Uski aankhon ki aag mein jal gaya,

(In his eyes' fire, I burned alive,)

Khoon se likha pyaar ka afsana,

(Love's tale scripted in blood,)

Ab maran ka nasha hi mera sukoon. (Death's addiction now my only peace.)

Uske zakhmon se tapta mera dil,

(His wounds scorch my heart ablaze,)

Chillao mera naam, mar jaa ismein. (Scream my name-die in its blaze.)

The afternoon in London bled in shades of muted gold and steel, the sky hanging low as if it, too, feared what prowled beneath it.

Outside Obsidian Vault—the most exclusive, untouchable club in the city—the air shifted the moment the car came to a halt.

The engine died.

Silence followed.

Then the door opened.

He stepped out.

A man carved from dominance itself—towering, brushing the skies at nearly six-foot-five, shoulders broad enough to carry empires and destroy them just as easily. His three-piece suit clung to him like sin—crisp white shirt, black waistcoat, tailored coat, and trousers that screamed quiet wealth and ruthless precision.

Power didn’t just surround him.

It obeyed him.

A gun rested at his waistband, not hidden—never hidden. It was a statement. A promise. A warning.

Golden-rimmed sunglasses veiled his eyes, but nothing could truly conceal the abyss behind them. Those black eyes… they weren’t eyes. They were voids—merciless, consuming, infinite.

His body was a weapon—each line, each movement honed for destruction. Beneath the slight opening of his shirt, his torso bore the sculpted brutality of a man forged in violence, his six-pack etched like ancient war carvings kissed by blood and time.

In the underworld, they did not speak his name lightly.

They whispered it.

Deathrider.

The undisputed king of the Regency Syndicate.

And yet, names were nothing compared to the truth.

Anirudh Raghavendra Singhania.

He slipped a cigarette between his lips—those dangerously calm, sinfully shaped lips that had ordered deaths without a flicker of remorse. From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter—black and white, sleek, expensive, every inch as lethal as its owner.

A soft click.

Flame.

For a brief second, fire reflected against his glasses, dancing like it knew its master.

He inhaled.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The smoke curled around him like it belonged there, like it recognized its creator.

Then he moved.

Each step was unhurried, yet the ground seemed to yield beneath him. The bouncers straightened instantly, their spines rigid, fear coiling in their throats as they stepped aside without a word.

No one stopped him.

No one dared.

Inside, the music pounded, bodies moved, laughter echoed—but the moment he crossed the threshold, something shifted. The air thickened. Conversations faltered. Eyes turned.

The VIP section didn’t just recognize him.

It parted.

Like the sea before a god of ruin.

Because when Anirudh walked in—

The night didn’t begin.

It surrendered.

He didn’t come to dance.

He came where kings bled secrets.

Past the chaos of bodies and bass, past the illusion of pleasure, Anirudh Raghavendra Singhania moved into the heart of Obsidian Vault—a place the world didn’t know existed.

The main room.

No neon lights here. No desperate laughter.

Only power.

Dim amber chandeliers cast fractured shadows over a long obsidian table where men sat—international lords of the underworld, men who ran cartels, syndicates, governments in disguise. Deals worth millions—no, lives—were carved into existence in this very room.

Conversations hushed the moment he entered.

Chairs shifted.

Respect didn’t greet him.

Fear did.

Anirudh took his seat like a king returning to his throne, one leg crossing over the other with lazy authority. Smoke curled from his lips as he exhaled slowly, the silence stretching—tight, suffocating.

The meeting was about to begin.

And then—

A gunshot.

Sharp.

Violent.

It tore through the silence like a blade across flesh.

Another one followed.

Then chaos.

Shouting. Glass shattering. A woman’s muffled cry somewhere above.

Every man in the room stiffened. Instinct kicked in. Hands moved to weapons. Chairs screeched as some of them stood abruptly, rushing toward the exit, barking orders to their guards.

“Check upstairs!”

“What the hell is going on—?!”

But Anirudh—

Did not move.

Not immediately.

He took one last drag of his cigarette, slow… deliberate… as if the world hadn’t just cracked open above his head. Then he flicked the ash aside, rising to his full height.

Predator awake.

Because this wasn’t random chaos.

This was intrusion.

And only fools dared intrude here.

Upstairs—

The storm had already begun.

The Ranawat brothers.

Not guests.

Not allies.

Hunters.

Their presence carved through the corridors like war itself—bullets slicing through guards, bodies dropping one after another. Blood painted the polished floors, screams choking the air as doors were kicked open without mercy.

Hidden behind locked rooms and false walls—

Fear trembled in small, fragile bodies.

Schoolgirls.

Trapped.

Trafficked.

Sold like they were nothing.

And today—

They were being taken back.

One of the brothers moved with ruthless precision, gun steady, eyes blazing with a fury that could burn empires. Another ripped open a concealed door, revealing terrified girls huddled together, their sobs breaking into desperate hope.

“Don’t make a sound,” he ordered lowly, voice hard but not cruel. “You’re going home.”

Downstairs, the echo of gunfire still rang.

Anirudh stepped forward now, each step heavy with something darker than anger.

Ownership.

Because this—this filth, this operation—

Had dared to exist under his roof.

And that meant only one thing.

Someone had just signed their death sentence.

The door slammed open.

Anirudh stepped out of the war room—and straight into chaos.

Gunfire ricocheted through the club, the music long dead, replaced by the symphony of violence. His gaze lifted instinctively—

Upstairs.

And there—

Riddhimaan.

Locked in combat.

A storm in human form, taking down men twice his size like they were nothing but obstacles. Blood, sweat, fury—every punch he threw carried purpose. Every move screamed war.

For a fraction of a second, Anirudh’s instincts aligned.

Assist. Eliminate. End it.

His body shifted forward—

But then—

Something else caught him.

A flicker.

A stillness in the middle of madness.

Under the fractured glow of blue neon lights… she lay there.

Broken.

Unmoving.

Bruises painted her skin in cruel shades of violence, her face half-hidden beneath tangled strands of hair and blood. It was impossible to see her clearly—impossible to understand who she was—

But something about her—

Stopped him.

Not logic.

Not reason.

Something far more dangerous.

A pull.

A command his body obeyed before his mind could argue.

Anirudh didn’t think again.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t even care about the war still raging behind him.

He moved.

Fast.

Cutting through the chaos, ignoring the shouts, the bullets, the blood—until he reached her. He dropped to one knee, his hand instantly at her neck—

Pulse.

There.

Weak.

But alive.

A breath he didn’t realize he was holding slipped past his lips.

Without hesitation, he slid one arm beneath her back, the other under her knees—and lifted her into his embrace.

She felt—

Too light.

Too fragile.

Too breakable for a world like his.

His jaw tightened.

Something cold and lethal settled deeper into his bones.

No one touched what he decided to protect.

No one.

Turning sharply, he took the back exit—his strides long, urgent, ruthless. The night air hit him, but it did nothing to cool the fire igniting within.

His car was already waiting.

The moment the driver saw him—saw her—he straightened in alarm.

Anirudh didn’t slow down.

“Open the door,” he barked, voice sharp enough to slice through steel.

The door swung open instantly.

He slid inside, keeping her cradled against his chest, one hand steadying her head with unexpected care.

“Drive.”

The driver froze for half a second—wrong move.

“Nearest hospital. Fast.”

That was enough.

The car roared to life, tires screeching against the pavement as it sped into the London streets.

Inside the car—

Silence.

Except for her faint, fragile breaths.

Anirudh looked down at her, his expression unreadable behind those golden-rimmed glasses. But his grip tightened—just slightly.

Possessive.

Protective.

Deadly.

Because whoever had done this to her—

Had just declared war.

And Anirudh Raghavendra Singhania never left wars unfinished.

The car screeched to a halt.

Before the engine could even fully die, the door was already open.

Anirudh stepped out—swift, unyielding—her fragile body still gathered in his arms like something the world didn’t deserve to touch. The hospital lights burned harsh against the night, too clean, too sterile for the chaos that followed him in.

But the moment he crossed the entrance—

Everything shifted.

Recognition hit first.

A ripple.

Doctors froze. Nurses stiffened. The air itself seemed to tighten as his presence carved through the space like a blade.

Anirudh Raghavendra Singhania didn’t walk into places like this.

He invaded them.

“Stretcher!” someone shouted, voice laced with urgency.

It came within seconds.

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t hesitate.

He placed her down himself—careful, controlled, as if even in this storm, she was the only thing he refused to handle roughly. The nurses surrounded her instantly, checking vitals, calling out instructions, their movements fast, practiced—

But their eyes kept flickering back to him.

Because he hadn’t stepped away.

Not yet.

His gaze stayed locked on her bruised form, something dark flickering beneath his calm exterior. Then finally—he looked up at the doctor.

And the room went colder.

“Whatever it takes,” he said, voice low, lethal, leaving no room for refusal. “Payment, bills—everything comes from me.”

A pause.

A breath.

Then—

“Save her.”

Not a request.

An order wrapped in quiet destruction.

The doctor nodded immediately. “We’ll do everything we can.”

They moved her away.

The doors swung shut.

And just like that—

She was gone from his sight.

For the first time since he picked her up… his hands felt empty.

Anirudh stood there for a moment, unmoving, before turning sharply.

Control snapped back into place.

Masks returned.

He walked toward the reception desk, each step echoing against the polished floors. The woman behind it straightened instantly, her fingers trembling slightly over the keyboard.

He stopped in front of her.

“I’m placing my bodyguards here,” he said, tone calm—but edged with something that warned consequences. “I have work to finish.”

A pause.

His gaze hardened.

“Watch this place carefully.”

The woman nodded quickly. “Y-Yes, sir.”

Satisfied.

Anirudh turned away.

The night refused to breathe easy.

Anirudh stepped out into the cold again, the chaos behind him fading into a distant echo—but not from his mind. Never from his mind.

He reached his car and slid into the driver’s seat.

This time—

He drove.

No driver. No distractions. Just him and the storm tightening inside his chest.

The engine growled to life.

For a moment, his reflection stared back at him from the dark windshield—sharp, composed… untouched.

A lie.

He pulled out his phone and dialed.

The call connected instantly.

“Stay at the nearest hospital,” he ordered, voice low and final. “Guard every entry. No one moves without my permission.”

A soft hum of obedience came.

He ended the call.

No second chances. No repeated instructions.

The phone dropped beside him as the car surged forward, slicing through the London streets like a shadow that refused to be caught.

Because he needed clarity.

And clarity in his world came dressed in blood and truth.

By the time he returned to Obsidian Vault, the aftermath had settled—but the truth had only begun to surface.

His men spoke. And Anirudh listened. Every word was a blade. Every detail—a betrayal. Not an attack. A rescue. The Ranawat brothers hadn’t come for dominance. They had come for the girls. Trafficked. Hidden behind wealth and power. Broken in silence where no one dared to look.

Something inside Anirudh stilled. Completely. Because this—This had happened under his name. Under his empire. A mistake he did not allow. A sin he did not forgive. He gathered everything. Every route. Every handler. Every man involved.

And then— He kept it. Locked. Not out of ignorance. But because wars like this… weren’t fought in noise. They were executed in silence. God knew how many girls had already been dragged into that darkness.

How many names had been erased. How many lives had been reduced to numbers. His jaw tightened. But one truth stood firm amidst the filth— The Ranawat brothers had saved the ones who could still be saved. Tonight—

At least some of them got out. Anirudh stepped back into the night, the city stretching endlessly before him, unaware of the war that had just begun beneath its skin.

His expression didn’t change. His eyes didn’t soften. But something had shifted. Because this wasn’t over. Not even close. And when he chose to act— The people behind this wouldn’t disappear. They would be erased.

Morning came—But peace didn’t. It was 8 AM when Anirudh’s phone rang.

The sound cut through the silence of his penthouse like a warning.

He picked it up. And the voice on the other side—Shaking. Fear-laced.

“Sir… please come to the hospital. You need to check something important.”

The line trembled. Anirudh’s brows pulled together. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t waste seconds. He was already moving.

The drive to St. Mary's Hospital was fast—reckless enough to earn stares, but no one stopped him.

Nothing ever stopped him. By the time he arrived, the aftermath of the night still lingered. Rainwater clung to the ground, reflecting broken lights and a sky that hadn’t decided whether it wanted to be day or storm.

He stepped out. And walked in—Only to stop. The corridor—was destroyed.

CCTV cameras hung from the walls, wires ripped out, some barely clinging to the ceiling like dying witnesses. Equipment was overturned. Papers scattered. Silence stretched unnaturally, like something had passed through and erased order itself.

Anirudh’s jaw tightened.

“What the hell happened here?”

The receptionist, pale and trembling, stepped forward.

“S-sir… the girl… the one you brought…”

Her voice shook.

“She did this.”

A pause.

His eyes darkened.

“She killed the bodyguards.”

Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving. For a second—Disbelief flickered.

Then anger followed. Sharp. Controlled. Dangerous.

Without another word, Anirudh pulled out his phone and dialed. The call connected instantly.

“Come to St. Mary’s Hospital.”

His voice— was not calm. Not even close. Rough. Furious. Urgent. He cut the call. And waited. Time passed slower in places like this. He sat on a steel chair in the VIP waiting area, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze was fixed somewhere ahead—but it wasn’t seeing the present.

It was replaying the night.

The girl. Unconscious. Broken. Breathing against his chest. And now—Gone.

Around him, doctors and nurses stood like statues, fear written into every breath they took. No one dared speak. No one dared move. Hours later— A car pulled up outside. The sound echoed. Footsteps followed. Measured. Controlled.

And then—He appeared.

Riddhimaan stepped inside the hospital—and stopped.

His gaze lifted. Cameras. Broken. Hanging. Dead. Something shifted behind his eyes. Colder.

Sharper. He walked forward again. Slow. Each step echoing through the corridor.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

A warning before the storm. When he reached the VIP area— His gaze met Anirudh.

And instantly— The air tightened. Anirudh stood up. Walked straight toward him.

“Took you long enough,” he said flatly.

Riddhimaan removed his shades slowly.

“Well… I was busy.”

A humorless chuckle left Anirudh.

“Busy rescuing girls from that club last night.”

A slight lift of Riddhimaan’s brow.

“If you already knew that… why ask?”

Anirudh ran a hand through his hair, irritation bleeding through.

“Because there was one more girl,” he snapped. “One I brought here myself.”

Silence deepened.

“And around midnight…” his voice roughened, “she vanished.”

The words hit.

Hard.

“She was the main witness, Riddhimaan. The only one who could’ve given us something real.”

His gaze shifted toward the doctors.

“Ask them.”

Riddhimaan turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Care to explain,” he said quietly, voice dropping into something lethal, “what happened?”

The doctors froze. One stepped forward. Hands trembling.

“Sir… when she arrived, she was unconscious. Injured badly… bruises everywhere. We treated her… placed her in ICU…”

A pause. Then—

“Her memory… it was affected. She had amnesia.”

Anirudh didn’t react.

But something inside him registered it. Filed it. Stored it.

“She escaped,” the doctor continued weakly. “Despite the guards.”

Another silence.

“He killed them,” she corrected herself quickly. “She killed them.”

The words settled like a blade across the room.

“She took money… changed clothes… and used a fire extinguisher to destroy the CCTV cameras.”

Every eye flickered to the broken units above.

“She disappeared before anyone could stop her.”

Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. Riddhimaan stood still. Processing. Calculating. Then his gaze shifted to Anirudh. No words were needed. Both understood. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t fear-driven escape. This was precision.

Planning. Execution.

“She planned it,” Anirudh muttered under his breath.

Riddhimaan didn’t deny it. Because he saw it too. A girl who could wake up injured—Kill trained guards. Erase surveillance. Steal identity. And vanish—

Was not just a victim.

She was something else entirely.

“There’s no point chasing shadows,” Riddhimaan said finally.

Calm. Firm. Anirudh exhaled sharply.

“London,” he muttered. “A city where people disappear in seconds.”

“Exactly.”

And just like that— They both knew. She was gone. For now.

Riddhimaan turned back to the doctors.

“Expenses,” he said calmly, “will be handled by Anirudh.”

A slight glance from Anirudh—but no objection.

“And one more thing…”

The air dropped colder.

“Not a single word of this goes to the media.”

A pause.

Then softer—

“If it does… you won’t just lose your jobs.”

No shouting. No raised voice. Just certainty. The doctors nodded instantly. Fear sealing their lips. Silence returned once more. Heavy. Lingering. Anirudh folded his arms, glancing sideways.

“You enjoy breaking people a little too much.”

Riddhimaan didn’t look at him.

“It works.”

And judging by the way the doctors had nearly fled—

It always did. But somewhere beyond the walls of that hospital—In the endless veins of London—A girl with no memory…And deadly instincts—Had already disappeared.

And both men knew one thing—This story? was far from over.