Morning crept quietly over Mehra Estate.
But far from that domestic calm, hidden deep within the mansion, a different kind of silence reigned.
Inside a private dojo, untouched by the buzz of the morning, the only presence was the faint scent of sandalwood. Polished wooden floors gleamed under the soft light, and rows of weapons stood in perfect order on the walls. At the center of it all, a man sat alone in meditation.
Chana Murad Arya.
Cross-legged and still, he raised his right hand, staring at the fingers that had once been broken. A faint scar ran along the knuckles—subtle, but impossible to forget. A relic from a time he never truly escaped.
His eyes seemed calm, but there was a storm beneath.
In his mind, he saw it again—the narrow, stinking alley reeking of alcohol and wet pavement. And the voices... God, the voices.
"Hey, fatso! You think you can walk through here without paying a toll? Everyone pays me if they wanna pass. Hahaha!"
