Darkness came in layers.
The cloth over Malisha's head was rough, damp with old sweat and dust. It clung to her face with every breath, carrying the smell of oil, metal, and something older—fear that had soaked into these walls long before she ever arrived. Her wrists were bound behind her back, tight enough to hurt if she fought, loose enough to remind her she didn't need to.
She didn't struggle.
The caravan lurched forward. Engines roared. Somewhere close, someone cried out—cut off abruptly, either by a hand or a blow. Malisha listened instead, counting turns, timing pauses, mapping the road by instinct alone.
Three lefts. One long straight. A steady descent.
Underground. calmly.
The caravan stopped. A door screeched open. Rough hands dragged her down, boots scraping concrete. She stumbled once—on purpose—letting her weight sag just enough to sell the injury. The pistol was already gone. Good. Less temptation for them. Less excuse to kill her too soon.
The hood was ripped away.
Light burned her eyes.
She stood in a wide concrete chamber lit by hanging industrial lamps that buzzed faintly overhead. Rank 8's men lined the walls—relaxed, armed, watching like spectators at a show they were sure they'd already won. Along one side stood cages, hastily welded but solid.
Aditya was there. So was the rest of the crew. Alive.
That was all that mattered.
Their eyes met through the bars the door was not locked yet , maybe because his hand were still tied. Aditya looked furious, shaken, and relieved all at once. Malisha gave him the smallest nod.
Still breathing. Good.
A slow clap echoed through the chamber.
Rank 8 stepped forward, peeling off his gloves one finger at a time, like time itself bent around him.
"Queen Conquera," he said lightly. "I was hoping you'd confirm it yourself."
Malisha shifted her shoulder and let a controlled wince slip through. "You've always had trouble recognizing authority."
He laughed—genuine, amused. "Authority? No. I recognize leverage."
He gestured lazily. One of his men shoved Aditya's cage forward an inch. Metal screamed against concrete.
Malisha's jaw tightened, just for a heartbeat.
"There it is," Rank 8 said pleasantly. "Your weakness. You wear it so openly. I'm almost disappointed."
"You dragged twenty caravans to an OG checkpoint," she replied evenly. "Killed a general. Broke three alliance codes." Her eyes lifted to his. "now dare I ask , why?
he said. "I always go around with 20 caravans,and i was not going to do anything that I did , just that your beloved garrenteed boy came to my sight, and then you."
She smiled.
Not warm. Not kind.
Malisha said. "then , with all that, with the control of the land mines too , you thought that bringing me to this stupid secret base of yours will be a good idea "
The room shifted—not fear, but interest.
Rank 8 tilted his head. " Well, my queen, only a stupid will , get a hold of the most expensive, brutral and intelligent weapon as you and let it go , and let me tell you i ain't no stupid "
"oh and i also have am insurance don't i casino boy."he said looking at aditya
there were , about 10 men in that room , and the rest were outside, maybe our there was a corridor, malisha was busy checking the environment to listen to the yapping of the rank 8
"have anyone ever told you that you talk too much."said malisha
"Yes," Rank 8 said lightly. "Many—right before they died."
The door behind Malisha slid open.
A man entered—tall, stiff-backed, wearing a heavy coat despite the underground heat. A steel medical case hung from his hand. Doctor, maybe. Or something pretending to be one.
"Thanks," Malisha said coolly, her eyes sweeping over him in a single, precise assessment. "But I'm not injured badly enough to need a well-equipped physician."
The man didn't reply.
He knelt, opened the case, and removed a syringe—larger than standard, reinforced glass, unfamiliar markings etched along the barrel. A small metal safety cap clicked loose.
It hit the floor.
Rolled.
Stopped—close enough.
Malisha's fingers moved instantly.
A sharp twist. Pain flared. The restraint loosened just enough.
Enough.
She didn't free herself completely. Not yet.
Her gaze flicked to the doctor's waist.
A gun.
Too far. Too many men. No margin for error.
If she wanted it, she'd have to let him come closer.
Which meant taking the injection.
Silence stretched.
Rank 8 watched her now—no smile, no mockery. Waiting.
"Don't worry," the doctor said at last, voice flat. "It won't kill you."
Malisha tilted her head. "That's not comforting."
"It suppresses," he continued. "Reaction time. Muscle response. Coordination. Pain resistance spikes."
"So," she said calmly, "a leash."
Rank 8 chuckled. "Insurance."
She exhaled once and extended her arm.
Every man in the room tensed.
The needle pierced her skin.
Cold spread instantly—too fast.
Her muscles screamed, resisted… then dulled.
She staggered half a step.
On purpose.
The doctor moved to steady her.
That was the mistake.
Malisha surged forward, tearing the loosened restraint free. Her elbow crushed into his throat as she ripped the gun from his holster in the same motion.
The first shot tore into the floor.
The second shattered a hanging lamp.
Light flickered.
Four more shots rang out.
Four men dropped.
Empty.
No time to reload.
Rank 8 clapped slowly, smiling. "I've been waiting for this—"
His words cut off as Malisha kicked a fallen weapon toward herself and snatched another pistol from a dead man's grip.
Rank 8's smile sharpened.
He gestured.
A gun pressed to Aditya's head.
Aditya was dragged from the cage, hands still bound, eyes steady.
"Haven't I told you?" Rank 8 said pleasantly. "I already have insurance."
Malisha let the pistol fall.
It clattered harmlessly to the floor.
She lowered herself to her knees.
"You need me alive," she said evenly. "You don't discard a weapon like me."
Her hand slipped into the open medical case.
A surgical knife.
Quiet. Precise.
"How long do you think I'll last," she continued, voice calm, "with a weakened body?"
She drew the blade across her wrist.
Blood surfaced—controlled, shallow. Enough to terrify. Not enough to kill.
Then she collapsed.
Rank 8 swore. "Check her! You idiots—she's needed alive! The Princess wants her breathing!"
The guards rushed forward.
All of them.
Four men left.
All within range.
Malisha's eyes opened.
The knife moved.
One guard—chest.
One—neck.
One—stomach.
The last—twice in the torso before he could even scream.
Bodies fell.
Rank 8 lunged.
Fast. Desperate. No calculation left—only ego.
Malisha tried to move.
Her body refused.
The drug had won.
This was the strike she couldn't dodge.
A gunshot cracked the air.
Rank 8 stiffened.
Then collapsed.
His body crashed onto Malisha, pinning her.
Heavy.
Dead.
She struggled beneath the weight, vision blurring, limbs refusing orders.
Then the pressure lifted.
She dragged in air.
Looked up.
Aditya stood over her, gun smoking in his hands.
He had taken the shot.
Malisha's breathing grew uneven.
Her muscles locked and released in painful waves, but she forced herself upright and walked toward Aditya.
"What—how—did you take the shot, Adi?" she asked, her voice already strained.
"I… I killed him, Mal. I did." Aditya didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on Rank 8's corpse. His hands trembled, but the gun remained raised, muscle memory doing what his mind couldn't.
Malisha gently took the weapon from his grip. Only then did he look at her. His hands fell together, useless at his sides.
"How did you break free?" she asked.
"Hm… I—I don't know. Training," he muttered, clearly not fully present.
She grabbed his face, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "Adi. Pull it together. I need you. I need you here with me."
She turned her head toward the cages. The crew was still trapped inside—black hoods over their heads, mouths gagged, wrists bound.
"Go. Set them free. Now."
Aditya nodded, moving on instinct more than thought.
As he worked, he glanced back. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Malisha said.
She wasn't.
The corridor beyond the chamber was packed with Rank 8's men. The entire structure was alive with movement. Worse—her body was failing her. The suppressant dragged at her limbs, her vision dimmed at the edges.
She staggered back toward the doctor's case, knees threatening to buckle.
Inside were dozens of vials.
Most unfamiliar.
One wasn't.
Adrenaline.
Her jaw tightened.
Short-term salvation. Long-term punishment.
Last option.
She injected it.
Pain tore through her veins—sharp, electric—and then her heart slammed into overdrive. Blood surged. Muscles screamed awake. Control returned, violent and absolute.
Siya had just been freed.
"What did you inject?" she shouted. "Malisha, what was that?"
Malisha didn't answer.
She grabbed a machine gun, slung it over her shoulder, picked up a katana, and moved toward the exit.
Then she stopped.
Along the wall sat a compact unit of small red cylinders, marked clearly:
CAUTION — TOXIC GAS
Malisha smiled.
She hauled the entire unit with her.
Before opening the door, she turned back to the crew.
"Lock this door the moment I'm out. Do not open it unless you hear my voice and three knocks. Seal the edges and vents with wet cloth. You have five minutes. Weapons up."
She didn't wait for confirmation.
The door closed behind her.
Moments later—
Screams.
Gunfire.
Bodies hitting concrete.
Then the unmistakable sound of pressurized seals breaking—one, two, ten—followed by a violent hiss.
Poison flooded the corridor.
Minutes passed.
A knock.
Three sharp raps.
"Open up," Malisha shouted hoarsely. "It's me."
Dweep tore the door open, dragged her inside, and slammed it shut like death itself was on the other side. Wet cloths were pressed tighter against the seams.
A faint chemical stench slipped through—just enough to tell them what she'd done.
Malisha collapsed against the wall.
The adrenaline was already burning out.
And this time, her body wouldn't forgive her.
Malisha dropped to one knee.
"Phone," she said, breath already uneven. "Satellite. Did you find one?"
Dweep was beside her instantly. "Here." He pressed it into her shaking hand.
Her fingers trembled despite her effort to steady them. Sweat ran down her spine. Her lungs burned like they couldn't decide whether to speed up or stop altogether.
Siya and Raghav were talking—arguing, maybe—but their voices blurred into noise. Malisha couldn't focus.
"Why don't we just leave?" someone said.
Malisha laughed once. Short. Broken.
"No," she said, dragging air into her chest. "Red zone. The new one. Fresh conversions." She swallowed. "Too many. You step out, you don't reach the caravans. You don't reach anything."
She hit the call button.
Aryan.
No answer.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Her jaw tightened. She switched frequencies, fingers slipping against the screen. OG channels—blocked. Scrambled. Rank frequencies overlapped, tangled, hostile.
They wouldn't come in time.
If they came at all.
"What now?" someone asked. "No OGs? No player?"
"Ours come with rules," Malisha said, voice thinning. "And Aryan's not picking up."
A pause.
"What about Athena?"
Malisha's grip tightened around the phone. "She'd come for me," she said quietly. "Not you."
Her vision swam. She forced it back, scrolling blindly through rank contacts—names, codes, contracts she hadn't touched in years.
Then—
She froze.
Blink once.
Twice.
The name was still there.
It shouldn't have been.
Rank 20 — the doctor.
Her breath caught.
"…What?" she whispered.
Then, softer—like the word hurt to say.
"Ashu."
Her thumb hovered.
Then pressed.
The line connected.
The screen tilted. The room tilted with it.
And this time, when her knees gave out, Malisha didn't fight it.
Darkness took her completely.
Malisha fell unconscious, this time really.