The corridor reeked of bleach, smoke, and blood.
Devian walked through the ruined warehouse, silence trailing behind him like a shadow.
Aarav hung from the ceiling, half-conscious, broken. His mouth was gagged, his face barely recognizable. Two of Devian's men stood watch, not moving, not speaking.
Devian stopped in front of the man who had laughed over Meher's body.
His voice was quiet, calm. Too calm.
"You remember her?"
Aarav moaned. Devian crouched slightly.
"Red dress. Barefoot. Barely breathing. You left her in the dirt like trash."
There was no anger in his tone. Just cold memory.
"I don't like when something helpless dies without reason." He reached into his coat, pulled out his silver-edged pistol, and pressed it to Aarav's forehead.
Bang.
The silence afterward was worse than the shot.
Devian didn't stop there.
Rhea — manipulator.
Rashmi — silent enabler.
Everyone who knew and did nothing.
They were erased like names from an old ledger.
This wasn't revenge.
It was rebalancing.
And yet, when it was over, when Mumbai breathed a little safer, quieter, Devian didn't feel peace.
Just emptiness.
He stood on the edge of the sea one night, watching waves lap at his shoes. He could still see Meher's bruised face, still hear her breath giving out in his arms.
"Too late," he muttered, as if the wind could carry the apology.
✦ Two Years Earlier ✦Meher gasped awake.
She bolted upright in her childhood bed, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding like a war drum. Her calendar read:
March 5th — two years before her death.
"No," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "This isn't real". She stumbled to the mirror. Same face. No scars. No wounds. No blood.
But her soul remembered everything.
Rhea's laughter. Aarav's betrayal. Her stepmother's cold eyes. The pain. The helplessness. The alley. The red dress. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her legs trembled. But she stood,
"If I'm back…" she whispered, staring herself down, "I won't die like that again."