Aryan Deshmukh stepped out of the airport into the warm Indian night. The air smelled of dust, flowers, and distant rain. He adjusted his coat and moved silently toward the waiting convoy.
His minimum convoy—five black SUVs and ten motorcycles—waited for him. Four cars moved ahead and behind him, motorbikes flanked the sides. In the middle, his own vehicle carried Aryan. Guards sat rigid, silent, eyes scanning every inch of the streets. Drivers and bikers moved in perfect synchronization, a deadly dance of power and control.
To outsiders, it was just a rich businessman traveling with security. But to anyone who knew him as Eagle, it was a warning: crossing him could cost your life.
Inside the car, Aryan looked out at the streets. Life moved slowly, ordinary, chaotic. Families returning home, couples laughing, children playing. A world so different from the order he commanded in Seoul. And yet, something about it made him restless.
After an hour, the convoy stopped at his parents' bungalow. Large, elegant, and welcoming—completely unlike his fortress-like mansion in Seoul. Guards saluted respectfully as he stepped out of the middle car. Inside, his parents waited with anxious smiles.
"You came after so many years," his father said softly.
"I had work," Aryan replied, removing his coat. He rarely spoke more than necessary.
His mother hugged him. "Work can wait. Family cannot."
Aryan nodded silently. Only his parents could call him Aryan. Everyone else knew him as Eagle.
The next morning, his mother forced him to attend a local college event. "Just ten minutes," she said. Aryan frowned but followed. He hated crowds, noise, and being watched.
The college hall was alive with students laughing and rushing. Aryan stayed near the back, his black coat and sharp eyes standing out. He felt like a predator in a cage.
Then he saw her.
A girl walked on stage, carrying a stack of books. Simple white dress, black hair falling straight. She spoke softly, but her voice carried weight. Calm. Confident. Intelligent. Her eyes scanned the audience, and for a moment, Aryan felt a pull he had never felt before.
Her name was Nithya, nineteen years old, ordinary in appearance, yet extraordinary in presence. He leaned forward slightly, heart racing—not out of fear, not curiosity, but obsession.
She read a poem aloud. Words about life, struggle, and strength. Her voice was gentle, yet bold. Aryan did not hear the applause. He did not see the other students. He only saw her.
For the first time in years, his mind went blank. His control, his empire, his business deals—all faded for a single thought:
"She is mine."
After the event, Aryan returned to the convoy. His minions followed in perfect formation. Four cars ahead, four behind, ten bikes flanking every side. Even as he watched Nithya from a distance, the street knew: Eagle was present. A man who moved with precision, power, and deadly calm.
That night, Aryan returned to his massive mansion in Seoul. The halls were quiet, the lights dim, security humming softly. He did not smile. He did not sleep. He sat in his office, staring at a glass of water.
"She doesn't even know me," he whispered. "And yet… she is mine."
Eagle had claimed his next target. And for the first time, his cold world felt a spark he couldn't control.
Nithya was a challenge, a storm, a flame in the middle of his silent empire.
And Eagle never let go of anything he desired.