The Master, who had until now listened in composed silence, finally leaned forward. The subtle shift in his posture was enough to draw every pair of eyes in the room. The change was small—barely a breath—but it altered the atmosphere entirely. His gaze sharpened, the edges of his calm exterior thinning as though something long dormant had begun to stir.
"Tell me," he asked softly, his voice slower now, each word deliberate and weighted, "Riya's date and time of birth?"
Vikram responded almost instantly, his voice even but respectful. "August 7th. 3:12 AM."
The Master gave a slow nod, as though mentally filing the information into a larger puzzle only he could see. Then, his attention shifted—eyes locking onto Rajveer with a quiet intensity that could cut through steel.
"And what about Shruti?" he asked, the question cloaked in calm, but pulsing with something deeper—something unspoken, ancient even, as if he was chasing the echo of a truth that had yet to be named. "Her date and time of birth?"
The air thickened. Time itself seemed to hesitate.
Rajveer's breath caught in his throat. A part of him had anticipated this, yet he wasn't prepared. He had never thought to dig that deep into Shruti's past—not beyond what was necessary.
"I…" Rajveer's voice faltered. He swallowed. "I never investigated those details."
The Master's gaze didn't waver. It held Rajveer in place—silent, still, expectant.
"Is there any way to get those details at once?" the Master asked, his voice low but now laced with an urgency that pressed into every corner of the room.
Rajveer hesitated. His thoughts raced, calculating, flipping through mental files, searching for something that wasn't there. He rubbed his forehead, the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes.
"I can try," he finally said, unsure. "I'll contact my assistant. It might take some time—there's a process involved."
The Master said nothing, but the silence felt heavier than words. Rajveer could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on him, each second stretching longer than the last.
It was Rana who finally broke the silence.
"Wouldn't it be simpler if we just asked Dhruv?" he said with a calm practicality that masked something more knowing. "If there's one person in this world who'd know, it's him. Knowing Dhruv… he probably even remembers her time of birth. You know how he is."
Rajveer froze. The name hit him like a pulse to the chest.
Of course, Dhruv would know. If anyone carried Shruti's essence like a scar, it was him. He didn't speak of her often, but when he did, every word was precise. Deliberate. As though speaking of something sacred.
Still, Rajveer's hand trembled slightly as he stared at his phone. He didn't fear Dhruv's knowledge.
He feared Dhruv's pain.
"I'm not sure if that's a good idea right now," Rajveer said, voice low.
He exhaled slowly, the breath shaky as he raked a hand through his hair, struggling to compose himself. He looked up at Rana, the turmoil barely masked in his eyes.
"How exactly am I supposed to ask him?" he whispered, his tone lined with disbelief and quiet fear. "Should I just call and say, 'Hey, Dhruv, I think Shruti might be dead, and I suspect her soul is living in another girl's body. To confirm that, can you give me her date and time of birth?'"
The words dropped like stone in a still pond.
No one spoke. The silence was deafening.
Rajveer's shoulders sagged, the weight of grief and guilt bending him inward. "I'm scared," he admitted softly. "Not of the answer. I'm scared of what this will do to him. I'm scared I might lose him… to the darkness he barely escaped once."
His voice cracked, eyes glossing with emotion he rarely allowed anyone to see.
Rana stepped forward silently and placed a steadying hand on Rajveer's shoulder. The gesture wasn't loud or dramatic—it was quiet, grounding, brotherly. A reassurance that he wasn't alone in this madness.
"You won't lose him," Rana said gently. "Not if we walk carefully. You don't have to tell him everything. Just say you found something… a clue. And to verify it, you need a few details about Shruti. Her date and time of birth. That's all."
Rajveer looked at Rana, searching his face for some certainty, some courage.
The Master watched it all with unreadable eyes, but behind them… a flicker. As if the threads were finally starting to converge.
The moment passed, and the decision settled heavy in Rajveer's chest.
He knew there was no turning back from this point.
Rajveer stared at his phone again, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light of the room. His thumb hovered over the screen as he scrolled through his contacts, stopping at one name that felt heavier than the rest.
Dhruv.
He didn't press it right away.
His hand trembled—not with fear of confrontation, but of the storm he might stir in a heart that had only just begun to quiet. Rajveer knew Dhruv wasn't someone who broke easily, but when he did, the cracks ran deep, dangerous. They didn't just hurt him; they consumed everything around him.
He exhaled slowly, his breath catching at the end. The silence in the room wrapped around him like a cold wind. Rana still stood beside him, steady and wordless, his hand resting firm on Rajveer's shoulder.
Rajveer finally tapped the contact. The screen shifted.
Calling… Dhruv.
His thumb hovered over the red hang-up button. Every instinct screamed to stop—to wait, to breathe, to rethink.
But instead, he closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and pressed call.
The ringing began.
Each chime was a drumbeat in his chest.
***
Scene Shift: Interior – A Dimly Lit Villa – Night
The firelight danced on stone, throwing twitching shadows across the cold, expansive chamber. The room was silent, save for the occasional crackle from the hearth. No warmth reached the corners. It was the kind of silence that made skin crawl.
A figure sat in a high-backed chair, his face veiled in darkness. In his hand, a long, heavy blade—curved like a fang—glinted in the orange glow. His fingers moved slowly along its edge, caressing it, letting it whisper against his skin. The way a lover might run their hand across bare flesh.
The door creaked.
Footsteps entered—two pairs. One firm, the other unsure. The assistant moved first, followed by a doctor whose white coat was already stained with sweat. His eyes darted around the room as though expecting something to leap out of the shadows.
But there was nothing in the dark that wasn't already seated in front of them.
"Sir…" the assistant began, his voice a trembling thread. "There's been a development."
No response. The figure simply kept running his finger along the edge of the blade, a red line now marking his thumb where steel had met flesh.
"Rana's daughter," the assistant forced out. "She's alive. Still breathing."
Silence followed like the hush before an execution.
Then… a soft laugh. Low. Intimate. It slithered across the floor, wrapping around the doctor's legs like a noose.
Still not turning, the figure asked in a velvet tone, "Didn't you say… she was brain-dead?"
The assistant stepped back, motioning toward the doctor. "He confirmed it."
The doctor's breath hitched. He looked like he might collapse where he stood.
The figure finally rose.
He was tall—too tall—his presence stretching beyond the dimensions of the room. The fire caught his eyes at last—cold, sharp, dead. His smile curled with amusement, but there was no humanity in it.
"You said her brain was gone," he murmured, stepping closer. "You said she was an empty shell."
"I… I did," the doctor stuttered. "There were no vitals—no activity, I checked three times, I—"
"You checked," the man echoed, tasting the words. "But here we are."
He turned the knife slowly, like admiring a fine piece of art. The blood from his thumb smeared down its length, mingling with the blade's shine.
Then he stepped forward and plunged the knife into the doctor's thigh.
The man didn't scream at first—he gasped, a raw, animal sound.
"Do you know," the figure whispered, leaning in close, "what I hate the most?"
His free hand gripped the doctor's hair and yanked his head up, forcing him to look into those soulless eyes.
"I hate useless people."
The knife drove upwards—into the stomach.
Again. And again.
Each stab was deliberate. Slow. The man watched the blood spill with childlike fascination.
The doctor screamed. Not a cry of pain—but the shrill, broken scream of a man realizing death was coming inch by inch.
The assistant flinched. But he didn't interfere. He never did. He knew better.
The killer tilted his head as more blood sprayed, painting his face, splattering across the doctor's chest, blooming red into the coat like a grotesque flower.
He didn't stop.
Not even when the doctor dropped to his knees.
Not even when he was choking on his own blood.
"USELESS!" the man roared, punctuating each word with another stab, his blade now red and slippery. "Rana knew. He knew! He fed us a lie! And you—you—believed it!"
The doctor was no longer screaming. Only twitching.
The killer grabbed him by the collar, staring into the life draining from his eyes.
"Do you see now?" he whispered. "Even in death, you disappoint me."
Blood coated the floor, splattered in wild, chaotic streaks up the walls. The doctor's coat soaked in red, the white completely lost beneath it. That sight alone seemed to excite the killer more.
He straddled the doctor's twitching form, and with one final, brutal thrust—he buried the knife to its hilt under the ribcage.
A soft crack. Then silence.
The man stared at the body for a long moment, blood dripping from his hand, eyes glazed with a cruel satisfaction.
Then, slowly, he stood.
He looked at the assistant—now speckled with blood, jaw clenched.
And the smile returned.
Blood pooled under the corpse, thick and dark. It reached the killer's boots, and he stared at it like a canvas finally complete.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was thick. Vicious.
The man stood over the corpse, soaked in gore, the soft hiss of his breath the only sound in the room. Blood ran in rivulets down his arms, dripping from his fingertips in lazy arcs, painting the floor beneath his boots like a grotesque signature.
He stepped back.
Tossed the knife toward the far wall.
It clanged as it struck stone and skidded to the floor.
Breathing slow, he turned to the assistant, who stood frozen, now flecked in crimson.
The killer smiled, more beast than man.
"I've waited too long."
His voice dropped into a snarl, thick with loathing.
"Rajveer… Rana…"
He whispered their names like curses, tasting the poison they left on his tongue.
"You took everything from me," he said, each word coated in old blood and buried fury. "You built your thrones on the ruins of what you destroyed. And you thought I would forget?"
He laughed—a jagged, broken sound.
"But now… now I won't just tear down your empire…"
He turned back around, eyes blazing, madness dancing in his pupils.
"I will destroy everything you treasure."
His voice thundered now, deep and cruel.
"I will rip apart the pieces of your heart—your family, your legacy, your blood."
He stepped over the doctor's corpse, not even glancing down.
"They will scream, they will beg, and you will watch."
His hands trembled—not from fear, but from rage barely contained.
"You will live every day knowing your empire is rotting from within… knowing you can't stop it."
A pause. A breath.
Then, with a sinister smile spreading across his blood-smeared face, he whispered:
"I'm not coming for revenge anymore."
"I'm coming for ruin."
The dim glow from the screen cast eerie shadows across the bloodstained floor. The doctor's body lay motionless behind him, but he didn't even spare it a second glance. Instead, he walked toward the corner of the room where a large screen flickered, already playing a grainy video.
He didn't speak. Didn't smirk yet. Just picked up the remote from the table, clicked a button, and rewound the tape.
And then he hit play.
The image sharpened into focus—and the past came roaring back to life.
Shruti was kneeling on the cold stone floor. Her arms were restrained, each gripped by a man towering beside her. She looked smaller than ever. Broken. Blood smeared across her face. Her skin a mosaic of bruises. Her hair clung to her damp cheeks, but her eyes—they were wild. Desperate. Locked on the only person that still mattered.
Dev.
Her elder brother, Her protector, Her anchor was being dragged forward. Barely conscious, blood dripping from his mouth, one eye swollen shut—but still standing. Still looking at her.
Shruti's screams echoed through the screen, tearing through the silence like glass shattering.
"Dev! DEV! Don't look at me, please—don't worry about me! Fight them back! Please let him go.."
Her voice cracked, every word splintered with panic. She thrashed against the hands that held her, her fingers clawing at the air as if she could reach him through force of will.
"Don't give up! You promised! You said you'd always protect me!"
Dev raised his head—slowly. His mouth moved, though no words came through. Just a look. A helpless, aching look filled with the kind of pain that comes only from failing the one you love most.
A glint of silver.
The man behind him moved with terrifying calm. No hesitation.
The blade cut clean across Dev's throat.
Time froze.
For one suspended moment, Shruti forgot how to breathe. Her body stopped trembling. Even the pain in her arms disappeared.
She watched as her world crumbled in front of her.
Dev's body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. His blood splattered across the floor, rushing toward her like some cursed tide.
"DEV!!!"
The scream that ripped from Shruti's throat was not human.
It was grief. It was agony. It was the sound of a soul being ripped from its shell.
She lunged forward, her knees scraping against the stone, only to be yanked back viciously. Her body jerked violently—and then came the kick.
Brutal. Direct. To her stomach.
A sharp crack rang out—followed by silence.
Shruti gasped.
Her hands flew to her belly as she collapsed, curling inwards, instinctively trying to protect the tiny life inside her.
Too late.
Too late.
Warmth spread beneath her. Not the heat of life—but of death. Dark, thick blood soaked into the fabric between her legs, pooling around her in slow circles.
She knew.
Even before the pain fully registered, she knew.
She was losing everything.
Dev.
Her baby.
Herself.
She reached forward, shaking hands scraping the floor, eyes wide and unblinking, still fixed on her brother's lifeless form.
The laughter came next.
Cruel. Mocking. Countless voices.
They laughed as she bled.
They laughed as her brother lay dead.
They laughed as the last light in her eyes flickered and went dim.
And in the present—the man watched it all unfold again. Every second. Every scream. Every flicker of devastation.
Then, he laughed.
Low. Drawn-out. Sinister.
Feeding on her agony like it was the sweetest wine.
"Ah… That was a beautiful day," he murmured to himself, almost tenderly.
He pressed rewind again.
Just to hear her scream one more time. He closed his eyes for a second, almost savoring the stillness that followed her cries.
Dhruv.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile that never reached the eyes.
"I wonder…" he whispered, voice coated in venomous amusement, "what will you do… when you find out how I broke her?"
He walked toward the screen, fingers dragging lazily over the remote, pausing for just a second on the image of Shruti curled in blood.
"Bit by bit," he murmured, as though relishing each word. "Tore her apart. Until she forgot what hope tasted like."
He let out a humorous chuckle, light—almost like a man recalling an old joke at a quiet dinner. There was no rush in him now, no anger. Only satisfaction. He leaned back against the edge of the desk, relaxed, as if every scream he'd caused had somehow untied the knots in his shoulders.
"Can't wait to see the look on your face."
His eyes glinted.
Cruelty personified.
And somewhere in the shadows of his mind, he played the video one more time—just to hear her break again.