The vast hall was drenched in warm amber light pouring through its tall glass windows, but the air inside was far from comforting. Silence stretched like a taut wire as men in tailored black suits stood at a respectful distance, their eyes darting between each other and the man seated at the head of the long marble table.
Reyan "Rex" Malhotra leaned back in his leather chair, a glass of scotch untouched in front of him, the cigarette between his fingers burning slow. He was dressed in a crisp black shirt with the top button undone, revealing the sharp line of a faint scar below his collarbone—an old war wound from another brutal time. The quiet clink of ice shifting in a glass echoed like thunder in the tension-filled room.
A man stepped forward—nervous, sweating under pressure. He was one of the front-facing legal managers handling the day-to-day "clean" business empire Rex had built on blood and secrets.
> "Sir… Swindon mall—Red Vortex Enterprises—it's been... sealed."
Rex didn't even blink.
> "Sealed?" His voice was low. Dead calm. The kind of calm that made your skin crawl.
"Who sealed my building in my city?"
> "Indian intelligence officers, sir. They're part of the England agency's special unit. No one from our side was warned. They stormed the place yesterday without a warrant. Found... things."
Rex flicked the ash off his cigarette and stared hard, his eyes like two frozen bullets.
> "Things?"
"Drugs. Weapons. Documents. The usual. But... sir, none of it was under your name. They have no proof against you."
The man gulped nervously before adding,
> "They've claimed the right to hold the building for two to three days pending investigation."
Rex stood slowly. The room shifted in energy. The lawyers and legal advisors near him froze, every movement calculated, fearful.
He stepped closer to the man and tapped the glass table with the edge of his gun—an old, polished Beretta resting comfortably in his palm.
> "What's the name of the officer who led the raid?"
> "Kiaan Verma. Young... maybe late 20s. Sharp. Known for underground operations. Seems personally driven."
A shadow passed over Rex's face.
> "Verma," he murmured, lips curling slightly.
"That name again."
He turned toward the others in the room.
> "Two or three days is more than enough to cause problems. I don't like problems."
> "Sir—should we speak to our friends in the higher office? They can stall this further."
Rex slowly walked to the window, cigarette still glowing in his hand.
> "No. We don't stall."
He stared out over the distant English landscape, eyes dark with memory.
> "We strike back. Quietly. Smartly. But fatally."
He turned again, his posture commanding full attention.
> "Find out everything about Kiaan Verma. His files, his family, his habits. If he wants to play this game—he'll learn very quickly… this is my country. My rules. And nobody shuts my doors... not without paying a price."
A silence settled again.
> "One more thing," Rex added, voice low but lethal,
"Get me a list of the officers in his team. I want to know who breathes in his circle."
> "Yes, sir," the man bowed and rushed out with urgency.
Rex stared back at his scotch, then picked it up and took a slow sip. The glass clicked against his ring—the one with a lion carved into it. A symbol of power. Of fear. Of control.
> "You've started the fire, Mr. Verma," Rex said to no one, smiling darkly.
"Now let's see if you can survive the heat."
Outside the sun began to set, casting long shadows—perfect for a predator like Rex to walk through, silently preparing for war.