The Syndicate's War Room – Underground, Mumbai
Aaravi stood at the head of the war table, lit only by the faint glow of a massive holographic map—a digital resurrection of DY Patil Stadium. But this wasn't the stadium the world remembered. It had been repurposed. Reborn. Into a graveyard with turf.
Vivaan's gaze didn't leave her. Not the map. Not the blipping red dots of Syndicate foot soldiers. Not the perimeter threat grids.
Her.
Her hair was still damp from the shower. Bite marks from him barely hidden beneath her silk collar. Her body—goddess and gladiator in one.
She was strategy and storm. And he was willingly drowning.
"Operation Wicket wasn't just a code," Vivaan said quietly. "It was a league. Secret. Illegal. Eleven players. No rules. No replays. One death—every final."
Aaravi turned slowly. Her breath hitched.
"Kavya's death…"
He nodded, jaw clenched. "She was Player No. 6."
Flashback — Four Years Ago
No crowd. Just silence. Broken only by the whirring of drones and the flicker of betting screens.
Masked players stood like ghosts on the synthetic pitch. Bats—metal. Balls—laced with shock sensors. Each strike sent data—and blood—rushing.
Kavya stepped onto the field.
Graceful. Fearless. Already doomed.
A robotic voice crackled from the skybox:
"One shot to win. One shot to live."
She swung.
A six.
The crowd on the dark web erupted in digital frenzy. But the outcome had already been sold.
A sniper.
A trigger.
A bullet through the heart.
And the Syndicate made another billion.
Present — Aaravi
"She was never suicidal…" Aaravi's voice trembled like a glass about to shatter.
Vivaan looked away, but the guilt clung to him like sweat.
"They made it look that way," he said, barely above a whisper.
"And now Mira wants me to play?" Her voice, cold. Lethal.
He stepped closer, tension radiating off him.
"Then let the world burn. But I'll make sure the only person who touches you… is me."
He kissed her. Slow. Possessive. Not out of dominance this time—but desperation. A man who had lost one sister to the League... and couldn't bear to lose the woman who was fast becoming his ruin.
Aaravi gasped as his hands gripped her thighs, lifting her onto the cold steel table. Maps scattered to the floor.
His mouth found her neck. His breath was fire. His guilt, fuel.
"Do you even know how many ways I want to take you?" he whispered, voice raw.
"Count them," she dared, pulling him closer.
"One…" His lips trailed down her collarbone.
"Two…" His hand slid under her lace, tracing a slow circle.
"Three…" He entered her hard, making her cry out—a sound muffled against his shoulder.
Every thrust was hunger and apology. A rhythm born of obsession. Her nails dug into his back, and he welcomed the pain. Welcomed anything that reminded him she was still here.
And when she came undone beneath him—shaking, gasping, whole—he buried his face in her neck and whispered like confession:
"I should've saved her. But I'll die before I lose you."
Elsewhere – Abandoned Prison, Goa Coast
Veer awoke to static and echoes.
Cricket commentary whispered through speakers in the wall.
"Let's play a final, shall we?" a voice murmured.
A screen flickered to life.
Aaravi. In Vivaan's arms. Half-naked. Her body arching. Her moans real.
Veer's scream tore through the cell as his chains pulled tighter.
Mehul's voice, calm as poison:
"She's bait now. Welcome to your final over."
Meanwhile – Mira's Jet, Airborne
She swirled her glass of wine, crimson and smooth.
Destination: The Final League Stadium.
This time, the world would watch.
This time... there would be no hiding in shadows.