Mumbai, 2:37 AM.
The city never really sleeps — it just changes masks.
Outside Club Inferno, the neon lights flickered, casting blood-red shadows on the wet pavement. Drunk laughter echoed from the alley, mixing with the hum of bass and the occasional breaking bottle.
In that same alley, a girl stumbled.
Her red dress clung to her like a second skin, soaked with sweat, dust, and something darker. One heel missing. Makeup smudged. A small cut ran down the side of her lip, dried blood tracing her chin.
Meher.
She didn't know how she got there. Her head throbbed, vision was blurry. Her stomach churned. Her legs refused to obey. She remembered a glass of water. A smile from Rhea. A kiss on the cheek from Aarav. Then… nothing.
Now her mouth was dry. Her body hurt. Her knees buckled. The alley tilted sideways. She tried to scream, but nothing came. Only a raw gasp. A silent plea.
The sound of tires screeching split the quiet. A black Mercedes SUV skidded to a stop a few feet from her, its headlights washing her body in a blinding ...its headlights washing her body in a blinding white glare.
For a moment, no one moved. Then the driver's door opened.
A tall man stepped out — dark trench coat, black gloves, eyes hidden behind expensive lenses. He moved with practiced calm, the kind that came from seeing death too often to flinch anymore.
Devian.
No last name needed. In Russia, his name was whispered in fear. In India, it was rarely spoken at all. He wasn't supposed to be here — Mumbai was someone else's territory. But fate didn't ask for appointments.
He paused at the edge of the light.
She was crumpled in the gutter, one heel gone, dress stained with blood and ash. Her wrist looked broken. Her face was a map of bruises, makeup smeared like warpaint. Still… she was trying to crawl.
Trying.
Her fingers scraped the pavement weakly, as if refusing to die right there. Devian didn't speak. He just stepped closer. His men, confused, stepped out behind him, unsure whether to intervene or watch. They'd never seen him hesitate.
Meher's lips moved. Her voice barely carried, a rasp, a whisper.
"Agar ek aur zindagi milti... main sab kuch badal deti..."
Devian didn't speak Hindi fluently. But he understood that. If I had one more life... I'd change everything. Then her breath hitched. Her eyes locked on him for just a second — wide, afraid, and full of something worse than fear: regret.
Her voice was a rasp. Her head dipped. Devian's jaw tightened. And then, without speaking, he stepped forward. He dropped to one knee. Carefully, without a word, he slipped his arms around her small, blood-warmed body and lifted her from the ground.
She didn't fight it. She didn't cry. She just leaned her head weakly against his chest… like maybe, just maybe, someone had finally come. Her hand twitched near his collar. A breath escaped her lips. And then — nothing.
She died in his arms, in the middle of an alley she never meant to be in. Not knowing his name. Not knowing he'd remember her longer than he should. Devian stood there for a long time, still holding her. His gloves were stained red. "Who did this?" he said, quietly. Deadly.
No one answered. But they would find out. Because this girl in red—whatever she was, had just become Devian's unfinished business.