Chapter 6: Caged and Condemned (Gangster's Queen - A Novel)

 

Summary: Maya is arrested, stripped, and dumped in a jail that runs on cruelty. The guards abuse her. The inmates circle like wolves. The media turns her into a monster. And the people she trusted—Rathore and her mother—abandon her in public, one with threats, the other with tears. But Maya doesn’t break. She watches. She waits. She learns. From betrayal grows resolve. From pain, precision. The world wants her erased. Instead, Maya begins to sharpen. There are no saviors. No deals. No mercy. Only a woman building a new kind of power—quietly, dangerously. And maybe, with one last weapon left: the red file.

Section 1: The Fall

Just hours ago, she stood in a hotel room covered in blood. Her wrists were tied. Cameras flashed. Reporters screamed her name. Arjun’s body was still warm when the police shoved her into a van. She had no time to cry or speak. They locked her in a crime branch cell for holding.

The next day, the police moved her from the lockup to the magistrate’s office—just to show they were following the law. They said she was Arjun Malik’s partner in crime. The magistrate barely looked up. He had seen hundreds like her. He didn’t ask questions. He sent her to jail in minutes. They called it judicial custody. Maya called it what it was—another cell. Another cage. No one cared. Nothing made sense.

The prison gates slammed shut behind Maya. It sounded like the end of a trial that never happened. She walked into the corridor. The floor was wet. The air stank of rot and bleach. A cockroach ran past her foot. A woman screamed somewhere down the hall. Her old life ended at that door.

A female guard flicked her wrist, telling Maya to move. Maya walked slowly. Her heels echoed in the corridor. Her branded kurta looked out of place against cracked walls and rusting pipes. Inmates stared. Some looked angry. Some looked hungry. Some whispered. Others said it loud enough for her to hear.

“That’s her.”

“The gangster’s queen.”

“The bitch who sold him out.”

Another inmate scoffed. “She’ll be scrubbing toilets by morning.”

Maya kept her face still. Her jaw tightened. She walked stiffly. On the outside she looked calm. Inside she was shaking. Her old self—beauty, glamour, control—was gone with each step.

She was led into a tiled room with flickering tube lights and the faint stench of urine. Two female officers waited, arms folded, eyes flat.

“Take off your clothes,” one of the female officers said, her tone flat and cold.

Her fingers froze on the hem of her kurta. The officer didn’t repeat herself—just stared.

Maya pulled off her kurta and jeans. She stopped at her bra and panties. One guard laughed.

“Who’s going to take that off? Arjun? You think he’ll come do the honors?”

Another added, “I can call Kalloo from men’s prison. He’d love to strip you. You know who he is? Arjun tore his face apart years ago. Kalloo’s been waiting to get back at him. Anyone linked to Arjun—he wants blood.”

She stepped closer. “He won’t just strip you. He’ll eat you alive for being Arjun’s whore.”

They all laughed.

Maya’s hands shook. Her face burned. Slowly, she took off the rest.

A guard whistled. “Look at those tits. Those hips. That ass. No wonder Arjun fell headfirst.” She circled Maya slowly. “Even your legs look sculpted. But you know what makes even the smartest men stupid?” She leaned in, grinning. “That silly little hole between those shapely legs. That’s where their brains go to die. Right, madam?” Then she laughed loud and hard.

She stepped closer and whispered, “He was macho, wasn’t he? Fucked you good? Even the high-society bitches wanted him.”

Another officer snapped on gloves. This part was standard procedure. In prison, every body hole is a hiding spot. Drugs. Razor blades. Even tiny sim cards. So guards are told—check everything. Mouth. Vagina. Anus. No exceptions. No delays. It’s filthy work. But it's the job. Disgusting, yes. But mandatory.

The officer didn’t wait. Her fingers went into Maya’s mouth, vagina, and anus. No warning. No shame. No care.

Even the guard muttered, half to herself, “God, we do this every day. Fingers in filth. Some days it’s a drug mule, some days a pedophile. Now a gangster’s girlfriend. Can it get any worse?”

The officer shook her head, disgusted but used to it. She kept going.

Maya bit her lip hard. Blood pooled in her mouth. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. But her whole body shook.

It wasn’t just humiliating. It was dehumanizing.

No one flinched. Nobody in the room looked away.

Maya stood there, naked, violated, and stripped of everything.

When it was over, they threw a faded uniform at her. It was oversized. Rough. It stank of old sweat and chemicals. They took her jewelry. Her watch. Everything. No memories allowed. No past left. Just the uniform and silence.

“No personal belongings allowed,” one officer said without looking at her. Maya stared at the tray. Her watch. Her earrings. Even the ring she had worn since college. Were they taking it all to steal? Or was this just protocol? Her mind spun, but no one explained. Just silence.

She dressed in silence, eyes on the floor.

The cell block stank of mold and rot. A fan clicked with every turn. Water kept dripping like a broken tap. Her cell had four walls, rusted bars, a sagging mattress, and a bucket in the corner. This wasn’t a room. It was a warning. Welcome to the bottom. The rock bottom.

As she stepped in, a voice greeted her.

“So this is her? The don’s princess turned toilet scrubber?”

A laugh followed. Another inmate sneered, “Welcome to hell, beauty queen. You’ll be cleaning toilets like the rest of us. Grab a rag. The piss stains are yours now.”

Maya stood frozen. Her fists clenched tight. She stared at the stained wall where old names were scratched in. She didn’t blink. She didn’t speak. She refused to break. Not yet.

But her body betrayed her. A tremor in her hand. A faint throb behind her eyes. The air tasted of rust and rot.

That night, she lay curled on the mattress. Her knees were tight to her chest. She didn’t cry. She didn’t sleep. Her cheek still remembered the cold slap of the officer’s glove. Her mind spun back—Arjun pouring wine, soft music, the balcony lit in gold. Then she blinked. That life was gone.

Now—just concrete, darkness, and heat pressing down on her like a curse. No fan. No relief. Just the stink of rot and sweat, and the silence of being forgotten.

She pressed her fingers into the stained mattress, as if anchoring herself.

In that moment, Maya didn’t feel broken. She felt like she no longer existed.

Section 2: The Breaking-In

The first few days crawled. Each hour felt heavier than the last. There was no routine. No peace. Just steel plates banging, names shouted, and threats whispered behind her back. The women’s ward stank of damp walls, rotten food, and broken pride. Maya was no longer a person. She was a target.

By the second day, her name had traveled across the barracks faster than smoke.

“She’s the one,” someone muttered during morning roll call.

“The bitch who got Malik killed,” another spat.

On the third day, it turned physical.

At the water tap, an inmate slammed into Maya’s shoulder. She turned, but it was too late. A hard slap struck her face. Her head jerked sideways, her cheek burning.

“She’s not so special now, is she?” the woman sneered. “You thought sleeping with a king would keep you safe?”

This was part of it. The welcome ritual. Like ragging in college. Like hazing in army camps. Every new prisoner had to be broken. They called it setting the hierarchy. Testing the weak.

A slap here. A threat there. Just enough to remind you—you’re nothing now.

Maya stumbled back, clutching her cheek. Blood touched her tongue. The yard went silent for a moment.

But she said nothing. She turned back to the tap, filled her jug, and walked away in silence.

Later, a few inmates exchanged uncertain glances. Her silence unnerved them. It wasn’t weakness. It was something colder.

The message was clear. This wasn’t redemption. It was punishment—carried out through silence, slaps, and scraps of cruelty.

Inside the barracks, the violence turned quiet and personal. A torn bedsheet. A broken toothbrush. But the message was clear—this was part of the game. You don’t welcome a new prisoner. You break her in.

Even the warden joined in. She was a heavy-set woman with oily hair and a mocking voice. Every day, she came by Maya’s cell just to humiliate her.

“Gangster’s queen,” she smirked one afternoon, tapping the bars. “What happened, madam? No more wine and diamonds?”

Another day, she chuckled, “Couldn’t keep your legs shut. Couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Look where it got you. You opened your legs and your king lost his mind. You opened your mouth and he lost his life. What a tragedy! What a tragedy!”

She grinned. “Arjun was nice to us too, you know. Never missed sending Diwali gifts. Good man. Bad taste in women.”

Maya stared straight ahead. No response, no emotion. Her body stayed still, her face cold, refusing to give her tormentors even a flicker of satisfaction.

Something snapped inside her. She stopped shrinking. She started watching. Every face. Every move. Every game. She was done being prey.

She watched closely. Who got extra dal. Who polished the warden’s shoes. Who passed notes. Who moved packets without checks. She was mapping power. It wasn’t chaos. It was a setup. Like a mini-world. A dirty one. Power was alive here too—just in jail clothes and filth.

She learned when to speak and when to stay silent. During meals, she picked a corner seat. Always with her back to the wall. That’s what criminals did. You don’t let anyone sneak up on you. Protect the back. Face the room. Eyes on everything. She watched more than she ate. She listened but never spoke. She stayed out of every group. And she memorized everything—names, routines, weak spots.

She hadn’t cried since that night curled on the prison mattress, holding herself against the dark.

Her cheek still burned. Her stomach twisted with the memory of insults. But her eyes were sharp now. Her back stood straight.

And for the first time, Maya wasn’t just surviving.

She was calculating.

Section 3: Public Execution

The prison walls didn’t stop everything. News still slipped in. Guards gossiped. Old tabloids got passed around. The dusty TV near the common hall kept playing. Even inside jail, Maya couldn’t escape the world tearing her apart.

Outside, it had turned into a full-blown circus.

“Gangster’s Queen or Criminal Mastermind?” screamed the headlines. “Maya Sharma: The Beauty Behind the Bloodbath.”

Once a model. Now a public obsession. Everyone had an opinion. Nobody knew the truth.

Every channel ran the same loop—her face splashed across screens, dissected by loudmouthed anchors and panelists hurling insults.

“Maya seduced Arjun to get movie roles and modelling deals,” one claimed.

“She was always the brain behind the business,” another insisted.

“She’s a glorified call girl who played both sides,” a third declared.

Old clips from her modeling days—ramp walks, party shots, lingerie ads—played nonstop. Her body was everywhere. Her voice was gone. Memes tore her apart: queen of betrayal, slut in silk, a killer in heels.

“She lured him in, destroyed him, and walked away smiling,” said one show.

“She was never his pawn—she was the player,” said another.

They tore apart her image, twisted her story, and put it on display for everyone to mock.

Inside prison, guards laughed while passing around magazine covers with her face X’d (crossed) out.

“She’s poison now,” one said. “Even her shampoo brand dumped her. Shampoo! Like she’s too dirty to clean hair.”

Maya saw one of the broadcasts during her fourth week inside—an old video from a party, her head thrown back in laughter beside Arjun. The anchor’s voice dripped with poison.

“Was it love, lust, or calculated ambition? Either way, Maya Sharma is no longer a model—she’s India’s most glamorous criminal.”

Watching that, something inside her cracked.

Her jaw clenched. Her hands trembled. But she didn’t look away.

She wasn’t Maya anymore.

Not the model. Not the lover. Not the queen.

She was whatever they wanted to paint her as—villain, traitor, joke.

Each broadcast didn’t just smear her reputation—it erased her identity, layer by layer.

But beneath that erasure, something colder began to grow.

If they wanted her to be a monster, she would become one—on her terms.

The world was watching.

And soon, it would regret not looking closer.

Section 4: Burned by the Deal

Maya sat in a corner of the prison yard, holding a crumpled sheet—another legal aid request. She didn’t expect a lawyer from home. Her mother couldn’t afford one. She didn’t even expect her to try. That part didn’t hurt. It was just fact.

So she tried what under-trials are supposed to get—free legal aid. At least on paper, the system promised it. Whether it ever arrived or helped was another story. This was her third attempt in ten days. The first two had vanished. This time, she handed it directly to a guard and watched him walk away.

But she knew what would happen. Or rather, what wouldn’t.

Rathore had gone silent.

No visits. No messages. Not a single word from Rathore. He had disappeared the moment Arjun died. All that remained were vague lines Maya had mistaken for promises—promises that were never real.

Maya never thought she’d end up in jail. Her deal with Rathore was clear—help them catch Arjun, and she and her mother would be left alone. Instead, Arjun was gunned down, and Rathore vanished. He broke the deal. Took the credit. Left her to rot.

At first, she waited. Thought it was part of his plan. That he was just staying distant. That help would come—maybe a lawyer, maybe bail. Something. Anything.

She was naive. She believed helping them trap Arjun would buy her freedom. That the police would keep their word. But the second she was arrested, that illusion shattered. Rathore stayed silent. Disappeared.

She kept hoping it was temporary. That he was working something behind the scenes. That this nightmare had a way out.

She was wrong.

Nothing came.

Maya had to contact Rathore. He was all she had. But how? No phone. No number. No contacts. Even if she bribed one of the prison guards like the other inmates did, it wouldn’t help—she didn’t know how to reach Rathore. She thought for days. Then an idea struck.

It was a gamble. Her plan? Call 112—the police control room—and bluff her way through. Maybe, just maybe, they’d patch her to Rathore. It was a wild shot. But it was the only shot she had.

She offered the jail clerk a deal—her silver ring, the one she had deposited during admission. The clerk didn’t blink. She created a fresh slip, backdated it, and left the ring out from Maya’s listed possessions. She took Maya’s fresh signature and slid the file shut. That was it. The ring was gone. Sold. All for one phone call. Clean. Quick. Just how the system worked.

She waited three days. Time crawled. Her mind raced with one question—would this crazy idea even work?

When the clerk finally handed her the phone, Maya’s hands were cold. Her breath was shallow. She dialed 112 with a dry mouth and a heart hammering in her chest.

If the operator hung up, it was over. If they asked too many questions, it was over. If they laughed, it was over.

She cleared her throat and steadied her voice.

“Please connect me to Inspector Rathore. It’s about the Malik case.”

Silence. Then shuffling. Then a pause.

Normally, the operator would’ve disconnected. Another nutcase calling 112. But then came the name—Rathore. The crime branch’s golden boy. The encounter specialist. And then Arjun Malik. That was big. Too big to ignore.

What if this was one of Rathore’s informers? What if she cut the call and Rathore found out? He was known to explode over lapses. One wrong move, and she could be out of a job.

She weighed the risk. Not for long.

Better safe than sorry.

She decided to patch the call through.

Finally, a voice said, “Hold for Inspector Rathore.”

Maya's fingers trembled as she clutched the receiver.

He answered on the second ring.

"Hello," came Rathore’s grunt. Cold. Distant.

"Hello, this is Maya," she said quickly, afraid he’d cut the line.

“Who gave you this number?” His voice was cold.

“I needed to speak to you,” Maya said, steadying her breath. “I need legal help. You implied I’d be protected.”

“I implied nothing,” Rathore cut her off. “You did your job. That’s all.”

“I’m being destroyed out here in the jail. The media, the inmates—it’s a slow execution. I took all the risk—”

Rathore laughed, dry and sharp. “And now you want a rescue scene? You think this ends like a film?”

“I risked everything,” she snapped. “I didn’t do this to rot in here.”

“So? So what? Paperwork flips. Orders change. That’s how the system works.”

“No,” she said bitterly. “I only know I was used.”

“You were,” he said flatly. “Because you were useful. You’re not anymore.”

"Wham, bam, thank you ma’am," Rathore muttered, half-laughing, clearly joking with someone nearby. Cold. Cruel. Typical Rathore.

Then his voice shifted. Low. Flat. Threatening.

"Bye, Maya. Never call again. Don’t push your luck. You think jail is bad now? I can have you taken to a men’s prison. Not officially. Just long enough for those animals to rip you apart. Sex-starved maniacs who haven’t seen a woman in years. You won’t be protected. You won’t be missed. And trust me—they’ll thank me when they’re done. That’s the hell I’ll send you to if you ever call me again."

Silence.

"Shut the fuck up. Don’t ever bother me again."

The line went dead.

She stood there, phone still pressed to her ear, until the dial tone buzzed in her skull. The clerk gestured for the handset. Maya walked back to her cell in silence, something inside her splintering with each step.

She returned to her cell. Her throat was dry. She gulped down water. Her chest heaved. Her face burned. Her fists trembled. She was shaking with rage.

She had never been part of any plan. Just a pawn moved and discarded. A trap trigger. A cleanup tool.

Her fists shook as Rathore’s voice echoed in her head.

You were useful. You aren’t anymore.

She stared at the wall, jaw clenched, eyes dry.

There would be no lawyer. No favors. No rescue.

No one was coming to save her.

If this was how they played the game, she’d play back.

Not with hope. Not with pleading.

With strategy.

Her breath slowed. Her spine straightened.

And in that moment, Maya didn’t feel broken.

She felt sharpened.

Section 5: The Final Betrayal

The courtroom was packed. Outside, cameras flashed. Reporters yelled. Cops pushed back the crowd. News vans blocked the road. Every screen shouted the same thing—Maya Sharma on trial. Gangster’s Queen faces justice.

Inside, Maya sat in the accused box. Her wrists were uncuffed to make it look normal. But she still felt trapped. She wore a plain white kurta. Her hair was tied back. From a distance, she looked calm. Her mouth tightened. Her eyes didn’t move. She was done reacting. Now she was watching, thinking, waiting. The rage was there—but buried. Controlled. Calculated.

The judge entered. Proceedings began.

The prosecutor didn’t waste a second. He said Maya wasn’t just involved—she was the one running Arjun’s empire. He called her a seductress. A planner. A criminal. Each word hit like a bullet. Cameras flashed. Reporters scribbled. The room shifted. Everyone was watching her like she’d already been convicted.

Maya remained still. She had prepared for this.

Then came the one moment she never saw coming.

“The prosecution would like to call its next witness—Sarla Sharma.”

Her heart stopped. Her mother’s name echoed through the courtroom. It hit Maya like a slap.

Maya turned sharply toward the door, heart pounding, unsure if she had heard right.

Her mother walked in slowly. Her eyes stayed on the floor. Her hands gripped the edge of her saree. She looked older and weaker than Maya remembered. The courtroom shifted. Whispers filled the air.

Maya’s heart lurched. Her legs wobbled. She went stiff, shocked into silence.

The judge asked Sarla to take the stand. She nodded faintly and sat down. Her voice trembled.

“I’m Sarla Sharma… mother of Maya.”

The prosecutor cut in before she could say more. “Mother of the accused,” he corrected with a smirk.

Sarla flinched in her seat.

Maya’s stomach twisted. Her mother’s shame was on full display. Used. Cornered. Maya clenched her fists under the desk, burning with helpless rage.

The prosecutor leaned in gently. “Mrs. Sharma, do you believe your daughter was involved in Arjun Malik’s criminal operations?”

Sarla paused. She glanced once at Maya, quickly, then looked away again.

“I don’t know what she was involved in,” she said quietly. “But she changed. After meeting him, she changed.”

The prosecutor pressed. “Did she ever speak about his business? His deals?”

“No,” Sarla said, swallowing hard. “Not directly. But… I saw the money, the gifts, the way she lived. I warned her. She didn’t listen.”

Her voice broke mid-sentence.

Maya’s stomach twisted. Her fingers pressed into her palms. Her throat tightened. Tears rose, but she crushed them back. She couldn’t cry now. Not here. Not in front of them.

The prosecutor smiled. “So you confirm your daughter knowingly associated with a gangster and ignored your warnings?”

Sarla faltered again. Then gave a slow, defeated nod.

The gallery buzzed. Cameras clicked nonstop. In the corner, a red news ticker screamed: ‘Mother Turns Against Maya Sharma’.

Maya sat frozen. Her mind went numb. Her mother—once her shield—had just thrown her to the wolves. Not out of hate. But to save herself.

Maya’s mind raced. Why did her mother go this far? Even if her words sounded weak, why testify at all? Had Rathore threatened her again? Did he trap her in some new legal case? What had they done to break her this time? Maya didn’t know. She feared the worst. And no one was giving answers.

She looked down. Her fingers trembled. Her mind slipped into the past. Years ago, her mother had sat beside her, brushing her hair and whispering, 'You are enough. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone.'

That same voice had once comforted her. Now it cracked in front of the whole courtroom. Maya felt something snap deep inside. A quiet break. Final. Cold.

Back in her cell, she collapsed to the floor. She hugged herself tight. Her body shook. Her breath came in fast jerks. She curled up like a ball. There was nothing left to hold on to. Just pain. Just silence.

There was nothing left.

Not Arjun. Not Rathore. Not even her mother.

But somewhere beneath the wreckage, something else stirred.

Not hope. Not healing.

Resolve.

They had all chosen survival.

Now it was her turn.

She would rise—not for sympathy, not for redemption—but for revenge, for power, for herself.

As her breathing steadied, her eyes opened again—cold, clear, unblinking. The tears had dried. The weakness had passed.

Then it came back—Arjun’s last whisper. The red file. The safe. Maybe her way out had already started. She just hadn’t seen it.

Chapter 5: The King Falls (Gangster's Queen - A Novel)

Summary: Arjun spends the evening with Maya thinking he has finally found peace. He talks about leaving the underworld and starting a new life. But outside their room, a deadly plan is already in motion. Ruthless men are waiting. Maya is trapped between guilt and fear. What follows is fast, brutal and impossible to stop. The media turns savage. The public wants someone to blame. Maya is destroyed overnight. Alone in a jail cell she breaks down. But something inside her survives. Arjun left her a clue. A secret. And now she knows her story is not over. It is just beginning.

Section 1: The Calm Before the Storm

9 p.m. The last light was gone. The Grand Pearl suite glowed under weak lamps. Outside, the valley was quiet. Too quiet. The silence felt wrong. Like something was about to happen.

Maya stood barefoot on the balcony. Her arms were crossed. She stared at the hills, but she wasn’t really seeing them. A bird circled above the trees. Its slow loops felt endless. Somewhere down the slope, a car engine started. Then stopped. Her mind stayed blank on the surface. But deep inside, something was shifting. Quiet. Heavy. Like a dam about to crack.

Behind her, Arjun poured more champagne. The glass clinked gently. He looked at peace. His shirt was half-buttoned. Sleeves rolled up. A faint smile on his lips. He looked like any other man in love. Not like a man who had ruled the underworld for years. He had no idea. No hint of the storm around him. In that moment, Arjun Malik was just a man who had let down his guard. And that made him more vulnerable than ever.

“You’ve been quiet all evening,” he said, walking toward her with a glass. “Thinking about something?”

Maya turned, took it, her smile controlled. “Just… soaking it in. It’s peaceful.”

Arjun leaned on the railing beside her. “No noise, no meetings, no mess.”

“Sounds nice,” she said. Her voice tried to sound warm, but it drifted off. Her mind was elsewhere. Hoping the storm, whatever it was, would pass fast. And she could forget this night ever happened.

He lifted his glass. Then stopped. His hand brushed his waist by habit. It was empty. The gun wasn’t there. It always was. Always. But tonight he had left it in the duffel bag. Just once. Just for her. To look like a man in love. Not a man expecting danger. He smiled faintly. “Cheers,” he said. There was no fear in him. No doubt. That was the tragedy. He felt safe.

They drank. The champagne was smooth, expensive. But in her mouth, it turned sour. Her stomach twisted. It tasted like guilt. Like rot. She looked at him. His face was calm, eyes soft, lost in a world that would not exist tomorrow. He didn’t know. And that made it worse.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said suddenly.

Maya’s pulse skipped. She steadied her voice. “About what?”

“Us,” he said. “This life… it doesn’t have to end in blood. I’ve been planning something. A real exit.”

Her fingers tightened on the glass.

“I mean it. End of this week, we start stepping back. I’ve told Karan to begin moving funds, tie up loose ends, clean the books. I’ll hand over what needs to be handed over. Slowly. Quietly. Then we disappear. For good.”

She nodded faintly. Her throat felt tight. Like something was stuck inside. She couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t speak. A storm was building inside her, and she was running out of space to hold it.

“We’ll find a place by the coast,” he went on. “You’ve always liked the sea.”

Maya didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her smile had turned rigid.

“I can see us there,” he continued, unaware. “A quiet life. No guards, no calls. Just waves and coffee and a dog maybe. You deserve that.”

A soft sound broke out of her. It was almost a sob. She turned it into a cough and looked away fast. Her eyes burned. Her hands gripped the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She felt exposed. Small. A puppet with too many masters. Her mother. Rathore. Even Arjun. They all pulled at her in different ways. And she had danced the way they wanted. Just to survive.

Arjun stepped back, eyes soft with hope. “You’ve made me believe I can be more than what I’ve been. That I still deserve a life.”

She turned to him, forcing a smile. “It sounds perfect.”

He kissed her forehead, warm and gentle. “It will be.”

Later, he disappeared into the bedroom to make a call.

She stood still. Her chest rose and fell fast. Then she turned and rushed to the bathroom. Her stomach churned. She bent over the sink, ready to throw up. But nothing came. Just dry retching. It made her feel worse. Her head spun. The walls seemed to shift around her. She clutched the counter, trying to stay upright. Her legs wobbled. Her vision blurred. Everything felt like it was slipping—memories flashing like lightning. The dinner. His smile. The plan. The kiss. Then—blackness. She blinked hard and forced herself to stand straight. She gripped the sink tighter and stared at the mirror. The woman in the glass looked almost normal. But inside, Maya was falling apart.

From the bedroom, Arjun’s voice drifted out—still talking, still making plans for a future already stolen.

Maya stood frozen. Her body still. Her mind cracked open. There was no going back. Nothing she could undo. And yet, his voice kept coming. Soft. Full of hope. Each word twisting deeper into her guilt.

She stared at the wall, listening like it was the last sound she’d ever hear.

And then, a sound much louder was on its way.

Section 2: The Quiet Setup

Saturday. Around 11 p.m.

Rathore left his nearby hotel and climbed into the backseat of a plain black car. The vehicle moved fast and quiet through side lanes, before stopping in a narrow alley behind the Ocean Pearl Resort.

Inside the car, he opened his laptop. The GPS signal was steady. Location confirmed. He nodded to himself, satisfied.

He shut the laptop, pulled out his weapon, and checked it. Then he cocked it.

His eyes were calm. His hands steady.

He stepped out of the car. A man with a purpose.

Two private cars arrived a few minutes later. Both were old, unmarked sedans. Four men stepped out of each. All were in plain clothes. No uniforms. No radios. Just pistols tucked under their shirts and cold, unreadable faces. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They had done this before.

Rathore lit a cigarette. The flare lit up his face for a second. He didn’t look for danger—only for witnesses. There were none. Just the Ocean Pearl Resort up ahead, glowing soft and golden. Calm. Innocent. As if nothing was about to happen.

Rathore did a slow 360-degree scan. His eyes sharp. Alert. Years of fieldwork had trained him well. Everything looked clear. It was time.

He had done this before. Many times. Some real. Some scripted. All brutal. The kind of operations that never made it to file or record, but always made it to legend.

There was no playbook tonight. No tactical formation. No maps. No names. Just one goal—get in, get it done, clean up.

He checked his watch. The team was ready. His gun was ready. And the orders—spoken in silence—were already understood.

This wasn’t a mission.

It was routine. Practiced. Quiet. The kind of job where no one talked, because everyone already knew their role.

He turned to his team. “There are two inside. One of them is Malik. Don’t wait to confirm. Go in fast. No hesitation.”

Someone muttered something under their breath. Another officer checked the magazine in his pistol, tapping it against his leg.

“You want it clean?” one of them asked, his tone flat. “Or the usual chaos?”

Rathore shrugged. “Make it messy. Easier to sell.”

One of the younger officers shifted uneasily. “Sir… what if the guests in nearby rooms hear the shots? Or the hotel staff?”

Rathore didn’t even turn. “Good. Let them hear.”

He lit another cigarette, voice steady. “Public won’t care. They’ve seen justice fail too many times. They’ll cheer this and move on.”

He looked toward the resort again, eyes narrowed.

“All this noise because Vikas opened his wallet to the right people,” he muttered, half to himself. “And now we’re the cleanup crew. Vikas pays. We pull the trigger. That’s the deal.”

No one needed an explanation. Everyone already knew. This wasn’t about law. Or even just money. It was about power.

The kind that shifts silently in backrooms far above the streets. The kind where gangsters like Arjun and Vikas are created, used, and replaced. One day you're a king. The next, you’re a problem.

Someone at the top had decided Arjun was no longer useful. Too big. Too noisy. Too risky.

And so the message had come down, passed quietly through layers of the system until it reached men like Rathore. Men who didn’t ask why. Men who knew their role.

Rathore and his team weren’t here to think. They were here to execute—literally. No questions. No guilt. Just the next name on the list.

Arjun’s time was up. That was enough.

One man checked the door ram. Another tucked a small packet of fake documents into his jacket—prop evidence for after the kill.

Rathore exhaled one last puff of smoke, then dropped the cigarette to the dirt and crushed it under his boot.

“Let’s go.”

No one said a word after that.

They walked up the slope quietly—no formations, no signals, no strategy. Just the slow, steady approach of men who had done this before and would do it again.

There was no tension. No adrenaline rush. Only certainty.

They didn’t come to arrest.

They came to kill. Nothing more.

Section 3: The Night Before Ruin

It was almost 11 p.m. The sky outside had turned black. Arjun picked up another wine bottle and popped the cork. The sound echoed in the quiet suite. He poured the wine slowly into two glasses. The liquid poured and settled dark in the glass.

He felt light. Free. For the first time in years, he had left behind the weight of deals and killings and sat with Maya like a man without a past. He wanted this night to last. He was in a mood to celebrate.

He gave Maya a glass. His hand brushed her arm for a moment. She took it quietly. Her fingers were cold around the stem. The wine smelled strong and heavy. But her throat was dry. She lifted the glass to her lips but did not drink. She nodded when Arjun raised his glass.

“To peace,” he said. His smile was there, but his eyes stayed tired.

She echoed the toast, but her hands had grown heavier. The glass trembled just slightly as she lowered it.

Arjun sat in the armchair near the window. He stretched out, trying to look calm. He wanted to believe the storm was over. He looked quiet. Like he was finally letting something go.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, swirling the wine slowly. “About how much time I’ve wasted chasing things that don’t matter. Power, deals, territory. I thought it made me invincible. Turns out, it just made me tired.”

Maya sat across from him, keeping her legs folded beneath her. The glass in her hand had barely moved.

“You’ve earned a break,” she said softly.

He chuckled, more bitter than amused. “A break isn’t something people like me get. They get shot. Or they disappear.”

He looked up at her. “But I’m trying to believe that maybe… just maybe… I could walk away.”

Maya said nothing. Her lips opened, but no words came. Her heart pounded in her chest.

“Some place far from this madness,” he continued. “A house by the sea. Something small. You and me. No security detail. No guns. Just quiet mornings and old arguments over groceries.”

She looked toward the window. The valley outside felt far away and out of reach.

“I can see us there,” he said, leaning in. “You’d have a garden. I’d forget where I kept the house keys. Maybe we’d even grow old.”

She smiled for a moment. But her hand held the glass tighter.

Arjun watched her for a moment, then leaned back again. “You know, when I was a kid, my mother once told me I’d either die a king or get shot like a dog in the street. I didn’t believe her. Thought I’d rewrite that ending.”

Maya looked away.

“What did you tell her?” she asked, voice brittle.

“That I’d rather die a king.”

He paused, then added quietly, “But I think what I really wanted… was peace. Maybe that’s what a king never gets.”

Her eyes were burning now, and her voice cracked as she said, “You still can have it.”

He reached across, gently tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Then let’s leave. End of this week. I’ve told Karan to start selling everything. We’ll disappear before anyone even knows.”

Maya nodded. It was the only thing she could do.

It started with a glance. A hand brushing against her waist. A pause too long to be innocent. He reached for her, fingers sliding over her hips. She turned, caught his mouth with hers. It was hard. Fast. Desperate.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t undress fully. Clothes were pushed aside. Skin found skin.

He kissed her hard, backing her toward the couch. She knew what he wanted. She wanted it too.

She turned, hands braced on the cushions. He pushed her gown up. Pulled her panties down.

No words. Just breath. Just heat. Just release.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet. It was rough. Urgent. Each thrust punishing, almost cruel. But she took it. Welcomed it. Needed it.

Her mind stopped spinning. Her body took over. For a moment, the guilt faded. The noise inside her went quiet.

He held her tighter. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

It was more than sex. It was escape. It was surrender.

And she gave in. Fully.

Because tomorrow would break everything.

But tonight, in this act, she could pretend she was still his.

Even if only for a few more minutes.

The night continued. But for her, it had already ended.

Section 4: No Mercy Left

The resort was quiet. Too quiet. It was the kind of stillness that comes just before something explodes.

Inside the suite, Arjun leaned back on the sofa, humming faintly. The smell of wine and fresh linen still lingered. A soft romantic movie played on the television, their quiet way of winding down the night—a final moment of calm before the storm.

Maya stepped out of the bathroom, her face fresh and calm. She walked slowly to the sofa and sat beside Arjun. The romantic movie played softly on the screen. She leaned back, trying to relax. Her body stayed still, but her mind kept racing.

“Come here,” Arjun said softly, patting the space beside him. "Let’s finish the movie together." Their shoulders touched lightly. A quiet moment passed. On screen, the lovers kissed.

Arjun leaned in with a soft smile and said, “I hope our story ends better than theirs.”

Maya chuckled, brushing his arm. “Only if you don’t fall asleep halfway.”

And then—everything shattered.

The suite exploded with sound. A metal battering ram smashed into the door—once, twice, then splintered it open with a deafening crack. The lock gave way like paper. Wood splinters flew. The door slammed inward, crashing into the wall.

Arjun turned too late.

Three men in plain clothes stormed in. Guns raised. Faces blank. No warning. No words. Just practiced violence moving at full speed.

Arjun jumped up. His eyes locked on the duffel bag across the room. His body moved before his brain could. He lunged. But his feet slipped. The wine, the heat, the illusion of safety—all of it had slowed him. Just a little.

He crashed to the floor, arm outstretched.

Too far.

The gun wasn’t on him. It was in the bag. He had left it there to feel normal. To pretend he was just a man, not a marked one.

Now the bag might as well have been miles away.

One lunge. One slip. That was all it took.

The first bullet struck his shoulder. He staggered, spinning sideways, crashing into a wooden cabinet. Wine spilled across the floor. Glass shattered.

Maya screamed. The sound ripped out of her like something tearing from inside. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t breathe.

This wasn’t what she thought. She had believed Rathore would arrest him. Take him away. Break him maybe—but not this. Not murder.

She watched in horror as Arjun collapsed, blood pouring out of him like water. Her heart slammed against her chest. Her mind couldn’t keep up. She had been used. Played. And now the man who trusted her most was being destroyed in front of her.

She tried to reach out. But her hands didn’t move.

The guilt hit her like a truck. She had handed him over. Walked him into this.

Her body shook. Her throat clenched. She wanted to scream again. To tell them to stop. But nothing came.

She wasn’t just watching a man die.

She was watching her own soul fall apart with every bullet.

Another bullet cracked through his side. Arjun collapsed to his knees, blood gushing in thick streaks across the floor.

One of the men kicked over a chair and fired again—this time into his thigh. Arjun groaned, falling flat, his limbs twitching.

He tried to crawl, dragging himself across the blood-slick floor. His eyes locked on the duffel bag—the gun was inside. His gun. Just a few feet away. His hand stretched forward, shaking, desperate. But the distance felt endless.

Another boot came down—hard—on his wrist, snapping it clean. A cop laughed cruelly.

“Still think you're the lion of Mumbai?” the cop sneered. “Look at you now. Bleeding like a street dog, begging for scraps.”

A cop spotted the duffel bag and grabbed it. He knew exactly what was inside. He lifted it with one hand, swung it back like a cricket bat, and then let it drop—loud and heavy—just out of Arjun’s reach. The sound echoed through the blood-soaked room. Arjun stared at it, barely breathing. The message was brutal and simple—crawl if you want, bleed if you must, but die knowing you were this close and still powerless.

A fourth man stepped in, spat on the floor. “Still think you’re untouchable, you bastard?”

Arjun tried to lift his head. Blood pooled under him. His body was jerking from shock and pain, but he was still conscious. Still breathing.

One officer leaned in close, voice cruel. “Your queen sold you out. Texted us your grave.”

Arjun’s breath hitched. Not from pain—but from heartbreak.

His eyes, heavy and bleeding, searched the room. Then locked on Maya.

She was crumpled on the floor. Her face soaked in tears. Her lips trembled. She shook her head—slow, broken, helpless.

Arjun stared at her like the world had vanished. Like only she remained.

He wasn’t angry.

He was shattered.

His lips moved, barely a whisper. “Why?”

No sound came from her. Only more tears.

His head dropped for a second. Then rose again—eyes still on her. Still trying to find a reason. A lie. A truth. Anything.

But there was nothing.

And that was the worst part.

Maya had dropped to the floor, her hands over her ears. Her body shook uncontrollably. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process. The smell of gunpowder, blood, sweat—it was everywhere.

Another officer fired a bullet into Arjun’s leg just for effect. “Dance, King. Come on, dance now.”

Laughter echoed. Cold, pitiless, obscene.

Arjun groaned, trying to turn toward Maya. His lips moved—trying to say something. But nothing came out.

The chaos was still unfolding when a different cop stepped forward—calmer, quieter, sharper. He approached Maya as the others kept firing, mocking, and laughing.

She flinched. He looked like one of them. Cold. Ready to hurt.

But when he reached her, he didn’t grab or shove. He slowed down. His eyes flicked toward Arjun’s bleeding body. His jaw tightened. He shook his head once, almost to himself.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” he muttered under his breath. Then bent down, gently zip-tying Maya’s wrists behind her back. No roughness. No power trip. Just a man doing what he was told—but not proud of it.

She looked up at him, eyes soaked, shaking. Their eyes met for a split second. In his gaze, there was no gloating. Only quiet apology.

He held her arm, helping her stand, steadying her as she stumbled.

Her eyes darted to his chest—his name badge read: Deepak Rana.

He said nothing more. Just nodded once, firm and quick. Then walked her out of the room.

And somehow, even in the wreckage, Maya would remember that face. Those eyes. That name.

The suite was wrecked. Blood on the walls. Glass everywhere. Wine mixed with blood underfoot.

Arjun Malik lay dying. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. His eyes, glassy but alive, still searched the room.

Maya knelt nearby, her body frozen. Her face streaked with tears. Shock had swallowed her whole. This wasn’t what she wanted. Not like this. Not murder. Not in front of her.

The cops stood around like vultures. Laughing. Smoking. One of them made a crude joke about Arjun. Another said something about Maya. They all chuckled.

But then—even they stopped. Slowly, the room began to quiet. Guns lowered. Boots stilled.

It wasn’t guilt.

They were waiting.

No one said it aloud, but the feeling was there—hanging like smoke.

The king was still breathing.

And someone had to end it.

Everyone was waiting.

For him.

The butcher behind the badge.

The man who never left work half-done.

And he was coming.

Section 5: No Mercy Left

Arjun lay in blood. Barely breathing. His body twitched. Every breath a war. Eyes open. Searching. Refusing to close.

The room stank of smoke and sweat. Laughter echoed. Boots scraped over glass and blood. A cop flicked ash near Arjun’s face. Another leaned back, chewing gutka, watching like it was a show.

“Look at him,” one said. “The big don of Mumbai, dying like a dog with no master.”

A boot nudged his ribs. Another chuckled. “He’ll die soon. Let him feel it first.”

Maya sobbed in the corner, hands zip-tied, her face buried in her knees and soaked in tears. No one looked at her. Not really. Just another trophy.

Then something shifted.

The room quieted.

Boots stilled. Laughter faded. The air turned heavier.

Footsteps. Slow. Cold. Measured.

Arjun’s head turned, eyes wide, breath hitching.

Because now the curtain was lifting.

And the butcher had arrived.

Footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Inspector Rajesh Rathore entered.

Slow steps. Eyes cold. Hands rolling up his sleeves with the focus of a surgeon before a cut.

No urgency. No show.

He walked past the blood, past the smoke, past his own men like they weren’t there.

He didn’t flinch at the sight of Arjun Malik on the floor.

He just paused. Tilted his head. Took in the wreckage.

Then kept walking—toward the body, toward the end.

Not a butcher.

Something worse.

A man who believed this was his job—and nothing more.

Arjun’s gaze locked on him.

“Rathore…” he rasped.

Rathore stepped forward, slow and steady. He looked down at Arjun—not like a man seeing a human, but like a butcher checking if the animal was still twitching.

“Still breathing?” he muttered, dry and cold. “You bastards always take too long to die.”

Arjun coughed, blood spilling from his lips. His voice was weak, trembling. “You could’ve taken me in. Put me on trial. I would’ve faced it.”

He looked up, eyes burning. “But not like this. Not like an animal.”

Rathore crouched beside him, elbows on his knees, face close but emotionless. “This isn’t a trial, Malik.” He lit a cigarette, eyes locked on the dying man. “This is termination. This is disposal.”

Arjun’s body trembled. Blood spilled from his mouth. His voice came out broken. “Why?” he gasped. “What do you gain by killing me like this?”

His eyes locked onto Rathore’s. “What makes this worth it?”

Rathore smirked, plucking a cigarette from his pocket. “You want truth before you die? Fine.”

He lit the cigarette slowly, blowing smoke in Arjun’s face.

“This was a contract,” he said flatly. “Not from me. Not from the department. From the man you underestimated—Vikas.”

Arjun blinked. His lips parted, but no sound came. His breath caught in his throat. He stared at Rathore, then at Maya. His head shook slowly, like the truth couldn’t fit inside him.

A contract.

On him.

By Vikas?

By Vikas? Vikas Bhardwaj? That bottom-feeder clawing at the edges of the underworld? A techie-turned-street thug? Him? He wasn’t even in the same league. Not with Arjun. Arjun Malik—the name, the fear, the king without a crown. The real boss of Mumbai’s underworld.

And it was real. Not a nightmare. Not a trap. Real.

Unbelievable. Unthinkable. Even for him.

The floor beneath him seemed to tilt. The lights blurred. His mind screamed for answers. For escape. But there was no out.

Only the truth. And the end, walking toward him in uniform.

Rathore nodded. “Vikas bought everyone—top brass, ministers, bureaucrats. And you? You became a liability. Too loud. Too big. Too dangerous. The kind of man this system builds… then erases when he stops listening.”

“You’re lying…” Arjun’s voice was a whisper now, but his eyes flickered toward Maya, who was still zip-tied on the floor, frozen.

Rathore chuckled. “Oh, no. I’m just delivering the message.”

Arjun coughed, blood running from his lips. His voice cracked, desperate. “Name your price, Rathore. Whatever you want—money, land, accounts. I’ll get it done. Just… don’t end it like this.”

Rathore’s expression didn’t change. Not even a blink.

“Ten years ago, that might’ve worked,” he said flatly. “If this were one of those staged jobs—clean out one don, help the rival—I’d have named my price. You know that. You’ve paid before.”

Arjun’s eyes widened. His chest rose and fell in short bursts.

“But this?” Rathore continued. “This came from above. Way above. Ministers. Top brass. Too many eyes on it. Too many hands already paid. I can’t touch this.”

He leaned in, quiet, final. “There’s no deal to make. Not tonight.”

Arjun blinked hard, his body trembling. He knew the truth of it. He had lived this world. He had ordered hits just like this.

And now, it was his turn to be erased. No bargaining. No out.

Only silence.

Rathore leaned closer, voice cold.

“You were betrayed from every direction, Malik,” Rathore said, stepping over him. “And the best part? That innocent-looking bitch you chose to love—she’s the one who led us here.”

He pointed at Maya, grinning without warmth. “You fucked up, Arjun. You loved her. Not used and dumped her like the others. What happened, huh? Was her pussy that magical?”

The room cracked with cruel laughter.

Another cop chimed in, “Should we check for ourselves?”

Rathore held up a hand, mock serious. “Maybe not. She might sell us out too. Bloody bitch. Look at the bloodbath she caused.”

Arjun’s face twisted. Pain and humiliation flooded him. But he said nothing. Only stared at Maya. Still trying to see the woman he loved. Still trying to believe this wasn’t real.

Arjun’s face contorted. He turned to Maya—eyes wide, broken. His lips trembled, but no words came. Just a sound—raw, hollow.

“No,” Arjun muttered, shaking his head weakly. “Not her…”

Rathore stood up, stepped back. “You think loyalty exists in our world? Wake up, king. Your queen sold you cheap.”

Another cop laughed. “She gave your location with one damn text. Didn’t even think twice.”

Arjun’s arms trembled again as he tried to crawl toward Maya. His strength was gone. Only his eyes moved now, locking onto hers, desperate for an answer he would never get.

Blood bubbled in his mouth. His lips parted.

“It’s… in the… safe… red file…”

His voice was fading fast, broken like his body. But every word cut through the noise.

Maya leaned forward, her heart thudding in her ears. Something in his tone made it clear—this wasn’t just a name or location.

This was something else.

Something big.

A secret only she now held.

She knelt closer, trying to catch more. But it was gone.

His fingers twitched, reaching toward her.

And then stilled.

Arjun’s voice faded into a rasp. His hand slid across the floor, fingers twitching toward her—then fell limp.

His eyes stayed on her, even in silence.

He wasn’t dead yet.

But the last thing he saw was her face.

And the truth she could no longer deny.

But something else moved beneath it.

Footsteps. Heavy. Slow. Measured.

Maya’s breath caught. The air thickened.

Even the cops fell silent.

The circus was nearing its end.

And what came next would not be forgotten.

Section 6: The Shot That Ended It All

The suite reeked of blood and smoke. Glass shards littered the floor. Wine and blood pooled into dark stains. Arjun lay broken on the marble. His breath shallow. His eyes open, locked on Maya—filled with pain, disbelief, and a question that would die with him.

Inspector Rajesh Rathore stepped closer, his boots crunching on broken glass. He looked down at the half-dead man with nothing but indifference. There was no urgency. No tension. Just routine.

He drew his revolver slowly, like a man reaching for a pen—not a weapon. No drama. No hesitation. Just routine.

Arjun blinked. The fight drained from his eyes. He wasn’t just injured now. He knew.

This was it.

The end.

His chest rose, then stilled. No more crawling. No more begging. Only the dull weight of finality.

He turned to Maya one last time. She was frozen, hands still tied, eyes wide. Silent. Numb.

Maybe she knew too. Or maybe she refused to believe it.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

He gave her the last thing he had left.

A look. Not of blame.

But of goodbye.

Rathore tilted his head, cigarette still in his mouth. “Goodbye, King,” he said softly. “We ran a good game, didn’t we? But things change. Orders change. Nothing personal.”

He aimed the barrel at Arjun’s head.

“Adios.”

A single shot. Point-blank. Brutal.

The shot rang out. Maya flinched as if struck herself.

Arjun’s head snapped back. His skull split with a sickening crack. A burst of blood. Bone. Something pale and soft spilled out onto the floor—pinkish-white, unreal.

She stared, frozen. The air left her lungs. Her mind broke into fragments.

This wasn’t a movie. This wasn’t a dream. This was Arjun.

The man who had held her. Kissed her. Made love to her twice that very night—once slow, once like the world was ending. The man who planned a quiet life with her. Who told her she was the reason he believed he could still change.

Now he was gone. His eyes still open. His body still twitching.

And she had watched it happen.

A scream sat in her throat but never came out. She was silent. Hollow. A shell.

Whatever she had been, whatever future she thought she had—was gone.

In that moment, something inside her died too.

And what it did to her would never fully show—but it would shape everything she became from that moment on.

Section 7: Cover-Up Begins

Rathore exhaled smoke, then holstered his weapon like he had just signed a file and closed a drawer. “Wrap it up,” he said, voice flat.

No remorse. No second glance. Just a man clocking out after a shift.

And a body cooling on the floor behind him.

The team moved fast—methodical, silent. One officer knelt beside the duffel bag and unzipped it. Inside was Arjun’s prized weapon—a Beretta, imported Italian make. Sleek, matte black. Deadly. It looked nothing like the standard-issue service pistols they carried—functional, but old and clunky. The Beretta was in a different league altogether. This was precision. This was money. This was power.

The cop whistled. "This thing’s worth more than my salary."

Another picked it up, examined the grip, admired the weight. "And we’re stuck with antiques. British-era junk. But for a fake encounter? Any gun will do." He laughed wickedly.

The others joined in, their laughter cruel, echoing through the blood-soaked suite like hyenas circling a kill.

One of them looked over at Maya and sneered. “So that's the queen he died for? Doesn’t look like much now.”

Another added, “Bet he thought she’d stay loyal. Look how that turned out.”

A third spat on the floor. “She’ll cry on camera now—act all innocent. Bitch started the whole thing.”

He looked at her like a vulture eyeing meat. “Too bad I have to skip this one. Rathore saheb said she’s off limits.” He chuckled. “Usually, I take care of these dead gangsters’ girlfriends. Pick them up from the scene, take them somewhere no one asks questions. Fuck them till they stop crying. Then pass them to the boys. Keeps morale high. Like a party favor after a job well done. But she if off limits. Too bad.”

The others laughed, low and filthy. One added, “Rathore must want her for himself.”

Another smirked, “Or maybe he’s saving her for someone higher up.”

Maya’s heart stopped. The blood drained from her face. She wasn’t just scared now. She was terrified of what came next.

They passed the Beretta around like kids admiring a stolen toy. Gloves on. Careful not to mess up the prints. They wanted Arjun’s sweat, his DNA, his fingerprints—everything to stay. Untouched. Natural. The story had to hold up.

They loaded the gun carefully. Fired two shots into the far wall. Another near the window. Muffled echoes filled the room.

“Make it look like he fought,” one said. “We need bullet marks. We need doubt.”

A thick folder packed with fake documents—hit lists, stash house maps, coded messages, fake passports—was flung onto the blood-soaked carpet. The kind of stuff the system knew how to use when it needed a story that sold itself.

“Scatter this shit around,” a cop said. “Make it look convincing.”

Fingerprints were smeared, casings planted. One officer rubbed dirt on a wall for ‘gunpowder residue.’ Another kicked a shattered chair into the hallway to imply struggle.

Outside, a junior cop was already on the phone with a known news editor.

“Yeah… it’s done. Big shootout. We’ll send footage. Headline? ‘Gangster shot dead in police encounter.’ Add something about saving innocent lives.”

Inside, Rathore watched it all fall into place. No grin. No nod. The fake story was working on its own—like it always did.

He turned to Maya, still zip-tied and soaked in sweat and tears, dazed against the wall. He nodded toward a constable. “Take her out. Make sure the cameras get her face.”

They yanked her to her feet roughly. Her knees buckled. She stumbled as flashbulbs exploded outside the suite door.

“Maya Sharma: Gangster’s Whore or Informer?” someone shouted.

Cameras clicked. Reporters jostled.

The police shoved her forward. Her kurta clung to her body, damp with sweat, streaked with grime and tears. Her face was blank, her eyes hollow.

Behind her, Arjun’s corpse still lay in the ruined suite, the blood already beginning to dry.

Another officer lit a cigarette, surveyed the scene, and said flatly, “That’s it. Send the press note.”

By sunrise, the story was everywhere.

Hero cops. Dangerous gangster. Daring encounter.

No one asked questions.

And Maya—branded, broken, and bleeding—was now the face of betrayal.

Section 8: Trial by Media

By sunrise, the media went wild. Arjun Malik’s body was barely cold, but news channels were already screaming: “Maya Sharma: Lover, Liar, or Assassin?”

Every major channel flashed her image on screen—clips of her laughing beside Arjun, mixed with close-up shots from her modeling days. Crop tops, wine glasses, club dance floors—all used to paint her guilty.

“Maya Sharma: From Ramp to Rifle?” one headline screamed in bright red.

Another anchor smirked through her opening line: “From modeling in lingerie to sleeping beside a gangster—what a fall.”

Leaked CCTV footage showed Maya brushing Arjun’s arm in the hotel corridor. A news ticker below screamed: “Seduction Before Slaughter?”

Newsroom debates exploded. Anchors and ex-police officers tore her apart in panels titled “Dangerous Women: The New Threat” and “Crime in Lipstick.”

“Women like her are worse than men,” one panelist barked. “They manipulate, seduce, and then destroy.”

“She wasn’t just a pawn. She was a planner,” another insisted. “A woman like this doesn’t just sleep beside a gangster—she sleeps with his secrets.”

The public didn’t wait. On WhatsApp, in neighborhood gossip, and at every chai stall, the verdict was out—guilty. No questions. No facts. Just outrage and judgment, passed around like cheap gossip—fast, loud, and without a second thought.

“She probably slept her way into the gang,” someone said on a street interview.

“Characterless girl,” an aunty told a news reporter. “These models used to get flown to Dubai when the dons snapped their fingers. Went there to please them, get gifts, beg for movie roles. Now they do it right here. God knows what’s wrong with these girls chasing men like that.”

In one viral meme, a split screen showed her photo titled “Queen of Arjun,” and the next, “From Queen to Caged.”

Behind the scenes, Rathore’s team pulled strings like pros. They leaked just enough to light the fire—an old video here, a planted quote there, a call to a friendly anchor. The media didn’t question it. They lapped it up, rewrote it, and sold it as fact. Clips of Maya crying, Maya in cuffs, Maya in a short dress from five years ago—each one fed the rage. Each one fed the outrage. The media ran wild, and the public followed—angry, loud, and ready to destroy whoever they were told to.

Then came the moment that shattered what little was left of Maya’s world.

A regional news channel aired an exclusive: Maya’s mother, Sarla Sharma, on camera, crying into her dupatta. The video was grainy, the sound shaky—real, raw, and heartbreaking.

“I gave her… everything,” Sarla sobbed, her voice cracking, eyes darting nervously. “She was… my little girl… always good. Always good.”

She clutched her dupatta, shaking. “I don’t… I don’t know how this happened. She wasn’t like this… I don’t understand…”

The words came in broken pieces. Half-formed. Repeating. Confused.

She wasn’t pleading Maya’s case.

She was just lost—an old woman drowning in grief, fear, and a story moving too fast for her to follow.

The camera zoomed in shamelessly, cutting to Maya’s childhood photo pinned to a wall behind her.

No one said that Sarla had been pushed into it. That she was scared, confused, and handed lines to say. Her tears weren’t for show—but the cameras used them like fuel. The country watched a broken mother, not knowing she was being used to sell a lie.

Inside one of the lock-up cells at the Crime Branch headquarters, Maya sat on a metal bench, eyes fixed on a flickering TV mounted on the wall. Every headline, every panel debate, every insult flashed across the screen. And she watched her destruction unfold in real time.

Her face filled the screen—labeled, dissected, judged.

Her mother’s voice cracked again, somewhere off-screen.

But Maya didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t even blink.

She just stared.

And slowly, something cold settled in her chest.

It wasn’t shame anymore.

It was the beginning of fury.

Section 9: The Breakdown

The walls were stained with age and stories no one wanted to remember. Paint peeled like dried skin. A flickering tube light buzzed overhead, painting everything in a sick yellow hue. The air smelled of sweat, piss, and old metal.

Maya sat hunched on the concrete bench in one of the lock-up cells inside the Crime Branch headquarters—legendary for the worst kind of torture Mumbai had ever seen. Men had died here. Disappeared. Screamed until their throats tore.

And now, it was her turn to wait.

Somewhere deep in the building, a man screamed—raw, animal, heart-wrenching. She didn’t know who. Didn’t need to. Someone was getting the third degree.

She went still. Her breath caught. Her body stiffened like it had been hit. Her breath caught in her throat.

She glanced sideways. In the next cell, two women stared at her—one a drug runner, the other a prostitute. Their eyes were dark. Resentful. Like they knew Maya didn’t belong here but hated her for it anyway.

She turned away, hugging her knees tighter.

This place wasn’t a jail. It was a graveyard that kept people alive just long enough to crush them.

And she was now one of them.

She sat on the cement bench, knees pulled tight to her chest. Her clothes were damp with sweat and grime. Hands clenched around her legs, forehead resting against the wall. She hadn’t moved in hours. Just a lifeless shape behind bars, waiting for time to break her.

Then it hit her. Her body jerked. Her chest tightened. A raw sob exploded from her throat. She gasped for air and crumpled forward, shaking like a leaf in a storm.

And then it poured.

No silent sobs. No movie-style breakdown. This was raw. Loud. Ugly. She screamed into her knees. Slammed her fists on the bench. Scratched at her own face like she wanted to rip it off.

“I killed him,” she rasped. “I killed him. I killed him.”

She kept saying it until her throat gave out. Her voice broke into air. Then her body gave way too. She dropped to the floor, cheek pressed to the cold cement, shaking like she’d never stop.

She saw him in flashes—his smile at dinner, the warmth of his hand, the soft way he spoke about escape. The way he looked at her like she was his whole world.

Then—bullets.

His body jerking.

His blood. His eyes. His mouth trying to speak.

She wailed. Smashed her head against the wall. Bit deep into her hand, hard enough to draw blood—just to keep from screaming again. Her body twisted in pain. Her mind splintered. It was rage. It was guilt. It was grief she couldn’t escape.

There was no one to hear her. No one to help her. No one to save her from herself.

And then, suddenly, in the middle of that breakdown, she heard it.

His voice.

Faint. Distant. Echoing like a ghost behind her ribs.

It’s… in the… safe… red file…

She froze.

It came again—not from the outside, but from somewhere deep within her, replaying.

She sat up slowly, dazed, eyes wide, lips whispering his words.

Red file. Red file. Red file.

She repeated it like a chant. A prayer. A curse.

And then the tremble in her body shifted. Not grief anymore—something colder. Sharper.

She stared at the wall, unfocused, breathing hard.

Arjun hadn’t said goodbye. His last words were a clue. A trail. A mission.

She hadn’t just betrayed him.

He had left her something before he died. Not in words, but in meaning. Something that mattered. Something that still lived.

A seed. It was a beginning.

And even in this cell, broken and filthy, that seed had begun to sprout.

But it wasn’t time yet.

For now, she curled back into herself again.

Her tears returned.

Her body still ached.

Something had changed inside her. The grief stayed, but behind it, a cold fire had started. Quiet. Focused. Alive. She didn’t know what she would do next—but someone would feel it. She was broken, yes. But not for long.

Section 10: The Whisper and the Fire

It was sometime past midnight when Maya finally stopped crying.

The tears had emptied her. Her body had nothing left to cry out. Her eyes were swollen. Her throat burned. But her mind felt clearer. The silence didn’t choke her anymore. It felt right. It felt needed.

She sat up slowly. Her legs dangled off the bench. Her arms rested on her knees. The cell hadn’t changed—same cracked walls and rusted bars. But something inside her had. The grief was gone. What sat inside her now was sharper. Colder.

Her thoughts returned again, for the hundredth time, to Arjun’s last words.

It’s… in the… safe… red file…

She had repeated his words until they lost all meaning. But now, in the silence, they hit different. Not dying words. A signal. A path.

It was just like him—cold, sharp, and planned till his last breath.

What red file? What safe?

She replayed their last conversations. Arjun had talked about stepping back, keeping a clean front, handing things over. But there had been something more—something she hadn’t paid attention to back then.

“I’ve started setting things up… just in case,” he had said one night on the balcony. “If something happens to me, a few people will know what to do.”

She had laughed it off. He hadn’t pressed further.

But now the pieces were aligning.

That red file—she now knew it was real. And if it held what she thought, it could change everything.

It wasn’t just a stash of money.

It was everything he left behind. His power. His payback. His playbook.

Documents. Contacts. Secrets. Proof. The kind of dirt that could destroy everyone who had plotted, ordered, and carried out Arjun’s execution. If she found that file, it could flip the game. And Maya knew—whoever had killed him wasn’t safe yet.

She thought of Vikas. Of Rathore. Of cops. Of the smug look on their faces when they crushed Arjun. They believed it was over. They had wiped him out. And Maya? Just a broken pawn they thought they could throw away.

They were wrong.

That final whisper—about the red file—was his last gift. And now it had begun to grow inside her like a warning, like a promise.

Her guilt didn’t vanish—it transformed.

Into fire.

Into purpose.

Her betrayal had taken his life. But what she did next could give him justice. Not in the courtroom. Not through the media. But in the same language they understood—fear, leverage, retribution.

She closed her eyes, breathing slowly, letting that fire spread through her veins.

She didn’t know where the safe was yet. Or what exactly the file contained.

But she would find it.

She would tear through the underworld, the police, the corridors of power—whatever it took. She would finish what Arjun started.

Because now, it wasn’t just about guilt.

It was war.

And Maya Sharma, once the queen beside the king, now stood alone—wounded, tarnished, branded.

But beneath the ashes of her betrayal, a new force was awakening.

One that would burn everything that killed him.