The arena pulsed like a living beast, buzzing with a fury that felt almost primal.
Unlike the public spectacles broadcast to the world, this wasn't cricket—it was League Black. Off-books. Off-grid. A sanctuary of shadows where pride wasn't the currency. Power was. And every stroke of the bat, every ball bowled, echoed with silence sold for secrets.
Vivaan—reborn now as Zor—stepped onto the edge of the turf, his frame draped in sleek, matte-black athleisure, the flicker of LED lights dancing off the sharp angles of his jaw. A discreet comms device clung to his ear. He wasn't here to play.
He was here to orchestrate a fix.
High above the madness, cloaked behind a screen of velvet drapes and filtered Cuban smoke, Aaravi sat in a throne-like seat inside the VIP chamber. Her legs were crossed in sharp authority, a crimson wine glass spinning lazily between her fingers, her gaze trained on Vivaan with a kind of carnivorous calm.
She didn't speak.
She smirked.
Because this was his first real test: Rig the match. Tilt it in favor of the Syndicate-backed player. One error, and the entire black-market ecosystem would fracture. One slip, and their names would be buried—not in scandal, but in graveyards.
Vivaan moved like smoke behind the scenes, slipping through the team support crew, hood drawn low, presence erased. His mark: Rajveer D'Souza—an aggressive top-order batsman, charming, volatile, addicted to risk.
"Zor," Mehul's voice filtered in through the earpiece, low and lethal.
"Code word is midnight dagger. Execute on signal. This isn't about winning. It's about allegiance."
Vivaan found Rajveer in the locker room, humming to a bass track, tying his laces with militant precision.
He sat beside him casually, their shoulders nearly brushing.
"You've got six overs to look like a god," Vivaan said, his voice a venomous whisper, "and one over to look mortal. A mistimed swing. A dropped catch. Choose your downfall."
Rajveer froze, his knuckles whitening. Vivaan slid a velvet pouch into his kit.
"Ten lakhs. Double if you survive."
Rajveer's eyes narrowed. "And if I refuse?"
Vivaan leaned in, his lips grazing Rajveer's ear, voice a ghost.
"Then your mother receives your ashes. Not your jersey."
The silence that followed was colder than steel. Then—Rajveer nodded.
The match exploded into chaos. Rajveer dazzled the crowd, smashing boundaries like firecrackers. Too well. Too perfect. His performance became a rebellion.
From Vivaan's earpiece: "He's going rogue. Abort. Shut him down."
Vivaan moved to the dugout calmly. His fingers found a vial in his wrist band—clear, nearly invisible.
He walked to the refreshment station. A single drop in Rajveer's water bottle.
Laced. Untraceable. Undeniable.
The moment came in the 14th over.
Rajveer sprinted between the wickets—and then collapsed mid-run, clutching his stomach, his mouth contorting in a silent scream. The stadium's roar turned into a stunned gasp.
Paramedics flooded the field. Panic thickened like smog. Commentary halted.
Overdose? Sabotage? Poison?
Vivaan stood in the shadows, arms crossed, jaw clenched, pulse steady.
Another body sacrificed. Another secret protected.
Hours later – Aaravi's Private Chambers
Vivaan slammed the door open.
"That wasn't the plan!" he barked. "He was supposed to drop a catch, not a lung!"
Aaravi stood in her midnight-black corset and thigh-high silk stockings, the wine glass still in hand. She looked like temptation forged into royalty.
Unfazed, she approached him.
"And yet the message is clear," she purred, setting the glass aside. "The league now knows what you're capable of. They'll never cross you again."
Her fingers danced up his shirt, undoing a button.
"You passed."
Vivaan grabbed her wrist. "What the hell are you turning me into?"
She pulled him close, chest to chest. "Into me."
And that was the moment he broke.
Their kiss wasn't affection—it was fire, fury, and fear. She moaned into him as he shoved her against the wall, their mouths colliding like a collision of trauma and addiction.
Clothes tore.
Breath vanished.
When he entered her—it wasn't soft. It was punishing. Her nails carved trails down his back, his grip bruised her thighs. She bit his lip until it bled. He branded her neck with desperate kisses.
Their war made the bed shake.
"Say it," she whispered in the dark, her body trembling under him.
"You're mine now, strategist."
Vivaan exhaled, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like war drums.
"No," he whispered.
"I'm your undoing."