London, 2:43 AM.
Shaurya Singhania sat hunched over three monitors, the faint hum of his custom-built rig slicing through the silence. His fingers danced over the keyboard with surgical precision. The digital trail had taken him through proxy servers in Prague, dead ends in Istanbul, and now... Frankfurt.
The image he was analyzing wasn’t ordinary. It was taken from a high-grade surveillance device—infrared, long-distance zoom, timestamped. A still of Parineeti Gupta leaving her office late at night. Alone. Unaware.
But it wasn’t the photo that chilled him—it was the watermark embedded deep in the metadata. “RZ/07_–Observer”. Not a person. A code name. Government-level encryption, masked payment routes. Whoever was watching Parineeti wasn’t an amateur. And they weren’t watching Vikram.
Shaurya leaned back, cracking his knuckles.
“Someone’s hunting you, Paru,” he murmured. “And it’s not who you think.”
---
Mumbai, late morning.
Parineeti’s courtroom presence was a firestorm. Her argument against an influential industrialist accused of labor law violations was methodical, unyielding. The judge ruled in her favor, the courtroom erupting in hushed applause. Another win. Another headline.
But the thrill of victory evaporated the moment she stepped into her office.
A cream envelope waited on her desk—no address, no seal. Her fingers froze before tearing it open. Inside was a photograph: her silhouette walking under a streetlamp, alone. The back of the photo bore one line in stark, slanted print:
“The lioness never sees the bullet.”
She read it twice, then locked it in her drawer. Fear didn’t suit her. But the chill stayed lodged in her spine.
---
That evening.
Vikram Singhania sipped his espresso in silence, the dimly lit rooftop bar blanketed in quiet tension. The view of the city stretched below him like a glowing spiderweb.
He felt him before he saw him.
Prabhas Gupta approached, no pretense of friendliness. Just history and storm in his stride.
“I’m not here to drink,” Prabhas said, voice tight.
“I didn’t offer you one,” Vikram replied calmly, not looking up.
“You think I don’t see it?” Prabhas sat across from him. “The way you look at her. The way you speak to her.”
Vikram’s eyes lifted, slow and steady. “Is this where you play the protective brother?”
“No. This is where I play the man who’s known you long enough to know what you’re capable of.”
Silence fell between them. The kind that threatened to split marble.
Prabhas leaned in, hands clenched. “Stay away from Parineeti.”
Vikram didn’t flinch. “She’s not yours to command. And I don’t take orders from old friends who turned into ghosts.”
Prabhas’s eyes flared. “I don’t care how powerful you’ve become. I don’t care who fears you. But if your darkness touches her—”
Vikram stood, calm and cold. “Then what, Prabhas? You’ll come after me?”
A long beat passed. Prabhas stood too, exhaling hard. “No,” he said finally. “But I’ll remind you what it’s like to bleed.”
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
Vikram stayed behind, untouched, unreadable. But the warning hung in the air like smoke.
---
Later that night.
The legal networking event was crawling with Mumbai’s polished elite. Judges, bureaucrats, senior lawyers. Parineeti moved through it with poise, her courtroom fire masked behind a diplomat’s smile.
Then the air shifted. Her spine straightened.
She turned—and found herself face to face with Vikram Singhania.
No smile. No softness. Just ice in a suit.
“You clean up well,” she said coolly.
He didn’t respond.
Instead, his eyes swept over her—once—and settled like steel. “You’re drawing attention,” he said quietly. “Dangerous kinds.”
Her pulse skipped, but she kept her chin up. “From you?”
“No.” His tone dropped. “From people who don’t care about justice or truth. Only leverage.”
Parineeti narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Singhania?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it wrapped around her. “I’m warning you. This city feeds on fire. You’re too bright. Someone’s bound to try to snuff you out.”
She held his gaze. “I don’t burn easy.”
Vikram looked at her for a long moment, then stepped away without another word.
She stood frozen for a second too long.
---
Midnight. Dockyard 17.
The warehouse was massive, its edges swallowed in shadow. Inside, metal containers stood like silent giants. A storm was due in an hour, but the air was already electric.
Vikram stood at the center, Vyom beside him—sharp, silent, immovable.
Their guest arrived late.
Ratan Mehra, a mid-level player trying to rise too fast, too soon. He walked in with two guards, mask of arrogance thin over his nerves.
“You asked for a meet,” Ratan said. “This better be worth it.”
Vikram didn’t answer immediately. He turned to one of the containers. Tapped the side.
Ratan glanced at it. “What’s in it?”
“Things that cross borders without names,” Vyom said.
Ratan tensed. “I thought this shipment was dead.”
“It was,” Vikram said finally. “Until you tried to revive it. Behind my back.”
Silence.
Ratan tried to speak, then stopped. The lie died on his tongue.
“I don’t like being bypassed,” Vikram said, tone colder than steel. “Especially by men who haven’t earned the right to gamble.”
“It was just business—”
“It’s never just business,” Vikram cut in. “Not in my city.”
Ratan shifted. “So what now? You’re going to kill me over a container?”
Vikram stepped forward. Close enough to whisper. “No. I’m going to kill your credibility. That lasts longer.”
Vyom nodded once.
Outside, headlights flared. A truck rolled up. Men climbed out. Quiet. Efficient.
In minutes, the container was gone—redirected.
Ratan stood there, humiliated.
“You’ll be left with nothing but your name,” Vikram said, turning away. “Make sure it’s still worth something.”
Vyom followed silently, boots echoing over the concrete.
---
At the edge of the warehouse, Vikram paused for one last look at the dark sky.
Not a word about Parineeti had been spoken here.
But she still lingered in his mind—like a match in a room full of gunpowder.
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