"Shadows obey only the light that commands them. Control the light, or you will live trapped inside someone else's shadow."
It was six o'clock in the evening.
Rain hammered the ground outside, the sound echoing through the emptiness that surrounded us. We were far from the nearest city—far enough that no ordinary person would ever find this place by accident. For the people gathering here tonight, that isolation made it perfect.
As we approached, the hideout emerged slowly from the darkness. Concrete walls, aged and weathered. Beside it stood a rusted structure that looked like an old maintenance room. The place appeared abandoned, untouched for years, yet a faint, stale smell lingered in the air. It wasn't rain or earth. It was something older. Something sealed away. The kind of scent that made my skin tighten even before we stepped inside.
The interior resembled an empty auditorium—the assumed meeting space. Dark. Silent. Deceptive. At first glance, it matched the lifeless exterior.
Then the lights flickered.
The truth revealed itself.
Nearly two hundred people stood in absolute stillness. Each of them held something in their hands—metal, wood, or iron. Weapons disguised by patience.
The air inside was neutral, untouched by rain or damp soil. The walls were faded, peeling in places, yet the atmosphere was charged. Goosebumps crawled up my arms—not from fear, but from what I was seeing.
And then I heard it.
"Beni… Beni… Beni…"
The name moved through the hall like a whisper, a warning. No one here seemed to know who Beni truly was—where he lived, what he looked like—but every single person understood what that name meant.
Power.
Every secure place has an intruder.
Tonight, this one did too.
A man stepped forward from the crowd. His face was hidden behind a mask, but his eyes were sharp, cold, and trained. He didn't speak. He took a metal rod from the man beside him, turned, and struck once.
The blow was clean. Precise. Merciless.
The intruder collapsed without a sound.
No one reacted. No one questioned.
Only one man here had the authority to strike first.
Just a few days ago, something happened. Something that dragged me to this place.
It was the very thing that trapped me inside someone else's shadow.
And seeing this…
I realised I had never witnessed anything like it before.
International Summit – Delhi
The meeting is already in motion.
Inside the vast hall in Delhi, tradition and authority blended seamlessly. Carved wooden walls framed the space, deep red carpets softened the floor, and soft classical music filled the air. A ceremonial welcome dance marked the arrival of high-ranking officials from across the world, underscoring the importance of the gathering.
India was hosting the global summit—a rare position of leadership—and the atmosphere reflected that responsibility.
The hall was arranged in an old-style round-table format. World leaders took their seats while their assistants stood directly behind them. Formal servings were placed on the table before the proceedings began, precise and untouched, setting the tone for what was to follow.
High in a corner, an observation room overlooked the hall, allowing everything below to be seen.
Raju Rao is representing India, with his assistant, LB, standing beside him, and Mahira positioned directly behind them.
LB was almost unnoticed—not because he lacked presence, but because Mahira's beauty overshadowed everything around her. In a hall where women were rare, Mahira's arrival made every other face fade into the background, as if they had never been there at all.
It wasn't just the officials; even some of their assistants couldn't keep their eyes off her.
But Mahira stood steady, composed, completely unbothered—
As if this kind of attention was nothing new to her,
As if she lived in moments like this every day.
LB was twenty-three, stood five foot eleven, and carried a kind of calm that compelled attention without ever demanding it. People listened to him before they realised they were.
A lawyer by profession and Rao's most trusted assistant, he also operated as a covert force agent—his legal identity a shield for work that never reached official records. He believed in straight answers and clean solutions—no detours, no unnecessary complications. Efficiency wasn't a habit for him; it was a principle.
A set of briefings rested loosely in his hand, as though he barely needed them, while his dark, alert eyes tracked every movement in the room. Nothing escaped his notice. Not words. Not silences.
His neatly kept black hair and disciplined appearance reflected the mind beneath—controlled, sharp, and perpetually aware, like a blade kept sheathed only by choice.
Mahira stood opposite him—confident, self-assured, and quick to judge. Though still in high school, she carried herself with an authority that made her age easy to forget.
Attention found her effortlessly. She noticed it, acknowledged it, and gave nothing back.
Her sharp, black feather-cut hair reflected a personality drawn to control and precision. Dressed in a black suit that concealed her youth, she looked nothing like a student. The clothes weren't a disguise—they were a declaration.
Ambition settled naturally around her presence. Her position at the summit came not only from rare potential, but from the unmistakable weight of her father's influence, a shadow she neither denied nor tried to escape.
Today's headline topic carries weight: dismantling the expanding web that ties local gangs to international syndicates—money laundering, smuggling routes, human trafficking, contract killings, and open gang wars feeding off one another.
What once operated in shadows now spills into public spaces. Streets, schools, and neighbourhoods are no longer untouched. Violence has become casual. Chaos, normalised.
A dangerous trend is taking root among the young, impressionable minds drawn to the power, money, and false glory of gang culture. They imitate what they see, build smaller crews, provoke rivalries, and turn public places into battlegrounds, unaware they are being used as expendable pieces in much larger games.
A meeting that might decide peace—or the loss of it.
The gangs weren't all the same.
They were divided into three ranks, classified through intelligence reports, criminal history, and the reach of their networks. Power wasn't measured only by violence, but by information—how much they knew, how far their influence stretched, and how easily they could make things disappear.
Some ruled streets.
Some controlled cities.
And some operated so quietly that their names never appeared—only the damage they left behind.
This was an international summit, built on coordinated data from multiple government agencies. As an assistant, LB carried out several briefings, following the discussion with a stern, unbroken focus.
A list was circulated—page after page filled with gang names. No one took pride in the numbers—because they weren't falling. They were growing. And everyone in the room knew why: countless groups still operated in the shadows, unrecorded, unseen, and unchecked.
India leads the summit, with Raju Rao heading this conference.
Raju Rao was fifty-two, five foot six, and carried himself like a storm restrained by discipline. Dressed in a black coat and trousers with a white tie, he radiated authority without raising his voice. Grey streaks framed his head, while his black eyes revealed nothing—no fear, no mercy—only a calm, venomous precision, like a silent viper waiting for the exact moment to strike with words.
He begins.
He taps the table once. The hall became active, and complete silence prevailed in this Delhi hall.
"Let's begin by acknowledging the global links these major gangs have built," he says, voice steady and sharp. "They're tied to big players across continents… and a few of those connections might even touch some of our own people present here, my dears."
A murmur rises. Uneasy glances are exchanged.
Almost instantly, representatives from the United States and Japan rose from their seats.
"How can you speak like this?" one of them shouted. "Are you accusing us?"
Before Rao could respond, voices began to stir across the hall. Other representatives leaned toward one another, whispering, passing sharp comments under their breath. Some scoffed. Some smirked.
But there were only a handful—barely noticeable—who went silent.
They understood.
They knew Rao's words weren't careless. They were deliberate. A calculated strike, placed exactly where it would unsettle the guilty without naming them aloud.
The room buzzed, unaware that the line had already been crossed.
Rao lifted his head slowly. His eyes hardened, cold and red with warning.
"Don't make me do what I enjoy doing," he said.
Silence fell—heavy, final—like a stone dropped into still water. They all understood what was stirring beneath it. It wasn't fear of Rao that held them still, but something else—something buried, something they did not want to surface.
"We have two gangs: [Blood Line Gang] and [Black Diamond Gang] from India.
Two from the USA: [Black Tide Sindicate] and [Blood Lover Gang].
One from Japan: [Kuro Oni-kai (Black Oni Association)].
One from China: [Xuè Lián Bāng (Blood Lotus Gang)].
One from Korea: [Choi Amyeong Gang (Choi Dark Shadow Gang)].
And one from Africa: [Ufalme wa Giza Gang (Kingdom of Darkness Gang)]."
He paused, letting each name sink in.
"These gangs are powerful—too powerful. And they maintain dangerous alliances with people who hold influence."
"We still have time to act," he continued, voice steady but serious. "We must sever their connections. If Rank 2 and Rank 3 gangs manage to rise to Rank 1… It's over."
He paused.
"Of course, Rank1 will never allow that. They want to stay at the top—alone."
Then he leaned forward, just slightly, lowering his tone.
"This is what we have to do," he said. "Create internal conflicts. Break their alliances from the inside. Turn their leaders against one another. Only then do we stay in the upper hand—and keep full control of the situation."
A question came from one of them.
"How?"
He paused, letting the weight of it settle.
"The only real way," he continued, "is to drag their names into the open. Make them public. That alone is enough."
A faint, cold edge entered his voice.
"Publicity. Pressure. Exposure of their hideouts. Once the spotlight is on them, there will be no place left for them in public life—no space to breathe. And there will be no place at all for those who work for them.
Silence followed, heavy and unavoidable.
Lists Two and Three were distributed privately to each leader. They detailed the smaller gangs linked through a precise chain—Rank One issued the contracts, Rank Two disclosed them, and Rank Three carried them out.
The structure was terrifyingly efficient.
India stood at the top in total numbers.
Not just in scale, but in speed. Tier-2 and Tier-3 networks were multiplying rapidly, and as their numbers grew, many were pulled into taking assignments from Tier-1 gangs. Quick money. Instant work. A chain where minor groups quietly fed the power of major criminal players.
And put them in a safe position.
And this was for all countries as their number were also not that much lower, even some were close to India also.
And this chain is exactly the link we must cut, because the more it grows, the stronger these top-tier gangs become.
Then the African representative spoke.
"What about a gang in India… what is the name… Bani? Buni?"
LB corrected him sharply. "Beni."
The hall paused.
Stiffened.....
"Why isn't it mentioned in any list?" the African official asked.
Rao turned to LB. "Any information?"
LB shook his head. "We don't have any official data on him."
The tension shifted instantly. Anger stirred across several delegations—an opening, a flaw, a chance to challenge India's authority.
LB stepped forward without hesitation, placing himself between Rao and the pressure.
"We do know the gang is powerful," LB said firmly. "But their controller has never revealed himself. We can't place a group on the list without verified data—that would be reckless. You all know how critical this operation is. Decisions can't be made by shouting without understanding what you're dealing with."
Some members nodded. Others glared.
A few were simply afraid.
LB continues, "Many officers lost their lives, and several are still missing while investigating this gang. Higher officials have ordered that we gather the information—no matter what."
Then, unexpectedly, a drunken old representative from Korea stands up. He wobbles, trying to show he has something to contribute.
"They don't even know their own country's problem," he mutters loudly.
Laughter erupts around him.
Mahira, seated beside LB, reached out subtly to stop him. She sensed it immediately—the tightening of his posture, the sharpening of his gaze. LB was about to act, and she knew it.
When he ignored her, Mahira turned her face away, annoyed by his refusal to follow her rules.
Raju Rao didn't stop him—at least not at first. He waited, allowing LB to speak, watching him closely.
But LB steps forward.
"Shut. Up."
The entire hall freezes.
"Laughing at us won't help your own nation," he said. "I was in your country. Things were bad—your government begged others for help. We stand strong today without needing a servant to hold us upright. Sit down and listen."
The Korean official stared at him, stunned. He turned to his assistant, who leaned in and whispered,
"Sir… that's LB. Everyone praises him. He handled the Seoul underworld conflict alone. He was the undercover agent who dismantled the largest network there. Without him, that mission wouldn't have survived."
A new silence spreads—this one filled with respect.
Higher officials nod. They trust him.
The meeting moves toward its end.
Raju Rao hears it.
Rao looked at LB.
"You handled Seoul. Now you will handle this. From this moment, the responsibility of finding information on Beni is yours."
LB nodded once. "I've just arrived in India… and I'll take full responsibility for uncovering everything about Beni."
He said it without blinking—locking eyes with the Korean official, not as a challenge, but as a declaration of intent.
"In the next—and final—meeting, we will publicly reveal the names of the gangs and their leaders, as authorised by this summit. That will be our first move."
As the delegates began to leave, LB caught a faint spark of light high above them—visible for a heartbeat, then gone.
Someone is watching.
High in the top room, the president of the association watches silently—observing every reaction, every movement. The meeting ends.
After the meeting, Mahira pulled LB aside. They spoke quietly—her persistent, he unmoved. When it finally ended, LB walked over to Raju Rao, who was already waiting.
"What happened?" Rao asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I refused to team up with her," LB said simply.
Raju frowned. "Why? Don't you need a team?"
LB let out a short, confident laugh, carrying no trouble, no doubt.
"Do I need a team? "Haahaa… hell naaahhh… I prefer solo…"
***
Beni lay half-asleep, suspended between dream and wakefulness, the room around him feeling unreal, sounds reaching him without shape or meaning.
A knock slipped through the haze.
Without opening his eyes, rough, unfocused words spilt out—
"Who's there… just fuckin' around…and why does my dream have a door now?"
Solo?"
The knock came again, clearer this time.
Then a calm, familiar voice cut through the fog.
"Your father, my fuckin' son."
That was enough to pull him fully awake.
Who am I?
People here know me as Beni.
It isn't my real name. It's a nickname—one my gang gave me.
A name that works best in places where no one is supposed to know who I really am.
It was Saturday—a holiday for me, at least.
I'm Taavish, my real name.
I live a simple, middle-class life with my father. From everything I've been told, my mother died while giving birth to me, and since then, it has been just the two of us. My father works as a manager in a steel company—steady, disciplined, and well-respected. We live quietly, decently. I'm still in high school, so I help him wherever I can.
Because my father is well-regarded in society, we maintain cordial relations with the neighbours—brief conversations, polite smiles, the unspoken rules of coexistence.
But peace never lasts forever. Not in my kind of world.
Whatever it is… I still respect my father.
He gave everything he had—for all of us. In a way, he carried both roles. I ask, what's the need for a mother when a father does so much? But that's the part I miss now—the emotion, the softness. Still, he never let absence become neglect.
He never missed a single parent-teacher meeting. While most fathers stayed away and mothers filled the rooms, he came alone. He didn't care whether his son was standing there or not—he believed that being present mattered. When I was younger, I didn't understand his intention. Now, I understand everything.
Money became a barrier many times. Life wasn't easy. But we stayed together.
And there is one thing my mind still holds tightly, something he always said:
Respect your friend.
Help your friend.
And finally, understand your friend.
I followed those words.
Books stayed with me when nothing else did. I learned quietly, teaching myself page by page. They shaped how I thought, how I saw things.
Later, when I began using that knowledge in real life, the books slowly stepped back. Not because they were forgotten—but because they had already given me what I needed.
***
Though it was a holiday for me, it wasn't one for my father. He was rushing to work, yet still took the time to prepare two dishes—one for us, one for the neighbours.
I have money.
I have power.
But I still can't use either of them. Not openly. Not yet.
Before leaving, my father called out, "Hey, son. Take one of the dishes I made to our new neighbours. They've just moved in from abroad—the sons of my old friend. He passed away years ago. This will be your first time meeting them."
I went over, dish in hand. The door opened to reveal a boy about my age standing there.
"Hi," I said politely. "I'm your neighbour, Taavish."
The boy blinked, surprised, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know. My father and your father were friends. My brother told me."
I am Siyan.
"Oh?" I smiled casually and shook his hand, handing over the dish as he stepped aside and gestured me in.
Siyan headed toward the kitchen, leaving me alone in the hallway.
The house belonged to two brothers newly settled into the neighbourhood, and it showed. A few things were still out of place—subtle signs of a recent move—but the space felt simple, comfortable, and lived-in, perfectly suited for just the two of them.
The hall looked fresh, newly painted. The side walls glowed in a warm orange, while the upper sections near the ceiling and fan were white, marked with a soft, almost artistic pattern. Despite a few unfinished patches, the furniture had been arranged with care—the sofas aligned, the dining table placed with intention—ready for life to settle in.
One wall, however, stood empty.
It felt deliberate as though it had been reserved for something important. A showcase, perhaps—a place meant to hold memories of their late father. That empty wall made the house feel quiet and unfinished, yet meaningful in a way words couldn't explain.
I hesitated, but curiosity pulled me forward.
One room stood half-open. Inside, a table was stacked with papers.
I stepped closer.
My name.
Beni.
It was written clearly on a sheet, surrounded by questions.
Where?
Why?
What?
And one question, larger than the rest, pressed heavily on the page:
Who?
"The world doesn't fall to monsters—it falls to the ones who learn how to smile while becoming one."