The Mumbai night was a symphony of chaos—the pitter-patter of rain, the roar of traffic, the endless chatter of the crowd. Maya, a slender figure draped in loose clothing, moved through it all, a strange anomaly. Her jet-black hair, perpetually falling across her face, obscured eyes that held a depth far beyond her early twenties. She preferred the cold, the rain, the anonymity of the shadows.

A prickle on her neck, a familiar sensation, confirmed her suspicion. She was being watched. Not for the first time, not for the last. A predator’s gaze, but the hunter could swiftly become the hunted. She smirked, a dark thrill igniting in her veins. Three sets of footsteps, not one. Good.

She veered into a grimy alley, the stench of urine and decay a familiar perfume. A perfect stage. She stopped at the dead end, turning to face the inevitable. "Hi," she greeted, her voice calm, her hood still concealing most of her face. They emerged from the rain-swept darkness, three men, guns glinting.