Smoke. Silence. And a seat in the dark.
Vivaan sat motionless at a long obsidian table deep beneath the League's blood-lit stadium. The private chamber was a myth whispered among insiders—a place called The Black Box, where even shadows feared to linger. There were no cameras. No signals. No clocks. Just cold concrete and the illusion that time had been swallowed whole.
Across the table, hidden behind a silk screen, sat the Syndicate's masked overseer. The voice that emerged was unplaceable—neither male nor female, distorted by layers of modulation and menace.
"You poisoned a player. Without clearance."
Vivaan didn't flinch. His tone matched the chill in the room.
"He went rogue. I adapted."
A pause.
Then a single, slow clap echoed through the hollow chamber—an insult disguised as appreciation.
"You think fast. But fast minds... burn quicker."
A beat of silence.
"From now, you report directly to us. No filters. One misstep... and your brain leaks onto that table."
Vivaan's jaw tightened.
He knew then—the Syndicate wasn't a ghost anymore.
It had eyes. And they were now locked on him.
Kapoor Mansion – Midnight Pool
Aaravi floated alone in the moonlit water, the surface shimmering like liquid silver around her bare skin. The world outside her mansion whispered chaos—but in this silent cocoon, there was only sensation. Stillness. Memory.
She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly.
Vivaan. His fury. His fingers. The way he claimed her body like he wanted to break something deeper.
Her hand dipped beneath the surface, trailing her thigh, teasing the ache he had left behind. She wasn't just touched—she was altered.
But then—
"Danger suits you too well, Aaravi."
Mehul's voice sliced the silence.
He stood at the edge of the pool, blazer open, his eyes unreadable. She turned, still naked, and met his stare without flinching.
"And control suits you, doesn't it?" she replied, voice low, teasing.
"Afraid you're losing it?"
He knelt beside the pool, brushing her wet shoulder. His fingertips lingered, not just on skin—but memory.
"Vivaan isn't just a player anymore. You've made him more. And that makes him dangerous."
She rose slowly from the water, droplets streaming down the curve of her back, the sharp slope of her hips. She didn't cover herself. Didn't need to. Power, after all, was best worn bare.
She pressed against him, slick heat meeting his tailored cold.
"Or maybe I just needed something... real."
His hands gripped her waist—tight, possessive, conflicted.
"Then let me remind you what real control tastes like."
Their kiss was not tender—it was warfare. Tongues battling over old territory, hands re-learning a map once burned into memory. He lifted her onto the marble ledge, and her legs wrapped around him like chains—binding them to everything they once were, and everything they still feared to become.
No words.
Just two former rulers tearing into the ghosts they'd never buried.
Old Delhi – Hidden Flat
A cigarette burned between trembling fingers.
Mira stared at the faded photo taped to her cracked mirror—Veer, Aaravi, and herself. A simpler time. Before betrayals. Before blood.
She touched Veer's face gently in the picture.
"You were too soft," she whispered. "Too golden. You never belonged in this darkness."
She picked up her burner phone and dialed slowly.
"He's alive," she said. "But if you want him back… bring the girl. Alone."
She ended the call. Lit another cigarette.
And stared at the map on her wall.
Aaravi's face had a red circle around it.
So did Mehul's.
And Vivaan's… was marked with a black X.
Vivaan's Quarters – Late Night
Vivaan stepped into his room. Stopped cold.
A black envelope lay on his bed—no stamp, no seal.
He opened it.
Inside: a single polaroid. Aaravi. Asleep. Naked. Vulnerable.
And beneath it, a handwritten note in crimson ink:
"You think you're playing her, Zor?
You're just her next fall."
His jaw locked.
This wasn't seduction anymore.
This was surveillance.
This was war.
Vivaan crushed the photo in his fist. The room felt smaller, tighter, like he was being watched from every corner.
He looked at the mirror.
And for the first time—he wasn't sure if the reflection was still him.