The hunt had begun

The evidence was a photograph. A boot print, perfectly preserved, the tread pattern matching the gym shoes Rohan wore every day. A fingerprint, lifted from the knife handle, clear and unmistakable. The knife itself, photographed beside the body, as if the killer had simply walked away and left it there.

*Too clean.*

She pointed at the screen, her finger trembling. "Look at the footprints. The same boot my brother uses for his gym. The fingerprints, right on display. The knife, still with the dead body. You really think a killer would leave his own evidence like this?"

He was silent for a long moment. She could feel the tension in his body, the coiled stillness of a predator re-evaluating its prey.

"The fifteenth." His voice was tighter now, a thread about to snap. "She vanished at midnight. Why?"

"And where did she vanish?"

"What was the date when she was kidnapped?"

"The main courtyard," he whispered, his voice laced with dark rage. "Right beneath my own windows. She was snatched from her bedroom." He gripped the edge of her desk, his knuckles white.

"What does that tell you?"

"Did you check the CCTV?"

He stiffened. The muscle in his jaw jumped again, a tell she was beginning to recognize.

"The footage was wiped. My security chief claimed a system failure."

She turned to look at him. For the first time, she met his eyes without flinching.

"Someone deleted it. Pull up those boot prints again. Now."

He stared at me. His dark eyes searched her face, looking for the lie, the crack, the deception. He found none.

"Then let's check the spot."

She turned fully to face him, the laptop forgotten behind her. "Let's go to the courtyard. Where she was taken. The dirt still holds answers."

He held her gaze. The silence stretched between them, a taut wire. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He held it in his palm, weighing it, as if weighing the decision itself.

"You think the dirt still holds answers?" he murmured, snapping the case shut. "Fine. We leave at dawn."

"But you will not harm my brother or my parents while I'm out."

He paused. The silver case rested in his palm, a caught breath. A low scoff escaped him, but his eyes never left her.

"They are my leverage," he said softly, slipping the case back into his jacket. "As long as you serve my purpose, they will survive to see sunrise."

"Seven days," she reminded him.

He didn't answer. He turned and walked out of the door, his silhouette framed against the glittering city. The clock was ticking.

She sat back in the chair, the laptop's glow painting her face.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, and the city stirred in its sleep.

The hunt had begun.

The heat of his grip lingered on her skin long after he had gone.

She touched her chin in the dark of the bedroom, pressing her fingertips to the spot where his thumb had dug in, forcing her face up to meet those unyielding eyes. The phantom pressure was still there, a bruise that hadn't yet bloomed, a mark that belonged more to his memory than to his hand.

She did not sleep.

She lay in the unfamiliar bed and listened to the house breathe around her —the creak of old pipes, the murmur of guards changing shifts in the foyer below, the muffled sound of her brother shifting in the room next door. The walls were thick, but not thick enough to hide the tension that bled through them like smoke.

At dawn, she heard the car doors closing outside.

---

He stood by the penthouse window when she emerged, the pale light cutting his silhouette into something severe and immovable. He did not turn when she stepped into the room.

He simply adjusted his cuff, the movement precise, deliberate, as if the act of smoothing fabric over his wrist was the only thing keeping him tethered.

"Dress," he said. Not a request. Not a greeting. "My men are waiting downstairs. We leave for the estate now."

"Coming."

She pulled her bag over her shoulder, and he finally turned to watch her pass. His eyes lingered on the canvas strap where it crossed her chest—a brief, unreadable pause—before he looked away.

The elevator doors opened. Two armed guards stood at attention inside. Their postures were rigid, their hands empty but ready. She stepped in without asking permission. He followed, and the doors slid shut behind them with a soft chime that felt heavier than it should.

"Do not touch anything at the estate," he said to the polished steel of the doors. "Your eyes are for finding the truth. Nothing else."

"Okay."

He did not acknowledge the word.

---

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