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Note: Italised words are the flashback on Author's POV.

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"Papa, where are you going?" Little Raunaksh hold onto the hem of his father's coat. "Baccha, I have some work and I'll be back by dinner."

He bend down to match the child's height. " Should I bring you the Iron man mask for you while coming?" He asked him.

"Yes and don't forget the secret box... remember?" He chirped.

"But aren't you already my little superhero?" Brushing a hand over Raunkash's head.

Raunaksh pouted. "But Iron man can fly."

His father chuckled."Ohkay fine. Flying lessons later. Mask and box first. Deal?"

Raunaksh grinned and raised his pinky finger and his father linked his own with it sealing a promise. "Deal."

He stood up glancing at his watch them looked back one last time from the doorway.

~

I woke up gasping and my heart hammering against my ribs. My hands were sweaty fists gripping the sheets like I was holding onto something...something that was slipping away.

My father's voice still echoed in my head. His smile, his promise.

I swallowed head trying to shake off the dream. Just a dream. Nothing more.

He never came back. I'd asked for something stupid. Some childish nonsense that only made sense in the world of six- year olds. He had smiled said 'deal' and walked out in that black suit he wore for meeting, the kind of meeting people didn't always come back from.

I sat there staring at the wall. He was gone. And he never brought the mask. Never brought the box. Never came home.

I didn't cry. I couldn't.

Because I was the eldest.

Because someone had to stay standing while the rest of the world shattered.

My mother did cry though quietly at night.

She never remarried. She wrote instead. About warriors and widows. About shadows and survival. Her words were always raw, always brave. She told the world stories, while hiding her own pain between the lines

I lay back down eyes wide open in the dark. Just starred at the ceiling like it had answers.

And just in the thoughts, I didn't knew when did I slept.

Next morning

My boots echoed against the concrete floor as I stepped into the room, a basement turned into command centre. Deep beneath an old textile mill we bought for operations like this.

The men stood when I entered. Not out of manners. Out of fear.

"Sit" my voice cut through the air.

The walls were plastered with surveillance screens, intel charts and a corkboard marked with red strings and black pins every piece of my empire mapped our like a chessboard. Last night, one wrong miv almost cost is a king.

Shaurya sat on the edge of the table, laptop open, chewing on a toothpick like he didn't just commit a cybercrime against the Indian Army.

"Status on the breach?" I asked.

"We ghosted the whole thing," he said eyes on the screen. "Looped the CCTV, fried the entry logs and ghost erased both our heat signatures from their internal database to the system, we were never there."

"Good," I nodded. "Because we were inches away from being exposed."

And then I remembered the fight. She is not just ordinary officer. She knew how to kill. I didn't win that fight. I escaped it.

"Find her name," I said. I turned to Arif, our intel handler. He pushed the black folder across the table. The label read:

PROJECT INFERNO - LEVEL 9 CLEARANCE. CONTINGENCY PROTOCOL.

"This isn't just a file." Arif said adjusting his glasses. "It's a kill switch, boss. Every offshore account. Every silent partner. Arms deals. Intel on your Dubai and Istanbul cells. Even the vinegar factory."

I arched a brow. "They know about that?"

"They called it a "chemical cover site'- but yes. It's listed."

The vinegar factory. Legally, it supplied bulk fermentation products to restaurants across three states. Illegally, it was where we brought people who needed to feel what slow acid burn meant. A factory of silence, rot and sting.

My jaw clenched. "Who authorised this?"

"Still under radar. But someone in uniform built a case with surgical precision. No bullets. Just implosion."

I flipped through the pages. Names, routes, bank trails, timestamps. Not just mine.

I looked up. "This file doesn't only burn me."

Arif nodded grimly. "Your allies. Your rivals. Even old ghosts. There are names here that haven't surfaced in a decade. Some dead. Some pretending to be."

"Why keep that in the same file?" Shaurya asked.."Because INFERNO wasn't just designed to expose. I murmured. "It was designed to collapse everything. The entire shadow economy. Me, the Russians, the arms circuit, retired generals turned syndicate advisors. A full nuclear blueprint."

"They called it 'Inferno' for a reason," Shaurya said. "One leak and the underworld isn't just exposed it would erased. India turns to ash and pretends it was never corrupted."

I nodded slowly. "So this is what we're sitting on a damn nuclear bomb of information."

"Also look down. Dubai routes. Pause shipments to Naples. Cut codes on account series 'Vipers'."

Arif scribbled notes like his life depended on it because it did.

"Anyone else in the network knows we've got this file?" I asked.

"Not unless they've got clearance." Shaurya muttered. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

I stood my voice low and lethal. "This file is our insurance. Our threat and our curse. It we hold it, we control the storm. If it leads, we burn."

Everyone nodded.

And just before walking out, I said,"And find me that officer."

Because if she fought like that with me surely she is not like others. I want to know who the hell she is before she figures out who I am.

And the sting on my forehead?

A perfect reminder that the enemy was far more dangerous than we thought.

As I stepped out into the sunlit courtyard of our mansion the smell of old sandstone and fresh neem filled the air. The city may have looked royal from the outside, but beneath its blue walls, our world ran red.

"Bhaaaaiii!" came the familiar voice, echoing through the marble arches

There she was Samaira my little sister. Dressed in a sleek black crop jacket, high-waisted jeans, and aviators too big for her face. Her bag slung like she was about to conquer a warzone when in reality, she was attending her criminology classes.

"Drop me to college, please. I have a quiz and Bhanu won’t stop DMing me and it’s annoying and I’m already ten minutes late," she said, swinging her backpack over her shoulder, her lip-gloss too shiny for an 8:30 AM class

I looked at her, unimpressed. "What happened to the driver?"

She batted her lashes. "You’re cooler than him. Also, Mumma said I can’t keep bribing the guards for bike rides."

Typical.

She knew I wouldn’t say no.

"Fine," I grunted.

"Yay! You're the best!" she beamed, slipping her phone into her tote bag with a dramatic hair flip.

The engine purred as we rolled out of the mansion's gate, the old streets blurring past us. Samaira sat cross-legged in the passenger seat, scrolling through something on her phone.

"By the way..." she began, voice sugary sweet—a warning sign.

I didn’t even look at her. "No."

"You don’t even know what I was going to say."

"I know your voice when you’re about to start nonsense." She smirked. "Fine. How is your mysterious lady officer doing?"

I clenched the steering wheel.

She gasped dramatically. "Wait—don’t tell me she actually hurt you? A man who literally trained me to break bones with three fingers?"

I remained silent. "Oof, silence confirms it," she teased, poking my arm. "Tell me, did she throw a knife or just her intense feminism aura?"

I glared at her. "Samaira."

But she wasn’t done. She was on a roll now.

"Was she pretty? Is that why you hesitated? Did she distract you with her eyes and bam—forehead meets her rifle?"

I slammed the brakes a little too hard at a red light.

"Okay okay, too far—sorry!" she laughed, raising her hands. "But come on, Bhai"

"Samaira, stop."

"Maybe next time she throws punches, you throw compliments. Like—‘Your form’s terrible, but your hair's nice—’"

"SAMAIRA!" I snapped.

My voice cut through the air, sharp and loud.

Her face dropped instantly.

She looked at me, wide-eyed and stunned. The streetlight turned green, but I couldn’t move. Not yet.

The silence was deafening now.

She stared straight ahead, lips pressed together, her usual spark dimmed.

I exhaled, guilt already creeping up my spine like a curse.

"...Samaira," I said softly, "I didn’t mean to shout."

She didn’t reply.

"I just... that officer it’s not a joke. It’s serious. And I’m... I’m trying to keep everything from falling apart."

Still no response. Just the silent hum of the car.

I parked near the college gate. She reached for the door handle without looking at me.

"Wait—" I said, reaching out, stopping her.

She turned slightly, expression unreadable.

"I’m sorry baba" I murmured. "I shouldn’t have yelled."

She shrugged, quiet. "You always say that after."

That stung.

I leaned in and pulled her into a hug. Her arms hung limp for a second, then slowly wrapped around me reluctant but familiar.

"I love you, okay?" I said into her hair. "Even when you yap like a broken speaker."

She huffed. "You shouted at your sister."

"You’re my only sister."

She pulled back and stepped out, adjusting her bag. "Tell your mystery officer to stop hitting you next time."

With that, she walked off toward the gate, her ponytail swaying with each dramatic step.

The girl who walked like a lioness and yapped like a talk show host was the same baby who had once cried in his arms not understanding why their father never came home. Samaira had been only eight months old when we lost our father too young to even form memories but old enough to grow up with the hole his absence left behind.

She never had a father’s hand on her head. Never heard him say he was proud. So yeah… we pamper her.

Even when she turns me into her driver for the fifth time this week.

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