..." Rudra said aloud, pacing. His voice was low, controlled, but laced with fury.

"𝙃𝙚 knows. He knows about me, about everything."

A bitter smirk played at the corner of his lips. Not fear—never fear. This was personal not from now but from past.

He looked once more at the shattered television. Priya’s ghost seemed to linger there, silent and accusing.

“You were never just a pawn,” he said quietly, as if to her.

“But now... your death will write the next move.”

He turned, his silhouette vanishing into the darker part of the room as the screen sizzled behind him—cracked glass, static, and a war newly declared.

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The city’s lights flickered far below, unaware of the shadow leaning on the balcony above—still as death, yet burning within.

The moonlight washed over him, casting a silver sheen on his chiseled face, highlighting the stillness in his eyes that no longer blinked.

His hands rested on the railing, fingers tightening just enough to make the metal groan under his touch.

He wasn’t angry.

He was focused.

Those eyes… they held the weight of storms long buried and the hunger of a predator too patient to pounce.

His lashes quivered as the tears he didn’t let fall burned silently behind them. But they weren’t the tears of grief. They were rage disguised in sorrow.

Rage that someone dared to touch what was his.

A slow, dangerous smirk curled on his lips—one that never reached his eyes.

“He thinks I don’t know?”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

“That brat believes he can touch what belongs to me... and walk away untouched? Poor child. He doesn’t know yet… monsters don’t knock.”

He stepped back into the dim-lit room where shadows crept like loyal hounds. The air inside was colder, thicker, as if holding its breath.

He walked toward the shelf, his boots echoing softly. There stood the photo frame—still, untouched, and sacred. The picture inside was harmless on the surface: three laughing children holding a baby with a puppy nearby.

But his gaze didn’t roam over the group.

It locked onto her.

That tiny face. Those soft eyes. That unknowing smile.

His hand reached out slowly—delicate in its intention—and his thumb stroked her cheek through the glass. A gentle crease pressed into the spot like he was carving memory into flesh.

“You were always mine,” he whispered, voice melting into something dangerously soft.

“Even before you knew what love meant… I knew.”

He leaned closer, breath misting against the glass. His fingers trembled slightly—not from hesitation, but restraint.

“So innocent... untouched... perfect.”

“You don’t know how many nights I’ve stayed awake dreaming of the day you’d look at me the way I look at you.”

A shadow passed over his face, and in that moment, the warmth twisted into something colder.

“He thinks he can have you? That he can even touch you?”

“Foolish. No one touches what’s mine and walks away with breath in their lungs.”

He placed a soft kiss against the corner of the frame where her image lay, a haunting contrast to the violence simmering in his blood.

“Soon, my love... soon you’ll see the truth. I’ll tear down the world if I must. But you’ll be mine. In body, in soul, in fate.”

His voice was soft—velvet dipped in venom. Loving. Lethal.

He turned away from the frame, the moonlight catching the edge of his face once more. His reflection in the glass door behind him warped slightly, as if even the night flinched.

“Let the game begin, Rudra...”

“You’ve no idea who you’re playing with.”

A smirk ghosted across his lips.

A Game of Obsession.

A Game of Devotion. Twisted. Absolute. Terrifying.

A Game Where Love Isn’t Given—It’s Taken.

The first piece has moved.

Now blood will follow.

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𝙏𝙊 𝘽𝙀 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙐𝙀𝘿..