Adultery Love Sex And War Part 1 : Age Of Darkness

[Rocky@handsome]

I do have a totally different and contrasting interpretation of Sonarika's behavior, I agree she is not yearning his lost love as much as we wanted nor she is totally lost in her depression because of loss of her family but I feel her reactions are appropriate at this juncture because if she behaves as we wanted her to behave then it would seem unnatural as she like both her men for different reasons. The arc is consistent in maintaining that even now and it explains her behavior. 

As she discovers herself through therapy and finds back reasons for her behavior and also Meghana's involvement, it will show her truly what Hemanth means to her, as well gives her clarity on Vikram. Once she gets that clarity that's when she will truly miss Hemanth. I believe from what has happened so far couple are definitely going to end up with each other at the very end. 

~RCF

Hey Brother, I completely understand your perspective and agree that Sonarika’s journey is complex and layered. Her conflicting emotions for both Hemant and Vikram make her reactions authentic, not contrived. As depicted in the story,— "once she rediscovers herself, she will discern which of these two men truly merits a place in her life."— It’s natural that as she evolves through therapy and attains emotional clarity, her genuine longing for Hemant will surface organically. I’m eager to see how this newfound clarity will steer the narrative forward. Thanks for sharing such an insightful view! ❤️

However, one question persistently lingers in my mind: 

Once Sonarika attains clarity and begins to heal, on what grounds should she be granted the right to choose between the two men? After all, she herself is a betrayer. —While it’s understandable that in Vikram’s case she might have the liberty to choose him, especially since he seems quite eager,— but in Hemant’s case she holds no such entitlement. The prerogative must lie entirely with Hemant—to forgive or not forgive—as Sonarika bears profound guilt for the pain she inflicted on him.

Sonarika’s transgression was far from a trivial error; it was a grave betrayal. Forgiveness should not be bestowed lightly but earned through heartfelt and profound repentance. She must not only experience remorse but also confront the full magnitude of the repercussions for her deeds. Genuine atonement demands deep introspection, sincere sacrifices, and relentless efforts to mend the damage caused. Her path to redemption will be neither swift nor easy—it requires a profound transformation where she fully acknowledges the hurt she caused Hemant and others.
Only after such authentic penitence and enduring the consequences should Hemant even contemplate forgiving her. True justice demands that she does not escape without bearing the emotional cost of her betrayal.

Only then should Hemant determine whether to accept her back. Perhaps then, justice will genuinely prevail.

Regards 

Rocky ❤️

[RCF]

Hey Brother, I completely understand your perspective and agree that Sonarika’s journey is complex and layered. Her conflicting emotions for both Hemant and Vikram make her reactions authentic, not contrived. As depicted in the story,— "once she rediscovers herself, she will discern which of these two men truly merits a place in her life."— It’s natural that as she evolves through therapy and attains emotional clarity, her genuine longing for Hemant will surface organically. I’m eager to see how this newfound clarity will steer the narrative forward. Thanks for sharing such an insightful view! ❤️

However, one question persistently lingers in my mind: 

Once Sonarika attains clarity and begins to heal, on what grounds should she be granted the right to choose between the two men? After all, she herself is a betrayer. —While it’s understandable that in Vikram’s case she might have the liberty to choose him, especially since he seems quite eager,— but in Hemant’s case she holds no such entitlement. The prerogative must lie entirely with Hemant—to forgive or not forgive—as Sonarika bears profound guilt for the pain she inflicted on him.

Sonarika’s transgression was far from a trivial error; it was a grave betrayal. Forgiveness should not be bestowed lightly but earned through heartfelt and profound repentance. She must not only experience remorse but also confront the full magnitude of the repercussions for her deeds. Genuine atonement demands deep introspection, sincere sacrifices, and relentless efforts to mend the damage caused. Her path to redemption will be neither swift nor easy—it requires a profound transformation where she fully acknowledges the hurt she caused Hemant and others.
Only after such authentic penitence and enduring the consequences should Hemant even contemplate forgiving her. True justice demands that she does not escape without bearing the emotional cost of her betrayal.

Only then should Hemant determine whether to accept her back. Perhaps then, justice will genuinely prevail.

Regards 

Rocky ❤️

True and agreed. As a reader I myself do not want her to get Hemanth back at least not easily and As we have been reading this story its clear we have seen over the top action episodes and nice drama as well so we can predict she is going to sacrifice her life for Hemanth or at least saves him in some format to begin to gain his trust and it wouldn't happen as planned episode but organically out of love for him.

I did not say that she had free will to choose anybody she wants but from last chapter we saw that Hemanth is still processing the fact that she still has Vikram in her thoughts and asking her if that would still be the case even after him giving divorce, that proves that if she didn't have Vikram in her thoughts and if he doesn't see the confusion in her life where Vikram has taken a place in her heart even if its love or not, he would not been in so much pain, her mistake as one time wouldn't have given him this much pain but the fact that she doesn't have clarity on what Vikram means for her is more painful for him.

He does not see his Sonarika because its clear she still hasn't resolved her thoughts on Vikram. We have to agree to a fact that she could completely pretend Vikram is nothing and cut him from his life here but I feel she is genuine to her thoughts and transparent with Hemanth on these feelings. Based on these thoughts from Author I can see that Hemanth will soften up eventually when he sees a change in her and clarity on who she truly loves. Like I said he is not some one who easily forgets or forgives esp when his faith in love has disappeared so to restore it back, I think only she can do it. Every one else would only be a temporary side flings with him and for our entertainment.

~RCF

[EPLOVER4U]

"Papa… help… please, Papa…" 

just skimmed through but will write more later bit busy 

[sudhir2580]

Harry bro...when we expect for an update ?

[Harry Jordan]

Chapter 23 is on the way Folks........Hope you all Enjoy It!!!

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                                                CHAPTER 23

ABOUT 15 MINUTES LATER


The crowd around Karan had grown, murmuring but doing nothing. The boy’s tiny frame shook with sobs as he tried to stand, his cheek swollen red, his knee bleeding. Suddenly, a sleek black car slowed down near the commotion. The door flung open and out stepped Vikram Bajaj, sharp in his evening suit, his presence commanding immediate attention. His eyes widened as he saw the battered child. 

"Karan? My God… what happened to you?" he exclaimed, rushing forward. 

Karan blinked through tears, his voice breaking. 

"Dance Uncle… they took Mumma… they took her!"

Vikram’s heart clenched. He knelt, brushing dust from the boy’s face, his voice trembling despite his composed exterior. 

"Who took her? Tell me, Karan" 

The child sniffled, clutching Vikram’s sleeve with desperation. 

"Bad men… they hit Mumma… they threw me away… they put her in a big car and drove fast!" 

His small words cracked under the weight of terror. Pedestrians exchanged uneasy glances but none dared confirm. Vikram’s jaw tightened, rage flashing in his eyes. 

"Bastards…" he muttered under his breath.

But Karan staggered again, wincing as his wounds bled. Vikram immediately scooped him into his arms. 

"Shh, it’s okay… I’ve got you. We’ll get her back, I promise. But first, we need to take care of you" 

Karan weakly protested, his little fists against Vikram’s chest. 

"No! Mumma’s gone! We have to find her!" 

Vikram’s tone hardened, though still gentle. 

"You can’t fight for her if you’re broken, kiddo. Trust me—let me help you" 

Without waiting, he carried Karan swiftly to his car, the boy sobbing into his shirt. Minutes later, Vikram rushed through the doors of Sanjeevani Hospital with the boy in his arms. Doctors immediately took Karan in, placing him on a stretcher, nurses swarming to clean his cuts and check for internal injuries. Vikram paced outside the room, running a hand through his hair, his chest heaving with unease. His phone buzzed with business calls, but he silenced them all. His mind was consumed by one image—Sonarika being dragged away, screaming for help. 

"Soni… where could you be?" he whispered to himself, anger mixing with fear.


As the doctor emerged, assuring him Karan was stable but traumatized, Vikram finally sat down, his face buried in his hands. The weight of the situation pressed down—Sonarika was out there, captive, in danger, and he couldn’t waste another moment. He looked at his phone, hesitation flickering. Then, with a long breath, he dialed a number he never thought he would: Hemant’s. The screen lit up with her husband’s name, the man she had betrayed. As the call rang, Vikram muttered grimly. 


"He should know......after all.....she is Karan's mother"


AT YOD INDUSTRIES


At the edge of Mumbai’s abandoned port, the headquarters of YOD Industries rose like a fortress of steel and glass, a stark contrast to the crumbling warehouses around it. Inside his office on the top floor, Hemant sat at a desk littered with blueprints for the new BTR prototype and reports from ANVIL. A half-finished cup of black coffee sat beside a closed folder marked Classified. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the faint reflection of himself in the window — not the rising industrialist everyone saw, but a man still haunted by betrayal. When his phone buzzed, flashing Vikram Bajaj, his first instinct was disgust. He let it ring, his jaw tight, before finally swiping to answer.

"Why are you calling me Vikram?" 

Hemant’s voice was low, edged with venom. On the other end, Vikram’s reply was urgent, stripped of its usual arrogance. 

"Hemant… it’s Sonarika. She’s been kidnapped" Hemant’s hand froze midair. 

"Say that again" he growled. Vikram pressed on, voice cracking. 

"Some goons dragged her away in the market. Karan tried to stop them—he’s hurt. I brought him to Sanjeevani Hospital. He needs you" 

For a long moment, all Hemant could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat. Then came the fury. Hemant’s eyes narrowed, rage burning behind them. He slammed the folder shut and grabbed his keys, muttering under his breath.

'Dilawar… Rafeeque… you bastards' 

The buried predator inside him stirred, the shadow of Michael King clawing back toward the surface. In the dim underground parking bay, two beasts waited for him — the custom dark green Thar Off Road and his daily companion, the silver Mahindra BE 6E. He chose the silver one without hesitation, its engine roaring to life as he slid behind the wheel. No chauffeur, no guards. Just him and the storm brewing in his chest.


The Mahindra shot out of the port and into Mumbai’s clogged arteries of traffic. Hemant’s hands gripped the wheel like iron, weaving through rickshaws and taxis with precision born of another life. Memories of Sonarika’s laughter clashed with the cold betrayal of her confession, but the thought of her being brutalized by goons cut through the bitterness. His mind went to Karan — his son, his blood — lying hurt and alone in a hospital bed. 

"Hold on, champ" he whispered, eyes fixed on the road. 

"Papa’s coming"

By the time he pulled into the Sanjeevani Hospital lot, the silver SUV screeched to a halt, its headlights blazing. Hemant stepped out, his figure sharp in the harsh glow, his face carved into grim stone. Inside, the antiseptic air couldn’t mask the scent of fear. Down the corridor, Vikram stood outside a ward, his expression tense. Their eyes locked — bound now by one woman. Neither spoke. Then, from behind the door, a faint, broken word reached Hemant’s ears: 

"Papa…" 

His chest tightened. Without another glance at Vikram, he pushed past him, striding toward his son.                                                             

The door to the ward slid open, and Hemant stepped in. Karan looked up from his hospital bed, his face bruised and his arms wrapped in fresh bandages. The moment his eyes met his father’s, the boy broke down. 

"Papa!" he cried, reaching out. 

Hemant rushed forward, gathering him into his arms, kissing his temple, holding him tight against his chest. 

"I’m here, champ. Papa’s here" he whispered, his voice cracking despite his usual iron control. Karan sobbed against him, guilt spilling out. 

"They took Mumma… I couldn’t stop them… they threw me away" 

Hemant shook his head firmly. 

"You were brave, Karan. Braver than most men I’ve known. Don’t ever blame yourself"

After a long silence, Hemant gently pulled back and asked, 

"Champ? Did you see their car? Anything you remember?" Karan wiped his nose, struggling to recall. 

"It was green… an old Tata Sumo. Like in Singham… when it blows up. That one, Papa" 

Hemant’s eyes narrowed instantly, the detail lodging like a knife in his brain. A green Tata Sumo. Rare. Distinctive. He knew exactly what that meant. He squeezed his son’s hand and whispered. 

"Good boy. You’ve given me enough. Mumma will be okay , Papa will bring her to you ok?"

The door opened again, and Vikram entered cautiously. Hemant shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. Vikram ignored it. 

"Hemant, any idea on who it might be? Each time passed is trouble for Soni....I mean Sonarika." 

Hemant stood, his voice cold and heavy. 

"It's definitely Dilawar. Him and his brother Rafeeque. They’ve been circling for months, their filthy eyes were on Sonarika… and on Anjali too. I kept them in check, but tonight they struck"

The words hung in the room like poison. Vikram’s face twisted, rage flooding him. 

"Then they’re dead men walking" he hissed, turning sharply. 

"Tonight is their last night alive" 

Without another word, he stormed out of the ward, his footsteps echoing like thunder. Hemant didn’t try to stop him. His mind was already racing. If Dilawar and Rafeeque had taken Sonarika, Anjali was surely next. He pulled out his phone, his voice taut with urgency when she answered. 

"Anjali, don’t leave your institute. Stay inside until my men reach you" 

Confusion and fear crackled on the other end. 

“Bhaiya… why? What happened" 

"I’ll explain everything when you’re here" Hemant cut in, firm but protective. 

"For now, just listen to me"

Ten minutes later, a black SUV bearing the YOD insignia rolled up outside the institute gates. The door opened to reveal Raquel Ali Muhammad, tall, broad-shouldered, his sharp eyes scanning every shadow. 

"Miss Anjali" he said calmly. 

"Your brother sent me" 

She hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. As the car pulled away, Raquel glanced at her in the mirror, his expression unreadable. Unlike anyone else, Raquel knew who Hemant really was. He knew the name whispered across continents, feared by underworld empires — Michael King. And as the hospital drew closer, Raquel silently wondered if his old master was about to rise again.

The door burst open, and Anjali rushed in with Raquel behind her. The sight of Karan’s bandaged body broke her instantly. 

"Karan!" she cried, running to his side and cradling him gently. 

Her voice shook as her eyes turned to Hemant. 

"Bhaiya… what happened? Where’s Didi?" 

"She has been kidnapped Anju"

She gasped, tears streaming down. 

"No… no, not her. WE NEED TO FIND HER , SHE IS IN TROUBLE!" 

The anguish in her voice cracked like glass, the grief spilling over into anger. Karan flinched at her raised tone, shrinking back against his pillows. Hemant’s hand shot up, firm yet steady. 

"Anjali. Stop" 

His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of command. She froze, breathing ragged, and looked down at Karan, who was clutching the sheets, frightened. The realization hit her like a blade. Softening immediately, she pulled the boy close, kissing his hair. 

"I’m sorry, champ. I didn’t mean to scare you" She rocked him gently, whispering. 

"We’ll be okay. Mumma will be okay. Papa will bring her back" 

Her eyes lifted toward Hemant, shimmering with desperation. 

"Bhaiya Please… save her, Bhaiya"

Hemant crouched beside Karan and looked him square in the eyes. 

"Remember London?" he asked quietly. Karan blinked, confused, then nodded slowly. 

"When those bad men attacked… I told you to count" Hemant nodded. 

"And while you counted, Papa went out and made sure everything was safe" 

The boy’s lips quivered. 

"Will I have to count again?" Hemant shook his head and cupped his face. 

"Not this time. This time, you’ll stay here with Anju Didi. No counting. Just wait. I’ll bring your Mumma back. That’s my promise to you"

He rose, turning toward Anjali. 

"Nothing will happen to her. Trust me" 

His voice was iron, unshakable, leaving no room for doubt. Anjali’s eyes brimmed with tears but she managed a nod, holding Karan close as if her grip could shield him. Hemant gave them one last look — father, uncle, protector — then turned on his heel. The corridor stretched ahead of him, long and dim, the air thick with tension.


As he walked, his fingers brushed against the two rings on his hand — the Archangel ring, symbol of the feared Michael King, and beside it, the Garuda ring Anjali had once given him. Two lives, two identities, merging again. With each step, the old fire stirred in his blood. By the time he pushed open the hospital doors, the wind outside had shifted, cool and heavy. The streetlights flickered against a sky churning with dark clouds. Across the city, weather broadcasts crackled with warnings of a sudden storm forming over Mumbai. To Hemant, it wasn’t just weather. It was a sign — the storm inside him was waking.


Hemant sat inside the silver Mahindra parked outside the hospital, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. He pulled out a secure phone and dialed a number. 

"Kamya" 

A woman’s brisk voice answered instantly, the faint clatter of a keyboard in the background. "Sir?" 

Hemant didn’t waste time. 

"Use the Mazgaon Dock device. I want every CCTV within range pulled. Look for a green Tata Sumo that passed the highway in the last two hours" 

There was a short pause before Kamya replied. 

"On it. I’ll have Vaibhav assist" 

The line filled with rapid keystrokes, encrypted channels cracking open one by one.Minutes later, Kamya’s voice came alive with urgency. 

"Sir, I’ve got a stream. Zooming in now… yes. Green Tata Sumo. Old model. It crossed the Darukhana signal heading northeast" 

Hemant’s eyes narrowed. 

"Darukhana… that direction leads toward the colony" His gut tightened; he already knew. 

"Note the plate number" he ordered. 

Kamya read it off quickly, and Hemant immediately relayed it to Raquel. His lieutenant’s voice was steady. 

"Few minutes, Bhaijaan"

By the time Hemant reached the gates of his factory, Raquel was calling back. 

"I checked. Vehicle’s stolen, yes… but I traced it. It’s being run by street rats tied to Rafique and Dilawar. No doubt about it. They have her" 

Hemant’s grip tightened around the phone until his knuckles turned white. His jaw locked, confirming what he already knew in his bones. He stepped into the shadows of his facility, already planning the conflict ahead.


AT DILAWAR'S COLONY


Meanwhile, in the heart of Darukhana, Sonarika was dragged through narrow alleys into Dilawar’s colony, her wrists bruised from struggling against the goons’ grip. The residents turned away, some whispering, others smirking, none daring to help. Her sandals scbangd against broken concrete as she screamed. 

"Let me go! Somebody help me!" 

They shoved her through the gates of a large bungalow in the middle of the colony, its gaudy lights mocking her terror. The air inside Dilawar’s bungalow reeked of smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume. The walls were gaudy with red velvet dbangs and golden mirrors, a grotesque attempt at grandeur. But what froze Sonarika’s heart was the room they dragged her into — a bedroom decorated like a grotesque wedding chamber. The bed was littered with rose petals, incense burned in the corners, and garlands of marigold hung like chains.

She struggled against the men who shoved her inside, her wrists aching from the grip of their calloused hands. Her knees scbangd against the floor as she fell, but she pushed back, spitting through tears. 

"Let me go! You bastards!" 

A backhand across her face silenced her, the copper taste of blood filling her mouth. She clutched her cheek, her eyes darting like a trapped animal’s, searching for escape. The goons only laughed. One of them leaned close, his breath sour, whispering, 

"Don’t waste your strength, memsaab. This is your new life now. Dilawar bhai wants you, and when he comes tonight… you will be his begum. The queen of this colony" 

Another added, snickering. 

"You’ll never leave this room again. This bed will be your throne"

Sonarika’s body trembled, not from their words but from the memory etched into her soul. She could still see Karan — his little legs pounding the road, his voice hoarse as he screamed for her, his small hands reaching out as the green Sumo dragged her away. The image cut deeper than any wound. She curled against the wall, clutching herself, whispering brokenly. 

"Karan… my baby, I’m sorry… I couldn’t protect you"

Her tears blurred the garish decorations into a smear of red and gold, but she could still hear the guards’ crude jokes outside the door. Each word a nail hammering the coffin of her hope. 

"Dilawar bhai will enjoy breaking her" one sneered. 

"After tonight, she’ll forget her old life"

Sonarika buried her face in her hands, her mind spinning between terror and despair. She thought of Hemant — the cold distance in his eyes after her confession, the love she had shattered. And yet, somewhere in the pit of her heart, she wished he would come. That somehow, against everything, he would walk through that door and tear this nightmare apart.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the barred window for a split second. Sonarika lifted her head, trembling, her tears mixing with blood. She whispered into the silence, a prayer or a plea — she didn’t know. 

"God… someone, please… don’t let him take me"

And outside, the storm grew louder, as though answering her.


AT YOD INDUSTRIES


Hemant entered his private chamber at the factory, its walls lined with prototypes and weapons sealed behind glass. He approached a panel on the far side, fingers brushing the edge of a concealed sliding door. Just as he was about to open it, his phone buzzed. He frowned when the name lit up the screen — Tamanna. Her voice came through immediately, cracked with fear. 

"Hemant… Shraddha isn’t home yet" 

Hemant froze. 

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply. 

Tamanna’s sobs spilled over the line. 

"Her coaching teacher said she left long ago… the institute said the same. No one knows where she is!" 

Hemant’s grip on the phone tightened. 

"Tammu, listen to me. Breathe. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t panic"

The silver Mahindra BE 6E roared down the road, and soon Hemant stood at Tamanna’s doorstep. She was a wreck, pacing, her eyes swollen red. The moment she saw him, she collapsed against his chest, crying. He wrapped his arms around her, steadying her trembling body. 

"We’ll find her" he whispered, firm but gentle. 

"Right now, we go to law enforcement. It’s the only way to move fast" 

She nodded through her tears, clinging to him like a lifeline. Together they drove through the night until the towering gates of the Mumbai Law Enforcement HQ loomed over them. Inside, Hemant guided her through sterile corridors until they reached the office of Sanjana — sharp, commanding, with fire in her eyes — looked up, surprise flashing briefly when she saw Hemant. Old wounds lingered unspoken between them. 

"What’s happened?" she asked. 

Hemant wasted no words, explaining Shraddha’s disappearance. Sanjana led them into the surveillance control room, screens glowing with the pulse of Mumbai’s streets. 

"We’ll find out" 

She said, nodding to her officers. The cameras around Shraddha’s institute rewound to evening. The footage showed Shraddha stepping out, backpack on, walking alone. Then, suddenly, a black Omni van pulled up beside her. A side door slid open, rough hands yanked her in, and the van sped away. Tamanna collapsed into tears, her scream filling the control room. Sanjana held her, steady and firm. 

"We’ll find her. I swear she’ll come back safe" 

Officers scrambled to log the van’s number, radios crackling as alerts went out across the city. Hemant stood silently, memorizing the digits, his jaw set like stone. Guilt gnawed at him — he had turned his back on Michael King, but his past hadn’t turned its back on him. Everyone around him was now prey.

As they exited HQ, Sanjana caught his arm. 

"Where are you going, Hemant?" He looked at her with the weight of truth. 

"Sonarika’s been kidnapped. Karan is in Sanjeevani Hospital. I can’t waste time" 

Tamanna, stunned, gripped his hand. 

"Even now… you came for me? For Shraddha?" 

Her tears flowed anew. Hemant pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

"I promise you, Shraddha will be safe. She’ll come back to you" 

He walked away, leaving her crumpled in Sanjana’s arms.

Somewhere in an abandoned factory yard, Shraddha was shoved into a container filled with terrified girls and women. The air was foul, heavy with despair. She pounded on the metal walls, crying out. 

"Mummy! Help me!" 

But only the weak voices of the others answered, echoing her terror in the dark.

As Hemant stepped out of Law Enforcement HQ, the sky above Mumbai rumbled. Dark clouds gathered, lightning splitting the heavens. He glanced down at his hand — the Archangel ring glinted alongside the Garuda ring. He shut his eyes and saw it: himself as Michael King, sword dripping with blood in a warehouse in Azerbaijan, enemies screaming as they fell. When he opened them, he no longer resisted. Michael was a part of him. He clenched his fist, lightning cascading above as though answering his resolve.

Far across the city, at a temple, the poojari who had given Anjali the Garuda ring looked skyward. Lightning twisted into the shape of a massive eagle, wings stretched across the horizon. Another priest gasped. 

"Is this a storm?" 

The poojari’s voice was grave, almost reverent. 

"No. This is not a storm… it is a warhorn. The battle has begun"

And across the seas in London, chaos erupted as an unnatural storm struck Causeway. Inside St. Michael’s Church, Father Dominic stared at the glowing statue of the Archangel. His lips trembled as he whispered. 

"He’s back"

                                                                                                                                                          (CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                                       (CHAPTER CONTD)

SOME TIME LATER AT YOD INDUSTRIES


Hemant returned to the factory as thunder cracked over the port, the storm mirroring the storm within him. He moved with purpose through the dimly lit hall until he stood once more inside the chamber he had left earlier. His hand pressed firmly on the concealed panel, and with a hiss of old gears, the wall slid aside, revealing the hidden sanctum he had built in silence.


Rows of weapons glistened under the cold fluorescent lights — pistols with custom grips, rifles he had rebuilt from Mastaan’s old caches, knives balanced for precision. All made from the replenished oldcollege weaponry from the factory’s forgotten basement, leftovers from Mastaan’s anti-smuggling days. Weapons that once moved across the world under the AZRAEL network, funneled through Mumbai’s docks. Hemant had seized them, not to sell, but to reinvent. To turn shadows of crime into instruments of justice.


But beyond the weapons, his eyes fixed on the sealed glass chamber at the far wall. He pressed another switch, and the case slowly rotated forward. Inside stood the legendary sword — The Inquisitor, now placed there like a cosmic weapon. It was heavier, sharper, more resilient. The Blade's reflection glared back at him, its shiny and sharp metal shaped for ending evil. And at the handle of the sword burned the sygil of a crown , a reminder of a path he walked of blood and death , now he was going to walk again , this time more stronger and more focused. Hemant reached out, fingertips brushing the Inquisitor's crown hilt. Tonight — The sword was not just a weapon that represented Michael King — it was a tool of justice to be used by one man with two personna in him , fusing his past and present. Hemant Kumar, the builder, the father. Michael King, the executioner, the avenger. Together, they made something stronger. Not a relic of the past, not a mask of vengeance, but a force reborn to right the wrongs tearing through his life.


A grin crossed his face as thunder rolled overhead. The Inquisitor wasn’t just a sword — it was resolve, a promise etched in steel and gold. The vibration of his phone broke the stillness. Raquel’s voice crackled through when he answered: 

"Bhaijaan, I’ve tracked Rafique. He’s at an abandoned factory on the city outskirts — that’s their AZRAEL hub" 

Hemant’s eyes narrowed, his hand still pressed against the chestplate. 

"Good. I’ll handle it. Be ready for my word" 

He ended the call without hesitation.

He looked one last time at his sword, and his grin hardened into grim determination. It was time for the Legend Of Michael King to rise again. Outside, the storm roared, lightning carving the horizon as if the heavens themselves acknowledged his rebirth.

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE MUMBAI


The abandoned factory stank of rust and oil, the walls echoing with drunken laughter and the clink of bottles. Rafique sat on a broken chair, chewing gutka, his eyes narrowed as he questioned one of his men. Rafique had an old college radio set which was playing an FM station.

"Who were those bastards who delivered Sonarika tonight? I don’t recognize them" 

His tone carried suspicion, sharp and cutting. The goon shrugged, spitting on the floor. 

"Does it matter, bhai? Whoever they were, they gave Dilawar bhai his prize. Tonight he gets what he’s wanted for so long" 

The men around them broke into coarse laughter, raising their drinks, filling the air with arrogance. But their laughter couldn’t drown out the sound from the backyard. In the container that reeked of sweat and rust, Shraddha curled into herself, her cheeks red and swollen from endless crying. She clawed at the steel walls, whispering broken pleas through her sobs. 

"Mamma… please… I want to go home" 

Her voice faded into the whimpers of the other girls, a chorus of despair too weak to rise above the factory walls. Some girls tried to comfort , while the bickering one stated.

"Let her cry....she must get used to it. No one is coming here for us......this is our fate....forever locked in this box......a slow death......there is no one coming to save us!"

AT DILAWAR'S COLONY

Meanwhile, at the bungalow, Dilawar arrived. His body stretched against his shirt, his gold chains gleaming, and that smug smile twisting his face. He leaned toward one of his men. 

"Who brought her to me? Those weren’t my boys" The man shook his head nervously. 

"No idea, bhai. They just said she’s yours now" Dilawar chuckled, licking his lips. 

"Then let them stay nameless. Tonight, she becomes mine"

He shoved open the bedroom door. Sonarika sat in the corner, her body trembling, her eyes red but burning with anger. When Dilawar stepped closer, she forced the words out through a shaking throat: 

"There’s still a restraining order against you. You have no right to be anywhere near me"

Dilawar laughed, low and mocking. 

"Then go to the court, beautiful. File another paper. See if that saves you tonight" 

When she tried to dart past him, he caught her wrist in a crushing grip, pulling her back. He forced his lips against hers, his kiss violent, tasting of alcohol and smoke. She thrashed, clawing at him, her voice breaking into sobs and fury. He grinned, tightening his grip. 

"Feisty… I like that. You’ll scream louder when I take you" 

He threw her toward the bed, his shadow falling over her as she struggled to crawl away.


AT THAT ABANDONED FACTORY


The factory stood like a skeletal beast in the storm, its rusted frame groaning against the wind. Inside, Rafique paced with a restless swagger, his men laughing and smoking as if the cries from the locked container were just background music to their filth. Shraddha pressed her little hands against the cold steel walls, her tears mixing with the dirt on her cheeks. Beside her, Nidhi whispered. 

"Climb. Up there—there’s a crack. Maybe we can see" 

The two girls scrambled up, tiny fingers gripping the edges until they peeked out into the darkness. 

Rafique's radio set playing an FM station announcement

'And now on 98.5 , we will have the next hour be the Anirudh special , starting with this amazing track from his south sensational hit film 'Vikram' its , 'Once Upon A Time''

Outside, the storm swelled. Rafique glanced up at the rattling ceiling and growled. 

"Where the hell is this storm coming from? Summer’s not even started yet"

One of his goons chuckled darkly. 

"Maybe nature knows Dilawar bhai’s gonna have his special night with Sonarika. Even the skies want to celebrate" 

Laughter erupted, crude and cruel, bouncing off the factory’s rusting beams. Inside the container, Shraddha buried her face into her knees, the laughter of those men searing her ears. The older girls were broken, silent in their misery, but Shraddha whispered. 

"Mamma… please come"

Suddenly, the lights in the factory flickered—then died. A suffocating blackness swallowed the place. The men cursed, fumbling for their torches. Then came the scream. Sharp. Blood-curdling. A man’s cry of agony, cut off by a wet, gurgling sound. Rafique and his men sprinted to the source, their torches casting erratic beams. There on the ground, one of their brothers thrashed, blood pumping from a slit across his throat. He spasmed, then stilled.

"What the—?!" 

Another shouted, but before the words finished, another scream ripped through the night from the other side of the hall. The goons rushed again, finding another comrade lying in a pool of blood, eyes wide, body twitching.

"Bastard!" Rafique roared, his voice cracking with fury. 

"Whoever you are, stop hiding in the shadows! Fight me face to face like a man!"

The heavens answered. A lightning bolt struck the trees beyond the factory walls, igniting them in a burning blaze. The thunder’s roar shook the ground, and the fire began to spread, casting hellish light through the windows. Shraddha, peering through the crack, gasped. Through the flames, a silhouette appeared—tall, broad, walking slow. The fire behind him turned him into a shadow demon. The sky split with another crack of lightning. For an instant, the figure’s face was revealed. Her heart leaped. 

"Hemant uncle…" she whispered, trembling with relief and awe.

But this was no ordinary Hemant. No quiet family man. No grieving husband. He walked as Michael King—the scourge of underworlds from London to Shanghai—his black coat billowing, the sword Inquisitor gleaming in his hand. Rafique sneered, spitting to the ground. 

"Ha! All this build up , for your useless ass? You’re nothing but a failed husband. A loser. A man whose wife will warm my brother’s bed tonight" 

His men laughed nervously, hiding their unease. Hemant said nothing. He raised the sword with one hand, its blade catching firelight and lightning, and with the other, he gestured with two fingers: 

BRING IT ON

And at that moment , the radio was playing the song that resonated with the events happening here.

'Once Upon A Time

There Lived A Ghost

He Was Known To Be A Killer

And Feared The Most!!'


The first two goons charged, screaming. In a blur, Hemant moved—not striking to kill, not yet. With surgical precision, he swept their legs out, sending both crashing to their knees. One howled as his arm bent the wrong way. The other spat blood.

"Y-you bastard" Rafique stammered, realizing this was no ordinary fight. 

"He’s… he’s been fooling us this whole time!"

Another four men came at once, blades and pipes flashing. This time Hemant shifted. The Inquisitor sang through the air, each strike deliberate, each movement efficient. One man’s chest split open. Another lost his hand in a spray of blood. A third’s scream ended as the sword punched through his throat.

While this mayhem was going on , the radio continued playing the song symbolizing Hemant at the moment.

'The eagle is comin

You better start runnin

His blood is rushin

Stunnin and gunnin

The eagle is comin

You better start runnin

His blood is rushin

Stunnin' and gunnin'


The factory floor turned red. The storm raged louder. One by one, Rafique’s men fell until only corpses surrounded him.

"No… no, this isn’t possible…" 

Rafique stumbled back, his bravado gone. He turned and bolted for the office room upstairs, his boots pounding against the old stairs. Behind him, Hemant walked. Step by step. Sword dripping, eyes burning with the cold fire of judgment. He was no husband. No father. No friend. He was Michael King, and tonight, he had come to collect


AT DILAWAR'S COLONY


At the bungalow, Sonarika’s cries echoed off the gaudy walls. Dilawar pinned her down, his weight crushing, his gold chains cutting into her skin as he bit into her neck. She sobbed and clawed at him, the fabric of her kurta ripping apart under his grip. 

"Stop! Don’t touch me!" she screamed, but he only laughed, leaving red marks across her body. 

"The more you fight, beautiful, the sweeter it gets!" 

He tore another strip of cloth, exposing her trembling flesh. Her voice cracked into broken pleas, but his laughter drowned them, obscene and triumphant.


THE ABANDONED FACTORY


Back at the factory, bodies littered the ground, their moans of pain mixing with the rumble of thunder. Rafique staggered backward, the last man standing, his gut twisting with fear. He stumbled into the office section, slamming the door shut and fumbling for his phone. 

"Come on, come on!" 

His trembling fingers dialed Dilawar’s number. The first call rang out unanswered. The second too. By the third, Dilawar, annoyed at the interruption, finally picked up, his breath heavy, irritation thick in his voice. 

"What is it?!"

Rafique’s scream cracked through the receiver. 

"Bhai! This man—he’s a psycho! A deranged animal! He’s killing us all—!" 

He choked mid-sentence, dropping the phone as Hemant kicked the door open. Rafique stumbled back, eyes wide with terror as his terrifying form stepped inside, his sword drenched in blood and lightning’s glow. Dilawar sat upright, suddenly tense, his smile gone. 

"Who is it?! Rafique, who?!"

Through the phone, the sounds of violence erupted — thuds, grunts, the crunch of bones. Rafique’s terrified voice cried out. 

"Bhai! Help me! He’s—aghhh!" 

His words cut into screams as Hemant’s fist cracked across his jaw, slamming him into the desk. Dilawar shouted into the phone, panic now cracking his arrogance. 

"Rafique! RA-FIQUE!"

The line was filled with the brutal rhythm of Rafique’s beating — the thuds of armored fists, the groans of a man being destroyed. And then silence. Hemant’s gloved hand reached down, dragging Rafique by the collar across the floor, his screams fading into the distance as the phone clattered uselessly. In the bungalow, Dilawar’s face turned pale. For the first time, fear gnawed at him. He shoved himself off Sonarika, grabbing his shirt and chains in a frenzy. 

"Get the vehicles!" he barked at his men. 

"Now! To the old factory! My brother’s in trouble!" 

His men scrambled, weapons in hand, while Sonarika lay trembling on the bed, her body bruised, her clothes torn, her dignity shredded. She pulled the torn pieces to herself, shivering uncontrollably, her mind too numb to process what had just been spared — or postponed. And far away, thunder roared as Hemant stood over Rafique, bloodied and broken, the Inqisitor glowing brighter in the dark.


A FEW MINUTES LATER AT THE ABANDONED FACTORY



The air at the abandoned factory still carried the metallic sting of blood and gunpowder when the flashing red-and-blue lights of Mumbai Law Enforcement vehicles cut through the night. Doors slammed, boots hit the ground, and a squad of armed officers fanned out, weapons drawn. At their head strode Deputy Commissioner Sanjana Ranawat, her expression sharp, scanning the wreckage like a hawk.

Beside her, clinging nervously to her dupatta, was Tamanna. Her face was streaked with tears, but her eyes burned with desperate hope as she followed the officers deeper into the site.

And then the horror revealed itself.

Corpses of Dilawar’s men lay scattered across the dirt and broken concrete, their bodies slashed, beaten, riddled with wounds that screamed of a ruthless hand. Some slumped against walls, others sprawled in puddles of their own blood, their weapons lying uselessly beside them. The sheer brutality silenced even the most hardened constables.


"Madam….this place looks like a massacre" One officer muttered.

Sanjana crouched near a body, her gloved fingers brushing the splintered jaw and shattered ribcage. Her trained eye recognized the precision. 

"Not a mob. This wasn’t chaos. Whoever did this… knew exactly where to strike"

She rose, her jaw tightening. Just then, the roar of approaching engines echoed down the road. Dilawar’s convoy screeched to a halt near the gates. Several SUVs idled, headlights glaring, but the men inside froze when they saw the wall of security officer vehicles and rifles aimed their way.

"Bhai… so many security officer" one of Dilawar’s lieutenants whispered.

Dilawar, half-dressed, his face still flushed from his vile attempt with Sonarika, slammed his hand against the dashboard. 

"We don’t back down now! Rafique is inside!"

But his men shifted uneasily, fear outweighing loyalty. One finally shook his head. 

"Bhai , going inside is basically going behind bars.....and judging from the security officer presence, Rafique....is probably..."

"SHUT UP!" 

Dilawar roared, but his fury couldn’t anchor them. One by one, his SUVs began to turn, their engines revving as they retreated into the night. Much to his anger as his men restrained him as they escaped the place.

Back inside the compound, a fragile sound cut through the silence.

A child’s scream.

"Ma!"

Tamanna froze, her breath caught in her chest. She knew that voice. 

"Shraddha!" she cried, breaking into a run. 

Sanjana’s head snapped toward the sound, her officers following with raised rifles. At the far end of the yard, half-hidden behind rusted crates, stood a massive shipping container. From the narrow ventilation slits, small hands clawed through.

Tamanna’s knees buckled, but she pushed forward, sobbing, her words spilling out incoherently. 

"Open it! Please open it!"

The officers rushed in, cutting through the lock with bolt cutters. The heavy doors groaned open — and the stench of captivity wafted out. Dozens of young women and girls cowered inside, their clothes torn, their eyes hollow with trauma. Some whispered prayers, others stared blankly, too broken to react.

But Shraddha burst free, sprinting across the dirt. 

"Ma!"

Tamanna fell to her knees, arms wide open, catching her daughter in a trembling embrace. She wept uncontrollably, clutching Shraddha’s small frame as if she would never let go again. 

"My baby… my angel… oh god, thank you, thank you!"

Shraddha buried her face in her mother’s chest, her little body shaking. 

"Ma, I was so scared… I thought… I thought I’d never see you again"


Then Shraddha looked upward, her tear-streaked face catching a sound. A piercing cry of a bird. An eagle sat perched in its nest on a rusted beam high above the yard, its wings outstretched, calling to the night sky now cleared of storm. Its cry echoed, powerful, defiant. Her gaze flicked toward the eagle, its silhouette cast against the moonlight, and for the first time since that whole ordeal, her lips curved into the faintest hint of a knowing smile.
 
Then the other girls stepped out , the cops gave them cover and supported them. Eventually Sanjana came close to Nidhi who was looking relieved feeling the open air. She asked her.

"Do you know who saved you and killed these people?"

"Yes!"

"Who was it"

Nidhi looked up and pointed to the giant banner nearby , that movie poster still remained , the image of a giant eagle with the tagline 'He is Coming'. Sanjana then noticed Shraddha looking at a screaming eagle in its nest high above the banner. She just had a feeling that tonight , everything was happening for a reason!

                                                                                                                                                                 (CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                                              (CHAPTER CONTD)

AT DILAWAR'S COLONY


The room reeked of sweat and fear. Sonarika’s body trembled as she pressed herself against the cold wall, clutching the shredded remnants of her clothing. Dilawar’s bite marks throbbed on her skin — angry bruises etched into her flesh. The humiliation was almost too much to bear, but what came next was worse. The bedroom door creaked open. A group of Dilawar’s goons slouched in, their eyes predatory. One of them shut the door with a heavy thud, sealing her in with them. Their gazes devoured her half-exposed body, their laughter filling the suffocating silence.

"Dilawar bhai will be late" one sneered, licking his lips. 

"Why should such a beautiful toy go to waste?"

Another leaned forward, tugging at his belt as he chuckled. 

"Tonight, we all get our turn"

Sonarika shook her head furiously, tears burning her eyes. 

"Don’t you dare—" she screamed, but her voice broke into a sob. 

Her legs faltered as one of the men grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward. Another clawed at her dupatta, ripping the last strip of fabric away from her chest. Their laughter turned cruel, their breath sour against her skin as they pressed closer.

"No! Please, no!" 

She cried, struggling wildly, desperation turning to terror as their hands pulled and tore, reducing what remained of her clothes to tatters. Her voice cracked as she screamed for help, her body writhing like a trapped bird. 

"Somebody—please!"

And then the roof exploded.

A thunderous blast shook the room as smoke and debris rained down. Through the gaping hole in the ceiling, a shadow descended. 

Kira. Armored in shades of steel and grey, visor glinting, she landed with the force of a predator unleashed.

The goons froze, stunned by her sudden arrival. One stammered. 

"What the—"

Before he finished, Kira’s electrified batons crackled alive. She lunged into the group with lightning speed, striking skulls, ribs, throats — each blow dropping a man with surgical precision. The scent of burnt flesh filled the air as the batons shocked them into submission. Sonarika, half-exposed and trembling, pressed herself into the corner, wide-eyed, unable to process what she was seeing. This woman moved like no one she’d ever seen before, a blur of violence and grace.

When one thug charged with a knife, Kira dropped her batons, pulled twin blades from her back, and in two swift slashes left him collapsing in a pool of blood. Her fighting grew harsher, more merciless — no longer defense, but punishment. Within minutes, the room was littered with groaning bodies. Kira turned, tossed Sonarika a bundle of black clothing and a vest. 

"Get dressed. Quickly"

Hands shaking, Sonarika scrambled into the outfit, covering herself as tears blurred her vision. She looked at Kira — this savior, this stranger — with awe and fear. Before she could speak, the ground outside rumbled with chaos. Shouts, gunfire, the roar of hundreds of goons charging toward the bungalow.

Kira looked out the window. 

"Too many" she muttered.

And then — the colony gates erupted in fire. An explosion tore them apart, and through the flames a figure walked in. Sonarika’s breath caught. It was a man hidden like a silhouette with the flames behind him , swinging his sword and charging in. He moved like something beyond human — every step radiating power, every strike with his blade and gun like the wrath of a god. Goons swarmed him, firing, stabbing, screaming — but he deflected, his counterattacks were merciless, inhumanly precise. To Sonarika, watching through the window, he wasn’t just a man. He was something else. A phantom. A monster. Or maybe… a savior. But she couldn't see his face clearly , unaware on who this powerful man is.

"Raquel. Neutralize" his deep voice growled into a wrist mic.

From the elevated position of the north side of the colony, gun fire answered, dropping goons in rows. Their heads burst like melons under the crushing precision of Scoped M16 assault rifles. The man in black didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, his every movement echoing supernatural ruthlessness.

Sonarika’s heart pounded. She didn’t recognize him. All she saw was a supernatural warrior tearing through Dilawar’s empire like judgment incarnate.

Behind her, Kira tightened her grip on her knives and muttered: 

"Time to move"

The colony burned. Explosions thundered in the distance, gunfire rattled like drums of war. Sonarika clung to Kira’s side, heart still hammering from her near-violation, the bite marks on her flesh searing reminders of what she had just endured. Suddenly, headlights cut through the smoke. A convoy of SUVs screeched into the colony. Out stepped Vikram Bajaj, shielded by the towering Pratap Rathode , the Bajaj Family's loyal protector and a cadre of his father’s loyal men, rifles gleaming under the chaos. They moved like a phalanx, forming a wall of protection as Vikram sprinted forward.

"Soni!" he shouted, eyes widening at the sight of her bruised, half-dressed, trembling form.

Her composure shattered. The moment she saw Vikram, all the strength she had tried to hold crumbled. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing violently, clutching him as if she would never let go.

"Vicky…" Her voice cracked as her tears stained his shirt. 

"He… he almost—" 

She couldn’t finish. The dam of anguish burst, her body shaking with the raw, animal cry of a woman who had been pushed beyond her limits. Vikram wrapped his arms around her tightly, rage burning behind his eyes as he whispered. 

"You’re safe now. I’ve got you. No one will touch you again"

Pratap and his men closed ranks, surrounding them like iron shields. Kira, bloodied knives still in her grip, barked at them sharply:

"Get her out. Now! Take her away from this hellhole"

Though confused by the stranger, Pratap and the Bajaj men obeyed without hesitation, shielding Sonarika. Vikram nodded, scooping Sonarika into his arms as she buried her face in his chest. As the convoy reversed and roared out of the burning colony, Sonarika glanced back through tear-blurred eyes. She saw the chaos, the fire, the shadows of battle consuming everything. Her heart clenched at the sight of the warrior tearing through men like a storm given flesh. She didn’t know who — or what — he was, but in her broken state he looked less like a man and more like an avenging spirit.

Meanwhile, the battlefield writhed with the screams of the dying.

Hemant stood in the center of it, a predator in motion. His blades flashed crimson, his pistols roared, bullets fell like rain. Each strike was brutal, decisive — a man transformed into myth.

Then, from the smoke, she appeared.

Kira leapt into the fray beside him, her grey armor glinting, twin knives slashing through the throats of men who dared charge her. She moved differently than before — sharper, faster, the air around her humming with the charge of violence.

For a split second, their eyes locked between slashes. Hemant’s breath caught.

"Kira…"

Her visor tilted. Recognition flickered in her stance, though her face remained hidden. 

"You haven’t lost your edge" she said flatly, voice mechanical through her modulator.

Then another wave of goons came crashing, and without words, the two fought side by side, blades and bullets weaving in perfect synchronicity. Every movement was seamless, like a memory resurrected. Together, they were devastation incarnate — two ghosts from Michael King’s past, unleashed once more. By the time the last body fell, the colony had become a wasteland — fire, smoke, and silence.

And for the first time in years, Hemant and Kira stood shoulder to shoulder in the ashes of war, bound again by blood and fate. The battlefield eventually turned silent. Smoke curled into the night sky. The cries of the dying had faded, replaced only by the crackle of flames and the distant wail of security officer sirens.

Hemant and Kira stood amid the wreckage, her armor and his clothes drenched in blood and soot. For a long moment, neither spoke. Both of them breathed like predators after the hunt, watching the fires consume the last shadows of Dilawar’s empire.

Kira’s visor tilted toward him. 

"You shouldn’t have come back, Michael" she said softly.

Hemant’s jaw clenched. 

"I’m not just Michael anymore" His hand flexed over the Inquisitor sword. 

"But I can’t deny him either"

Some time later as Hemant and Kira left the place, the roar of engines cut through the night. A convoy of black SUVs screeched to a halt at the colony gates. Armed men poured out — Dilawar’s reinforcements. And then, the man himself stepped forward.

Dilawar froze where he stood. His mouth fell open, his breath hitched. His eyes took in the burning colony, the smoldering bodies of his men scattered like husks, the smoke rising where his fortress once stood.

"No…" His knees buckled. He stumbled forward, hands gripping his hair. 

"No, no, no! This was mine! My empire… my blood, my sweat, my life!"

The memory of Sonarika’s words clawed into him — the day she warned him with steel in her eyes:

"If you touch me again, I swear, Dilawar — I will see your empire burned to the ground"

And here it was. Her curse, her prophecy, fulfilled before his very eyes.

Dilawar dropped to the dirt, pounding his fists into the earth like a madman. Tears streaked his face, rage and grief twisting him into something pathetic. His men — the ones who hadn’t fled — looked at him in disbelief. Their lion had become a broken wreck. The fire spoke for his destruction — roaring, devouring, declaring that the reign of Dilawar was over.


AT THE SANJEEVANI HOSPITAL


The engines roared down the half-lit Mumbai streets as Vikram’s SUV cut through the night. Sonarika sat in the backseat, her body trembling beneath the oversized jacket Vikram had dbangd over her shoulders. Her new clothes hid the bruised skin now, but the marks of the assault still burned on her body… and deeper, in her soul. Her head leaned against the window, but her eyes were empty, lost somewhere between terror and exhaustion. Each time the car jolted, she shivered, clutching the jacket tighter around herself. Vikram sat beside her, unable to hide the pain on his face. He kept glancing at her, as if afraid she might break apart completely if he looked away even for a moment. 

"Soni…" he said softly.

Her lips quivered but no words came. Instead, she shut her eyes, and the flash of Dilawar’s hands on her body returned. His biting, his mocking laughter. She flinched, clutching her arms as if trying to scrub his presence off her skin. Vikram reached out, hesitated, then gently placed his hand on hers. 

"You’re safe now" he whispered. 

"I promise you… nothing will happen to you again. Not while I’m here"

Tears spilled down her cheeks. For the first time, she turned and collapsed into him, burying her face in his chest. Vikram wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, whispering reassurances, his voice breaking as he did. The SUV screeched to a halt before Sanjeevani Hospital. Doctors and nurses rushed out as Pratap requested for immediate care.

Inside, the white lights and sterile air felt like another world. Sonarika’s legs faltered as they led her down the corridor, but Vikram’s arm around her waist kept her upright.

And then—

"Mumma!!!"

Karan’s small, broken voice shattered the silence.

Sonarika’s eyes widened. She turned, and there he was — her little boy, pale but alive, standing at the doorway with Anjali holding his hand.

She stumbled forward, and Karan tore free of Anjali’s grip, running as fast as his weak legs could carry him. The two collided in the hallway, Sonarika falling to her knees, clutching him so tight she thought she might never let go.

"My baby… my baby…" she sobbed, kissing his hair, his cheeks, his tiny hands. Karan hugged her neck, crying into her shoulder. 

"Don’t leave me, Mumma… don’t go away again…"

"I won’t" she whispered, her voice breaking into pieces. 

"Never again. I’m here, Karan. I’m here"

Anjali came forward, tears in her eyes as she gently touched Sonarika’s shoulder. Sonarika pulled her into the embrace too, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the three of them were together again — broken, scarred, but alive.

Vikram stood a few steps back, watching the scene unfold. A part of him ached to see her so shattered, but another part felt a strange peace: at least he had been there when she needed someone most. His eyes softened as he saw Sonarika clutching Karan like her very life depended on it. And in that quiet, bruised moment, Sonarika finally lifted her gaze to Vikram. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing — only let her eyes linger on him, silently acknowledging that when the darkness closed in around her, he had been the one to bring her back.


SOMEWHERE AT THE MUMBAI NATIONAL PARK


Rafique’s groan echoed through the stillness as his eyes fluttered open. The first thing that hit him wasn’t the sight, but the smell. A rancid, heavy stench that clung to his skin like a curse. He gagged, rolling to the side—only to realize his body was bare. Every thread of clothing had been stripped from him. His skin glistened faintly in the moonlight, slick with something thick and greasy.

Panic surged. He looked around—the dim glow revealed twisted branches, thick undergrowth, and the faint rustling of unseen creatures. A jungle. The air was alive with sound: crickets, owls, the distant roar of something primal. His breath came ragged, uneven.

And then… from the shadows, a figure emerged.

Hemant.

He arrived like the ghost of Michael King in black. Still wearing that black plain shirt and dark pants. Simplicity. Humanity. And yet, his eyes burned like twin embers, carrying the storm he had walked through.

"You" Rafique rasped, staggering to his feet. 

"What is this?!"

Hemant didn’t answer at first. He only stepped forward, his presence heavier than the night itself. When Rafique lunged at him in a last-ditch fury, Hemant raised one leg and, with a single devastating kick, sent him crashing into the mud. Rafique coughed, dazed, spitting dirt. That was when the stench hit him full. He sniffed at his skin, his chest, and his stomach sank. 

"W-what did you do to me…?"

"Animal fat" Hemant replied coldly, his voice like a judge passing sentence. 

"The stench carries. Strong, thick… enough to call the predators to you"

Rafique’s eyes widened in horror. He scrambled on his knees, shaking. 

"N-no… please, don’t do this… I—I’ll leave, I’ll disappear—"

Hemant crouched low, his gaze pinning Rafique to the earth. 

"Do you pray, Rafique?" His tone was sharp, cutting. 

"Pray now. Beg your god. Because in minutes, I’ll be sending you to meet him"

Rafique broke into sobs. 

"Please… please, don’t kill me, I don’t want to die. I want my life back!"

Hemant tilted his head, a cruel smirk touching his lips. 

"You want your life?" His voice dropped to a whisper, like poison. 

"Run for it"

Confused, Rafique froze.

"I said run" Hemant’s voice thundered through the jungle. 

"RUN!"

Rafique bolted. Branches whipped his face, thorns tore his feet. He didn’t know where he was going — only that he needed to get away. But the smell followed him, clung to him, announced him.

That was when he heard it.

A growl. Low. Feminine. Then another. And another.

Rafique stopped dead, chest heaving, eyes wild. From the shadows, golden eyes flickered to life. The slinking silhouettes emerged, one after the other. Tigers. Not one — a pack of females, circling, tails twitching, jaws parting with guttural hunger.

Rafique screamed. He turned, but claws struck his back, dragging him down. Another clamped onto his arm, teeth sinking in. He shrieked as the jungle erupted in his torment — his flesh tearing, bones cracking, his body reduced to prey. The night became a chorus of his suffering as the tigers mauled, clawed, and devoured him piece by piece, until nothing but scraps of bloodied mud remained.

From the distance, Hemant stood silent, watching. His expression was unreadable, but inside, there was a grim satisfaction. The countless families who had suffered at Rafique’s hands, the daughters lost, the wives violated , the innocents destroyed — their torment had ended here.

And then… movement. A massive figure padded out from the shadows. The male. The king of the jungle, his mane-like ruff bristling as he approached, standing tall over the feasting tigresses. His amber eyes locked with Hemant’s.

The air froze.

Hemant didn’t flinch. His fists clenched, but he did not move. He only stared back, unblinking, unafraid. Manush Rustom’s voice echoed in his mind — 

"Tigers feed on fear. If their's target doesn't show that fear, they’ll bow out from the hunt"

The great cat rumbled, but slowly — as though recognizing a kindred flame — it stepped back, retreating to its pack. The forest swallowed them again, their growls fading. Hemant exhaled deeply, the storm in his chest quieting. Justice had been dealt. He turned and walked away, leaving Rafique’s shredded corpse to the tigers’ feast, the jungle echoing with a silence heavier than any judgment of man.



SOMETIME LATER AT MUMBAI PORT


The port smelled of oil and rain—the storm’s after-ash still in the air—when Hemant found Kira waiting by the rusted cranes. She’d shed her grey armor; tonight she wore hammered denim and a fitted shirt, hair tied back but eyes as sharp as ever. For a strange, private second Hemant felt something like relief. The past had come back to meet him in person, and it was a woman who moved like wind.

"You came" he said simply. 

His voice was tired in a way it hadn’t been all night. Kira gave him a long look, then a small, dry smile. 

"I came to tell you that you’re being reckless. Your enemies know your face now. They’ll swarm Mumbai trying to take you down" 

Her tone was blunt, the warning wrapped around something else—worry. Hemant shrugged one shoulder as if shrugging off rain. 

"They tried before. They Failed" There was no bravado—just the flat fact of history between them.

Kira’s mouth quirked. 

"They might try again. With more numbers" She folded her arms as she continued. 

"I was nervous. I thought I’d see Michael King in you tonight.....But you weren’t him. Not exactly. You’ve…changed"

He looked at her then, taking in the denim, the dirt at her boots. 

"Thank you. For Sonarika" 

The words were short but real. Kira shrugged. 

"I came because I wanted to know what made her special—what made you bury a life for her" 

Her voice turned teasing, deliberately flinty. 

"Turns out it’s the boobs and the ass" 

She laughed once, high and rough, and Hemant felt the worst kind of embarrassed heat and absurd gratitude at the same time. They stood in that awkward silence for a breath. Kira’s expression softened, the joke falling away. 

"You gave me a chance once" she said quietly. 

"You wanted to run. Start over with me. I chose my vengeance instead. I thought I chose right. I was wrong. I lost…peace. I lost the chance to be normal. Sometimes I wake up and think—what if I’d been somebody’s wife, somebody’s mother? Maybe Karan could’ve had a different woman in his life" 

Her voice broke on the last words; the confession landed between them like a small, honest stone. Hemant’s answer was quieter than she’d expected. 

"I made my mistakes too. I built a family and thought I could bury the rest. That made me weak—vulnerable. She left. She found someone else" 

He shook his head, and the admission sounded like pain. 

"Tonight, when I tore through Rafique’s men… I felt something I haven’t felt in years. Guilty and sick of it, but…alive. I hated that I liked it"

Kira studied him, then stepped closer until the port lanterns lit the planes of her face. 

"No Hemant. It wasn’t the blood that made you smile" she said, almost gently. 

"It was the need to protect. Every strike you landed was for Karan. Every snapped bone—was a line drawn between your family and those men. You didn’t enjoy killing. You were a father avenging the wrong done on your boy. That’s not Michael King. That’s you. The Real You!"

He stood there taking in all the words that gave some level of healing to his bleeding heart. Then Kira said.

"Then again. Michael King is not some monster to be kept away. That sword of yours was meant to slay evil people , and to this day , not a single innocent blood was spilled by it. Remember?"

"I know"

"And as for Sonarika. Its her loss anyway , maybe she couldn't see the real you.......but tell me , does it still hurt? what she did?"

Hemant faltered , his rigid stance started to unravel as Kira saw his vulnerability coming out.

"It hurts Kira.....because once again I am loosing another woman....but this one hurts the most because I built a life with her....and....she just threw it all away.....she claims she just loves two men now....but all I see between us is distance..."

"So you're hurt that letting Michael King go made you a lesser man"

"In some way yes , I unknowingly buried the best parts of me with it. But now , now I feel I should finally cut loose"

"You should've given a hint about that beforehand"

"Why?"

"Because I already booked my return flight, or else I would've stayed a day more to get a taste of the old Michael King"

Kira grinned saying that. Hemant had that Michael King grin show up in his face as he responded.

"Do you remember the last time what we did"

"My ass definitely remember. In a way , you deserve much credit for this booty to look this good right now"

Kira said rubbing her ass to Hemant's crotch. Hemant let out an animalistic groan , something Kira was quiet familiar with.

"Damn....you really are back" Kira said hinting towards Michael King.

"Maybe.....like I said.....I've stopped ignoring that side of me......and considering how things are going.....I believe I must eventually bring Michael King his closure.....and you know what that means"

"It means War"

"Yeah....War.....once again I am in the same situation from the past.....with loved ones in the crosshairs"

"But this time you won't falter Hemant.....because you're not just Michael King.....you're Hemant Kumar too"

"Thank you for that"

Hemant continued to grind on her from behind , reminiscing their fiery chemistry in the past. Hemant soon spoke.

"I remember the nights we spent in secret at the army quarters"

"Yeah....they were fun" Deepika grinned but added.

"But I think the moment with you and Ashnoor will forever be etched in my brain..."

Hemant remembered that , that time of prime Michael King. When Ashnoor learning about his past with Kira orchestrated a threesome one night , to see whether he did something different with Kira than with her. 

"That threesome will live on forever. And now I realize how Sonarika came into your attention"

"How?"

"Come on Hemant , Sonarika has the same physical characteristics Ashnoor has , big boobs , meaty ass. I am starting to see that's probably your type"

"Yeah....then how come I hooked up with you?"

"I ended up getting a thick booty thanks to you , but I could notice the disappointment in your face because of my flat chest"

"Don't say that Kira , I don't judge that way. You know that"

"I know , I am just sad that a man who was such a flamboyant and once lady killer like you would end up have a wife that will cheat on you. Its something that didn't make sense until now"

"Guess you figured"

"Yeah , but I feel bad for Sonarika though. Despite being married , she never got to acknowledge or feel the sex god known as Michael King!"

"Stop it Kira , now I will blush!"

Both of them laughed and then Kira said in a seductive tone.

"BTW , I heard rumors of you being involved with a rich woman here , Pranitha Mehta?"

"A rumor she cooked up to protect me. But I can say for now , things are definitely evolving between us"

"Well , if she needs a threesome partner , you can call me. Although I hear she has other references for that matter from the film industry"

"Heh....lucky me!"

Kira reached into the pocket of her jeans and produced a slim black card—no numbers; just an embossed insignia and a voice line code. She pressed it into his hand. 

"Call this if you need me. I don’t think you will— but if I’m in trouble, I’ll call you" 

Her eyes were steady; there was history there and a fragile truce. Hemant slid the card into his wallet and pocketed the drawing. 

"I’m building an army" he said without flourish, letting the words hang. 

"People who won’t flinch. My echo will wake my nemesises. I’ll finish this"

Kira watched him for a long beat, then nodded. And out of the blue , she grabbed his face and gave him a kiss. A taste of a passion they shared long back. And surprisingly unlike their reunion in London few months back , this time she felt Michael's flames in Hemant. He no longer held back , he responded to her kiss with passion. When the kiss ended , a tiny stream of saliva bridged their lips together. 

"Finish it. But don’t become the thing you’re trying to kill"

He looked at her—at the woman who’d once stood at his side when the world was black and who’d chosen a different road—and felt something like clarity. 

"I won’t" he said. 

It wasn’t a promise that erased the past. It was a choice for the next step. They turned away from the cranes together, two people who knew the cost of their war. Lightning had cut the night earlier; now the sky was clear. For a second, the echos of wings felt real, and both of them, in their own ways, readied for what came next.

                                                                                                                                                                         (CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                                          (CHAPTER CONTD)

SOME TIME LATER AT SANJEEVANI HOSPITAL



The air in the ward shifted when Hemant stepped through the door. His shirt was clean, his expression calm, but his eyes betrayed a storm still burning beneath. For one suspended moment he just stood there, staring at Sonarika—alive, dressed, unbroken enough to still be herself. Relief struck through his chest so hard it almost hurt.


She looked up from the bedside, Karan’s small hand still clutched in hers, and when her gaze met his, all the walls she had forced around herself wavered. Without thinking, she rose. Hemant closed the distance and pulled her into his arms. It wasn’t passionate, nor desperate—it was steady, protective, the way it used to be when the world was too much and she sought shelter in him.

Her forehead pressed against his chest; for the first time in what felt like forever, Sonarika let herself breathe. She had missed this—the rough comfort of his embrace, the sense that no matter what storm she endured, Hemant’s arms could still shield her.

After a long silence, she finally asked, voice barely audible, 

"Where did you go?"

Hemant’s jaw tightened. He stroked her hair once before pulling back, letting his tone slip into measured explanation. 

"I went to the Mehta family. They were bankrolling Dilawar’s operation, using him for their political leverage. I had to make sure that chain was broken" 

His eyes flickered, calculating, before continuing. 

"And I went to Sanjana. I asked her help in finding you. That’s where I learned Tamanna’s daughter, Shraddha, had also been kidnapped"

Sonarika’s eyes widened. 

"Shraddha… is she—?"

"She’s safe" Hemant cut in gently, squeezing her shoulders. 

"Cops raided an abandoned factory. They found her with the others. She’s back with Tamanna now"

Sonarika exhaled shakily, tears pricking again—not from grief this time, but from relief.

Hemant’s tone softened. 

"There’s more. Word is Dilawar and Rafique got hit hard by a rival gang. Their colony is in ruins. Their empire is gone, and… it’s very likely the brothers are dead. We won’t be bothered by them again"

Karan, still weak in bed, smiled a little seeing his parents. Anjali clasped her sister’s hand tightly, eyes bright with cautious joy. For a brief moment, the hospital room filled with the fragile warmth of a family reunited, freed from a shadow that had hung too long. But even as she smiled, Sonarika’s brow furrowed. A flicker of memory returned—the vision of a towering figure in black armor, an eagle crest glowing on his chest, slaughtering Dilawar’s men like a phantom of vengeance.

Inside the ward, the family clung together, rejoicing in the fragile peace. Outside, in the corridor, Vikram stood watching through the windowpane. His fists clenched at his sides, his face unreadable. He had delivered Sonarika to safety, had been there when she needed someone—but now, looking in, he could see it clearly. He was the outsider, the third wheel orbiting around a broken family that, despite everything, still tried to hold itself together.

Some time later, when the ward grew quiet and Karan finally dozed off with Anjali curled up beside him, Sonarika slipped out into the corridor. The fluorescent lights hummed low. Down the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, Vikram was waiting. His presence was steady, protective, but his eyes carried that storm of unspoken questions. She walked up to him, her steps hesitant, her face softer than before. 


"Vicky" she said quietly. 

"You should go… back to your place"

Vikram straightened, his brows furrowing. 

"Is that what this is?" His voice held both hurt and disbelief. 

"You’re pushing me away now that you have your family around you again?"

Sonarika shook her head, clutching her dupatta close. 

"No… don’t think that. What you saw in there—it looks like a family, yes. But it’s broken, Vikram. More broken than it seems" 

Her voice cracked a little. 

"I have to pretend, at least for Karan’s sake. He needs to feel like his parents can still stand together for him"

Vikram stepped closer, his jaw tightening. 

"And what about me, Soni? After everything? After what I did to bring you here? Do you expect me to just vanish because you have to ‘pretend’?"

Her eyes glistened, but she held her ground. 

"I can’t push you away… not after what you did. Not after you saved me when I thought I was finished" 

She touched his arm lightly, her hand trembling. 

"But I can’t torture you either. I can’t make you stand by while I ignore you just for my family"

Vikram’s breath came heavy, conflicted. 

"Then what do you want from me?"

"I want you to have faith" she whispered. 

"Give me time. Let me… sort this out. I promise I’ll come to you, Vikram. When it’s right. When I can breathe again"

For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hospital noises. Finally, Vikram exhaled and gave a small nod. 

"Alright. I’ll wait. But don’t keep me waiting forever"

Sonarika managed a faint, weary smile. 

"The chapter with Dilawar… it’s over. I feel relieved. Free. And you were there to pick me from that darkness"

Vikram studied her for a long moment, then turned and walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing until they faded.

Sonarika lingered, watching him go, her heart tugging in two directions at once. Then she composed herself and returned to the ward, where Hemant sat by Karan’s side. She took her place quietly beside them, her hand slipping over her son’s. For the moment, the family leaned close, forcing smiles, finding laughter to cheer Karan up—pretending wholeness, even while the cracks ran deep beneath the surface.

The quiet of the hospital ward wrapped around them like a fragile veil. Karan slept soundly now, his tiny hand resting over Sonarika’s. Anjali had dozed off in the chair beside him, her face turned to the wall. Hemant sat near the window, his eyes fixed on the distant night sky, the faint reflection of storm clouds lingering long after the chaos had passed.

Sonarika shifted closer, her shoulders slumping under invisible weight. 

"He smiled" she whispered, glancing at Karan. 

"After everything… he smiled finally"

Hemant looked at her then, and for a rare moment, his lips curved in something that resembled humor. 

"Funny thing, though" he said softly, eyes narrowing with a teasing edge. 

"You had to send your boyfriend away just so this broken family could share that smile together"

Sonarika froze, her throat tightening. She knew Hemant had always known. The papers were already filed; the truth had long been too heavy to hide. She lowered her gaze, her voice trembling. 

"Don’t mock me, Hemant. Please. Not tonight"

Hemant leaned back, folding his arms. 

"I’m not mocking. Just… pointing out the irony"

Her eyes filled with tears as she finally faced him. 

"And that’s the worst part. Tonight—this family, sitting here—it is worth standing for. For Karan, for Anjali… even for us" 

Her lips quivered. 

"But the truth doesn’t change. Dilawar’s shadow might be gone for good, but the cracks in us were already here. He wasn’t the problem. I was"

Hemant said nothing, his silence heavy, suffocating.

Sonarika pressed on, her voice breaking. 

"It was me who couldn’t see. Me who failed to understand what I had… what each of you meant to me. I broke us, Hemant. Not Dilawar, not anyone else—me" 

She wiped her cheeks quickly, afraid of waking Karan. 

"I’ll have to increase my therapy. I can’t carry this… not after tonight. The trauma—it’s too much"

Hemant stared at her, his jaw tight, but his eyes unreadable. Sonarika’s mind drifted back. Her lips trembled as she whispered, 

"But then… there was her. That mysterious woman who dropped from the ceiling when I was surrounded. She saved me, Hemant. A complete stranger, but she—she fought like something out of a dream. A guardian angel in human skin"

Hemant’s heart clenched, but he forced his voice steady. 

"Maybe it was just… a good samaritan who crossed paths at the right time"

Sonarika shook her head firmly. 

"No. Whoever it was… she came for me. And then…" 

Her eyes softened, almost glowing as she whispered. 

"He was there. That man. He moved like fire given form, like he wasn’t even human. Whoever he was… he was there to protect me. To tear through hell for me"

Hemant’s gaze flickered, but he hid the grin tugging at his lips, masking it with a calm, neutral silence. But then her voice shifted, lowering into something warmer, almost yearning. 

"And then… there was Vikram. When I saw him… it was the first time in the day I felt truly safe. Like the ground wasn’t shifting beneath me anymore"

Hemant’s chest burned, the words stabbing deeper than any knife ever had. He turned his face away, ignoring it, focusing instead on Karan’s peaceful breathing. Sonarika leaned back in her chair, her mind far away, probably lost in the storm of Vikram’s image , he thought. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. Soon, the ward was quiet again—Karan’s steady breaths, Anjali’s soft snores, Sonarika’s restless sleep. Hemant remained awake a little longer, sitting in the dark, caught between the sting of betrayal and the grim relief that, at least tonight, his family was safe. But in the silence, he clenched his hand, feeling the ghost of the rings still on his finger. The Archangel. The Garuda. And deep within, the warrior that refused to die.


And unbeknownst to Hemant , Sonarika's mind still lingered on that mysterious figure. That warrior who fought the goons like a powerful being. Somewhere , someplace that silhouette was very reminiscent , as if it was a familiar someone. But she simply could not see and find out who it was.


The hospital ward had gone silent, wrapped in that late-night stillness where every sound seemed amplified—the soft hum of machines, the distant footsteps of nurses, the faint rumbles of traffic beyond the glass. Hemant sat there, unmoving, the shadows of the city pressing in on him. His eyes wandered to Karan, asleep on the hospital bed, chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm. That sight anchored him more than anything else ever had. He let out a slow breath. The villa at Silver Beach is almost complete, he thought. Polished floors, new walls, a home designed to radiate happiness and safety. A place where laughter could live again. But he knew the truth. It wasn’t a sanctuary for all of them—it was a haven he was building only for Karan and Anjali.


The cooling period ticked like a silent clock in his head. One year. One year, and then the papers would finalize what had already broken. After that, Karan’s world would split in two. No more home with both parents. No more evenings of them all together. Just the splintered routine of urban families in Mumbai—shared custody, awkward weekends, fractured holidays. Anjali too would drift, caught between her own growing world and the wreckage of theirs.


And Sonarika? She would move on—with Vikram. Hemant clenched his jaw at the thought, but it wasn’t anger that gnawed at him. It was inevitability. He had already seen it in her eyes. She was slowly drifting to Vikram’s arms now, maybe her feelings for him are starting to feel genuine after the development in therapy sensing maybe she sees a future in him . He could not deny her that.


But he still had Karan. That thought steadied him like stone beneath his feet. Whatever he built from here on—whatever wealth, power, or legacy—wouldn’t be for him anymore. It would all be for his son. For the boy who still smiled after the storm. For the child who once drew him as Garud Man, believing his father was a hero. Hemant vowed to make sure that boy would never feel unloved, never feel abandoned, never feel the weight of his parents’ sins.


He leaned back in his chair, his hand brushing over the rings again—the Archangel, the Garuda. Symbols of battles fought and battles yet to come. He thought of Sanjana, his first love, how he had cut himself away from her with his own hands. He thought of Ashnoor, whose death had plunged him into a pit so dark he almost didn’t return. And then Sonarika—the woman who had picked him up, only to eventually drift into another man’s orbit abandoning him.


The cracks in his heart weren’t just from Sonarika—they were fault lines running through his entire life. But somehow, sitting here, watching Karan sleep, he felt those broken pieces holding together. Not healed. Not whole. But strong enough to carry his boy forward. Hemant’s gaze softened as he whispered to himself, barely audible in the dim light: 

"The house I built...... it’ll be for you, my son. Always for you"

And with that thought, resolve settled in him. The villa, once a vessel of broken dreams, would become Karan’s fortress. A place where love still lived, no matter how fractured the family around it. Hemant sat there until dawn light crept through the window, never once taking his eyes off Karan—his reason, his anchor, his future.


AN HOUR BEFORE SOMEWHERE IN MUMBAI-PUNE EXPRESSWAY


Under the orange spill of the highway lights, the van idled against the crash barrier on the Mumbai–Pune Expressway. Inside, the three men who’d handled Sonarika’s abduction sat like scavengers, checking their watches and swapping nervous jokes. The city’s lights blurred past on the other side of the glass; none of them noticed the shape that stepped out of the rain until she was standing beside the driver’s window.


She was immaculate — too clean for the damp night — hair pinned back, face an unreadable mask. When the window slid down, the men saluted with the greasy mock-politeness of hired hands. The woman smiled without warmth. 

"Well?" she asked.

One of the goons handed her the small bundle of paperwork: confirmation codes, a delivery address, the time stamps. She skimmed it like a woman checking a bill of sale, then produced a thick envelope and passed it back. 

"Good work" 

She said, placing the cash in his hand with a flat motion. The bills made a muffled sound as they landed. 

"This is what I promised. Don’t make it messy in front of me — just disappear from Mumbai. No faces. No loose tongues. You cross me, and whatever freedom you have ends tonight"

They nodded, greedy and scared both, because she did not need to raise her voice for the threat to land. One of them tried for a joke, then swallowed it when she looked at him. They took the money, slid into their van, engine humming, taillights vanishing into the night. The woman watched them go, then turned and walked back to the waiting shadow of a high-backed SUV.


She did not look like a villain the city would fear. But her eyes were winter-steel. As the highway hummed and this surprise rain softened to mist, she allowed herself the smallest, private smile: payment for a job done, loose ends paid, and the next moves already arranged in a mind that liked patterns. She stayed in the car a long time, composing. Outside, the skyline of Mumbai bled into drizzle. In the privacy of the leather interior she rehearsed the long game: keep Sonarika fragile, keep her tethered to immediate comforts and cravings, nudge her toward dependency rather than recovery. Tonight's incidents would make Sonarika vulnerable — raw and searching — and Meghna’s plan was to be that searching hand, to offer what Sonarika would mistake for solace. From there, she would steer her into self-destructive intimacy again, eroding the gains of healing until the woman she despised was undone by appetite and shame, not by courts or guns.


She recalled Sonarika's head injury — a fact she’d used like a map for every pressure point since. That injury, she believed, had always left a fissure; Meghna had spent years learning how to utilise it. Tonight had been the hinge: break the seals, leave the wound open, and wait. She imagined Sonarika drifting toward relief in the arms of the nearest savior, collapsing into dependency, losing the fragile progress therapy might have offered. The thought made her eyes go colder. Now with just a few encouraging words she will send her back to Vikram's arms , making her his slut once again!


When she stepped from the car at last, the rain had stopped. Meghna pulled up her collar and walked toward the city lights like a woman carrying a quiet war. She was not celebrating — not yet — only taking stock. Revenge, she knew, was a long map. Tonight she had bought three more pieces. The chessboard shifted again; this is her game after all. And this game had only one purpose , to shred Sonarika to pieces and have her father witness his daughter's undoing. A family wrecked apart bit by bit.


THE NEXT MORNING


The convoy screamed along the Western Express like a hurt animal, metal and smoke and men with too many sins between them. Dilawar’s eyes were red-slit slits of suspicion as he argued with the remaining goons. 

"Who were those men?" he spat. 

"Who delivered Sonarika to me?"

A dry wind brought the odor of char to his nostrils—his colony, cinders and ash, a thousand lives erased overnight. He ground his teeth. 

"Last night ruined everything" 

He muttered, and the words tasted like ash. The men shifted uncomfortably; blame had feathers, and everyone wanted to pluck someone else. A law-enforcement checkpost loomed ahead, lights like teeth. 

"Exit now" 

Dilawar barked, fingers skimming the pistol at his hip. They veered onto a deviation road that cut through scrub and empty fields—the perfect place to vanish, or to be ambushed.

He was still thinking about betrayals when the lead vehicle erupted in a sheet of orange. The noise ripped the sky open; glass was a thousand white stars. The convoy slammed to a halt, engines coughing. For a moment, the world narrowed to one thing: flame. Shots cracked into the dark like a chorus of broken thunder. Goons swore and fired at shadows, at trees, at nothing. 

"Find them!" 

Dilawar shouted, voice cutting through panic. They found nothing but emptiness and the smell of cordite. Then a sound from above: a hard, mechanical whine that made the hair on their necks stand up. Heads tilted back. A Bell AH-1 Cobra descended into the clearing, a silhouette with hungry guns. The gunship's cannons sang, and the road became a harvest of bodies. Men fell like bad memories; the few who lived ran and screamed and tried to hide. Dilawar dove into the back of a vehicle and felt metal and blood and the world tilting. He should have run, but he didn't—he wanted to see who delivered ruin to his feet.


A blow to the head took the world. It went black faster than a blink, and when light returned it was narrowed, boxed, the way a man’s life is when someone else holds the frame. He opened his eyes to sky—far away sky—and men forming a ring around him.

Hemant stood at the center like a statue carved from cold iron. He looked nothing like the man Dilawar remembered: no flinching, no stammering, no fear. He was a quiet storm in a coat that fit like a challenge. 

"So" Hemant said softly. 

"Here you are Dilawar.....no gang....no empire....no brother....all alone!"

Dilawar spat, tasting metal. 

"Who the hell are you?" 

He snarled, though his voice trembled. The stick of a memory pricked him—Sonarika, the rage in her eyes, the colony a pyre. He tried to assess, to measure a way out like men assess exit wounds. Hemant’s hand rested on the hilt of the Inquisitor, and when he drew it the blade hissed like a promise. 

"You killed so many people.....you and your brother” Hemant said, and the words hit like stones. 

"But tonight your judgement is here"

Dilawar’s laugh was raw. 

"You? A broker of lost loves and small revenge?" 

He sneered. He lunged—fast and filthy with desperation. He aimed for Hemant’s ribs, his throat, anywhere to stop the man who had stopped him from taking what he thought was his. Hemant moved like he had anticipated every swing before it left the air. The blade met leather, turned the arc, sent the momentum into the dust. 

"You showed me one thing Dilawar" Hemant said between movements. 

"You proved that I should've never hidden myself......because my existence is always meant to cut down scum like you!!!"

Dilawar swung again and again, each blow a small confession: I am afraid, I am empty, I am alone. Hemant deflected without flourish, but with precision, each strike a question answered. The ring of men watched in silence, like an audience at a ruin.


"You murdered families, burned homes, took children from their fathers’ arms" 

Hemant said, voice tightening. 

"You made men into ghosts so you could sleep" 

The words landed with a clarity that cut deeper than any blade. Dilawar’s eyes flickered—anger, then pain, then calculation. He tried a feint, a dirty move he’d taught his men to break men’s necks with. Hemant stepped aside and used that momentum to strike his knee. The crunch that followed was the sound of a future collapsing. Dilawar fell; the ground welcomed him like an old accomplice.

Hemant didn’t gloat. He moved like a surgeon, brutal and controlled. A shoulder, a jaw, a knee—small arithmetic of damage until Dilawar was a map of bruises and breath. 

"This is the moment Dilawar" Hemant said simply. 

"This is the moment you realize , that your hands were too small to fight God!!"

When Hemant stopped, the world seemed to exhale. He raised a hand, and two burly men stepped forward, bringing an old couple wrapped in a thin blanket. Their faces were a map of sorrow carved by time and grief. 

"They are Nirmala’s parents" Hemant said. 

"The same Nirmala and Shikha , that you and your scumbag of a brother destroyed right in front of Officer Rakesh Mehra"


The couple moved slowly, supported by hands that trembled with rage and grief. They approached Dilawar like a pair of small, terrible judges. They spat words that were bitter and honest, and for a moment the only sound was the scbang of time dragging itself across the field.


"You killed our daughter" the old man croaked, voice raw as old rope. 

"What did that little girl do to you or your brother, you didn't just kill a family , you killed our lineage!" 

The woman’s hands shook and she slapped Dilawar once, a thin, human impulse that landed louder than any gunshot. 

"BURN IN HELL! BURN!" she hissed.

Dilawar tried to swallow, to laugh, to convert the shame into anger. It came out as a wet, animal sound. The sight of those two—broken and human—was a mirror he hadn’t expected. He realized, too late, how small he’d made himself. Then Hemant’s face shifted. Something older woke in him—the Michael King that had been whispered in alleyways from Shanghai to Sao Paulo. There was a hunger in Hemant’s eyes: not for power, but for balance. 

"Your brother's judgement was done hours ago" he said. 

"Now its time you meet him.......IN HELL!"

He moved so fast Dilawar barely saw the flash: Inquisitor arcing, a clean strike like a line drawn across a life. The blade bit—just enough. Dilawar screamed, a jagged, animal sound that echoed across the empty road. Hemant’s kick followed, a hard hit to the skull that sent Dilawar into the earth. The men held him down as Hemant leaned close and whispered. 

"Prepare the boat , its time for his last rites!!!"

Hemant’s voice was not triumphant. It was tired, a man who had carried a ledger and finally closed it. When the convoy’s remains smoked in the distance and the helicopter's echo dwindled, Hemant stood and turned to the old man and the woman: he let the old couple go, watched them walk away into a night that would never bring them back what was lost, but might, at least, carry their names forward. He sheathed the Inquisitor, his hands steady. Dilawar lay a ruin, finally unbelievably small under the stars — a man stripped to the truth of his choices. As his men started to gather up Dilawar in a body bag , he embraced his actions as an awakening for the future.

SOMETIME LATER

The world returned to Dilawar in pieces. A sound first—the low groan of an engine. Then the smell—salt, fish, rust. Finally, the pain—a dull roar spread across every inch of his body. He blinked, and darkness swam into shape. He was lying on damp wooden planks, his shirt glued to his skin with blood. The boat rocked gently under him. When his vision steadied, he saw the name carved into the hull above his head. Heera. A fishing boat.

Every breath felt like a debt he couldn’t pay. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled like snapped ropes. His mouth opened, a wheeze instead of words. And then he saw the shadow. Hemant stood there, steady as stone, silhouetted against the rising horizon. The Inquisitor gleamed faintly in his hand, still carrying the red truth of Dilawar’s men. He looked at Dilawar the way one might look at driftwood—something once useful, now just debris.


"Where…" Dilawar rasped, spitting out blood. 

"Where are we?"

Hemant’s voice was calm, but it carried the depth of waves. 

"Off the coast of Mumbai. No cops. No witnesses. Only the sea and the truth" 

He took a step closer. 

"This is where your final chapter is written"

Dilawar’s chest heaved, panic fighting with exhaustion. His mind, always hungry for angles, searched for one now and found only walls. Hemant tilted his head. The silence between them was wide and heavy. 

"Any last words?"

With blood frothing at his lips, Dilawar whispered. 

"If this is my end.....so be it.....my last wish is the truth.....so tell me......Who are you… really?" 

His eyes, clouded with pain, still sought the truth behind the man who had burned his empire to ashes in a single night. Hemant stepped into the light, the sea wind tugging at his coat. His grip tightened on Inquisitor as he raised it, the blade catching the sunrise. His eyes locked on Dilawar’s. 

"The name is King...............Michael King!"

The words landed like a death knell. Dilawar’s face twisted—shock, fear, recognition of a legend he had once dismissed as myth. The blade moved in a clean arc, cutting across flesh and bone. Dilawar screamed as his arm separated, the sound ripping through the dawn air. Blood sprayed, painting the deck. Hemant didn’t flinch. He raised a boot and kicked hard, sending Dilawar’s broken body over the side. The splash swallowed the scream, and suddenly the ocean was the only jury left. Dilawar sank, weight pulling him down. His one arm flailed weakly, bubbles rising like unanswered prayers. Blood streamed behind him in red ribbons, staining the sea.


Far beneath, a dark shape stirred. A fin sliced the surface, circling once, twice. The predator had caught the scent. The shark closed in with ruthless elegance. Dilawar’s eyes widened underwater. He tried to swim, tried to rise, but his strength was a ghost. He watched, helpless, as the wide mouth came at him, teeth like white tombstones. The water churned violently. A muffled scream bubbled out before the sea claimed it. The predator’s feast was quick and merciless.


On deck, Hemant stood with Inquisitor at his side, watching the surface froth red, then still. He didn’t move until the ocean quieted, until the water carried only ripples and silence. The men aboard waited for orders. Hemant’s voice was low, steady. 

"Take us back to shore" 

He turned his back on the horizon, the wind carrying away the last trace of Dilawar. For a moment, Hemant closed his eyes and drew in a long, measured breath. Dilawar’s chapter was over. Mumbai was cleaner for it. But as he gripped the Inquisitor again, he knew—Michael King’s story was reborn again!

                                                                                                                                                                               (CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                                       (CHAPTER CONTD)

THE NEXT DAY



The drive back from Sanjeevani Hospital to Bandra was quiet, each of them staring out of the windows of the cab as if the streets of Mumbai had suddenly grown foreign. The city was the same, chaotic and alive, but something had shifted inside their small world. Dilawar and Rafique were gone—dead or locked away, it hardly mattered now. What mattered was that their grip on the family’s life had ended. Yet instead of celebration, silence hung thick, like a curtain refusing to lift.


When they reached the apartment, Karan rushed ahead with the keys, fumbling to open the door. The familiar smell of the flat hit them—stale from being closed for days, yet oddly comforting. Anjali followed him inside, carrying a bag of clothes. Hemant paused at the threshold, waiting for Sonarika. She lingered, taking in the building’s lobby, as though checking that shadows from her nightmare weren’t waiting for her again.


Inside, the living room felt strangely smaller than before, cluttered by the memories of anxious nights and restless days. Sonarika lowered herself onto the sofa, wincing slightly as her body reminded her of the ordeal she had endured. Karan sat close beside her, protective in his own way, his young eyes hardened by what he had seen. Anjali disappeared into the kitchen, busying herself with water bottles and tea, eager to restore some normalcy.

Hemant stood near the window, hands in his pockets, watching the sun slip lower across the skyline. Relief filled him, but it was a heavy kind—like the end of a long storm where the damage still needed surveying. Dilawar’s men had stolen so much from them: peace, trust, even laughter. But now there was at least a tomorrow that wasn’t haunted by their threats. That thought steadied him.

For Sonarika, however, relief carried a strange aftertaste. She was grateful, yes, but her mind kept circling back to Vikram—his voice urging her to hold on, his presence a shield when chaos broke loose. The bond had deepened in those critical hours. She felt guilty for thinking of him while Hemant stood only a few feet away, silent and watchful. Her marriage already hung by a thread, yet her heart was being pulled elsewhere.

She excused herself, saying she needed to lie down, and retreated into the bedroom. Hemant followed her with his eyes but said nothing. He knew this drift, had sensed it for months, but now it was no longer a suspicion—it was visible in the way she avoided his gaze, in the hesitation of her voice. He swallowed hard. Divorce papers had already been filed; the law required time, and time was all they had left to share under one roof.

Karan came up to Hemant. 

"Papa, will everything be okay now?" 

The boy’s question carried both fear and hope. Hemant ruffled his son’s hair gently. 

"Yes, champ. The bad men are all gone. You don’t have to worry anymore" 

Saying it aloud reassured him as much as it reassured the boy. In the kitchen, Anjali set cups on the counter, her hands trembling as she poured. She was only sixteen, yet she had watched her sister be taken, had seen men with guns and knives, had sat through hospital corridors filled with dread. Trauma had made her grow too quickly. But now, standing here in the familiar flat, she finally let herself breathe. Maybe home could still mean safety.


Sonarika lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. The cool air touched her skin, but her mind was restless. She reached for her phone and dialed a number she had saved long ago—Dr. Neha. When the line connected, she asked in a hushed tone to reschedule her sessions. She knew she needed more help, more time. The scars left by Dilawar’s cruelty were deeper than her body showed.

Back in the living room, Hemant sat down heavily in a chair. His body ached not from wounds but from the weight of decisions already made. He had fought for Sonarika in his own way, but he couldn’t fight her heart. If her happiness was with Vikram, then perhaps he had to let her go. That was what love meant too, he told himself—allowing someone the freedom to choose even if it cut him open.

Anjali brought tea to him and Karan, her attempt at normal conversation filling the silence. They spoke about college, about how she would need to catch up on missed assignments, about Karan’s cricket matches. Small things, ordinary things—the very things that Dilawar had tried to steal from them. Each word was a quiet victory.

Sonarika joined them again after a while, her face washed, her hair tied back. She looked tired but steadier. When she sipped from the cup Anjali handed her, Hemant noticed how her hands still trembled faintly. He wanted to reach across and hold them, to assure her she was safe. But he stopped himself. That role was fading, and perhaps someone else already played it.


The four of them sat together in the dimly lit living room, not speaking much. Outside, Mumbai carried on with its usual energy—cars honking, vendors shouting, life resuming as though nothing had happened. Inside, the family carried scars invisible to the world. Relief was there, yes, but it came mixed with uncertainty, with the knowledge that this was an ending as much as it was a beginning.

Later that night, after Karan and Anjali had gone to their rooms, Hemant and Sonarika remained awake. Words hovered between them, unsaid. He wanted to tell her that he saw her drifting, that he hoped she would find her peace even if it wasn’t with him. She wanted to confess that her heart was confused, split between loyalty and longing. But both remained quiet, listening instead to the steady hum of the city, and the silence between them grew deeper than before.

Yet in that silence lay a fragile truce. Dilawar and Rafique were gone, shadows finally dispelled. The family was safe. Healing would come slowly, in fragments, perhaps along different paths. Hemant closed his eyes, praying that whatever road Sonarika chose, it would lead her back to some semblance of sanity, of peace. And though it hurt him, he was willing to let her walk away—if only so she could be free.

THE NEXT DAY AT DILAWAR'S DESTROYED COLONY

Morning sunlight spread weakly over the colony, but it did nothing to soften what was left. The air reeked of smoke, oil, and gunpowder. Burned vehicles and collapsed walls stood like gravestones, marking the end of a reign. Deputy Commissioner Sanjana Ranawat stepped carefully across the debris, her eyes sweeping over the bodies scattered like discarded chess pieces. They were all men—Dilawar’s men—still clutching weapons in hands gone stiff with death.

A constable told her 

"Every corpse has a gun, madam. Whoever did this didn’t touch civilians. Only the gang"

Sanjana crouched beside one of the bodies, noting the precision of the wounds. No wild bloodlust—every strike had been deliberate, professional. 

"This wasn’t a warfare" she murmured. 

"It was a planned assault"

Her team cataloged the aftermath. Assault rifles melted from fire, bullet casings forming silver trails across the dirt, and vehicles riddled with holes that could only have come from heavy ordnance. The deeper they went into the colony, the clearer the picture became. Every victim was armed. Every victim had once sworn allegiance to Dilawar. Not a single civilian corpse had been reported.

Sanjana halted before what was once Dilawar’s pride: his sprawling bungalow, now reduced to a husk of blackened concrete and twisted steel. She took a breath before stepping inside. At the center of the rubble, one pillar remained standing, cracked but defiant. And tied to its top, dangling grotesquely against the sky, was a severed human arm. The officers froze. Some recoiled. A rookie whispered a curse. The arm was mangled, crippled—signs of damage even before it was cut away. It swayed slightly in the morning breeze, as if mocking them.

Sanjana’s face remained stone. 

"Secure the area. Forensics only" 

She ordered, though her own pulse hammered against her throat. Whoever staged this wanted a message left behind. Hours later, the forensic team arrived. Cameras clicked, swabs collected traces of blood, and the grisly trophy was removed with clinical precision. By late afternoon, the report was in her hands. The DNA analysis left no doubt. The severed arm belonged to Dilawar. Sanjana read it twice, her lips tightening. 

"So he’s not missing , he is probably dead!" she said quietly. 

"Whoever got to him wanted the city to know—Dilawar won’t be coming back"

Back at headquarters, she stood before her superior, Joint Commissioner Jaykant Patil. 

"Sir, this wasn’t random. The precision, the choice of targets—it points to someone larger. I believe there’s a syndicate moving against Dilawar’s empire. We need to keep digging"

Patil steepled his fingers, leaning back with the confidence of a man who liked easy answers. 

"Ranawat, you’re overcomplicating this. Rafique is dead, Dilawar is presumed dead, and his gang has been slaughtered. Perfect opportunity to clean the books"

"Clean the books?" She frowned.

"We pin the trafficking, the drug routes, the murders—all of it—on the brothers" 

Patil said smoothly. 

"We squash their legacy and declare the city free. It’s the closure the public craves"

Sanjana saluted and left, but her jaw was tight as steel. Her instincts screamed the story wasn’t over. Someone powerful had orchestrated this purge with surgical precision. And worse—she was beginning to wonder if Patil wanted the case closed not for justice, but because the syndicate was paying him to bury it.

Some time later , the press hall inside Mumbai Law Enforcement Headquarters was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Camera flashes snapped like lightning, and the hum of voices died when Commissioner Patil stepped up to the podium, flanked by stern-faced officers. He cleared his throat, the weight of the city’s fear heavy in the silence. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, last night’s bloodbath marks the end of an era of terror. Our investigation confirms that the human trafficking and narcotics ring devastating Mumbai was run by Dilawar Khan and his brother Rafique Khan"

Reporters scribbled furiously. Patil raised a hand. 

"These brothers, with support from outside forces, had built a vast criminal empire. But that empire is no more. Dilawar Khan has been confirmed deceased. And Rafique Khan—based on forensic evidence recovered from the factory —is also presumed dead"

A murmur rippled through the press corps. Patil leaned forward. 

"The attack helicopter shootout incident on the outskirts of the Western Express Highway was not a rogue act. It was a precise hit, executed by outside forces to silence the brothers once and for all"

He paused, letting the weight sink in. 

"Given the involvement of transnational elements, Army Intelligence has been brought in to work with us. The city is safe. The threat is neutralized. Mumbai can finally breathe"

The declaration echoed through the hall. Reporters shouted questions, but the Commissioner only repeated: 

"The case is closed. We will not allow foreign syndicates to poison our soil again"

By evening, every channel replayed the briefing on loop. The city devoured the news like rain after a drought. Dilawar and Rafique dead scrolled across tickers in bold red letters.


AT TAMANNA'S RESIDENCE


At a modest flat across the city, Tamanna sat with her daughter Shraddha at the dining table. The TV played in the background as she spoon-fed the child. Shraddha’s eyes lit up when Rafique’s face filled the screen.

"Mamma" Shraddha said suddenly, pointing a small finger at the screen. 

"He was there. In the factory. With the other bad men. I saw him when I peaked through the container"

Tamanna froze, her hand trembling. Her eyes flicked from the screen to her daughter. Relief washed through her—relief that the monster who had scarred her child’s innocence was now gone forever. She pulled Shraddha close and kissed her hair. 

"He can’t hurt you anymore" she whispered.

AT MEGHNA'S PLACE

Across the city, in a small apartment, Meghna leaned back in her chair, a glass of wine in hand. The news played on mute, but the images of Dilawar’s ruin infuriated her. Her lips curled into a snarl.

"I gave you Sonarika" she spat at the screen. 

"I delivered her to your door. And still… you lost" 

She slammed the glass down, wine spilling like blood across marble. 

"No matter how many times she’s saved, I’ll dismantle her life. Piece by piece. Until she breaks"

AT EMERALD PALACE

Meanwhile, at Emerald Palace—the fortress-like residence of the Mehta family—Hansraj Mehta watched the briefing with his son Siddharth. The patriarch’s face was pale, eyes calculating.

"Seal off the Kohinoor ship at Goa Port" Hansraj ordered quietly. 

"We cut ties with the AZRAEL syndicate now. No more dirty money. Commissioner Patil has done his part in this detour—we follow through"

Siddharth’s brow furrowed. 

"And our future investments with them, Father?"

Hansraj turned slowly, his gaze sharp. 

"Our future lies in legitimacy. You will build new partnerships. Start with Hemant Kumar. His company, YOD Industries, is rising fast—defense equipments, military contracts. His Alignment Knots is evolving into a bankable market, invest in his shares. Partner with him"

Siddharth clenched his fists. 

"That man is beneath us. A nobody turned businessman" His voice dripped with ego.

Hansraj’s voice cut like a blade. 

"A nobody who unknowingly brought down a crime syndicate in a single night. He is now standing in a goldmine of fortunes. If we don't held him back , tomorrow his named platter will outshine our entire family name in the city. Keep him in our threshold , I here Pranitha is close to him thesedays , build a closer relationship and this can open new doors of opportunities for you and Regal Corp. One that will give more profit to you than blood money"


SOMEWHERE IN CHINA


Elsewhere, in a smoky lounge in Guangzhou, China, an international channel replayed the news. A man named Lai Tong watched intently, his jaw tightening as Dilawar’s demise was detailed. When the mention of the severed arm came, he hurled his glass against the wall, shards glittering like rage.

"Michael King" he hissed. 

"It’s his signature. He's back in his game. But he will soon answer for my Brother!!!" 

His fists trembled. 

"His debt will be paid in blood!!!"

AT ZARIR MANSION , AZARBAIJAAN

Far away, in the mountains of Qamarvan, Azerbaijan, Daraaksh Zarir reclined in his marble mansion, eyes fixed on the same broadcast. The corners of his lips lifted into a smile. He rose, staring at the portraits of his father and brothers—men all slain by the sword of Michael King. 

"So" he murmured. 

"The King has returned" His smile widened, cold and hungry. 

"Then let the hunt begin"

SOME TIME LATER

The rooftop of YOD Industries wasn’t tall, but it was elevated enough to feel untouchable. The treelines below hid the abandoned port, while the Mumbai skyline sprawled in the distance, glowing like a jewel in the sunlight. The lounge was fresh—glass panels, convenient covers, and just enough luxury to whisper power. Raquel stood near the railing, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the air. He glanced at the others—Kamya and Vaibhav whispering to one another with the nervous energy of loyal but curious disciples, Conroy Wu and Vincent Ma speaking in low Cantonese tones, Richard Williams sipping whiskey like he owned the day, and Jackson Shephard leaning against the bar, his military posture impossible to hide.

Each of them had come for Hemant Kumar—the man they thought they knew, and the man some had only heard of as a ghost: Michael King. The door to the room opened. Conversation halted.

Hemant emerged, not as the corporate CEO of YOD Industries, but as something far older, far more dangerous. A silk blue shirt, half-unbuttoned, revealed a hint of chest. White satin pants flowed effortlessly down to gleaming white shoes. His hair—usually combed and disciplined—was loose, catching the soft rooftop lights. Blue Ray-Bans covered his eyes, but the smile on his lips radiated charisma. Even Kamya felt a bit of attraction seeing him in this vibe.

"The King returns" Conroy Wu muttered in awe. 

Raquel grinned wide, flicking his cigarette into the night. 

"Now that is the Michael King I remember"

Kamya blinked as if she were staring at a stranger. A handsome stranger for that matter. 

"I… I have so many questions"

Hemant smirked, clasping her hand briefly before moving on to greet Vaibhav with a firm pat on the shoulder. 

"Tonight is not for questions, Kamya. Tonight—" he spread his arms wide to the group— 

"Is for celebration"

He moved from one ally to the next with easy charm. A firm handshake for Conroy, a respectful nod to Vincent Ma, a nostalgic clasp of arms with Richard Williams, and finally, a soldier’s grip with Jackson Shephard. The rooftop, for a moment, felt like the council chamber of kings. At the center table, Hemant dropped a thick leather folder with a heavy thud. Papers, seals, and signatures peeked from inside. 

"This" Hemant announced, his voice carrying. 

"Is the key to Dilawar’s empire"

Kamya frowned, curiosity piqued. 

"What’s in it?"

Hemant leaned casually against the table, Ray-Bans glinting under the rooftop lights. 

"Ledgers. Property papers. Power of attorneys. Business contracts. Every asset Dilawar used for laundering, extortion, and blood money. Everything he built that sustains—belongs to me now.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the gathering. Conroy Wu exchanged a knowing look with Vincent Ma. Richard Williams chuckled. 

"You never fail to collect trophies, Michael"

Hemant ignored the comment, turning instead to Raquel. 

"Phase Three begins today"

Raquel’s eyes gleamed with loyalty. 

"It’s already underway Bhaijaan. Recruitment has started. Soon, you’ll have men and women at your command, loyal to you—not just your name"

Hemant’s voice softened, but his words cut sharp. 

"Good. Remember the colony. Dilawar’s men are gone, but their families are adrift. Give them direction. Give them purpose. If they choose loyalty, they’ll never be abandoned again"

As Raquel nodded, Kamya leaned closer to Vaibhav, whispering under the music. 

"You were right. He’s no ordinary businessman. He’s a kingpin"

Hemant walked to the edge of the rooftop, the city skyline sprawling before him like an unclaimed land. He removed the Ray-Bans, letting the warm breeze hit his face. A long breath escaped his chest, steady and deliberate. Michael King was no longer a mask. Not even a memory. It has now become a crown reclaimed. The skyline glittered in the sun under his gaze, and for the first time, he didn’t see Mumbai as a city. He saw it as a kingdom.

HEMANT KUMAR'S NEW KINGDOM BUILT WITH THE REMNANT OF MICHAEL KING!!!

                                                                                                                                                                          END OF CHAPTER 23

[Harry Jordan]

PHEW.......ANOTHER LENGTHY CHAPTER LOL!

This was long overdue and full of action. I wanna give the readers a heads up for the next chapter , that some sex scenes will finally return. I took a break from the sex , here even in this chapter , there is just teases. But next chapter will bring back the Sex in Love Sex and War. So Sexy times ahead!!! 

    FROM YOUR'S TRULY

 HARRY JORDAN 

[siva05]

Our hemant need raw romance too.He is the one who must freed from chaotic mind, don't leave him sex starved when cheaters have all the fun.Kudos author for reviving the king.

[RCF]

PHEW.......ANOTHER LENGTHY CHAPTER LOL!

This was long overdue and full of action. I wanna give the readers a heads up for the next chapter , that some sex scenes will finally return. I took a break from the sex , here even in this chapter , there is just teases. But next chapter will bring back the Sex in Love Sex and War. So Sexy times ahead!!! 

    FROM YOUR'S TRULY

 HARRY JORDAN 

Better those sex scenes be from Hemanth and Pranitha, At this point any sex between Sonarika and Vikram will be cringe as fuck...Can't believe she is falling for this shit again just because he came at right time, Also its clear he didn't save her, she knew Kira and that warrior(Hemanth) saved her not Vikram. I do not know why this is kept hidden from Sonarika, Maybe its kept for a reason to give her a natural progression torealize that she loves Hemanth and not Vikram rather than that decision dependent on saving her...Really disappointing if she chooses Vikram. Vik's character is spoiled now since she confessed to Hemanth, He is subtly showing his jealous nature and condescending tones coming slowly out of frustration. If he cannot fucking wait for her, then what should Hemanth do to him for fucking his wife, Idiot can't even give space for her...

Uniting Sonarika and Hemanth at the end will be deep fuck if she falls for Vikram again now and has sex, Hemanth thinking of letting her go itself shows he is far better person than Vikram and has always been and deserves her back since he is still loving her and missing her, I do not think he will be capable to love any one again. 

I am still not sure why Shraddha did not reveal Hemanth to Tamannah or Sanjana. Or was it postponed to next chapter? 

Action episodes felt like truly a movie and entertaining. You should have directed WAR 2 instead of that idiot Ayan Mukerji. 

Excited to see who would see the first glimpse of Michael King on bed - Tamannah or Pranitha? 


~RCF

[Kamuk Insaan]

Whoa, amazing! Hemant/MK beat the crap out of the goons and showed dilawar who's boss, Rocky Bhai vibes all the way,,, though he conquered dilawar’s entire empire and rose as the new king, he still carries a broken heart, its scars hidden behind a victory smile....
@RCF ,True, vikram didn’t really save her — but in sonarika’s eyes, he was the one standing there when it mattered and sometimes, what you see in that moment weighs heavier than the truth... funny, isn’t it? It was hemant who bled, who carried the wounds and cuts — but vikram walked away wearing the crown of the rescuer...
for sonarika, it had been an internal conflict, a battle over whom to choose between two men... now, hemant had made her decision much easier...

After all that blood and chaos, it’s time for some real, raw action—no holding back 
Hemant’s been holding all that stress… maybe it’s finally time to let it go… in the most satisfying way.

[DeanWinchester00007]

Hemant went full *MOBSTA* 


He Got The Looks
Certified Mobster
He Got The Swag
Moves Like A Rockstar


Just Too Much Heat, His Walk Is Godly
The Throne Is His, So, Say Sorry


Say, Alela-Kolema, Alela-Kolema-Le
Alela-Kolema, Alela-Kolema-Le           ( Meaning :- "we are ready to fight" in Greek )






https://streamable.com/0mjqbk


To be Honest , VIKRAM theme felt old , COOLIE OST would have been BOMB 

[DeanWinchester00007]

What an UPDATE !!!! Finally . After so many Months , So many Heat break , So many Erotic tales , Finally We got what we were waiting for . 

This is what I was asking , This is what i needed . Finally , It's worth the wait . So satisfying . 

Finally , The Wrath of MICHEAL . 



Thank you , Harry . 

[DeanWinchester00007]

There is one thing i wanna say , I dont you know if you did it deliberately or not . There was perfect opportunity to introduce MICHEAL KING to Sona , as her mysterious Guardian Angel . I am not saying the real reveal but As mysterious figure who went to such great lengths just to save her , killing an army of goons just to save her . But Nope That MC VIKRAM just took all the credit , and also drove Sona further into her Arms . So fucking frustrating .

There should have been something , anything from an object from a memory , which would later connect the Mysterious Angel back to Hemant . But nope , She already forget him . This was such a great opportunity Sona desperate to know who was the man , Who could be that man , Who went to war for her . She should be getting wet just by raw power she had witnessed . I mean at the time when her mind juggling between Hemant vs MC VIKRAM , He would be helpful in diverting her mind from these two . BUT NOPE . As far as Sona and Hemant story progression, Its Just the same . No new development , After all this they again back to square one and meanwhile VIKRAM just scored the Home Run . Now she is yearning for VIKRAM , and VIKRAM feeling desperate for her which is fine why not he loves her . There is no point just to keep churning the Love Triangle Plot . It has been dragged to long , Now its time to conclude it . Let him have Sona , Then later she might understand but for now , Hemant just cant win now , He is already lost . It is better for him To focus on MICHAEL KING NOW .

Well , you already announced the next update , There is gonna be SEX , By sex you mean , VIKRAM AND SONA FUCKING AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN which will again fucked up the arc of Sona , She is gonna fall again in that abyss . So its better let her go back to VIKRAM instead of turning her Whore and giving Hemant so much pain , Not that he cannot handle it , But he might end things for ever .

One things I am really confuse . How old Hemant when he was in college ? Is he an Army man ? Triad Gangster ? How old he was when he joined the college after or before the TRIAD Gangster thing ? When do we gonna learn about his his history ?

[Harry Jordan]

Hemant went full *MOBSTA* 


https://streamable.com/0mjqbk


To be Honest , VIKRAM theme felt old , COOLIE OST would have been BOMB

JUST FYI , I really wanted to do that!

But the Coolie songs's emphasize too much for its movie character to be a Coolie which doesn't connect with a character like Michael King.

I nearly did something similar in the conclusion part of this chapter where Hemant arrives to his company party all dressed up with the modern gangster vibe where I initially planned to have Hemant drink the whiskey MANSION HOUSE to make a subtle connection with Michael King who used to drink that. But that will make it too obvious. 

I ditched it because in my perspective , I wanted a lead character who had no bad habits like drinking or smoking. I kind of like it that way which brings the cool factor to the character. No sipping alcohol or cigarette while killing goons , just a well dressed , precise man who is hygenic but also a brutal executioner.

SPOILER ALER FOR COOLIE BELOW!

Just like how Rajnikanth walks to Mahesh Manjrekar's character where Manjrekar remembers Deva in his prime. I tried to do a similar scene with Hemant when Jackson Shephard sees him , where for a moment he sees Michael King in his prime. But I later ditched it.

But in all honesty , when I was writing the final part of this chapter , my mind was constantly singing the Powerhouse song as my character Hemant stood and looked over the horizon of Mumbai City as his new Kingdom.

And the obvious reason I chose the Vikram song is because it could connect to my character's symbolism as an eagle. And the lyrics matched the dual life of Hemant and Michael. This help me build up the scene even better. 

[Harry Jordan]

Well , you already announced the next update , There is gonna be SEX , By sex you mean , VIKRAM AND SONA FUCKING AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN which will again fucked up the arc of Sona , She is gonna fall again in that abyss . So its better let her go back to VIKRAM instead of turning her Whore and giving Hemant so much pain , Not that he cannot handle it , But he might end things for ever .

One things I am really confuse . How old Hemant when he was in college ? Is he an Army man ? Triad Gangster ? How old he was when he joined the college after or before the TRIAD Gangster thing ? When do we gonna learn about his his history ?

Well , this story had adultery , which means its not just a "cheating Wife" story. After all Michael King is back , and just like Kira said , he was a different breed in his prime , a flamboyant hunk. And the list , the list is pretty big for him when it comes to "love" or "Relief". Tamanna , Pranitha , Disha , Kamya , even our evil villain Meghna. And then add the Celebrity Roster of Mrunal , Ananya , Janhvi etc , with more Celebrity Cameo in the future. Michael King is on the verge of creating his own HAREM!!!! 


Well Hemant's current age is somewhere between 35 and 40. And so is Sonarika but just a year younger than him , and Vikram as well. He basically spend just few months in the army after which the Identity of Michael King took over that spanned a couple of years which was around the years 2004-07.

[RCF]

JUST FYI , I really wanted to do that!

But the Coolie songs's emphasize too much for its movie character to be a Coolie which doesn't connect with a character like Michael King.

You need OG songs now..they are too good