It was nearly 8 PM when Ania Malik stepped out of the small corner grocery store tucked at the edge of the alley market. The fluorescent hum of the shop dimmed behind her as the bell on the glass door jingled faintly. In her arms, a modest brown paper bag crinkled with the weight of everyday life—milk, bread, and some apples. Simple things, yet they suddenly felt too heavy for her fingers. Perhaps it was because her heart was heavier tonight.
The sky was a curtain of ink streaked with bruised blue. The city lights blinked like indifferent eyes, and the air whispered against her ears in frigid breaths. Seoul always had its silences, but tonight's was strange—dense and lingering, as though the streets were holding their breath.
Her children, Meenu and Hanna, had left earlier that morning. She had smiled for them at the airport, hugged them tightly, and waved goodbye with pride. But now, that smile had melted into something hollow. The quiet in her apartment had been too loud. Every corner reminded her of them. The kitchen where Hanna used to draw while Ania cooked. The couch where Meenu played guitar with gentle fingers.
Maybe that's why she'd gone out—to breathe, to escape the invisible grief that clung like perfume.
She adjusted the collar of her black wool coat. Its hem moved with her like a silent shadow. Her boots clicked softly on the uneven pavement as she turned into the shortcut alley she knew so well. It was quieter here, always had been. The buildings leaned close like they were sharing secrets. A streetlamp flickered above her, casting shadows that stuttered along the narrow walls.
That's when the unease began. Subtle, like a shift in temperature.
A soft scuff behind her.
Then another.
Her heartbeat quickened. She glanced over her shoulder, but the alley appeared empty. Still, she picked up her pace, the crunch of gravel beneath her boots echoing a little too loudly.
Then came the sound—deliberate, urgent. Footsteps, fast and sure.
Her instincts kicked in. Ania spun around, eyes wide.
But she was too late.
A gloved hand wrapped around her waist, yanking her backwards with brutal precision. She gasped, but the scream never came—another hand slammed over her mouth, silencing her. The paper bag tumbled from her arms, spilling its contents onto the cold ground. Apples rolled toward the gutter. The milk bottle cracked but didn't shatter, its contents pooling slowly on the concrete like a ghost.
She thrashed. Her heels scraped against the ground as she tried to dig in and fight. One heel broke, her ankle twisted, but she didn't stop. Her attacker was silent but suffocating. He didn't speak. Just moved like a phantom. Military. Trained. Every grip calculated.
Ania bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth, but the figure didn't flinch. Instead, something damp pressed against her face—a cloth.
A sharp, bitter scent filled her nose—chemical, stinging, foreign.
Chloroform.
Her panic surged. She screamed into the cloth. Kicked. Clawed. Her vision spun.
But her limbs began to fail her, each muscle disobeying her will. The world blurred, her hearing dulled. Her mind slipped backward into darkness as she fell limp in the arms of a stranger.
And then—nothing.
---
🕯️ Somewhere Unknown... Hours Later
The room was frigid and windowless, carved from grey concrete and wrapped in silence. The only light came from a single flickering bulb overhead, suspended by a rusted chain. Shadows twisted along the walls like creatures from a fever dream.
Ania lay crumpled on the floor, bound and unconscious. Her wrists were tied with rough rope, red with friction burns. Her scarf was gone. Her dark hair—usually neatly pinned—now spilled in disheveled waves across her face. Her knees were scraped. Her coat was dirty, sleeves torn.
She stirred.
At first, her breath caught, shallow and confused. Then came the pain—a deep ache in her shoulders, a sting in her ankle, a pounding behind her eyes. She tried to lift her head. Groaned. The bulb above seemed to spin, the light too bright and yet too dim all at once.
She blinked, trying to remember. The grocery store. The shortcut. The hand. The cloth.
Her heart leapt.
Where was she?
Ania struggled to sit up. Her muscles protested. Her shoulder screamed with sharp pain. She grit her teeth, suppressing a sob. Around her, there was nothing but the cold and that single door—metal, thick, unmarked. No handle. No knob. No sound from the other side.
She began to shake—not from the cold, but from the storm building inside her chest. Tears threatened. She refused to let them fall.
"Think, Ania," she whispered to herself, hoarse. "Think."
She shifted, checking the ropes at her wrists. Tight. No give. Whoever took her knew what they were doing.
She was alone.
But someone had taken her for a reason.
And someone would come looking.
Someone would burn the world for her.
---
🔥 Elsewhere – Seoul, 11:47 PM
The glow of the city did little to calm Devrathor.
His apartment stood on the 20th floor of a luxury tower, but tonight, it felt like a cage. The glass walls gave him a panoramic view of Seoul's glittering skyline, but all he saw was darkness—too much space, too much silence.
He stared at his phone. Again.
Still nothing.
His thumb hovered over her contact. He pressed it.
Ring. Ring.
Voicemail.
He ended the call and called again. And again. And again.
Nothing.
Ania had never been this quiet. Never unreachable.
He moved from the window, tension etched into his every step. He crossed to his desk—a massive slab of black oak. Below it, a locked drawer waited. His hand didn't hesitate. He pulled it open.
Inside: a cold, black Glock. Polished. Familiar.
Devrathor picked it up. Loaded it without ceremony. Every click of metal sent a shiver down his spine.
His jaw clenched.
He opened another drawer. Inside, a small phone—different from his regular one. A burner, ancient by today's standards. He hadn't touched it in years.
He turned it on. Waited for it to buzz alive.
Then he dialed a number only a few still remembered.
Three rings.
Then, a voice like gravel on asphalt: "Who is this?"
Devrathor's voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that followed bloodshed.
"Devrathor," he said. "Ania's missing. I need eyes on the city."
A pause. Then: "She yours?"
Devrathor's voice turned to iron.
"She's mine. And if anyone's touched her... I will turn this city into smoke."
Silence hung for a beat. Then the voice on the other end responded.
"Understood."
Click.
Devrathor stood motionless for a moment, his expression unreadable. The gun rested in his hand like an extension of his rage.
He moved swiftly then—grabbing a black coat, strapping the gun beneath it. He paused by a framed photo near the door. Ania's smile. The way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when nervous. The softness in her eyes.
He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tightening further.
"I'll find you," he whispered to the frame.
Then, he vanished into the Seoul night like a shadow unchained.
---
🩸 Somewhere Far Away – 12:21 AM
A set of heavy boots stepped into the concrete room.
Ania froze.
The metal door opened slowly with a mechanical hiss, and a tall man entered. Masked. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in tactical black. No insignia. No face.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Who are you?" she demanded, voice rasping.
The man didn't reply. He set a tray down beside her. Water. A slice of bread. A small metal spoon. Nothing else.
"Why am I here?" she asked, heart thudding.
Still no reply.
She tried to sit up straighter. "If you think someone will pay for me, you're wrong. I'm not worth a damn thing."
The man finally tilted his head slightly. A voice, low and distorted through a modulator, responded.
"You're worth more than you know."
And with that, he turned and walked out.
The door closed again.
Ania's hands trembled—not from fear, but fury.
Somewhere, in this massive city, someone had her.
And somewhere out there… someone would come.
She just had to survive long enough to see him.