The room sat half-swallowed by shadow — a cavern of smoke and dim amber light where shapes softened into menace. At the far end, on a low, iron throne of a chair, the boss reclined like a king of rot: composed, slow-breathing, amusement coiled in the corners of his mouth. Around him, hardened men clustered like vultures on the perimeter, faces half-hidden, hands never far from belts and guns. One of them stepped forward, voice flat as a blade.

"Sir, our shipment will reaches its destination.
In few days," the man reported.

The boss laughed — the kind of laugh that sounded like a promise of pain. It peeled through the gloom and left the room colder. "Good," he said, each syllable measured, dangerous.

At that moment the heavy door sighed open and another man entered. He moved with the calm of a practiced predator and stopped directly in front of the boss. The boss's eyes flicked up; a single, small nod passed between them — an old pact sealed in silence. The newcomer slid into place at the boss's right hand, posture immaculate, expression unreadable.

"Make sure everything's arranged," the boss said, voice a velvet threat. "No mistakes at the final drop. No surprises."

"Yes, sir," the man replied, the words crisp, obedient.

The newcomer — Mossco , the right hand of the Corvo, reputed second-in-command of Divalo — spoke then, voice low and urgent. "Everything's running smooth now, Corvo. But what about after? You know Aransh escaped from Black Crown. If Black Crown links up with the Vermas, they'll interfere with our operations. Last time they killed many of our men — even struck at our former terror boss. and i am sure they  know that by now that the old boss was a fake. If they learn who you really are..."

Mossco's question hung like a detonator. The Corvo, smile narrowed into something sharper, predatory.

"They'll never learn my identity while I still draw breath," Corvo said, smirking, as if the suggestion of discovery amused him. "They will try to strike again. They'll try to halt our shipments. We must fortify Divalo, secure support from larger factions. As for the Vermas — They will never shake Dante's hand. The Vermas and dante will remain enemies; I will make sure of it."

He said it like a sentence of death and the room answered with a ripple of cruel laughter — low, satisfied, contagious. The sound tasted of iron and ash. The men around him joined in, their mirth a chorus of wolves.

In that half-light the boss's amusement hardened into intent. Outside, the city throbbed unaware; inside, plans unfurled like knives. The laughter faded, replaced by the soft, meticulous clack of minds assembling a hunt. Distant thunder grumbled as if the sky itself agreed: the storm was coming, and when it broke, no one would be left to forget the names stamped on its fury.

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The Black Crown's living room hummed with a low, electric stillness. Screens glowed in the dark, casting maps, codes, and streaming lines of encrypted data across Matteo's face. His fingers moved like a pianist, quick and graceful, dancing over keys with precision honed by sleepless nights. Sweat and fatigue weighed on him, but his eyes burned with focus.

Across from him, on a leather sofa carved into the shadows, Dante sat back—silent, watchful. His presence filled the room like smoke, heavy and inevitable. On the second sofa, Greco and Vitale leaned forward, waiting, their patience wound tight as wire.

Then—click. Matteo struck the final key. The screen flared. He exhaled, a sound caught between a sigh of exhaustion and the laugh of someone who had clawed victory out of endless hours.
"Yes... found it." His voice carried both relief and pride, the weight of triumph after relentless struggle.

Dante leaned forward, his sharp gaze locking onto Matteo. No words were needed—Matteo understood. He swiveled the screen toward Dante. The address blinked across the display, along with travel logs and call records. Greco and Vitale crowded closer, eyes narrowing.

Matteo spoke, his tone flat, factual, but tinged with disbelief.
"Mr. Verma hasn't traveled anywhere this week. His schedule is empty—no business meetings, no trips, no hospitals. Call logs are clean. Nothing suspicious." He hesitated, then tapped the screen. "Except one thing. A call to a doctor. The very morning Aransh escaped."

Dante's eyes narrowed. "What time?"

"Six a.m.," Matteo replied.

Dante's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Two hours after Aransh disappeared." His laughter broke the silence, low and venomous, filling the room with dread. Greco, Vitale, and Matteo exchanged wary glances.

Dante's gaze rose from the screen, pinning them all with the certainty of a predator who already smelled blood.
"It means Aransh never left. Dev Verma didn't send him abroad, didn't risk a hospital. He hid him inside his own mansion." His tone sharpened, almost amused.

"Our men broke him daily—morning to night. He wasn't in any state to walk on his own. Dev knew that if he took his son to a hospital, we would find him. So instead... he brought him home. He treated him under his own roof, where he believed Black Crown wouldn't dare strike."

Vitale spoke, his voice like steel scraping stone. "The Verma mansion is a fortress. Their security is airtight. If Aransh is inside, we can't touch him there. Dev Verma knew it."

"Yes," Dante hissed, leaning back, his smirk darkening into something monstrous. "Well done, father-in-law. Clever. You managed to protect your son." His laugh slithered into the air, sharp and menacing.

Vitale frowned, eyes narrowing. "Then what are you planning, Ishaan?"

Dante's smirk widened into a smile carved from shadow itself. His voice dropped to a slow, deliberate whisper, every word edged with cruelty.

"What I should have done long ago. I don't need Aransh Verma anymore... not to take my revenge. Because now—" his eyes gleamed with dangerous delight—"I have Aanya Verma. The apple of the Verma house. Right here. In my hands."

The room sank into silence. Vitale and Greco said nothing. They didn't need to. They knew Dante would never reveal the full depth of his thoughts. His smile alone was enough—deadly, unstoppable.

And so they simply sat back, resigned, waiting. Because when Dante Mehra decided on something, there was only one certainty: the world would bleed for it.

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The room was a hush of pain and shadow. Bandages crisscrossed his palms; bruises bloomed across his face, throat, and ribs. Aransh lay rigid on the narrow bed, eyes shut, lips working as if chasing a fading dream. His body trembled with each whisper of memory.

"Don't—don't go... please don't go..." he mumbled, voice ragged and childlike, as if pleading with ghosts. The name tore out of him like a raw thing. "Nisha—" He bolted upright, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead. For a moment he was all sound and shaking, caught between terror and grief.

The door clicked open. Footsteps hurried down the corridor.

"Oh my God—Aransh, what happened?" Mrs. Verma cried, rushing in. Her hands were on him before he knew it, steadying, warm. "Relax, Arsh. You're safe. You're home. No one will hurt you."

She wrapped him in a maternal hold. He collapsed into it, sobs choking out between words. "Mo—mom... Nisha—she left me. I— I miss her. I can't live without her. It hurts—" His hands clutched at his chest, fingers finding the fierce, uneven beating of his heart. "Why did she leave me?"

"Shh. Breathe. Be strong—for Nisha, for Aanya, for yourself," Mrs. Verma whispered, soothing but firm. Her voice wavered because she knew the truth they both feared: what had happened could not be undone, but the future could still be fought for. "Nisha is gone from us, Arsh. I know it's impossible. But you must accept it, and you must stay strong."

Aransh stared at the plastered wall for a long, blank moment, then nodded. "Yes. I have to be strong for Aanya. I couldn't save Nisha, but I won't lose my sister too. His voice was small, but steel threaded through it.

Mrs. Verma hesitated, then asked the question that had been clawing at her throat. "Arsh... is it true? Are the things they're saying—what Ishaan is saying—that you're the reason Nisha took her life?"

Aransh's face crumpled. "How could you think that, Mom? How could you doubt me?" Pain and despair fractured his words. "They're framing me. Ishaan believes what he's been shown. Someone is trying to destroy the Vermas and the Mehras—both of us. I will find whoever did this. Whoever took Nisha from me—I will find them and make them pay. I won't let them get away."

Mrs. Verma held him tighter, breathing him in like she could anchor him. "Calm down. You must be strong. Not only to protect Aanya—you must make Ishaan understand. He doesn't know what's really happening. He's blinded by revenge."

"Talk to him?" Aransh coughed, a bitter laugh shaking out of him. "Mom, he kidnapped me. He beat me until I was nothing. I tried to explain, but he wouldn't listen. He is burning to take revenge. He will destroy everything with his own hands."

"I know," she said softly, forehead against his. "That's why we must find the truth—fast."

Outside, the house seemed to hold its breath. Inside, beneath bandages and brokenness, something hard and unforgiving had already begun to grow in Aransh's chest: a promise not only to grieve, but to hunt.

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The Mehra Mansion was eerily silent. The faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant ticking of a clock were the only sounds that dared to exist. Most of the house staff were busy with their chores, and Jiya was away at college. Jay was still in the hospital with Mrs. Mehra.

Aanya was alone in the vast living room, cleaning quietly. Dust danced in the streaks of sunlight that filtered through the tall windows. She bent down, trying to lift the edge of the heavy sofa so she could clean beneath it. Her fingers strained; her brow furrowed in effort.

A deep, cold voice suddenly cut through the stillness—
"Are you Bahubali or what that you're trying to lift the sofa?"

The sound startled her so much that she tripped on her own dress and fell, her hand slamming against the marble floor.
"Ouch!" she gasped, clutching her wrist.

When she looked up, her heart skipped a beat. Standing a few steps away, framed by the doorway, was Ishaan —dressed sharply in his office suit, his expression unreadable.

"S-sir... what are you doing here?" she stammered, quickly standing up, still holding her hand.

"Why? Can't I come here?" His tone was cool, edged with authority. "Last I checked, this is still my house. Am I not allowed to enter my own home now?"

"N-no, sir! Of course you can. I just... you usually don't come home at this hour, that's why I asked."

Ishaan didn't reply. His sharp gaze drifted to the sofa.
"What exactly were you doing under that?" he asked, folding his arms.

"I was just trying to clean it, sir."

"By lifting it? Do you think you're some kind of superhero? That sofa must weigh fifty kilos," he said dryly.

"I was only trying to—ah!" she winced mid-sentence as her injured hand brushed against the wiper she was holding.

Ishaan's eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

"Nothing, sir. It's just... my hand got folded the wrong way."

"Show me your hand.

No sir its okay, it will be fine.

 Show me your hand." Aanya Mehra. he said firmly.

Her breath caught. For a moment, she wondered if she heard right.
Did he just... call her by her name, not just name he called her aanya mehra?

Her name. He called her with his last name did she heard correct.
Her pulse quickened. She stared at him, frozen, unsure if she was dreaming or imagining it.

"I said," Ishaan repeated, his voice lower, more commanding this time, "show me your hand."

Almost without realizing it, she extended her trembling hand toward him. Ishaan took it firmly, his fingers curling around her wrist as he examined it. A sharp hiss escaped her lips.

"It's just a mild sprain," he said calmly. "Apply a spray on it."

"Y-yes, sir," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Do you have one?" he asked.

She shook her head. "N-no, sir."

"Then ask Nitu aunty. She'll give you one," Ishaan said, releasing her hand and stepping back. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing faintly in the hall.

Aanya stood frozen in place, still staring at her hand—the same hand he had just held. Her heart was racing, her mind spinning.

What just happened? she wondered, touching her wrist gently, as if afraid the warmth of his touch might fade.

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Thank you for reading.
Bye bye take care.