CHAPTER 1 — THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WORST TIME
The rain had been falling for hours, turning the city into a blur of headlights and wet pavement when Aisha Sen's shift ended. The café was nearly empty, its yellow lights flickering across the counter she had just finished wiping down. She grabbed her bag, pulled her hoodie up, and checked her phone—dead again. Typical.
She should have gone straight home. She should have walked toward the main road where people were still around.
But she didn't.
The shortcut behind the abandoned textile mill was faster, quieter, and usually empty at this hour. Except tonight, the air was unnaturally still—like the city itself was holding its breath. Her sneakers splashed through shallow puddles as she walked, the sound too loud in the silence. She reached for her earphones before remembering the phone was dead.
The night felt wrong.
Aisha slowed as she passed the dark alley. Something metallic clinked, followed by a low voice. She froze—not out of fear, but instinct. Years of running, hiding, surviving had rewired her in ways no one understood. She peeked from behind a torn billboard frame.
Three black SUVs were parked in a tight formation, engines humming. Ten, maybe twelve men in black suits stood around, guns holstered under their jackets. Their posture was military. Their silence was lethal.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
Mafia.
Not the small gangs the news talked about… this was organized, disciplined, precise. The kind that never left witnesses alive.
A man stepped out of the central SUV.
Tall. Sharp jawline. Wearing a tailored charcoal coat that screamed money and authority. His hair slicked back, his expression unreadable. Even from the distance, his presence felt heavy—dangerous.
Two men dragged someone out of the vehicle—a handcuffed man, beaten bloody, face swollen beyond recognition.
Aisha swallowed hard.
She should turn back.
She should run.
She should pretend she saw nothing.
But her body didn't listen; it moved on its own. Her trembling fingers reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone even though it was dead—except the screen lit up.
10% battery.
Enough for a recording.
Enough to ruin her.
She hit record.
The man in the charcoal coat spoke, voice deep, calm, terrifyingly controlled.
"You stole from me."
The wind carried his words toward her, each syllable cutting like cold metal.
"You betrayed the syndicate. You know how this ends."
The beaten man begged—words slurring, mouth full of blood.
"Please… Rivan… please… I—I didn't—"
Rivan.
Aisha's lungs froze.
Rivan Malhotra.
Billionaire CEO by day. Rumored philanthropist. City's most eligible bachelor.
And apparently the man who ran the underworld with an iron fist.
She steadied her phone.
One of the guards handed Rivan a gun. A custom matte-black piece with silver engravings.
He didn't hesitate.
He didn't pause.
He didn't blink.
The gunshot split the night.
Aisha dropped to her knees behind the billboard, the world spinning violently. Her ears rang. A thin scream clawed at her throat but never made it out. Gunshot trauma was her oldest wound, a scar carved into her bones since childhood.
She covered her mouth to muffle her shaking breath. Memories slammed into her—
the smell of blood,
the echo of screams,
the metallic ringing of a bullet tearing through air.
Her vision blurred.
Not now. Not here. Not again.
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to stay silent.
Rivan spoke again, voice colder than the rain.
"Dispose of the body."
Two men lifted the corpse like it weighed nothing. Another opened the SUV trunk. The lid rose—and a sudden gust of wind pushed against Aisha's hiding spot. The billboard creaked loudly.
Too loudly.
Every head turned.
Rivan raised his gun.
Aisha's blood turned to ice.
She crawled backward slowly, heart punching against her ribs. Rain slipped down her face, mixing with sweat. She didn't know if she was crying or if the weather was doing it for her.
A guard pointed directly at the billboard.
"Someone's there."
Panic shot through her chest. She bolted.
Footsteps thundered behind her.
"After her!"
"Don't let her escape!"
Aisha ran like her life depended on it—because it did.
Her breath tore out of her lungs in sharp bursts as she sprinted across the wet street, slipping, stumbling, but never stopping. The sound of heavy boots echoed behind her, getting closer.
She reached the old textile mill and dashed inside, darkness swallowing her.
The building smelled of mold and metal, broken windows letting in streaks of moonlight. She ran up the rusted stairs, gripping the railing as her legs shook. Her ears still rang from the gunshot, her chest tightening.
She hid behind an old machine, hands shaking uncontrollably. She clamped a palm over her mouth to muffle her breathing.
Footsteps entered the mill.
Slow. Methodical.
Too confident.
Flashlights cut through the darkness.
"She couldn't have gone far," one of them said.
"Spread out," another commanded.
Her phone buzzed weakly in her pocket—low battery warning.
She bit her lip too hard.
The tiny sound felt like a bomb in the silence.
A beam of light moved dangerously close to her hiding spot.
Her mind flashed back to another night years ago—
gunfire,
screams,
her parents collapsing,
her own footsteps slipping in blood as she ran.
A man's voice yelling,
"Find the girl!"
Her chest tightened painfully.
One of the guards was now inches away.
Aisha silently stepped backward, but her foot hit a loose metal rod which rolled across the floor with a loud clang.
Every flashlight turned to her.
"There!"
She ran.
The chase exploded through the mill.
Guards shouting.
Flashlights swinging.
Boots pounding metal stairs.
She fled up to the roof, bursting through the rusted door. Cold wind slapped her face. The rooftop was a dead end—four floors above the ground.
Behind her, the door slammed open.
Three men emerged.
Aisha stepped back until her spine hit the boundary wall. The drop behind her was fatal.
Her heart hammered so violently she felt it in her throat.
One man raised his gun.
Her trauma surged.
Her limbs trembled uncontrollably.
Air refused to enter her lungs.
She heard the echo of the earlier gunshot replay in her skull.
She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't think.
"Don't kill her," a voice ordered from below.
Every guard froze.
Aisha's blood turned colder than the rain.
Rivan Malhotra stepped onto the rooftop slowly, as if he were walking into his own living room. His coat billowed in the wind, hair slicked back perfectly despite the weather.
The city lights behind him painted him like a figure carved out of shadow and steel.
He walked toward her with the calm of a man who owned the ground he stepped on.
Aisha pressed against the wall, fighting the rising panic, fingers numb.
Rivan stopped just a few steps away from her.
His eyes locked onto hers—sharp, dark, unreadable.
He tilted his head slightly.
"You shouldn't have seen that."
Aisha said nothing. Couldn't. Her throat felt strangled.
Rivan took another step closer.
His presence was overwhelming—cold, expensive, lethal.
He looked down at her trembling hands.
"You're shaking."
His voice was smooth, but not gentle.
"Gunshots do that to you?"
Her heart stopped.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
Rivan reached out, slow, deliberate, lifting her chin with a single gloved finger.
Her breath hitched violently.
Her trauma flared.
His touch was ice.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
She did.
And he saw everything—fear, panic, survival instinct, and something older… something broken.
A muscle in his jaw tightened.
"Who are you?"
She didn't answer.
He leaned closer, breath ghosting her cheek.
"You recorded it, didn't you?"
Her stomach flipped.
Before she could lie—before she could run—he slipped his hand into her pocket with one smooth movement and pulled out her phone.
Her heart stopped.
He checked the screen.
The recording icon flashed.
Rivan's expression didn't change. But his eyes did—darkening, sharpening, becoming something lethal.
He looked at her one last time.
Then he stepped back and spoke to his men without breaking eye contact.
"Sedate her."
Aisha's pulse exploded.
"No—wait—" she choked out, voice cracking.
But a needle pierced her arm from behind.
Her vision spun.
The rooftop twisted sideways.
The last thing she saw was Rivan standing above her—calm, emotionless, terrifying—watching her collapse like she was a puzzle piece he had finally found.
Her world went black.
And just before consciousness faded completely, she heard his final words—
soft, cold, and promising nothing good:
"Bring her to the underground room. I want to see what she remembers."
Everything dissolved into darkness.
She fell.
Not to the ground—
Into the nightmare she thought she had escaped years ago.