The air was different here—thicker, older, as if time itself clung to every breath.

The taxi—a wheezing Premier Padmini that smelled of sweat, incense, and rust—rattled down a narrow road flanked by sagging trees. The sleek cityscape of Mumbai had fallen away like a dream that never belonged to this place. Now there was only the scent of wet earth, and silence broken by the occasional cry of a crow or the wheeze of the engine. Rohan Kapoor didn't speak. He hadn't since getting in. His phone lay dark in his pocket, untouched. His hazel eyes, unreadable, were fixed outside, but what he saw wasn't the road.

What he saw was blood on marble. A hand twitching. A gasp that never became a word.

The driver slowed near a rusted gate devoured by creepers. Beyond it stood a house—not a home. Not anymore. The Kapoor ancestral bungalow, yellow walls blackened by soot and monsoon rot. Balcony railings eaten away. Windows hollow as eyes. The garden—a jungle now—bloomed with weeds that sprouted like accusations.

Rohan stepped out, leather shoes meeting gravel like gunshots. He said nothing to the driver. Just a glance. One that froze him in place.

The gate groaned as Rohan pushed through. Every step forward felt like a descent, like walking deeper into a mausoleum. Inside, the air was thick, humid, unmoving. As if the walls were still holding their breath from the last scream they heard.

He entered the living room.

Silence.

Dust floated in the beams of filtered light like ash. The velvet cushions were gone. So were the curtains. Just the hollow echo of what once was: his mother's laugh. His father's cough. His own feet pounding across the marble as a boy chasing cricket dreams.

Now he was chasing ghosts.

He moved with precision, a man on a mission. Into the pooja room, where incense once hung in the air like a lullaby. Where his mother would light lamps and hum until the gods seemed to listen. Now—dust, and silence. He knelt.

A photo sat askew in the shadows: his parents, caught in time. His father—proud, stern. His mother—soft, radiant. And him. Just a boy. Trusting. Unscarred.

He struck a match.

"I haven't forgotten," he whispered to the flame, voice cold and reverent. "Not a single night. Not one lie. Not one signature. Not one knife they hid in a handshake."

He didn't need to name them. The Sharmas were here, in the soot. In the rot. In the cracked paint that once covered joy.

He stood and walked to the study.

The door creaked.

The desk—his father's desk—was still there. Heavy teak, scarred. Rohan ran his hand across it. His jaw clenched. This was the last place he saw him—alive. Clutching the forged documents. Raging. Crying.

Collapsing.

Rohan sat.

He opened his briefcase. Pulled out the folder. Leather. Worn. Inside—pages and pages of fire. Bank records. Legal documents. Evidence of how Mohan Sharma siphoned wealth like blood from a vein. Falsified ledgers. Ghost companies. Bribes.

The final page—a wedding invitation draft.

Rohan Kapoor weds Aisha Sharma.

His hand hovered over the paper. Not trembling. No. Rohan Kapoor never trembled. But there was a stillness in him so absolute it felt like the eye of a storm.

Aisha.

Too soft. Too trusting. That damned lotus clip always in her hair.

He leaned back.

Her laughter at the lunch. Her eyes—wide, uncertain, curious. Her challenge in the bedroom.

"When will you let me see who you are beneath the mask?"

He slammed the folder shut.

"She's collateral," he muttered. "She's not the point."

But it wasn't true. Not anymore. She had started to become the echo in the hallways of his mind. And echoes were dangerous. Echoes distracted.

He walked to the balcony.

Mumbai sprawled below. Unaware. Unprepared.

He pulled out his phone.

"Vikram," he said when the line connected. **"It's time. Leak the files. Anonymous sources. Backdoor tip to the journalists. We drown the Sharmas in truth. But not yet. Let them enjoy their sweets and their selfies. Let them throw money on music and flowers."

Pause.

"And Vikram—find out what books Aisha keeps on her nightstand. If I'm to be her fantasy, I should learn the language."

He ended the call.

Behind him, in the pooja room, the flame wavered.

Then rose.

Just like him.

He would be the storm in silence.

A whisper that became a reckoning.

A man no longer mourning.

A man sharpening.

The marigolds bloomed too brightly in the courtyard below.

They'd wilt soon.

So would the smiles.

The Sharmas had no idea what was coming.

And Aisha—sweet Aisha—was walking willingly into the center of the fire.

She wouldn't burn.

Not yet.

But soon.

Very soon.