I never wanted revenge. But when they found my brother’s body floating in the harbor, hands tied, eyes gouged—something in me died too. I became Amar Singh, the cop with a bullet for every criminal. And then I saw her—Sohni—dancing under the moonlight, unaware she was the flame in Durjan Singh’s dark empire.

Tonight, I followed her to the club. Silk sari, kohl-lined eyes, movements like water. She didn’t see me at first. Then our eyes met. A flicker. Fear? Recognition? Or something else?

She slipped a note into my coat: He knows you’re watching. He wants you to come. For her.

My radio crackles—backup is ten minutes out. But Sohni is inside. Now.

Do I wait for protocol? Storm in alone? Or use the back entrance Shyamu once mentioned?