I still remember the smell of wet earth the night Laxmi died. Rain poured as she ran toward the police station, her sari soaked, eyes wide with terror after overhearing Thakur and Ajit laughing about their plan. I saw her fall—shot in the back, right in the center of the village square. No one moved. No one dared. But I did.

Ajit stood there, smug, whispering to his father. Something snapped inside me. I charged. The knife found his throat before I even realized I’d drawn it. Blood sprayed hot against my face. I didn’t flinch.

Now, as the police drag me away, I see Gauri clutching my nephew, tears mixing with rain. Seven years later, I walk out of prison with one thought: Thakur still breathes. And this time, I won’t just kill him. I’ll destroy everything he built.