Chapter 5

The evening air was thick with the scent of pre-monsoon earth as Ira walked toward the edge of the park. She held her phone tightly, a small pout on her face as she waited for the call to connect.

"Bhaiya, you didn’t even call me today," she said the moment Ishan Kapoor picked up. "You’re always so busy with your own work. You’re always in that Mercedes-Benz of yours, running from one meeting to another. Do you even remember what tomorrow is?"

On the other end, Ishan’s voice was warm and deeply apologetic. "Ira, I’m sorry, princess. Things have been chaotic at the office. But don't you worry—I will be there whenever you call me. I’m already finishing up. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise."

Ira let out a soft huff of mock annoyance, though her eyes remained gentle. "Fine. But you better be home early."

As she hung up, the warmth of the conversation lingered. She began to pick up her pace, intending to head straight home. But as she passed a dimly lit corner where a group of local boys lounged against a rusted gate, the atmosphere shifted.

One of them, a lean boy with a jagged scar on his chin, stepped forward. He didn't just look at her; he looked through her, his expression twisting into a smirk.

"Hey, look at this item walking all alone," he sneered, loud enough for his friends to bark out a laugh. "Where are you going in such a hurry, sweetheart?"

Ira’s heart hammered against her ribs. She didn't look back. She kept her head down, her steps quickening into a near-run, her breath coming in short, panicked hitches. She felt the filth of his words like a physical weight.

Fifty yards away, inside the darkened cabin of his BMW, Rudra sat frozen. His hands were trembling as they gripped the steering wheel. He had heard every syllable through the long-range directional microphone.

Item.

The word echoed in his mind like a gunshot. To the rest of the world, it was a crude insult. To Rudra, it was a desecration of the only pure thing he had ever known. His face went pale, his features sharpening into a mask of cold, murderous intent.

He watched her safely reach her gate and disappear inside. Only then did he turn his gaze back toward the boy at the corner. He didn't say a word. He simply watched the boy’s face, memorizing every breath he took.

The night was a "no moon" day, a void of total darkness. At midnight, the Malhotra estate was silent. Rudra stood before his weapon rack. His eyes fell on his AK-24, the matte black finish reflecting the dim light. His fingers brushed the trigger guard. It would be quick. It would be efficient.

But then, he paused.

No, he thought, his jaw tightening. A bullet is too merciful. A person who speaks to her like that should not die so easily.

He reached for a combat knife instead—a jagged, serrated blade. He tested the edge against his thumb, drawing a thin line of red.

The boy was walking home through a narrow, unlit alleyway. He didn't hear the BMW purring in the distance, nor did he see the Tesla belonging to Kavya parked discreetly at the end of the block—she had followed her brother, knowing his rage was spiraling.

Rudra didn't speak. He didn't demand an apology. There was no room for dialogue in the dark.

The violence was methodical. Rudra moved with a terrifying, calm precision. He made sure the boy remained conscious for as long as possible. He worked until the person who had insulted Ira no longer existed as a whole—until he was merely pieces of flesh scattered across the cold concrete floor.

By the time the first grey light of dawn began to touch the horizon, Rudra was back at his estate. He had showered, the water running red down the drain. He sat on his bed, his hands finally still.

He looked at the clock. It was June 15th.

"Happy Birthday, Ira," he whispered to the empty room. "The world is a little cleaner for you today."

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