Back to the present.

  Tarun’s arms trembled as he held the lifeless child, the small body impossibly still against his bloodstained shirt.

  Slowly, his eyes flickered upward— from the child in his arms to Arjun standing a few feet away, laughing.

  Arjun tilted his head slightly, the eyepatch casting a darker shadow across his face.

  “Isn’t this how that Aman died?”

  The words didn’t echo. They detonated.

  Something inside Tarun tore open.

  The grief, the guilt, the conditioning, the suppressed fury— all of it surged at once.

  His breathing broke into a raw snarl as he gently lowered the child and rose in one fluid, violent motion.

  Blood slipped from the corners of his eyes as he lunged forward, merciless and feral, like a starving, wounded lion unleashed.

  He screamed— not in pain, but in awakening.

  Tarun exploded forward on all fours.

  His palms slammed against the floor with animalistic force, muscles snapping and stretching like cables under strain.

  He didn’t look human anymore.

  His breathing had turned into guttural snarls, teeth clenched, blood streaking from the corners of his eyes.

  Arjun’s grin flickered.

  “Hey— hey! Calm down!” he yelped, hopping backward like a startled kid while pulling arrows from his quiver.

  “This isn’t your circus!”

  Tarun didn’t hear a word.

  He mindlessly charged.

  Arjun fired— one arrow, then another, the shafts slicing through the air in sharp whistles.

  But every shot landed inches away, embedding into the floor and walls, carefully missing their target.

  Tarun lunged again.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  The distance between them collapsed in seconds.

  Arjun had just begun pulling another arrow when Tarun’s arm slashed forward, nails on his fingers curled like claws ready to rip through flesh.

  The strike connected instantly.

  Arjun’s body jolted as the impact sent him sliding backward across the polished floor.

  But something was wrong.

  Tarun froze mid-motion.

  No blood.

  No wound.

  Arjun stood upright, perfectly unharmed.

  Tarun growled low in his throat, confusion flickering across the feral rage in his eyes.

  Slowly, he lifted his hand.

  And stared.

  His nails were gone.

  Clean.

  Smooth.

  Tarun’s head tilted downward.

  Five thin slivers of keratin lay scattered across the ground near his feet.

  Sliced off.

  Perfectly.

  A deeper growl crawled out of his throat as his gaze lifted again.

  Arjun stood several meters away now, twirling the arrow between his fingers like a dagger.

  The sharp metal edge glinted under the lights.

  “That look suits you,” Arjun hummed, amused. “Very… prehistoric.”

  Tarun lowered his stance again.

  Ready to tear him apart anyway.

  Arjun casually grabbed the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt with his free hand.

  But before he could even lift it—

  Tarun exploded forward again.

  The distance vanished in a blur.

  Arjun’s eyes widened.

  He hopped back instantly, narrowly dodging the incoming slash as Tarun’s hand ripped through empty air where his throat had been a moment ago.

  “Okay—!”

  Arjun clicked the walkie.

  “Guys, save me! Send reinforcements, now!”

  His voice sounded dramatically terrified.

  Almost theatrical.

  The message blasted through the channel loud enough for three other people listening nearby.

  On the staircase below, Yug froze mid-step.

  Kritika and Vivek looked up at him instantly.

  Yug didn’t hesitate.

  “They’re coming for him,” he said sharply. “We need to help him.”

  Tarun’s survival depended on it.

  Without another word, the three turned and bolted down the emergency staircase.

  Boots thundered against metal steps as they descended floor after floor, hearts pounding.

  Determined.

  And terrified of what Tarun had become upstairs.

  ——————————————

  The emergency stairwell door burst open onto the fourteenth floor, and the moment Yug, Vivek, and Kritika stepped through it they froze at the sight waiting for them.

  A large group of standard guards was already marching up the corridor toward the staircase, their heavy boots echoing through the hallway as they closed the distance in seconds.

  “Great,” Vivek muttered under his breath.

  There was no room to retreat.

  The three charged.

  Yug slammed into the first guard with his shoulder, knocking him backward into another man, while Vivek swung a quick punch that sent someone staggering to the side.

  For a brief moment, the line broke, but the advantage disappeared almost instantly.

  More guards surged forward from behind, surrounding them with crushing numbers.

  Hands grabbed Yug’s arms and collar, dragging him down as someone wrapped an arm around his neck.

  Vivek tried to twist free, but two guards tackled him from the side and forced him to the ground.

  Within seconds both of them were buried under a pile of bodies, struggling for breath as the guards tried to pin them down completely.

  Then suddenly, out of the blue—

  HSSSSSSSSSS!

  A violent blast of freezing white mist exploded across the hallway.

  The guards recoiled instantly as a jet of CO? shot straight into their faces.

  The sudden cloud spread through the corridor, forcing several of them to stumble back while others coughed and shielded their eyes.

  Yug pushed himself up, gasping for air, and saw Kritika standing a few steps ahead of them.

  She held a fire extinguisher in both hands, bracing it against her shoulder as she blasted another freezing spray toward the guards, sweeping the nozzle across them like a weapon.

  “Back off!” she shouted.

  The guards staggered through the fog, slipping slightly on the frost forming across the floor.

  Yug and Vivek hurried toward her.

  But just as they reached her side, Kritika suddenly lifted the extinguisher high above her head in irritation.

  “Why— why don’t they have any weapons?!”

  Vivek’s eyes widened in pure panic.

  “No, no! What are you—”

  Before he could finish, Yug grabbed his collar and yanked him downward.

  Both of them ducked just as Kritika swung the heavy extinguisher down with full force.

  WHAM!

  Two guards rushing them took the hit directly to their heads and collapsed instantly.

  Vivek slowly raised his head, realization dawning across his face.

  “…Oh.”

  Kritika glanced down at him and gave a quick wink, smile soaked with wit.

  Behind them the guards were already recovering, coughing through the fading cloud as they began advancing again.

  The three stepped forward together, preparing to fight.

  Yug frowned slightly, still confused even in the middle of the chaos.

  “Actually…” he said, glancing at the crowd again.

  “Why are they unarmed?”

  ——————————————

  The 13th floor corridor was unusually quiet, the sterile lights above casting pale reflections across the polished floor.

  At the end of the hallway stood a reinforced steel door with bold letters etched across its surface.

  'WEAPONS STORAGE'

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  A group of guards crowded in front of it.

  One of them pushed the door with both hands, expecting at least a slight movement.

  The metal frame only gave a dull thud in response.

  “Try the scanner,” another said impatiently.

  A guard stepped forward with a security card already in his hand.

  He swiped it across the reader beside the door.

  Beep.

  The light above the scanner blinked yellow.

  The door remained shut.

  The guard frowned and tried again, pressing the card more firmly this time.

  Beep.

  Yellow again.

  A small notification appeared on the digital panel above the scanner.

  'LOCKDOWN ACTIVE'

  The guards exchanged uneasy glances.

  “So the lockdown already triggered…” one of them muttered under his breath.

  Without access to the room, the guards had no firearms, no batons, nothing except their bare hands.

  At that moment, a walkie-talkie crackled loudly in one of their belts.

  “Hello? Hello?!”

  The guards immediately grabbed the radio.

  Arjun’s voice came through the static, unusually loud and dramatic.

  “Oh shit! That guy’s bullying me!” he shouted.

  The guards stiffened in confusion.

  “Save me, please!”

  Despite the panic in his voice, there was a strange playful tone hiding underneath.

  One guard pressed the button to reply.

  “Sir, we don’t have access to the weapons room—”

  Arjun cut him off immediately.

  “Forget the weapons!” he yelled.

  His voice rose even higher, almost sounding like he was about to cry.

  “I don’t want to die here!”

  A loud crash echoed faintly through the radio.

  That was enough.

  “Move!” one guard shouted.

  The entire group turned and rushed toward the staircase, their boots echoing down the corridor as they ran toward the lower floors.

  Behind them, the weapons room door remained sealed under the silent authority of the lockdown.

  ——————————————

  Farhan clashed with the tray, the impact throwing him harshly to the ground, his back burning from the fall.

  Pain radiated through his arm, but he didn’t hesitate.

  His broken left hand— swollen, jagged, stabilized by a crude rod terminating in a makeshift knife— snapped forward like a striking serpent.

  The knife grazed just below Uday’s chest, missing the heart by a hair’s breadth.

  Time froze.

  Both brothers halted mid-step, eyes widening at the audacity.

  Uday’s gaze didn’t linger on the knife wound— it slid to his palm, where a finger had been severed long ago.

  Blood dripped in thick rivulets, but he barely flinched.

  Pratap reacted instantly, extracting a tourniquet from the shelf, binding Uday’s chest with practiced precision.

  Rage flashed in Pratap’s eyes, but when he turned back to Farhan— he was gone.

  Silence fell.

  Then a whisper of movement cut through the air, almost imperceptible, and Farhan reappeared, swinging another tray like a frisbee with lethal elegance.

  The clang of steel against steel reverberated as Uday blocked a strike with his hammer.

  Sparks erupted from contact, bouncing across the blackened mirrors and shattered glass littering the floor.

  Pratap hurled his hammer, spinning it like a deadly killing weapon.

  Farhan twisted midair, letting it glance past him, and the hammer smashed into the blackened mirror behind, shattering it in a spray of jagged, glinting shards.

  The fragments reflected the chaos in fractured angles— shadows of the three fighters tangled in violence.

  Farhan picked the hammer from the ground, flinging it back.

  But Uday’s hammer was already arcing through the air.

  Impact came fast and merciless.

  Farhan’s head absorbed the blow— he crumpled near the jagged shards, motionless, a pause that seemed permanent.

  The brothers advanced with precision, hands reaching for their hammers, ready to finish him.

  The room thrummed with tension, every step calculated, every breath measured.

  And then— Farhan’s mouth snapped open.

  Shards of glass, carefully concealed, shot from his lips, spattering across Pratap’s face.

  Cuts laced across his skin, blood seeping, but he didn’t falter.

  Farhan’s lips split, crimson seeping from the corners, but the fire in his eyes warned that he had one last play.

  He raised his left arm, knife poised to strike.

  Uday met it with a hammer, shattering the makeshift blade.

  Pratap, still reeling from the shards, covered his eyes instinctively before freeing them.

  Yet, astonishingly, the Rathore brothers didn’t flinch.

  Their faces were calm, composed, almost amused by the chaotic assault.

  No fear, no hesitation— just measured awareness, as if the room’s destruction and Farhan’s sudden tricks were nothing more than a predictable layer in an elaborate game.

  For a heartbeat, the room hung suspended in violent stillness.

  The brothers’ eyes scanned, unbothered, calculating, unshaken.

  Farhan’s chest heaved, blood streaking his face, shards glinting on his lips.

  He had thrown everything at them, yet the Rathores remained composed, the calm eye at the center of the storm.

  The chaos, the shattered glass, the broken arm— everything hung in the air like an unresolved chord, a tableau of confusion and shock.

  Every inch of the room bristled with deadly potential— broken glass, improvised weapons, shattered mirrors, chaos in motion.

  Farhan’s gaze flicked behind him instead.

  THWACK!

  A pair of drumsticks hurtled at Pratap’s head, striking him squarely.

  Farhan froze, shock crossing his face for a fraction of a second, eyes wide as Pratap instinctively pivoted.

  SLAM!

  But the real shock came next.

  From above, a guitar, swung with brutal force, slammed into Uday’s head.

  The polished wood exploded on contact, splinters flying like bullets.

  The sound reverberated like a gunshot, echoing off the walls and mirrors, a cacophony of destruction.

  The shattered guitar dropped right at Uday's foot, the echo of the impact lingering.

  All three of them were left stunned, hearts racing as they awaited the next move.

  ——————————————

  Rishabh, still on the 23rd floor, sat in the middle of the room, his breath ragged, heart hammering like a drum in his chest.

  The room had been ransacked— or maybe it always was— as papers fluttered across the floor, some stuck to the sticky tape of broken folders, others curling like dead leaves in the dim light filtering through the blinds.

  Every corner smelled faintly of stale ink and dust, a suffocating reminder of secrets long buried.

  At the center of the chaos, Rishabh froze.

  His eyes landed on a single folder— its label stark against the mess: 'Supply Date.'

  He snatched it, fingers trembling, and tore it open.

  The front page made his pulse spike— another name, one that had never crossed his mind in these papers: 'Mohini Khurana, owner of ???'.

  His eyes darted across the page, but the next lines were smudged with whitener, the details deliberately erased.

  His mind raced faster than his heartbeat.

  As he skimmed further, comprehension struck him like a lightning bolt.

  BLC had been supplying personal weapons to Mohini, preparing for something called the 'Annual Circle Meeting.'

  The words seemed to float off the page, each syllable heavier than the last.

  He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of it, but his mind was already spinning through countless possibilities.

  Private deals?

  Mass arms production?

  Covert operations?

  Wars?

  Nothing fit neatly. Nothing made sense.

  He whispered the term aloud, almost in disbelief.

  “Annual… Circle… Meeting…” The words felt like a curse rolling off his tongue, heavy, impossible to shake off. His stomach twisted.

  How long had BLC been in this game?

  The pages confirmed it— they had been supplying weapons for years, for purposes no one dared to document fully.

  Every file he picked up, every line he read, seemed to mock him with the truth— the organization was a living, breathing machine of secrecy, far darker and far deeper than he had imagined.

  Fear surged, a cold, suffocating tide that clawed at his chest.

  He tossed the folder across the room, letting it scatter among the debris of other secrets, but the knowledge clung to him, burning behind his eyes.

  Footsteps— heavy, deliberate— crept upward from the stairwell.

  His head snapped toward the sound, panic coiling in his gut.

  He had less time than he thought.

  Desperation made his hands shake as he grabbed the last file, its label stark: 'No Exit Protocol.'

  The words seemed to thrum under his fingers, alive with menace.

  He tore it open, scanning quickly, trying to absorb every clause.

  Rishabh’s lungs burned.

  He tried to steady his hands, clutching his inhaler in one fist.

  The room seemed to shrink around him, walls pressing closer, shadows thickening like ink in water.

  Every step from the stairwell was louder now, closer, more urgent.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  He was running out of time.

  His fingers trembled over the file that read 'No Exit Protocol', a lifeline to the terrifying truth he had just unearthed.

  The building seemed to hold its breath.

  So did Rishabh.

  ——————————————

  A room stood calm, high above the chaos in the BLC building.

  The space radiated opulence— marble floors polished to a mirror shine, plush leather seats lined in perfect symmetry, walls muted with soft cream, and the air cooled to flawless perfection.

  Outside, the windows were blocked— the world below was invisible, irrelevant.

  Inside, men and women dressed in immaculate designer outfits lounged with serene composure, their faces calm as if the pandemonium in the building were a distant rumor.

  A brass plate gleamed on the door— ‘VIP’.

  It creaked open, and a man entered, leading several guards carrying trays of exotic delicacies, the scent of rare spices filling the room.

  The first man was Kabir Mahajan— cigar clenched between teeth, smoke curling lazily around his face.

  His calm aura masked a predator’s presence, each movement deliberate.

  Then a young VIP stormed in, a sharp edge to his free-spirited youth.

  Messy brown hair, piercings on his ear and nose glinting under the ceiling lights.

  With a casual, almost careless motion, he slapped the cigar from Kabir’s mouth and ground it under his polished shoe.

  His voice was smooth but venomous, veins in his forehead subtly popping, "You know, smoking cigars in front of people like us doesn’t suit you, low lives."

  Kabir’s lips curved into a faint, chilling smile.

  He didn’t flinch, didn’t move.

  The young man turned, smug, ready to leave. Then a prickling sensation hit his nose— blood trickled, and he realized his piercing had been ripped off.

  Kabir’s voice cut the air, low and precise.

  “Looks like you left something.”

  The man’s eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face as Kabir’s gloved right hand shot forward.

  It clamped around his upper jaw like a hydraulic press, fingers locked with unearthly strength.

  The room seemed to still as the man screamed— his bones cracking audibly, the sound sharp, unnatural.

  His eyes bulged, pupils dilating in terror.

  Kabir leaned closer, voice calm, almost courteous, "I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll make sure you never, ever face any problems… sir."

  A final snap, and the man slumped, eyes crushed beneath Kabir’s grip.

  Blood pooled silently, an echo of controlled chaos.

  Around him, the other VIPs remained unnervingly composed, their luxury untouched by the brutality.

  One whispered, anxious, “Will we be fine?”

  Kabir’s smile returned, chilling and precise. “Don’t worry. The threat is small. In addition…” He wiped his hand clean, gesturing to his guards, “…we always have guards.”

  The young VIP, voice trembling, ventured further, “But if… they leave us alone?”

  Kabir chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth, a predator enjoying a puzzle.

  “Looks like you’re new here, sir.”

  Then, without hesitation, his right foot shot forward calmly, crushing the man’s eyeballs rolling on the floor, a grotesque punctuation.

  Silence fell over the room.

  Only the faint metallic click of Kabir adjusting his glove broke it.

  The room, regal and calm, had become a theater of controlled horror.

  Every luxury, every calm face, amplified the terror of Kabir Mahajan— a man who could reduce flesh and bone to nothing, yet remain as composed as a king reviewing his court.

  The smell of iron and polished marble mingled. The echoes of cracking bones lingered in the air like an invisible score.

  "No guards can leave this place, sir."

  And in that moment, it was clear— no guard, no VIP, no one, could ever leave this place alive unless he allowed it.

  ——————————————

  “No one can leave this place…” Rishabh muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the pounding of his own heart.

  His hand clutched the ‘No Exit Protocol’ file as if it were the only anchor in a world gone mad.

  Each page he’d read was a revelation worse than the last.

  Every guard in BLC had to sign this protocol— any attempt to defy it, except for Z class guards, was punishable by instant execution.

  Rishabh’s throat went dry.

  Once you joined BLC… your traces in the real world ceased to exist.

  The thought made his chest tighten, lungs burning.

  He reached for his inhaler again, trembling violently, desperate for air.

  Then— the lights snapped off.

  Darkness swallowed the room.

  The emergency door creaked.

  Rishabh froze, every muscle taut with fear.

  His hands fumbled for the inhaler.

  His fingers grazed its edge.

  Just as he was about to press it, the lights flickered back on.

  A figure loomed right in front of his face.

  “Hello, young man.”

  Pranav Gogoi.

  The head of BLC’s cyber department.

  He held Rishabh’s neck with terrifying precision, and before Rishabh could register the movement, he was slammed to the ground.

  The impact shattered the floor beneath him, splinters and dust spraying around.

  His body convulsed, ribs aching as pain radiated through every joint.

  His hands shook uncontrollably, trying to lift the inhaler, but it felt miles away.

  Pranav landed lightly, almost elegantly, on the floor beside him, a small, high-tech remote in his grip.

  “I’m Pranav Gogoi,” he said, voice calm yet dripping with menace.

  “Head of the cyber department.”

  He clicked the remote.

  Darkness swallowed the room again.

  Rishabh’s chest heaved— alertness sharpened every nerve.

  Then— someone patted his shoulder.

  Before he could turn, Pranav was there.

  “Boom. New surprise!”

  The words were playful, casual— but each syllable carried threat.

  With an effortless push, he shoved Rishabh down on his shoulder again.

  The floor cracked, groaning under the force, but Rishabh barely fell.

  Beneath him, movement suggested someone—or something— was alive, waiting.

  “Get off me, fat pig! Don’t—don’t suffocate me!” a female voice screamed from below.

  Rishabh froze, recognizing it immediately.

  “Yeah… yeah.”

  Anaya Kapoor.

  Her bat with metal nails lay beside her like a lethal extension of herself.

  Slowly, Rishabh lifted his head, vision blurred, and saw two more familiar figures— Ronak Chaturvedi, gripping two drumsticks like weapons, and Jay Khanna, wielding a broken guitar.

  They were mid-combat with the Rathore brothers.

  Relief and disbelief slammed him at once— the band had arrived.

  Memories collided in his mind— Farhan leaving with a single mission, driving a massive ambulance for one person.

  He whispered, stunned, “So… you brought them… secretly.”

  He froze for a heartbeat, zoned out, then awareness snapped back as Ronak shouted warnings while Anaya swung her bat in a defensive arc.

  Rishabh, heart hammering, grabbed the bat and swung it behind him.

  The impact landed on Pranav’s legs, but the man barely flinched.

  “Oh, I thought we were friends,” Pranav said, smirk light but tone sharp.

  Rishabh scrambled up as Jay lunged for a high kick aimed at Pranav’s face.

  Pranav blocked with his forearms effortlessly.

  Around them, the Rathore brothers clashed with the band, chaos swirling in every direction.

  “I’ve been trained for attacks like this,” Pranav told Jay, voice calm, almost bored.

  “You too, new friend—”

  Pranav's attention snapped back. Rishabh was bolting toward the emergency exit, inhaler clutched tightly.

  Pranav’s eyes widened.

  “Oh my God. This is unfair!” he shouted, lunging after him.

  Jay barely had time to process movement, trying to stop Pranav before he unleashed a punch—but stopped inches short.

  “Oh, I missed,” he said casually, almost taunting.

  Without pause, Pranav released smoke from his wristband, followed by a sharp, kinetic shockwave that sent Jay skidding backward.

  Pain erupted along his back, but he forced himself to rise.

  “I hope you handle these brats,” Pranav called out to the Rathore brothers, sprinting with unnerving speed.

  “I’ll meet my new friend again soon!”

  Behind him, the Rathore brothers braced, blocking Ronak’s assault.

  Steel, wood, and blood mixed in the chaos of combat, the air tense with every potential strike.

  Rishabh’s mind raced— he had barely survived one brutal encounter, and yet the room was alive with allies, foes, and traps.

  Every second was a chess move, every breath a gamble.

  The sounds of splintering wood, metal clashes, and labored breathing filled the air.

  Every step forward carried risk, but retreat was no longer an option.

  He inhaled deeply, pain and adrenaline flooding his lungs, knowing that this floor, this building, and this fight would demand more than he had ever given before.

  Yet, somewhere in the chaos, a spark of hope flickered. His friends were here.

  The band had arrived. And against impossible odds, he would survive— because they would survive.

  And so, even as Pranav closed the distance, and the Rathore brothers pressed forward, Rishabh sprinted.

  The emergency exit was close.

  The inhaler gave Rishabh breath, his heart gave him fire, and the battle— the maelstrom of chaos and fury— raged on around him.

  ——————————————

  Tarun’s hands tore through anything that dared to block him.

  Chairs splintered, glass shattered, and the walls themselves seemed to quiver beneath his fury.

  His breathing was a low, feral snarl, each exhale trembling with raw, unfiltered rage.

  Arjun, perched a few meters away, tilted his head like a mischievous child, his eyepatch gleaming in the dim light.

  “Hey… we— we can talk this out?” he said, voice high-pitched, teasing.

  Tarun didn’t answer. He moved.

  On all fours, his body coiled like a predator’s spring, every sinew tensed, every step a silent promise of destruction.

  The floor cracked beneath him as he lunged. Arjun’s eyes widened, and he fired an arrow near his own leg.

  The arrow detonated with a small, controlled blast— not enough to harm, but enough to catapult him back.

  Arjun twisted midair, sent back instinctively, muscles stretched with the effort.

  His laugh cracked the silence, high-pitched and manic.

  “I need to send you… to your brother!”

  He leaped, aiming to land safely.

  But the words seemed to reach Tarun in some unspoken way.

  The moment Arjun’s feet touched the floor, Tarun’s hand gripped the edge of the wall.

  Muscles coiled, force built, and he sprang.

  The ground fell away as Tarun closed the distance in a blur of pure, animalistic speed.

  Arjun barely had time to react.

  He loaded another arrow in seconds and fired— it struck Tarun’s back.

  The tip wasn’t sharp— it burst on impact, netting him with a metallic snap.

  Tarun thrashed, tearing at the net like it was tissue, claws raking the air, but the net only slowed him for a heartbeat.

  Arjun maintained distance, rolling backward with calculated grace, keeping the distance just out of reach.

  Tarun surged again, using the walls as his launchpads.

  He pushed off one surface, then another, hurtling toward Arjun like a white streak of rage.

  Another arrow flew— this one embedding in his palm, electric current searing through his nerves.

  Arjun exhaled slowly, a sigh of relief, convinced this had ended the threat.

  But Tarun didn’t fall.

  He rose, shaking, claws scraping the floor as if it were mere paper.

  Inches from Arjun, fists barreled toward his face.

  Then, in a fraction of a heartbeat, everything slowed.

  Tarun’s first stopped just short of Arjun’s nose.

  His other hand moved toward his heart— blood smeared across his palm, warm and sticky.

  Arjun tilted his head, whispering, almost playfully, “I see…”

  An arrow, fired at point-blank range, grazed near Tarun’s chest, embedding itself with a tiny hiss of energy.

  White fabric darkened with fresh crimson, stark against his furious, unrelenting form.

  Time seemed to hang between them.

  Tarun’s growls rumbled low, like a storm waiting to break, each breath a reminder of pain, rage, and memories that refused to stay buried.

  Arjun, light on his feet, seemed untouchable— playful, calculating, mocking— but beneath it all, a flicker of fear passed across his face.

  Only a flicker.

  Tarun’s eyes glowed faintly, blood leaking at the corners, his primal energy radiating outward.

  The net lay shredded behind him.

  Every muscle screamed, every nerve burned, every heartbeat drummed like war.

  And yet… still, he held. Poised. Waiting.

  And in that suspended moment, the entire room seemed to shrink.

  The world reduced to two forces, predator and prey— fury and finesse, rage and play— caught in a high-stakes duel that blurred the lines between life and death.

  Arjun’s smile wasn’t cruel.

  It was a childlike tease, eerie in its innocence.

  “You could have told me… if you wanted to see Aman so soon."

  ——————————————

  Rishabh tumbled down the staircase, rolling uncontrollably, scraping skin against cold metal, lungs burning, vision blurring.

  When he finally slammed against the wall of the 20th floor landing, his legs buckled under him, but he forced himself upright.

  Pranav descended the stairs with casual ease, his hands in his pockets, a faint, amused smile tracing his lips.

  He waved lazily at Rishabh, as if greeting an old friend.

  “You first…” he said, opening the door.

  Before Rishabh could even step forward, a swift kick sent him hurtling through the air, crashing into the 20th floor with a bone-jarring thud.

  Gasping, Rishabh scrambled toward the emergency staircase— but Pranav’s single click locked the gate.

  The metal barriers clanged shut.

  Panic surged through Rishabh’s veins. The room around him twisted with shadows and glints of light from shattered fixtures.

  Thinking fast, he leapt sideways, catching himself mid-roll on a table edge, flipping onto his feet with an odd, unplanned grace.

  Pranav’s brow furrowed, just for a fraction of a second— enough to notice the strange, calculated chaos unfolding— but he didn’t flinch.

  Confidence radiated off him like a shield.

  He stepped forward, intent on closing the distance.

  Rishabh’s fingers found the inhaler in his pockets.

  His lips curled into a faint, almost mischievous smile as he pressed it to his mouth.

  A whisper of controlled breath escaped, and the next instant, Pranav’s leg struck a nearly invisible wire stretched across the floor.

  The trap sprang.

  The window behind Pranav shattered in a violent explosion of glass, jagged shards tearing through the air.

  He flinched, twisting his body, a shard grazing his neck, grazing flesh but missing vital arteries.

  The rest of his uniform was slightly shredded in the chaos, barely revealing a second layer of tactical gear underneath.

  Rishabh blinked, registering the anomaly— but before he could react further, a high, clear laugh rang out, cutting through the tension like a knife.

  Pranav spun around, immediately alert.

  His eyes widened as Sahil Malhotra stepped into the room, moving with an almost carefree swagger.

  Every step was deliberate, measured, his gaze locked on Rishabh, assessing him like prey, yet playful in his menace.

  “They look serious,” Sahil said, chuckling.

  “I wish I could see you get hurt.”

  His tone was deceptively casual, but the edges carried ice.

  Pranav’s voice cut through the room sharply. “How… did you escape?”

  Sahil didn’t bother answering.

  Instead, he leaned slightly toward Rishabh, a subtle smirk on his lips.

  “But I guess… all I’m left to see in pain is this Assamese bastard.”

  Rishabh managed a weak smile, jaw trembling.

  “Remember the deal?”

  Sahil’s grin widened, maintaining the unsettling warmness intact.

  He moved with uncanny precision, standing directly between Rishabh and Pranav, creating a silent, impenetrable wall.

  “Always,” he said softly, eyes glinting with intent.

  The room crackled with tension.

  Shattered glass glittered like a frozen storm around them.

  Pranav’s hand twitched toward the remote at his belt, calculating, ready— but he now faced not one, but two unpredictable adversaries.

  Rishabh, gasping, inhaler still in hand, and Sahil, smiling, deadly calm, locked Pranav in a triangle of peril.

  Every heartbeat echoed like a drumroll.

  The first move of this new, terrifying face-off was imminent, waiting for the chaos to explode.

  And in that moment, nothing was certain.

  Only one truth remained— this was far from over, and the next second would decide everything.

  ——————————————

  04:16:33 PM.