The room was a tomb. Cold. Unforgiving. The kind of silence that didn't feel empty, but watched.

Innaya huddled in the corner like a ghost of herself — knees pulled to her chest, fingers gripping her arms so tightly it hurt. She didn't care. Pain was real. It kept her tethered to something. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly, its flickering light throwing jagged shadows that danced across the cracked stone floor like demons at a feast.

But it wasn't the dark that terrified her. Not the silence. Not the age of the mansion, with its creaking bones and whispering walls. It was him. Raahil Raizada. The man with ice in his veins and murder in his hands. The man who had killed someone right in front of her — not with anger, but with ease.

She hadn't even screamed. Hadn't moved. The shock had frozen her solid, breath caught in her throat, heart thudding like a war drum inside her chest. She kept seeing it. The flash of the gun. The blood. The sound — not cinematic or loud, just a dull, heavy thud, like something sacred being desecrated. Like a soul being silenced.

And now...She was in his house. Not as a guest. Not even as a prisoner. As an insult. A fat, plain girl no one had wanted. Not important enough to be missed. Just a disposable pawn in someone else's game.

She wasn't brave. She never had been. If she even dared to talk back, they'd silence her without a second thought—or worse, offer her up to other men like she was nothing. 

She was the girl who looked down when spoken to, who never wore lipstick, who always stood at the back of the room. So why her? Why was she the one trapped behind this door... after seeing a man die for less than a mistake?

Would Raahil come back? Would he kill her next? Or worse... would he keep her? Not out of desire — but out of disdain? To remind her every day that she didn't belong. That she was beneath him. A tremor ran through her as the cold bit deeper into her skin. Her tears had dried in salt-crusted streaks across her cheeks. Still, she didn't cry again. She didn't dare.

She rested her head on her knees, breath shallow, heart aching. And in the thick, suffocating silence, she whispered —

"Mama... if you're watching me from wherever you are... I'm so, so scared."

She didn't know when sleep came. Only that her body finally surrendered, curling tighter into itself, still trembling. Even in unconsciousness, her nightmares weren't merciful. Blood. Gunshots. Brown eyes filled with hatred. Her name spoken like a curse. And then—Click. The door lock turned. Her eyes flew open. Panic shot through her veins like ice. Her eyes flew open. The door creaked open slowly.

Two tall men stood there — not the ones who had brought her here earlier. These were new faces. Hard faces. Their black shirts stretched across muscled arms, and their silence said enough.

"Innaya," one of them said coldly. Her breath hitched.

"Come with us."

Her legs didn't move. The other one stepped in and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet like she weighed nothing.

"No—please—where are you taking me?" But they didn't answer.

She stumbled as they dragged her out of the room, her heart pounding like a trapped bird inside her chest. Every corridor they passed felt darker than the last. Every painting on the walls watched her. Every light overhead hummed like it was holding its breath.

And then—They reached the door. The same door. The one she had walked through yesterday thinking she was picking up an "order."

They shoved it open. And her blood ran cold.

Raahil Raizada sat in the center of the room — legs spread, elbows on the armrests, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. The same black shirt. The same terrifying aura. Only now— There were two more men beside him, lounging on the velvet sofas, their postures relaxed but dangerous. Like snakes waiting to strike.

And what was even more shocking— They looked like him. Same dead brown eyes. Same sharp jawlines. Same air of command. Raahil didn't move as she was pushed in. He just looked at her. No words. No reaction. The silence hit harder than a slap. Innaya's knees threatened to buckle. She kept her eyes low. Her hands trembled. She couldn't take it — their gaze. Their presence. This whole room.

What do they want from me? What more can they take?

She stood there, head down, heart in her throat, knowing this wasn't the end. This was just another beginning. The room pulsed with tension. Those two men, began to circle her, slow and deliberate, like hyenas taking their time with a cornered prey. One of them — tall, with a scar under his left eye — clicked his tongue in mock pity.

Their laughter rang through the hall. "This is what they dared to send you, bhai?" he scoffed, eyes raking over Innaya's shivering frame. "A fat little piglet in a kurti? Are they mocking us or begging us to kill her?"

The other — younger, sharper, crueler — laughed. And Innaya froze. She knew who that person was, it was  Kabir Raizada.

She had heard his name before. And now — here he was. Smirking. Perfect. Dressed in expensive denim and a sinfully smug expression.

"God help the Vashishts," Kabir said mockingly. "They're not just bankrupt — they're brain-dead. Thought they could get away by slipping in this oversized tragedy."

He leaned in, grinning cruelly.

"Tell me, fatty— how much did they bribe you to come here and embarrass yourself like this?"

"Or maybe," another one said, voice dropping lower, "she's here to trap one of us. Hmm? Try her luck. Seduce a Raizada, get a ring, maybe a house far from the gutter she crawled out of?"

Laughter echoed between the walls. She didn't speak. Couldn't. She wasn't just humiliated. She was shattered. Her cheeks burned. Tears welled up — but she refused to let them fall. Not in front of him. Not in front of them.

Kabir leaned in once more, his voice now soft — almost sweet. "Don't worry, fatty. I'm a generous man. If you beg nicely, maybe I'll keep you around. I've got an old dog blanket in my car. You can sleep on it."

Raahil finally moved — but only to lift his glass and sip his whiskey, his silence more menacing than a hundred threats. Innaya wanted to scream. To run. To disappear. But she was trapped in this house of monsters. And they hadn't even started yet. Innaya's fists clenched in her lap, but her body wouldn't stop shaking. Her heart thundered like it wanted to rip out of her chest and run.

Raahil, still seated on his throne-like chair in the center of the room, said nothing. He just watched. Letting them tear her apart word by word. The other — younger, sharper, crueler — laughed.

Innaya flinched, her eyes locked on the marble floor. Her hands gripped the hem of her kurti so tightly her knuckles turned white. She felt their words like knives — slicing through her skin, her pride, her already-fragile sense of self.

But she said nothing. Because what could she say? they would kill her without second thought. She didn't belong in this room. And they were right — in their world, she was nothing. She was nothing. Then— Raahil stood. His voice cut through the laughter like a blade.

"Silence."

Instant. The brothers stopped. Raahil took a slow sip of his whiskey, then placed the glass down. His eyes fixed on her. Unblinking. Burning. He walked toward her, each step making her shrink further into herself.

Until he stood inches away. Towering. Furious. He didn't yell. He didn't need to.

"Where are they?" he asked. His voice was low. Controlled. Deadly.

Innaya shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. "I—I don't know... I swear..."

And that was it. His hand flew. The slap cracked through the room. Her head jerked sideways from the force — her body followed — and she crumpled to the floor with a thud. Everything rang. Her cheek burned. Tears spilled before she could stop them. The shame... it was suffocating.

One of the brothers let out a low whistle. "Damn. That one echoed."

Raahil didn't even look at them. He motioned with two fingers, and his men stepped forward, grabbing her arms roughly. She whimpered. They yanked her up — forcing her to stand in front of him again, her legs barely able to hold her weight.

"Try again," he said, voice cold. "Where are they?"

"I don't know..." she sobbed. "I swear on my mother, I don't know anything—"

He snarled and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back so she was forced to meet his eyes.

"Wrong answer," he whispered. "And if you give me one more wrong answer..."

His voice dropped.

"...you'll learn just how hard this can get."

She whimpered again, trying to nod through the pain. But inside her, something cracked. Not broken — not yet. But bending.

And in that moment, with her face stinging, her body trembling, and three powerful men laughing at her misery— Innaya understood something no one had taught her: In the devil's world... being innocent won't save you.

Her breath hitched as Raahil's fingers tightened in her hair, pulling her face closer to his — not in desire, but in domination. His voice was venom wrapped in silk.

"I don't like liars, Innaya."

"I-I'm not—"

He dropped her suddenly.

She crumpled to the floor with a gasp, pain shooting up her spine. Before she could gather herself, Raahil stepped aside and gestured toward the screen behind him — a large, mounted monitor she hadn't noticed until now.

The screen came to life. Smoke. Fire. A burning building. Her breath caught.

No.

She scrambled to her knees, eyes glued to the screen. The camera zoomed in on a crumbling old villa — one she'd recognize even with her eyes shut. The pale blue shutters. The rusted iron gate. The jasmine vines clinging desperately to the walls.

Her house. The one she'd grown up in after her parents died. The only place in the world that had ever felt like home even when people inside that home abused her. It was on fire.

Crackling flames licked the windows. The roof collapsed in on itself. Black smoke billowed into the sky.

"No," she whispered, crawling closer to the screen. "No, no, no—please—"

Tears blurred her vision. That house had her mother's old trunk, hidden under the stairs. Her father's favorite books, still on the shelf. Photos. Journals. Scarves. That tiny chipped teacup her mother had used every morning. Everything she had left of them.

Gone.

She turned to him, shaking. "Why... why would you do that?"

Raahil didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

"Because I can," he said simply.

She stared at him — this man in a black suit, polished shoes, hands clean... while her entire world turned to ash.

Her lips trembled. "You didn't have to—there were memories in there. My—my parents, their things—"

"I'm not running a museum for your grief, Innaya," he said coldly. "Everything connected to the Vashishts dies."

A sob escaped her throat. She covered her mouth, the sound too raw, too ugly.

"It wasn't just bricks and wood," she whispered. "It was the last place I had them."

Raahil looked down at her like she was a speck of dust. An inconvenience.

"Then mourn quietly," he said, turning his back. "I have no use for noise."

And just like that, behind her, the flames kept burning.