The Kolkata sky wasn't just raining; it was mourning. Thunder roared across the city like a hungry beast, and the streets of North Kolkata were swallowed by shadows.
Myra clutched her bag to her chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her clothes were soaked, clinging to her skin, but she couldn't stop. She couldn't breathe. Just ten minutes ago, she had seen something that changed everything. She had seen a man die.
"Please, ignore it. Just keep walking," she whispered to herself, her heart drumming against her ribs. But the image of the silver-masked man pulling the trigger was burned into her brain.
Suddenly, a screech of tires sliced through the sound of the downpour. A sleek, black SUV drifted sharply, blocking her path.
Myra froze. Her boots splashed in a puddle as she tried to turn back, but the back door opened. A man stepped out, and the air around him seemed to drop by ten degrees.
He didn't have an umbrella. He didn't need one. The rain seemed to respect him too much to even touch his cold, calculated expression.
Aryan Varma.
The city's most dangerous "fixer." The man who made problems disappear.
He walked toward her with a slow, predatory grace. In his hand, a glint of cold steel appeared. He raised the gun, the muzzle pointing directly at the space between her eyes.
"Tumne wo dekha jo tumhe nahi dekhna chahiye tha," Aryan's voice was like velvet dipped in ice. "And you know the rule, Myra. Dead men tell no tales."
Myra's knuckles turned white. She should have been begging. She should have been crying. But as she looked into his soul-less, dark eyes, something snapped inside her.
She stepped forward, pressing her forehead against the cold barrel of his gun.
"Toh maar do," she spat, her voice trembling with rage rather than fear. "Wese bhi, tum jaise logo ki wajah se yeh sheher pehle hi nark (hell) ban chuka hai. Ek aur maut se kya farak padega?"
Aryan paused. His finger stayed steady on the trigger, but his eyes narrowed. He expected tears. He expected a plea for mercy. He didn't expect this fire.
He leaned in, his shadow towering over her small frame. "Tumhari aankhon mein darr kyun nahi hai?"
"Kyuki tumse zyada ghin (disgust) mujhe tumhare kaamo se aati hai," she retorted, staring him down
Aryan felt a strange, unfamiliar jolt in his chest. Interesting. He lowered the gun slightly, his gaze flickering to the locket around her neck. He knew his enemies were looking for her. If they got to her first, he'd lose his only lead to clear his name from that messy murder.
Before Myra could react, he grabbed her arm with a grip of iron.
"Chodo mujhe! Where are you taking me?" she struggled, kicking at his shins.
Aryan didn't even flinch. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.
"Tumhe marne ka haq sirf mera hai, Myra. And I'm not in the mood to kill you... yet."
He threw her into the back of the SUV and locked the doors. As the car sped towards his massive, secluded mansion on the outskirts of the city, Myra realized her life as a simple girl was over.
She wasn't just a witness anymore. She was the prisoner of the most dangerous man in Kolkata.
And the game had just begun.