Sidharth stared at her unconscious body lying sprawled on the balcony floor, the blood now dried in dark, crusted streaks near her lips. 

From the outside, he seemed perfectly calm—his face a mask of cold composure, his posture relaxed as he stood there in the dim light.

 But inside, he was burning with a fierce, unrelenting anger that twisted like a knife in his gut. 

He wanted to kill her right away, to end it in one swift moment and be done with her.

How dare anyone who wanted to kill him end up inside his own mansion? 

She really had some guts, he thought, his mind racing with dark fury. 

She had been alive for so long, slipping through his grasp somehow, but now he knew it was better to kill her without delay. 

He was bored with her now, tired of the games he had been playing with her.

The anger boiled hotter inside him, urging him to give her the worst death imaginable.

If he wanted, he could have finished her right away—snapped her neck like a twig or ended it with a single bullet. 

But Sidharth, being the most cruel mafia king in the whole world, decided to wait patiently instead. 

He would let her wake up. 

He would let her understand the whole situation fully, let her process every terrifying detail of what she had walked into. 

And then, he would give her the worst death possible—the worst he had ever given to anyone, in his own cruel way.

There would be no mercy, not even a shred. 

He made sure this death would be something that made his own soul shiver in fear, even if just for a freaking second. 

She needed to pay. 

She needed to pay for thinking she could kill him, for trying to catch him, for daring to arrest him. 

For stepping into his territory, as she owned it. 

He would make sure she paid for all of it till her last breath, where she would be begging for death itself. 

But he wouldn't spare her—not for a moment.

One more thought crossed his mind as he watched her chest rise and fall faintly. 

If she tried to become a headache for him after she came back to consciousness, he wouldn't hesitate to kill her right away. 

No drama needed. Just a quick, final end.

He picked her up effortlessly, his strong hands slipping underneath her knees and back, lifting her unconscious body without any difficulty at all. 

She felt light as a feather in his arms, limp and unaware as he cradled her close. 

Outside, the rain had started to fall slowly, a soft patter against the balcony that grew steadier by the second, carrying the cool scent of wet earth into the night. 

He walked inside the room, his steps measured and silent, carrying her through the doorway into the dimly dark space where shadows clung to the walls like secrets.

He laid her on the bed quietly, positioning her with a gentleness that belied the storm inside him, her head resting on the pillow as if she were merely sleeping. 

Sidharth stared at her innocent-looking sleeping face for a long moment—the soft rise and fall of her chest, the faint smear of dried blood at her lips, the way her lashes fluttered ever so slightly against her cheeks. 

A dark smile tugged at his lips as he leaned in closer, his voice emerging deep and dangerous, the kind that could make anyone shiver in fear and terror.

 "Wake up soon, darling," he murmured, the words laced with ice-cold promise. 

"I have another surprise for you."

He turned on his heels to leave, his mind already shifting to the next moves in this deadly game, but he stopped abruptly as his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket, cutting through the quiet hum of the rain. 

He pulled it out with a fluid motion and picked up the call, his expression hardening into that familiar mask of control.

 It was his assistant, Rohan, on the other end—his voice calm on the surface but laced with terror underneath, breaking just a bit as he spoke.

"Speak," Sidharth said, his tone flat and commanding, like a blade drawn slowly.

"Sir," Rohan replied, struggling to keep control, his breath uneven over the line. 

"We have multiple helicopters approaching from the south and west. Military-grade. We've taken down five already—RPGs, mounted guns—but they just keep coming." 

A heavy pause hung in the air, the distant thump of rotors faintly audible even through the phone. 

Then, lower, almost a whisper: "Ground units too. Armed convoys on all access roads. Jeeps, armored vehicles. This isn't local police, sir. This is coordinated. Hundreds."

Silence stretched out, thick and heavy, as Rohan waited on the line, his heart pounding in anticipation of the explosion—the rage that always followed bad news. 

But nothing came. Instead, Sidharth let out a small snort, the sound low and mocking, a clear sign he was smirking on the other end. 

And everyone who knew him understood: a smirking Sidharth was more dangerous than an angry one, a predator toying with his prey before the kill.

"Let them come," Sidharth said finally, his voice smooth and eager, like a man waking from a long sleep. 

"It's been a while since I've played with some gun stuff. Make sure they feel welcomed."

Rohan swallowed hard. "Yes, sir," he managed, before putting the call down with a click.

Meanwhile, Mohit entered the jungle—the most restricted part, a tangled maze of thick vines, towering trees, and hidden dangers that no outsider dared tread.

 Behind him came his full army: professional air force pilots in sleek helicopters, battle-hardened army soldiers in tactical gear, and the entire investigation team, all moving with grim determination. 

They finally breached the lawn of Sidharth's mansion from the back side, slipping through the shadows like ghosts in the early dawn light. 

They all knew the orders were clear and absolute: kill everyone. 

No one should escape alive. 

And that's exactly what they started to do.

His army fanned out across the lawn, weapons raised, and opened fire without hesitation.

 Bullets tore through the air in a deafening storm—machine guns rattling, rifles cracking sharply, grenades exploding in fiery bursts against the mansion's walls. 

They poured everything they had into the assault, determined to bring the fortress down.

 However, the mansion was built with bulletproof materials, including reinforced concrete and steel, that absorbed the onslaught like a stone giant. 

The impacts barely left a scratch, sparks flying harmlessly as rounds ricocheted into the dirt.

That's when Sidharth's men entered the field, emerging from the jungle like predators from the underbrush.

 They knew this jungle better than anyone—every hidden trail, every vantage point, every shadow that could conceal a sniper. 

They started to shoot from angles that Mohit's army never even imagined, precise shots whistling from elevated perches, dense foliage, and unexpected blind spots. 

Bullets found their marks with deadly accuracy, cutting down targets before they could react.

The men who were climbing down the ropes from the helicopters never made it to the ground.

 They were shot mid-descent, bodies jerking violently as rounds punched through armor and flesh. 

Lifeless forms tumbled the rest of the way, thudding onto the lawn in bloody heaps, ropes swaying empty in the wind. 

Mohit watched from his command position, shocked by the sudden reversal, his face paling as the tide turned against them. 

But his forces kept firing like crazy, unleashing a frenzy of bullets and explosives, pouring lead into the mansion and jungle alike.

They knew this was their first and last chance to kill Sidharth. If they lost him now, they might never find him again. 

His name, his face, his entire existence was still unknown to this world—a ghost in the shadows of power. 

Desperation fueled their onslaught; they had to end it here, no matter the cost.

Mohit somehow managed to escape the chaotic scene outside, slipping through the gunfire and falling bodies with a soldier's instincts. 

He entered the mansion, pushing through the heavy back door into the opulent halls, and a smile crept across his face internally—a fierce, triumphant grin hidden behind his grim expression. 

Finally, he would be able to face the killer of his love, the man who had destroyed his peace, his everything, his entire life. 

The thought sent a rush through him; he was so happy, so alive with purpose, as he stepped deeper inside the mansion for the first time.

But one thing Mohit didn't know was that it was Sidharth himself who had allowed him to enter.

 Sidharth was the man who controlled everything in this country—from the shadows of power to the streets—so gaining entrance inside his mansion was no small feat.

 It was a trap woven with invisible strings, but Mohit pressed on, blind to it all.

On his way through the dimly lit corridors, Mohit killed all the maids and servants he encountered, his gun barking sharply in the quiet spaces. 

He couldn't trust anyone related to Sidharth, not a single soul who served under that monster's roof. 

Bodies slumped silently against marble floors and ornate walls, blood pooling in dark patterns as he moved forward without pause. 

Finally, he stepped upstairs, his boots echoing softly on the grand staircase, while his men filled the space behind him—spreading out methodically, securing rooms and hallways to make sure Mohit could easily proceed with his mission.

Mohit stepped upstairs slowly, each creak of the wood underfoot amplifying the storm inside him. 

His heart raced with a potent mix of anger and excitement—anger that burned like wildfire, fueling his need to finally kill the man who had murdered his beloved Tanishka, ripping her from his world forever; and excitement that thrummed in his veins, the thrill of finally meeting the monster face-to-face, finishing the biggest mission of his life, and then asking forgiveness from Tanishka's spirit, proudly facing her in whatever came after.

He knew it was a job for some officer to handle, with protocols and teams, but Mohit wanted to kill Sidharth with his own hands. 

He didn't want anyone to come in between—no interference, no shared glory. 

And one more thing he knew gave him ironclad confidence: if he died in the process, there was no problem at all. 

His men were already placing bombs in different areas of the mansion—strategic spots wired with enough explosives to level the place. 

One button, one signal, and no one could save Sidharth from the inferno. 

Today, he couldn't run away. 

Today, it ended.

He kicked open every door along the hallway, his boot slamming into polished wood with explosive force, splintering frames as he checked every corner—under tables, behind curtains, in shadowed alcoves—his eyes scanning relentlessly for any threat. 

His men did the same with the rest of the mansion, their shouts and gunfire echoing faintly through the floors below, clearing rooms methodically to carve a path for their leader. 

Tension built with each empty space, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and gunpowder, until finally, the last door at the end of the hallway stood before him—massive, imposing, like a gateway to judgment.

Mohit kicked it open with all his pent-up rage, the door crashing inward against the wall with a thunderous bang. 

And there, in the heart of the opulent room, sat Sidharth—relaxing casually on his armchair, a cigarette between his lips as he smoked with lazy indifference. 

Tendrils of smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, framing his face in a hazy glow from the low lamp light. 

He looked utterly at ease, like he had been waiting for Mohit to come upstairs all along, just so they could have a little chit-chat over the ruins of the world outside.

Mohit's anger bubbled up like molten lava, hot and unstoppable, as recognition hit him like a gut punch. 

The same face that had killed the president three years ago, slipping away into legend. 

The same face behind every crime ripping through the country—drugs, assassinations, chaos that bled the nation dry. 

The same man whose identity had remained unknown, a phantom pulling strings from the dark.

 And the same man who was the reason his love was no more with him.

Rage blurred his vision, his grip tightening on his gun until his knuckles whitened.

He was about to walk toward him, steps heavy with murderous intent, ready to pull the trigger and end it all. 

But his gaze fell on the bed, making him pause abruptly, his body locking up mid-stride. 

He was shocked to see her—the person he never expected to see again, lying there pale and still.

 Time froze in that instant; he stood rooted, every muscle seizing as memories crashed over him.

 The only word that came out of his mouth was a choked whisper, "A-a-aarohi." 

His hands, which had been strongly holding the gun just moments before, now felt like they were shivering uncontrollably, the weapon dipping slightly in his grasp. 

A single sweat drop traced a cold path down his forehead, dripping onto the floor as the world tilted around him.

He kept looking at the unconscious Ishita—who was now Aarohi to him—her lips bleeding where a fresh wound had formed, dark crimson staining her pale skin. 

Her cheek bore visible fingerprints, angry red marks pressed deep into the flesh like a brutal signature. 

Her hair was still wet from the rain, now tangled badly in wild, matted strands across her face and shoulders. 

A slight cut marred her forehead, trickling a thin line of blood, and the pillow beneath her head was soaked red, revealing that the back of her skull was bleeding steadily. 

For a second, he forgot everything—the mission that had driven him here, the army fighting fiercely outside amid gunfire and explosions, the burning reason why he had stormed this fortress. 

His mind was stuck, frozen in disbelief: why was Aarohi here, of all places, in the lair of the monster he hunted?

Slowly, his gaze shifted to Sidharth, the question clawing its way out through the shock gripping his throat.

 "Why is she here?" he demanded, his voice carrying a raw lace of anger and shock, trembling on the edge of breaking.

Sidharth smirked, the expression dark and knowing, curling his lips like a predator sizing up cornered prey. 

"It seems like you know her," he replied smoothly, the smirk lingering as a subtle warning—Mohit was inside his kingdom now, where everything obeyed Sidharth without question. 

The mansion with its bulletproof walls, his men loyal to the death, his vast wealth—these were not the true power. 

He was the power himself. 

He was the one everyone feared, not his riches or his empire, but Sidharth alone, the shadow that made strong men quake.

Mohit's anger bubbled hotter, rising like steam from a boiling pot, his fists clenching at his sides as rage overrode the shock. 

"I fucking asked you what she is doing here," he snarled, stepping forward half a pace, his voice thick with fury.

Sidharth took a huge puff from his cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment. 

He stood up from the armchair in one fluid motion, his tall frame unfolding like a threat uncoiling. 

He walked toward Mohit unhurriedly, closing the distance until he was mere feet away, then exhaled the smoke directly into Mohit's face—a thick, choking cloud that burned the eyes and carried the sharp scent of tobacco and menace.

 "I am her swami," he said, his deep voice low and possessive, eyes locked on Mohit's with unblinking intensity. 

"What do you think she is here for?"

Mohit's anger increased even more hearing Sidharth's answer, the exact meaning behind those smug words slicing through him like a blade—he knew precisely what "swami" implied, the twisted claim over Aarohi that ignited pure hatred in his chest. 

In a blur of fury, he launched a punch straight at Sidharth's face, his fist connecting with a solid crack that split the mafia king's lip, blood welling up instantly at the corner of his mouth.

But Sidharth only laughed—a low, chilling sound that rumbled from his chest as he wiped the blood away casually with the back of his hand, smearing it across his skin like it was nothing. 

His laugh fueled Mohit's rage further, boiling it into something feral. 

The man who was the reason for all this chaos—the deaths, the crimes, the shattered lives—was laughing freely, even now, as if the world outside burned for his amusement.

"Ouch, that hurts," Sidharth taunted, still laughing with easy mockery, his eyes gleaming. 

"I never knew your fragile hands could punch like this."

 The words, delivered mid-laugh, angered Mohit further, pushing him past reason. 

He decided to hit him again, this time swinging his gun toward Sidharth's head with lethal intent, aiming to crush his skull in one brutal strike.

But before he could connect, Sidharth was fast enough—inhumanly quick. 

He grabbed Mohit's hand mid-swing, twisting it viciously behind his back with a wrench that sent fire shooting through Mohit's shoulder. 

In the same seamless motion, Sidharth seized Mohit's face in an iron grip, fingers digging into his jaw like claws. 

He shoved the burning cigarette directly into Mohit's eye, the red-hot tip searing flesh with a sickening hiss. 

Mohit screamed in immense pain, a raw, guttural howl that tore from his throat as Sidharth crushed the cigarette further, grinding it deeper to maximize the agony.

Mohit shouted curses, thrashing wildly to free himself, but Sidharth was much more powerful, his hold unyielding as steel cables. 

He refused to let go, his face twisting into something primal—dark and full of naked anger, every line and shadow screaming why he was one of the—or maybe the most—dangerous mafia kings in the world, for a reason. 

Mohit's iris burned like it was on fire; his eyes were bleeding already, vision blurring into red haze as the delicate signal system in his nerves crashed, leaving him effectively blind in that ruined socket.

Finally, Sidharth released him with a contemptuous shove, letting Mohit's body crumple to the floor. 

He collapsed in a heap, clutching his eyes desperately, writhing as waves of pain radiated through his skull. 

Sidharth flicked the spent cigarette away casually, watching it arc through the air before it hit the ground.

Mohit knew Sidharth was dangerous, a legend whispered in fear, and that he should have been more careful every step of the way. 

But he was never ready for this level of savagery, this raw, personal hell unfolding in seconds.

 Now he understood with brutal clarity: either he needed to signal his men to come inside and blow Sidharth to pieces, or he would be dead—and his death would be one of the most cruel attempts ever devised by Sidharth, a slow unraveling of body and soul.

Gritting his teeth through the blinding pain in his eye, Mohit reached for his communication system strapped to his wrist, fingers fumbling desperately for the single button that would send the signal. 

One press, and his team would swarm the room, detonating the bombs hidden throughout the mansion, turning victory into Sidharth's grave. 

But his hands shook with agony, every nerve ending screaming from the cigarette burn.

Sidharth was so quick, moving like a shadow with predatory grace. 

In the blink of an eye, he yanked open a nearby drawer, grabbing a huge nail—rusted and thick as a finger—and a heavy hammer that gleamed dully in the low light. 

Mohit barely had time to process it, his mind still racing toward the signal button, before Sidharth pinned his hand flat to the wooden floor with a steel-toed boot. 

The pressure crushed his wrist bones, grinding them against the unyielding planks.

With a single, vicious swing, Sidharth drove the hammer down, the nail piercing Mohit's hand straight through palm and flesh into the wood below. 

The impact echoed like a gunshot, bone-shattering with a sickening crunch as the nail head slammed home. 

Mohit's screams were loud and primal, ripping from his lungs in waves of torment that filled the room, echoing off the walls—he thought surely his men would hear, would burst through the open door and save him in a hail of bullets.

But one thing he didn't know was that Sidharth's men, hiding from different places throughout the mansion—behind doors, in vents, under stairs—had already killed all of Mohit's army inside.

 Silent blades and suppressed shots had taken them down one by one, bodies dragged into shadows without a sound. 

Outside, all the choppers lay on the ground now, burning fiercely with thick black smoke billowing skyward, twisted metal husks lit by roaring flames. 

Every last soldier in Mohit's force was dead, cut down without mercy.

Two of Sidharth's men moved methodically through the wreckage, making sure to sever the head of each fallen enemy with sharp machetes—clean, final strokes ensuring no one could escape alive and reveal whatever had happened here. No loose ends, no whispers to the world.

 Meanwhile, others worked tirelessly on taking care of the smoke and fire coming from the choppers, dousing flames with extinguishers and chemicals, smothering the blaze to keep their location hidden from prying eyes above.

And far away, in the sterile halls of government offices, political men—puppets in Sidharth's pocket—passed bills with swift, rubber-stamp efficiency. 

New laws and restrictions that made the mission of catching Sidharth impossible again, tying the hands of every agency and officer who dared stand against him. 

All the men who were against Sidharth were now helpless, bound by bureaucracy and the long arm of corrupted power, watching their chance slip away into legal oblivion.