The others moved in beside Yug, forming a shaky but united line.

  Tarun, bleeding heavily from the spikes.

  Kritika holding her shoulder, but standing firm.

  Rishabh, bruised and furious.

  Anaya tightening her grip on the bat now returned to her hands.

  Vivek trembled, but refused to back down now.

  Six of them— now stood side by side.

  One single witty monster before them.

  Anaya lifted the bat close to her shoulder, smirking unevenly.

  “Round two, babysitter.”

  They all charged toward Sahil— every fist, every blade, every ounce of fury thrown forward.

  But Sahil? He only smiled.

  Tarun moved first.

  He launched himself forward like a charging bull, boots slamming against concrete, breath ripping out of his chest as he drove his shoulder and forehead straight into Sahil’s body.

  The impact echoed through the basement—bone against bone, muscle against muscle.

  Sahil staggered half a step back.

  But Tarun didn’t give him the chance to recover.

  He twisted around Sahil’s torso, locking his arms under Sahil’s ribs, fingers clawing for leverage—his whole body tensing as he lifted, preparing for a choke slam that could end everything before anyone else got dragged into this hell.

  Tarun didn’t want them involved.

  Didn’t want Yug, or Rishabh, or anyone else bleeding because of him.

  So he took the pain himself.

  Because beneath Sahil’s shirt, hidden under fabric and deception, a layer of small, inward-facing nails dug into Tarun’s forearms and chest.

  Each breath drove them deeper. Skin split.

  Blood welled. The metal bit into muscle.

  Tarun gritted his teeth but didn’t loosen his grip.

  He planted his feet—solid, unmoving—then subtly shifted his weight, rotating his stance inch by inch, dragging Tarun with him like a hooked animal.

  Tarun tried to slam him, tried to lift again, but Sahil controlled the angle, guiding the struggle exactly where he wanted it.

  Above them, a flickering bulb stuttered.

  Light.

  Dark.

  Light.

  In that brief flash of illumination, a thin wire glinted on the floor.

  Too late.

  Yug was already sprinting in.

  His knees hit the wire.

  There was a sharp metallic click.

  Sahil laughed.

  The sound was light. Almost amused.

  From the ceiling, three heavy axes dropped and swung forward in wide, murderous arcs. The first blade passed where Yug’s head had been a heartbeat ago.

  Rishabh didn’t think anymore. He lunged the moment he saw Yug's life on the line

  His shoulder slammed into Yug’s side, knocking him out of the path as the second axe split the air inches from Yug’s face.

  The third blade buried itself into the concrete wall, sending sparks screaming outward.

  Yug hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him, staring up at the swinging death above, frozen.

  Meanwhile when Yug still tried to comprehend what happened to him, Sahil never stopped moving.

  He kept pushing Tarun—step by step—forcing him backward toward the far wall. Tarun struggled, boots scraping, muscles screaming, trying to reverse the momentum.

  Then his back hit spikes.

  Exposed metal teeth jutted out from the wall—left bare by another earlier trap. They tore into him in the very next second.

  The spikes ripped through fabric, skin, and finally, deep into muscle.

  Tarun gasped, the sound bursting out of him as blood smeared the wall behind him. His grip finally failed—not from fear, but from sheer, unbearable pain.

  He stumbled back, leaving Sahil— Sahil stepped away smoothly, untouched.

  Tarun collapsed to one knee, breath ragged, back burning, blood soaking into his shirt as the axes continued to swing above them like ticking seconds.

  Sahil adjusted his posture calmly, wiping dust off his shoulders like he knew every single move that was about to come.

  The next moment, the axe struck back.

  It screamed through the air again, faster this time.

  Sahil stepped aside with lazy precision, the blade missing his face by inches before burying itself deep into the opposite wall.

  His face had that effortlessness, like he was already bored and asleep.

  Sahil turned his head slowly.

  Kritika stood there, chest heaving, fingers still trembling from the throw. Her eyes burned—not with fear, but rage sharpened into something dangerous.

  Sahil’s lips curved.

  But he never saw Anaya.

  The bat—heavy, studded with nails—came down swiftly, aimed straight at his spine. Sahil twisted at the last second, the air screaming where the bat should’ve connected.

  Anaya didn’t stop.

  She swung again. And again. And again

  Each strike was fueled by everything she had swallowed for years—every whisper, every stare, every broken piece of herself.

  Sahil moved backward, guiding her steps without her realizing it, letting her chase him deeper into the room.

  His smile never left.

  And then—

  Click.

  Anaya’s foot pressed down on the pressure plate. Her body locked instantly.

  Her nerves screamed and then went silent, her muscles seizing as if her own body had betrayed her. Her knees buckled, but she didn’t fall—she couldn’t even feel the floor anymore.

  Sahil flicked a switch.

  The room hummed in a steady, rising rhythm as magnets activated all at once.

  Phones tore out of pockets. Metal clattered violently across the floor. And Anaya’s bat—its nails screaming against the pull—ripped free from her hand, tearing skin as it flew.

  The neural shock didn't let her scream either.

  Not when the bat left—but when her nose ring was yanked out, flesh tearing as blood burst down her face in a sudden, horrifying flood.

  Sahil clapped. Once. Twice.

  Laughing like a child who’d just won a game.

  His joy didn't last long before dust exploded into his face.

  Fine powder burned his eyes, blinding him for half a second.

  That was all Vivek needed.

  He leapt.

  Vivek slammed into Sahil’s body, arms wrapping around his torso, legs locking tight, his hands clawing at Sahil’s face, covering his eyes like a desperate animal. His weight dragged Sahil back a step.

  “NOW!” Rishabh shouted.

  Yug didn’t hesitate.

  He planted a foot on Rishabh’s back and launched himself forward, body airborne, every muscle screaming as he flew straight at Sahil.

  But Sahil was already moving.

  He hurled Vivek aside like dead weight.

  Vivek hit the ground hard, skidding across concrete.

  Sahil stepped out of Yug’s path at the last second.

  Yug slammed headfirst into the wall.

  His skull cracked against a metal switch.

  Click.

  The basement screamed.

  A high-pitched frequency tore through the air, sharp enough to feel like needles inside the ears. Yug collapsed instantly, clutching his head as blood leaked from his ears, his screams swallowed by the sound itself.

  And then the floor gave way beneath him.

  Yug dropped.

  The walls of the next chamber began to move—slowly, relentlessly—closing in, grinding inward with mechanical hunger.

  Crush him. Pulverize him. Erase him.

  That was what the walls aimed to do.

  Bones would not survive that.

  Flesh wouldn’t either.

  Sahil stood above the pit, wiping dust from his eyes, his smile settling back into place as if nothing had happened at all.

  By that time, Tarun managed to tear himself free.

  Blood soaked his shirt. Pain burned through his abdomen and back, but he ran anyway—fast, reckless, refusing to fall. Every step was forced. Every breath tasted like iron.

  Sahil saw him coming.

  “You want to protect everyone, don’t you?”

  His fingers flicked a switch and almost instantly, a bright light exploded.

  The harsh white beam ignited overhead, flooding the basement in a blinding glare. Before Tarun could shield his eyes, Sahil raised a mirror—polished, precise—and angled it just enough.

  The light slammed straight into Tarun’s vision.

  White. Nothing but white.

  And his world vanished.

  He staggered, hands reaching for something solid, his eyes burning, vision tearing apart in fragments.

  Sahil stepped closer.

  “But you still couldn’t protect your brother that night.”

  Tarun froze.

  The words didn’t land—they made his stomach drop like a memory scraped back open.

  His chest tightened. His breath caught. Half his mind stayed in the basement.

  The other half fell backward in time.

  ——————————————

  Rain hammered the night. The world was a blur of water and shadows in the night of 2016.

  Tarun, barely seven, knelt beside his brother, a boy of twelve, pale and still.

  His vest hung in tatters, shorts soaked and clinging to him. Hunger had hollowed his cheeks; weakness made his limbs tremble.

  Yet, his hands shook as he pressed against his brother’s chest, desperate for a heartbeat that wasn’t there.

  “Breathe… please… just breathe…” His voice cracked, small sobs breaking through the rain, mingling with the thunder above.

  The floor beneath them was slick, not just with rainwater, but a spreading pool of blood around his brother’s head.

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  The metallic scent filled the air, sharp and choking. Every drop glimmered like a cruel reminder— life had fled.

  Tarun’s small fingers traced the lifeless face, shaking, pleading, refusing to accept what had happened. The pulse was gone. The warmth, gone.

  From the shadows behind him, a hand gripped the neck of a beer bottle. The glass gleamed under the storm’s sporadic flashes of lightning.

  The fingers wrapped around it, white-knuckled, tight enough to crush.

  Tarun didn’t see it yet—but the cold promise of violence was already there, lingering in the air like a dark storm cloud.

  ——————————————

  The present snapped back violently.

  Glass shattered.

  Sahil smashed a beer bottle against the table, the sound sharp and final. Jagged edges gleamed in his grip.

  Before Tarun could react, Sahil drove the broken end forward.

  It sank into Tarun’s abdomen.

  Blood spilled instantly, warm and unstoppable, soaking his hands as his body folded. His knees hit the floor.

  The bottle stayed lodged there, trembling with every breath he tried to take and Tarun collapsed.

  Kritika surged forward, fury overtaking fear. Vivek knelt beside Anaya, shaking her shoulders, desperately trying to wake her body from paralysis.

  “Left!” Rishabh shouted. “Now—go left!”

  Kritika followed his voice, weapon raised— but light flashed from the mirror again.

  Sahil redirected the beam straight into her eyes.

  She cried out, vision flaring white, stumbling back, and Sahil was already gone.

  He appeared beside Rishabh.

  And the next thing Rishabh felt was concrete meeting skull.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Again.

  And again

  Rishabh’s body slumped, blood tracing down the wall as he slid toward the floor. But before he lost consciousness, his hand found the barbed wire embedded in Sahil’s leg.

  He twisted it hard, the wire tearing deeper into Sahil's flesh. He hissed, his knee buckling for a fraction of a second.

  That was Rishabh’s chance.

  He drew back and punched with everything he had left— the hit landed, Sahil staggered half a step.

  Then smiled.

  “Is that it?”

  He struck back once.

  Rishabh dropped instantly, his body hitting the ground without resistance.

  Silence followed—heavy, broken only by breathing, blood dripping, and distant mechanical hums.

  Kritika’s fury burned like wildfire. Every muscle in her body screamed for retaliation.

  She launched herself forward, axe raised, her hair whipping around her face, teeth gritted, lungs burning.

  Every step echoed off the concrete, a promise of retribution.

  Sahil didn’t flinch. He stood perfectly still, calm, a predator anticipating its prey. His smile was cold and deliberate.

  “Do you remember Yash?” he asked, each word slicing through the air.

  Before she could answer, his hand shot out, lightning-fast. It wrapped around her hair, pulling her backward with a sharp, violent jerk.

  Pain exploded across her scalp, sharp enough to make her knees wobble. Her vision narrowed into red streaks of fury.

  And then his other hand moved, ghostlike, to her neck. He traced the jagged, uneven marks left by the countless needle pricks, lingering as if admiring them.

  “You really got a lot of doses of the medicine,” he murmured, voice dripping with mockery. “I supplied each one to Yash.”

  Kritika’s chest heaved, rage bubbling into pure, wild desperation.

  ——————————————

  White. Endless. Sterile.

  Polished to a sheen that reflected every light too harsh to look at directly. Kritika sat on a small metal bench, the thin hospital gown clinging to her shoulders.

  Every movement made the fabric whisper against her skin.

  Around her, thousands of other children, all dressed identically, shuffled silently. Eyes wide. Expressions blank. Fear was a shared language here, though few spoke it aloud.

  The silence cracked. The door swung open with a metallic creak.

  “Kritika,” a voice called, smooth, commanding, almost clinical. “It’s time for the new shoot.”

  Her heart stuttered. She looked up, eyes wide, scanning the room. The man stepped inside, calm and deliberate.

  In his hand, he held a needle, glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights.

  The needle wasn’t just a needle—it was the embodiment of everything she feared. Her stomach twisted.

  Her palms sweated. Her legs wanted to run, but the sterile floor offered no escape.

  She tried to speak, tried to say no, tried to protest—but the words lodged in her throat.

  All she could do was stare, frozen, as the man approached, needle in hand, a faint, cruel smile curving his lips.

  Every instinct screamed at her to flee. But there was no fleeing. Only waiting. Only suffering.

  The world narrowed to that needle, that hand, that moment.

  ——————————————

  In the present, fury engulfed her whole.

  She broke free from his grip and swung her hand with every ounce of strength she had left. Careless, reckless, fueled entirely by anger.

  Thunk.

  Finally, one blow connected. The axe sank into Sahil’s shoulder with a solid impact. Kritika staggered back slightly, chest heaving, eyes blazing, blood pumping through her veins.

  But Sahil’s expression didn’t change even when blood sprayed out of his shoulder.

  Cold. Calculated. Ruthless.

  With a swift, mechanical precision, he slammed her hand into the wall—the same jagged spikes that had once torn into Tarun.

  Metal bit into her palm, hot, cruel, unyielding. Pain shot up her arm in jagged bursts, stealing her breath, making her scream.

  Vivek’s blood boiled. Rage consumed him. He grabbed the metal-nail bat, swinging with reckless fury, and hurled it at Sahil like a spear.

  Air whistled around the weapon, a promise of vengeance.

  But Sahil wasn’t there. He had already moved, vanishing from the bat’s path like smoke curling in the air.

  Anaya, lurking behind, caught the flying bat instinctively. Her arms tensed, eyes narrowing, and she raised it high. She was ready.

  “Disgusting lesbian.”

  ——————————————

  "Anaya doesn't even like boys."

  "She's disgusting."

  "Isn't that why she's always with Tara?"

  Cruel and sharp laughter exploded all around, and reached the corner that held Anaya shedding her tears.

  All of a sudden, she raised her head to see a hand— Ronak's hand.

  But Anaya's eyes were gleaming with hatred.

  Her eyes were red and the voice was trembling with rage and betrayal.

  "You told them, Ronak! You were the only one who knew all of it!"

  Anaya's shoulder shook, tears spilled freely and uncontrollably.

  Tara arrived, concerned. She didn't hesitate— she moved Ronak aside.

  "Give her space. She needs it."

  She guided Anaya to a room in a corner.

  All the words, in an attempt to comfort her, barely reached the surface of Anaya's storm.

  ——————————————

  The words hit her like a physical blow in the present, like the betrayal just happened moments ago, hammering into her chest.

  Shock froze her muscles for a heartbeat, hesitation snapping her rhythm.

  Sahil didn’t wait. In a fluid motion, he slammed her into the wall. The impact rattled through her bones.

  A hidden trap clicked. Cold steel bit into her wrists. The cuffs snapped shut, tightening slowly, mercilessly.

  Her muscles tensed, nerves screaming, pain shooting in waves up her arms.

  She thrashed, struggling against the merciless mechanical grip. Each movement made it worse, the cuffs constricting further, grinding against bone, tearing skin.

  Blood pooled, dripping down her arms. Her face twisted in a silent scream, the bat slipping from her fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground.

  Sahil didn’t move like a fighter—he moved like a spider, watching, calculating, waiting. His smile never wavered.

  Every movement, every word, every trap triggered, was designed not just to injure, but to break them.

  And still, there was no panic in his gaze.

  Only anticipation.

  The kind of calm that belonged to someone who knew the entire room, every edge, every lever, every possibility.

  Vivek’s chest heaved, every breath ragged, his limbs trembling from fear. Panic clawed at him like jagged knives, but he couldn’t just move.

  Kritika, blood streaking her face, one hand pressed against her wounds, shot him a look that was fierce and desperate, all at once.

  “Do something… now!” Her voice was hoarse, broken, yet commanding.

  The words struck him like a hammer, igniting a spark of courage deep within. His limbs moved almost on instinct, reckless and desperate.

  He lunged forward.

  Sahil’s grin spread wider, sharp and predatory. “You are in no place to do anything,” he said, his voice a low, poisonous rumble. “You stole your mother’s savings.”

  The accusation hit Vivek like a physical blow, twisting his stomach and freezing him for a fraction of a second.

  Sahil’s hand shot out, iron-clad, wrapping around Vivek’s neck. The grip was merciless, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing, his feet kicking futilely.

  Sahil’s eyes glimmered with cruel amusement, relishing the fear that coursed through him.

  “The same money she saved… with sweat… with blood,” Sahil spat, each word a sharp whip that cut through the air.

  ——————————————

  It was late—far past midnight.

  Around three in the morning.

  The house slept.

  Ceiling fans hummed softly. A distant dog barked once, then went silent. Even the walls seemed to breathe slowly, as if afraid to wake anyone.

  Vivek moved through the darkness barefoot, each step careful, rehearsed. His heart pounded louder than his footsteps. He paused near his mother’s bed, watching her chest rise and fall in steady rhythm.

  She looked exhausted even in sleep.

  Her hand rested near her neck, the thin chain glinting faintly in the moonlight. The key hung there—small, ordinary, harmless.

  Vivek swallowed.

  His fingers trembled as he reached out. For a moment, he hesitated, frozen between guilt and desperation. Then he gently lifted the chain, sliding the key free with aching slowness, as if the sound of metal might wake the world.

  He moved to the corner of the room.

  The locker waited.

  Cold. Silent. Heavy.

  The key turned with a soft click that felt deafening in the stillness. Vivek flinched, glancing back toward his mother—but she didn’t stir.

  Inside, neatly stacked, was everything.

  Every note. Every folded bill.

  Months. Years. Sweat. Sacrifice.

  Money she had saved for him.

  For his future.

  Vivek stared at it, his vision blurring. His chest tightened, breath catching halfway in. His hands reached in anyway—mechanical, detached—as if they didn’t belong to him anymore.

  He took the money out slowly.

  Not greedily.

  Not eagerly.

  But with a half-mind.

  Pain sat heavy in his throat. Sadness burned behind his eyes. Desperation pressed against his ribs until it hurt to breathe.

  “I’ll fix this,” he whispered to no one.

  But the promise felt thin even as he made it.

  He closed the locker.

  Returned the key.

  Slipped back into the dark.

  Behind him, his mother slept on—unaware that everything she had saved with blood and patience had just been taken by the very person she trusted most.

  And Vivek walked away carrying the weight of a mistake that would follow him into hell.

  ——————————————

  Vivek’s mind raced. Panic surged, but instinct took over. His hand grabbed a small pouch of dust lying on the ground.

  With a desperate flick, he threw it straight into Sahil’s face.

  Fine powder exploded in a cloud, burning and choking. Sahil’s head snapped back, eyes closing instinctively, a hiss of irritation escaping his lips. For a brief, fleeting second, Vivek saw an opening.

  He twisted, dropped, and scrambled free, adrenaline surging like liquid fire through his veins.

  But Sahil’s reflexes were inhuman. In a heartbeat, he had recovered, spinning with predatory grace.

  His leg arced in a perfect, brutal 540° strike. Vivek didn’t have time to react.

  The kick connected with his face, sending him flying backward.

  Concrete hit flesh, blood spattering as pain erupted through his skull, teeth clattering in impact.

  Vivek hit the ground hard, sliding across the floor. The world spun violently, every nerve screaming.

  The taste of iron and dust filled his mouth.

  He tried to rise, tried to fight back, but the world seemed to tilt around him, Sahil’s laughter cutting through the chaos like a blade—calm, mocking, untouchable.

  For a moment, everything seemed frozen—the metallic tang of blood, the sharp sting of dust in his eyes, the echo of Sahil’s amusement.

  And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the pain, a new determination began to simmer in Vivek’s chest.

  The basement had gone quiet in the ugliest way possible. Not silence, but defeat.

  Bodies lay scattered across the concrete like broken props from a discarded play.

  Yug lay curled near the collapsed pit, clutching his head, blood streaking from his ears.

  Rishabh hadn’t moved since his skull hit the wall—his chest rose, barely.

  Kritika knelt on one knee, one arm limp, breathing sharp and uneven.

  Anaya was still trapped against the wall, wrists locked, teeth clenched hard enough to crack.

  Vivek lay sprawled near her, coughing, vision swimming.

  And Tarun—

  Tarun was half-conscious near the spikes, blood soaking through his shirt, eyes unfocused but still open. Still watching.

  In the middle of it all stood Sahil.

  Unhurt enough to smile.

  He rolled his shoulders slowly, as if loosening up after a warm-up round, boots crunching softly as he stepped through the wreckage of traps, wires, and bodies. His breathing was calm. Controlled. Almost bored.

  He looked at them one by one.

  Measured the damage. Satisfied.

  “Well,” Sahil said lightly, clapping once, the sound echoing too loudly in the ruined space, “that was… disappointing.”

  He crouched briefly near Rishabh, tilting his head, watching the faint rise of his chest. Then he stood again and turned in a slow circle, arms spread.

  “Six of you,” he continued. “All that planning. All that unity.”

  A soft chuckle escaped him.

  “And you still couldn’t touch me.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter.

  The click was deafening.

  A small flame bloomed to life, warm and steady, reflected in Sahil’s eyes. He glanced around at the hanging wires, the leaking fuel canisters, the exposed insulation torn open during the fight.

  Sahil inhaled deeply, like a man about to enjoy a favorite habit.

  “Let’s end this properly,” he murmured.

  And then—

  THWIP.

  Something sliced through the air.

  So fast it didn’t make a sound until it was already past him.

  The arrow grazed Sahil’s cheek, tearing skin just enough for a thin red line to appear, before burying itself deep into the concrete wall behind him with a violent crack.

  The lighter slipped from Sahil’s fingers and clattered uselessly to the floor.

  For a moment, his smile didn’t fade.

  He touched his cheek slowly. Looked at the blood on his fingertips.

  “Huh,” he said, amused. “Who uses an arrow?”

  He turned lazily toward the wall. Examined the shaft embedded there.

  “Whoever you are,” Sahil added, tilting his head, “that was a really bad aim—”

  But suddenly, his words died in his throat.

  Because he saw it.

  Carved cleanly into the arrowhead.

  Three letters.

  B. L. C.

  The color drained from his face so fast it looked unnatural.

  His smile collapsed—not twisted, not shaken—gone.

  A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

  Then another.

  His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

  “No,” he whispered, barely audible.

  The arrowhead clicked.

  A sharp mechanical snap.

  And then it burst.

  Smoke exploded outward in a violent white cloud, swallowing the basement in seconds. Thick. Choking. Absolute.

  Tarun coughed, vision blurring further—but through the haze, he saw movement.

  Footsteps.

  Slow. Heavy. Controlled.

  Two figures emerged from the smoke.

  Both dressed in perfectly tailored black suits, untouched by dust or blood. Their presence alone felt wrong—like the air itself had stiffened around them.

  One of them calmly removed his glove.

  Metal gleamed beneath it.

  Tarun’s breath caught.

  His eyes widened—not in confusion.

  In recognition. In fear.

  With what little strength he had left, Tarun dragged himself backward, inch by inch, into the farthest corner of the basement, pressing himself into the shadows. His body screamed in protest, but instinct screamed louder.

  Do not be here.

  Do not be seen.

  The men stepped forward as if the world had already made space for them.

  And Sahil—

  Sahil stood frozen.

  The smoke curled around him like a warning.

  Like a verdict.

  For the first time that night, the hunter understood exactly what it felt like to be prey.

  The smoke swallowed everything.

  It rolled across the basement in thick, choking waves, swallowing the lights, the traps, the blood on the floor—swallowing even sound for a heartbeat before replacing it with something far worse.

  The group couldn’t see.

  They could only hear.

  Fists colliding with flesh—heavy, precise, merciless. Metal striking bone with a dull, final thud. The sharp whistle of arrows cutting through smoke, followed by wet, sickening impacts.

  No shouting. No taunts. No laughter.

  Only efficiency.

  Minutes passed. Five. Maybe seven. Time stretched, warped, bled into the smoke itself.

  Then, slowly, the fog began to thin.

  The room emerged in pieces.

  First the floor—streaked with blood that wasn’t there before. Then the walls—scarred, cracked, punctured. Then finally, the shape hanging at the far end of the basement.

  Sahil Malhotra.

  Pinned to the wall by a single arrow driven clean through his shoulder, deep enough to hold his weight. His feet barely touched the ground, toes dragging uselessly against concrete smeared red beneath him.

  His body was ruined.

  His pastel shirt—once neat, once deliberate—was soaked through, no trace of its original color left. Blood clung to him in layers, dark and fresh and drying all at once. Cuts and bruises mapped his arms, his ribs, his neck. One side of his face was swollen, his jaw hanging just slightly wrong.

  And the smile—

  The smile was gone.

  No curve at the lips. No mockery in his eyes. Only pain. Sharp. Undeniable. And beneath it, something far worse.

  Defeat.

  His head lolled forward, breath ragged, each inhale sounding like it scraped against broken glass inside his chest. The boyish softness that once made him believable—harmless, trustworthy—had been beaten out of him completely.

  What hung there now wasn’t a mastermind. Wasn’t a puppeteer. Wasn’t a god behind a speaker.

  It was a man who had lost.

  The traps released one by one.

  Metal unclamped with dull thuds. Wires slackened. The pressure plates went dead beneath their feet. One by one, the group collapsed free of Sahil’s maze, bodies hitting the floor like discarded weapons.

  Two figures stood where Sahil had ruled moments ago.

  The first man pulled his gloves back onto his hands with deliberate care.

  Kabir Mahajan.

  He stood a little over six feet tall, broad-shouldered but lean, built like someone who never wasted motion. His black suit fit him perfectly—no creases, no dust, not even a loose thread His hair was cut short, disciplined, almost military. His face was calm to the point of emptiness.

  And where his left ear should have been—

  there was nothing.

  No scar theatrics. No explanation.

  Just absence.

  The second man stood beside him, adjusting the strap of his quiver.

  Arjun Sethi.

  Same height as Kabir, but built lighter—relaxed in posture, dangerous in ease. His hair was tied back into a loose man bun, strands falling carelessly near his face. An eyepatch covered his right eye, black against his skin, giving him a strangely casual, almost playful look that didn’t match the violence he had.

  He rolled his shoulders once, like stretching after a long walk.

  Neither of them had a scratch.

  Not a stain.

  Not a wrinkle.

  Kabir stepped forward and yanked the arrow free without warning.

  Sahil screamed.

  Just raw.

  They dragged him down, his back scraping against the concrete, against his own traps—spikes, wires, mechanisms he had built with pride now biting into him like punishment. Sahil groaned, breath hitching, reality finally settling into his bones.

  Then—

  Anaya stepped forward.

  She blocked their path.

  The bat hung in her hands, its metal nails dark. Her shoulders shook—not with fear, but with something deeper, heavier.

  Rage. Hurt. Memory.

  Kabir and Arjun stopped.

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Then Arjun tilted his head slightly, studying her like a puzzle he already understood. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “Yeah,” he said calmly, almost amused.

  “Go on.”

  Arjun continued, voice light.

  “Make him feel it.”

  A pause.

  “The pain he loves so much.”

  Anaya didn’t hesitate.

  She screamed—not words, not sound—just emotion tearing its way out of her chest as she swung the bat down on Sahil’s ribs.

  Crack.

  Blood sprayed.

  Sahil howled, body jerking uselessly as the second blow landed, then a third. Each hit echoed through the basement, raw and unfiltered.

  Anaya struck until her arms burned, until her voice broke, until everything inside her emptied out onto him.

  She let it all out— every single moment she had been living with the rage.

  She hit him for all the time Ronak had to bear her anger, and all the band members had to.

  Then she stopped.

  Breathing hard. Shaking.

  The men grabbed Sahil again and resumed dragging him toward the exit.

  Sahil laughed weakly through blood and spit, hysteria finally breaking him.

  “No… no—this can’t be it,” he rasped.

  “My plans don’t fail.”

  His voice cracked.

  “I am the smartest of the Dwitiya Yuktam (The Second Era)!”

  Silence followed.

  Then—

  Kabir and Arjun looked at each other.

  And laughed.

  Not mocking laughter.

  Not cruel.

  The kind you laugh when something is genuinely ridiculous.

  Kabir finally spoke, voice flat and final.

  “You haven’t seen the world.”

  They moved again.

  As they passed Tarun—slumped against the wall, barely conscious—their laughter died instantly.

  Kabir slowed just enough to press something into Tarun’s hand.

  A pendrive.

  Their eyes met for half a second.

  Then they were gone.

  The room felt smaller without them.

  Rishabh, Kritika, and Vivek rushed to the pit, hauling Yug out together, hands trembling, bodies screaming in pain but refusing to stop.

  In the corner, Anaya knelt.

  She wiped the bat slowly, carefully, as if cleaning something sacred.

  Blood smeared.

  Then dripped.

  A tear fell onto the metal.

  Then another.

  She smiled through them.

  Not happiness.

  Not relief.

  Release.

  ——————————————

  A few days later, morning crept in quietly.

  Not the kind that felt hopeful—just routine.

  Vivek sat on the edge of his bed, already dressed for school. His eyes were hollow, rimmed red.

  His mother moved about the house behind him, the soft clink of utensils carrying into the room.

  He could still see it—his own hands shaking in the dark, the locker opening, the money stacked neatly, trusted to him.

  Then—

  something felt wrong.

  He lifted his head slowly.

  There, near the cupboard, sat a suitcase.

  Black. Clean. Untouched by dust.

  Stamped clearly on its side was a symbol he recognized instantly.

  BLC.

  His breath hitched.

  For a moment, he didn’t move—like the thing might disappear if he acknowledged it.

  Then he stood, legs trembling, and crossed the room one step at a time.

  His fingers hovered over the latches.

  Click.

  Click.

  The suitcase opened.

  Inside—

  bundles of money.

  Every note. Every stack.

  Exactly what he had taken.

  Vivek’s knees gave out.

  He collapsed to the floor, clutching the edge of the suitcase as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

  His chest tightened, breath coming in broken gasps as the weight he’d been carrying for days finally crushed him.

  A sound escaped his throat—half sob, half laugh.

  He grabbed one bundle, then another, pressing them to his chest like proof that this wasn’t a hallucination.

  “Maa,” he whispered.

  Then louder, voice cracking, “Maa!”

  She rushed in, alarm flashing across her face.

  “What happened? Are you hurt—?”

  Vivek turned to her, tears pouring freely now, unable to stop them. He scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his face into her shoulder like a frightened child.

  “I’m sorry,” he choked out.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She froze for a second—then slowly lifted her arms and held him back, confused but gentle, her hand resting on his head.

  “It’s okay,” she said softly. “Whatever it is… it’s okay.”

  The questions were right there—on her lips, in her expression.

  But she didn’t ask.

  She just pulled him in, holding him tighter this time, as Vivek finally let himself cry properly—ugly, shaking sobs that tore out of him without restraint.

  Not tears of fear anymore.

  Tears of relief.

  Tears of being forgiven without needing to explain.

  Outside, the morning went on as usual.

  But inside that small house, something broken had finally been fixed.

  ——————————————

  Morning light enlightened the corridors of Silver Oak Academy, pale and ordinary, as if the basement never existed.

  Yug limped down the hallway on a borrowed crutch, every step stiff and measured. One leg dragged slightly, the bruise beneath the bandages still deep and angry.

  Rishabh walked beside him, his head wrapped thickly, one side of his face still swollen enough to dull his expressions.

  Kritika followed, her arm locked in plaster, the sling biting into her shoulder with every movement.

  The storage room waited at the end of the corridor. Their room.

  The one place that had always felt like theirs.

  “Where’s Vivek?” Rishabh asked casually, breaking the silence.

  Kritika shrugged lightly. “He’s always late. Nothing new.”

  Yug didn’t respond. His eyes were on his phone.

  One missed call.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Tarun.

  No answer.

  Yug tried again, jaw tightening as the call rang out and died. He lowered the phone slowly, unease crawling up his spine.

  Rishabh noticed. “Relax,” he said. “He took the worst of it. He’s probably just resting.”

  Kritika smiled—soft, certain. “Yeah. It’s Tarun Singh. He’ll be fine.”

  That name usually carried weight. Strength. Reassurance.

  But still, there was something wrong that ate Yug from inside.

  He nodded anyway, forcing a breath, forcing calm. He reached for the storage room door and pushed it open.

  The hinges creaked.

  They stepped inside.

  And every smile vanished.

  The room was exactly the same—and completely wrong.

  On the wall, still taped crookedly in the same place, was the chart paper they’d made weeks ago—their exam preparation plan, scribbled with dates, subjects, careless jokes in the margins.

  But the plan was totally covered.

  Written over it, in large, uneven letters, was a message.

  The handwriting was shaky. Hurried.

  As if the hand that wrote it had been trembling—either from pain, or from knowing there was no time left.

  "Thank you for everything

  —Tarun"