Midnight – Mira's Private Stadium, Deep Beneath Delhi
Aaravi stood beneath the brutal glow of industrial lights, her body still humming with the echo of Vivaan's touch. The raw bite he'd left on her shoulder throbbed like a mark of both possession and prophecy. Between her thighs, the ache lingered—but the war ahead burned hotter than any afterglow.
Before her, eleven masked captains loomed in silence. Towering figures draped in black, each bore an insignia carved deep into their armored torsos—flames, bones, chains, blood splatter, a split cricket ball. They weren't players. They were myths reanimated.
Mira's voice rang out like a death sentence across the arena.
"Each captain leads a faction of the underground league. Defeat them... or become one of them."
Aaravi cracked her neck and narrowed her eyes. "What if I kill them all?"
Mira smiled, slow and chilling. "Then you become the Queen of Shadows."
Vivaan – Surveillance Hall
Vivaan sat behind a wall of blinking monitors, each screen a battlefield, each angle a threat. His jaw clenched, knuckles whitening as he watched Aaravi enter the proving grounds.
The captains weren't just elite players. They were ex-commandos, assassins, war criminals… and ghosts. Their pasts had been erased, rewritten by Mira's will.
And Captain #5?
That one was the ghost of Kavya's past.
The one who once shared her bed. The one who vanished the night she died.
Level 1 – Pain Endurance
Aaravi gripped the bat handed to her—black composite with red veins of sensors running through the grip.
The first "ball" came at 140 mph—but it wasn't a ball. It was a disguised shock drone. When she struck it, it exploded on impact, shredding her forearm with a blast of electric fire.
Her arm dripped blood.
She didn't flinch. She licked the blood from her lip and growled, "That all you've got?"
From the far side, Captain #9—a woman with a skeletal helmet—lunged with a blade hidden in her glove.
They clashed.
Aaravi spun low, dodged a slash, slammed the bat into the woman's ribs, then drove her knee into her throat. She grabbed the mask and yanked.
The woman gasped—but Aaravi's follow-up crushed her skull with a sickening crunch.
One down.
Ten to go.
Elsewhere – Veer's Cell
In a soundproof chamber beneath the arena, Veer sat in silence, a cricket ball in his hands. Its seams had been replaced by a trigger mechanism—half toy, half bomb.
Mehul stood nearby, his silhouette illuminated by the dim glow of old LED screens playing the match above.
"You think you're a pawn," Mehul said softly, "but you're a king waiting to remember your rage."
"What do you want from me?" Veer rasped.
Mehul walked closer. "A partnership. You help me control the League... I help you take Mira down."
"And Aaravi?" Veer's voice sharpened.
Mehul chuckled, dark and slow. "Brother... do you really believe she's not enjoying this?" He showed footage—Aaravi's eyes blazing in bloodlust.
"She's not the girl you left behind."
Veer's fingers tightened around the explosive ball.
He was unraveling. That was the plan.
After the Match – Underground Locker Room
Aaravi stumbled into the steel locker room, her tank top soaked in blood and sweat. Three captains down. Eight to go.
Vivaan was already inside, eyes dark and stormy.
She locked eyes with him. "You watched?"
He nodded once.
She stepped closer. "Then come closer."
Their lips collided, hungry, violent. It wasn't love—it was fury, desperation, and raw need colliding like tectonic plates.
Vivaan hoisted her onto the sink. The cold marble met her thighs as water ran beside them, mixing with blood. Her fingers clawed at his shirt. His hand tangled in her hair.
No words.
Only gasps. Only moans. Only the savage tempo of two broken people trying to survive each other.
Her legs wrapped around him. He entered her with slow, deliberate thrusts. She bit her wrist to stop from screaming. His hand slid to her throat—not to choke, but to ground her, hold her, own her.
She whispered, eyes half-lidded, "You still love me?"
He didn't answer. He kissed the scar on her collarbone.
That was enough.
Final Scene – Mira's Command Center
Mira stood in her private box, watching through a one-way glass wall. In her hand, a wine glass swirled with crimson. Her reflection overlapped Aaravi's image on screen.
"She's making it too far," said the masked figure beside her.
"She's not playing the game," Mira replied. "She's rewriting it."
Behind them, a shadow stepped forward from the dark.
Tall. Still. Familiar.
The man Aaravi once trusted.
He spoke only two words.
"Bring her."