The house sat in the dead zone of Sunderland—an eerie silence wrapped around the broken fences and cracked walls. Inside, the darkness wasn't just from the lack of light. It was the kind that crawled up your spine and whispered danger.
Thud!
A scream. Another brutal kick echoed as a bloodied man convulsed on the floor, coughing violently, his lip split open and his nose crooked, clearly broken. Two of Rex's men held the other prisoners on their knees, forcing them to look at the brutality.
The only sound between the punches was the sharp click of leather shoes crossing one another—a calm, deliberate man sitting on an antique chair in the center of the chaos.
Reyan "Rex" Malhotra.
Wearing a jet-black coat over a deep maroon shirt, the cuffs rolled slightly to reveal his thick, veined forearms. One sleeve smeared in dried blood. A silenced pistol rested casually in his lap, like it belonged there. The red tip of a cigarette glowed every few seconds, smoke curling around his chiseled jaw and disappearing into the dark.
His eyes were carved from stone, and the room bent itself around his silence.
> "You know," Rex murmured, voice deep and slow like thunder rolling through a graveyard, "when I give someone a job, I expect them to do it… not screw it up and hide like rats in a drain."
One of the kneeling men gulped, trembling.
> "R-Rex Bhai… w-we were going to fix it. We just needed—"
BANG!
The cigarette was still burning in Rex's mouth as he pulled the trigger with no warning. The bullet didn't even echo—just a silent flash, and one of the kneeling men dropped dead on the floor, blood pooling under his body like spilled ink.
The remaining man screamed, falling forward, clutching Rex's shoe.
> "Please! Please! Don't kill me! I'll tell you everything!"
Rex finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Smoke drifted from his mouth as he looked down at the desperate man.
> "Start talking," he said coldly, brushing ash off his lap.
> "The drugs—Th-the consignment you asked for—it was hijacked. Not by the police… but someone else. Some Indian agent… undercover… we didn't know he was one of them!"
Rex's brows rose a little.
> "Indian?"
> "Y-Yes! The one in Swindon... they call him Kiaan—Kiaan Verma! We didn't expect him… he blew the operation. H-he's looking for the name 'Rudhra Khaali.'"
Rex chuckled.
It was the kind of laugh that made even his own men freeze. No humor. Just death behind it.
He slowly stood up, the chair creaking behind him. He crushed the cigarette on the cheek of the already beaten man on the ground, making him scream in pain.
Then Rex stepped toward the trembling man still kneeling.
> "You think I'm scared of a 21-year-old Indian boy?" he whispered, lifting the man's chin with the barrel of his gun.
"You forget, I trained under monsters… and then I became the devil that eats them alive."
He leaned closer, his voice like poisoned silk.
> "Tell him to come looking for me. Let him crawl through hell. He'll find me at the end… wearing the crown."
CRACK!
He struck the man hard across the face with the gun handle, and he dropped unconscious beside the dead body.
Rex looked at his men.
> "Clean this up. And tell Rudhra to go underground. We'll give our little CBI officer something to chase… while I plan how to cut off his wings."
He adjusted his cuffs, blood still staining his arm.
As he walked out, his men trailed behind like loyal shadows.
In the silence that followed, the only thing left in the room was blood, smoke, and the echo of a monster's promise.