She lay tangled in his sheets — silk against skin, moonlight on her bare shoulder. Her lips still parted from moans that felt rehearsed, like a performance she knew well. Maybe she did. They all did.

Ayaan Rathi stood by the window, shirt half-buttoned, watching the city that feared his name. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily upward, but his mind was razor-sharp, slicing through the silence.

Ananya stirred behind him.

He didn't turn.

He knew what came next.

A soft voice. A pretend smile and then the fantasy.

They all wanted to be the one to break the beast. They played innocence with trembling fingers, whispered lines like "I've never done this before," and "You're not like they say."

Bullshit. He'd seen it too many times. They didn't want him. They wanted the illusion.

The thrill of touching danger. The expensive champagne. The blood on his hands that never reached theirs and the story they could tell themselves: the mafia king fell for me.

Not the man. Not the darkness. Not the empty inside of him that even he couldn't look at for long.

Just the myth.

He smirked bitterly, inhaling deep. They got what they wanted — a few nights in silk sheets, bruises that looked like passion, and a brief taste of power and he let them.

Because they always left before he could.

Ananya's voice broke the silence, hesitant. "Will you stay for a while?"

He exhaled slowly. Didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

He glanced at her once — really looked — and saw it all.

Not love.
Not even curiosity.
Just fascination.

So he turned back to the window, fixing his cuffs.

"I thought maybe we could... stay for a while. Just talk."

He buttoned his collar, the soft click of each button louder than her heartbeat. "We talked enough, Anaya."

Her name sounded sterile in his mouth now. Like he'd spit out the sweetness.

She tried again. "What was this to you?"

He paused — the briefest hesitation — and for a second she swore he'd say something kind. Something that could stitch up the bleeding.

But instead, he slipped his ring back onto his finger and said, "A distraction."

She blinked. "Ayaan..."

He turned then. Finally. But the eyes that met hers weren't the ones that had traced poetry onto her skin hours ago. These were eyes that closed doors.

"You wanted to feel wanted," he said, voice smooth, steady. "I wanted to forget. We both got what we needed."

Her throat burned. "So that's it?"

He glanced at his phone, like she was a meeting he was late for. "You weren't meant to be permanent, Anaya. Neither was this."

Something in her cracked — not loudly. Just a quiet shatter. Like fine china dropped on carpet.

She whispered, "But I love you."

"No, you don't," he said softly. "You love the version of me you built in your head."

She watched as he walked to the door, every step a verdict. He didn't throw money. Didn't slam the door. Didn't rage or sneer.

Worse — he just left gently.

Like she was a dream he didn't mind forgetting.

Just the sound of the door clicking shut, and the silence he leaves behind — colder than anything he said.

Ayaan slips into the backseat of the black SUV — sleek, armored, and silent like a moving grave.

The driver offers a brief nod.

Inside, another man waits. Nervous. Sweating through his linen shirt. A mid-level broker with trembling hands and a busted promise.

"Ayaan sir," the man stammers, the door thudding shut beside him like a final judgment. "I—I just needed a little more time. I was working on it. I swear—"

Ayaan doesn't speak.

He opens a slim silver case, selects a cigarette with care, and lights it — all with the calm precision of someone who knows exactly how this night ends. Smoke curls around his face. His silence suffocates.

Then — finally — he leans forward.

Eyes flat. Empty. Glacial.

"You cost me eighty crores," he says. "And two names I'll never get back."

The broker tries to breathe. "I can fix it—please—just give me—"

"You already broke it."

He doesn't raise his voice.

He doesn't need to.

A simple nod to the man seated beside him. One precise motion.

Phfft. A muffled gunshot. Clean. Clinical. No splatter.

The body slumps sideways. Dead weight in a leather seat.

The car remains untouched — spotless, controlled.

Ayaan flicks his cigarette out of the window, eyes on the dark road ahead.

"Seven minutes," he murmurs.

The driver doesn't ask. He already knows. A cleaning team will be here before the body cools.

Ayaan leans back, adjusting his cuff.

"Drive."

The SUV pulls away — smooth as shadow — leaving behind a silent street, a corpse, and the scent of burned tobacco.

Ayaan doesn't look back. Because monsters never do.

To the world, Ayaan Rathi is Mumbai's golden boy. Youngest multi-billionaire. TEDx speaker. Face of glossy magazines. He dines with ministers, poses at charity galas, and speaks in boardrooms like a prophet in Prada.

But in the shadows?

He's something else entirely. Not a man — a myth wrapped in muscle and money. A ghost who leaves no fingerprints. A king without mercy.

And tonight, the crown is off. The gloves are off. Only the monster remains.

Inside his basement,

A bare concrete room. One rusted metal chair bolted to the floor.
One man tied to it — face swollen, shirt soaked in blood and fear, wrists raw against the rope. His body twitches. His soul is already halfway gone.

Ayaan Rathi stands across from him — immaculate. Grey suit. Sleeves rolled to the forearms. Rolex catching the light. Not a single drop of blood on him. Not even dust.

He looks at the man like he's trash someone forgot to take out.

"You lied," he says, voice calm. Hollow.

"You sold my weapons route to a street rat from Italy."

"N-no—I swear—I didn't—please—" the man chokes, every syllable a sob.

Ayaan steps closer, crouching so they're eye-level. His face doesn't move. No anger. No disgust. Just clinical detachment.

"You thought I was too busy playing billionaire," he murmurs. "Too busy giving speeches, shaking hands, donating crores."

A pause.

"You mistook my silence for softness."

His eyes harden.

"You thought wrong."

The man lay on the ground, his face bloodied, trembling beneath the cold steel of Ayaan Rathi's boot.

"Please," he croaked, coughing out a string of broken sobs. "Please, Ayaan sir—I have children. Two girls. One's just started school... the other still clings to her mother's dupatta."

Ayaan didn't flinch at first. His eyes remained flat. Distant. Like mercy wasn't a word he'd ever learned.

"I'll disappear," the man begged, crawling a few inches before collapsing again. "I swear on their lives—I'll leave this city. Tonight. Just don't kill me. Don't take me away from them."

For a heartbeat, silence swallowed the room.

Then, Ayaan's jaw tightened. His hand, still curled into a fist, slowly lowered. Something flickered behind his cold gaze—so quick, it almost went unnoticed.

Family.

He never touched family.

Not wives. Not children. That was the one rule he still followed in a world that had taught him to destroy.

Ayaan stepped back, slow, calculated. The weight of his shoe lifted from the man's chest like the air itself returning.

He stared down at the sobbing man, disgust lacing his voice. "You should thank your daughters. Not your God."

The man choked on relief, tears and blood mixing at his lips.

"Disappear," Ayaan said quietly, turning his back. "If I hear your name again... if I even smell your shadow in this city..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

The man scrambled away like a broken insect, weeping, whispering blessings to the floor beneath Ayaan's feet.

Ayaan didn't watch. He just lit a cigarette with steady hands, inhaled once, and exhaled slowly—eyes fixed on nothing.

Because even monsters have fault lines.

And his was this: He didn't hurt those who were someone's whole world.