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______________________________

One Year Later

The warehouse was a graveyard of forgotten metal.

Old car parts rusted in corners, their once-shiny surfaces now eaten by time and neglect. Broken machinery lay scattered like bones of a long-dead beast. 

Dust hung thick in the air, dancing in the weak light of a single flickering bulb that swung from the ceiling like a dying heartbeat.

The walls were stained with age. With oil. With blood.

The floor was cold concrete, cracked and uneven. Puddles of something dark and slick reflected the dim light water, or something worse.

It was the kind of place where screams went unheard. Where bodies disappeared. Where souls were traded for power.

At the centre of the warehouse stood a wooden chair. Old. Worn. Stained.

And tied to it a man.

His hands were bound behind his back with coarse rope, cutting into his skin. His shirt was torn, soaked with blood fresh and dried, layered like the story of his capture. His head hung low, covered by a black cloth that hid his face.

He was surrounded.

A group of men circled him. Armed. Tense. Their eyes darted nervously between their leader and the bound prisoner. Fingers hovered over triggers. Sweat dripped down foreheads.

They were afraid.

They didn't know why.

But they were.

Then a voice cut through the silence.

Loud. 

Cold. 

Triumphant.

Yashvardhan Khurana stepped forward. He was tall. Broad. His face carried the arrogance of someone who had never been challenged. He wore an expensive suit out of place in this graveyard of rust and decay.

He laughed. The sound echoed through the warehouse like broken glass, bouncing off the rusted walls and dying in the shadows.

"How much I waited for this time..."

He paused. His eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction.

"...to kill you with my own hands."

His footsteps echoed—tap, tap, tap—like a countdown as he walked toward the bound figure.

He stopped in front of the chair. Looked down at the bleeding man.

"Wake him up."

His voice was sharp. Commanding.

"Remove that cover from his head."

One of his men stepped forward. His hands trembled as he reached for the cloth. 

His breath was shallow.

His eyes wide with unease.

He grabbed the cloth.

Pulled it off.

And then 

Everyone froze.

Every man in that warehouse took a step back  some two, some three boots scraping against concrete in a ragged, involuntary retreat. 

Faces that had been hard and unreadable seconds ago went pale, eyes wide, frozen in something close to primal fear.

Because every single person in that room was staring at their own dead.

One of the men spoke , his voice broken, barely a whisper.

"Thi... this... this can't be... how can he be..."

His words trailed off. His gun slipped from his fingers. It clattered to the floor.

Some of the men turned and ran. Others stood frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe.

And then—

The tied, bleeding man on the chair laughed.

Slow. Cold. Mocking.

He lifted his head. His eyes swept across the terrified men. His face was bruised, bloodied—but his smile was terrifying.

"I haven't done anything yet..."

His voice was calm. Almost amused.

"...and half of your men are already running, Yashvardhan Khurana."

Yashvardhan Khurana's confidence crumbled.

His voice shook. His hands trembled. The arrogance in his eyes was replaced by something else

Fear.

"Where is Aarush ?" 

(Friendly reminder! 🤭 Aarush Rajvanshi is the eldest son of Vikram and Nandini. And if you're about to ask, "Who's Vikram?"... kindly don't. 😭 Your Author Ji has already memorized this family tree 127 times. One more explanation and I'll need CPR. 😂❤️)

He laughed again. The sound was hollow. Empty.

"Why? Is there a problem... if I come without invitation?" 

Yashvardhan Khurana stepped forward. His voice cracked.

"Don't play games, Rudradev Rajvanshi." Khurana's voice shook despite the harsh edge he forced into it. "I know we've been circling each other — I know we kidnapped—"

He caught himself, swallowing the rest, jaw tightening as he tried to claw back some semblance of authority. "Either way. You're the one tied to that chair. Pray  Aarush gets here in time — or you die first."

Rudradev slowly leaned back.

The ropes stretched tight across his wrists.

The chair groaned beneath his weight.

He didn't.

For a strange moment...

It felt as though the ropes weren't holding Rudradev...

They were begging him not to move.

"Let's play along."

His voice was mocking.

"Try, contacting him."

Yashvardhan Khurana pulled out his phone. His fingers fumbled with the screen. He dialled.

Silence.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Rudradev's voice cut through the silence—calm. Smug.

"I'm waiting, Khurana."

Khurana tried again.

Nothing.

Rudradev sighed dramatically.

"You're having a rough night."

He nodded toward the phone lying in his own pocket.

"Use mine."

Khurana hesitated.

Then took Rudradev's phone.

He dialed.

The call connected.

Yashvardhan Khurana's voice cracked with desperation.

"Aarush! I kidnapped Rudradev! If you don't come, I will kill him!"

Silence.

A long, unbearable stretch of it long enough that Khurana pulled the phone from his ear just to check the call hadn't dropped.

Then, finally, unreadable voice. "Ahh.. Easy there, My Wildfire... don't bite too... hard."

And before Khurana could even process it, another voice cut in softer, slurred, dragging over the words like she was only half-conscious.

 Female. Drunk, maybe. Or something close to it.

"Shhh..." she murmured, a low laugh curling underneath it. "I want to bite... my memory-loss husband.... "

Laughter followed hers, maybe his too, tangled together, distant and unbothered by the chaos on the other end of the line.

Then the call cut.

The silence that followed the dead line was worse than any threat could've been. 

Every man in that warehouse just stood there, frozen, exchanging glances like they were all silently asking each other the same question — what was that?

Khurana stood in the middle of it, phone still raised halfway to his ear, looking, for the first time all night, completely and utterly helpless in front of the man he was supposed to be threatening.

Rudradev exhaled through his nose, muttering low, almost to himself. "Haramkhor... what the hell is he even doing. And here I am, wasting my time for him."

Khurana's voice came again, sharper this time, frustration bleeding through the fear. "What games are you two playing?"

"What games?" Rudradev's tone was flat, almost mocking. "Stop wasting My time. Try again."

Khurana dialled again, hands unsteady. This time it connected almost instantly — and the voice that answered had lost every trace of laziness. 

It was sharp now. Serious. Dangerous in a way that made even Khurana's breath catch.

"Yaar... don't you have a wife to bother? Go annoy her instead of calling me."

A pause, heavy with something colder underneath. "Now stop Playing My role, just finish it and tell me." 

Another beat, quieter, almost bored again, but with an edge that made it worse. "I'll decide whether to send someone to collect the body... or just send a garbage truck."

The line cut dead.

Silence.

Complete.

Utter.

Silence.

Yashvardhan slowly lowered the phone.

His eyes stared blankly at the screen.

Then...

At Rudradev.

Then...

Back at the screen.

For the first time in years...

He had absolutely no idea...

Whether the man tied to the chair was the dangerous one...

Or the Aarush who had just told him to kill him.

Rudradev simply sighed.

"See?"

"I told you..."

"He's useless."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Now..."

"Can we get back to business?"

Rudradev's head tilted back slightly, and a slow breath left him — the kind of exhale that carried more weight than words could.

 His eyes were still fixed on Khurana, but something in them had shifted. 

Whatever amusement had been there before was gone now, replaced by something quieter. 

Colder.

He rose from the chair.

And the ropes  the same ropes that had bound his wrists, that everyone in the room had watched Khurana's men tie with their own hands fell away from him like they were nothing. 

Like paper.

Like they'd never held any weight at all.

Nobody moved. 

Nobody breathed.

Rudradev rolled his neck once, the sound of it cracking unnervingly loud in the dead silence of the warehouse. 

Blood still ran from the cut on his lip, down his jaw, dripping onto his collar but he stood like none of it touched him.

 Like pain was something that happened to other people.

He looked around the room slowly, almost lazily, taking in every face the men still frozen by the doors, the ones who hadn't managed to run, Khurana standing there with his phone still limp in his hand like he'd forgotten what it was for.

A slow smile crept across Rudradev's face.

 Not warm.

 Not human.

"Now," he said quietly, tilting his head, "who wants to die first?"

The words landed like the final countdown.

No one answered.

The warehouse, packed with Khurana's armed men, fell into a suffocating silence.

Dozens of guns remained trained on Rudradev.

Yet not a single finger dared tighten on the trigger.

One man swallowed hard.

Another instinctively took half a step back.

Someone's trembling hand almost lost its grip on the rifle.

None of them feared death.

They feared him.

Khurana's jaw clenched.

His own men...

Men who had slaughtered rivals without hesitation...

Were frozen by the presence of a single man standing before them.

"WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT?"

he roared.

"KILL HIM!"

Still...

No one moved.

Because the moment they fired...

They knew they wouldn't be fighting a man.

They would be provoking a monster.

Something inside Khurana finally snapped.

A gunshot exploded through the warehouse.

The shot rang out before anyone realised Khurana himself had pulled the trigger.

His arm remained raised.

Smoke curled lazily from the barrel.

His face twisted between fury and desperation.

But Rudradev didn't fall.

He shifted.

Barely.

A fraction of a second.

The bullet sliced past him, close enough to disturb the collar of his black shirt before burying itself into the rusted frame of a wrecked car behind him with a deafening clang.

Time returned.

Rudradev hadn't even blinked.

He slowly turned his head towards Khurana.

Expressionless.

Cold.

The kind of silence that made armed men question why they had ever picked up a weapon.

For a brief second...

Khurana froze.

Then, a crooked smile slowly returned to his face.

Instead of lowering the weapon...

He tightened his grip.

The pistol rose once again.

This time...

The barrel was aimed directly at Rudradev's forehead.

As if pointing a gun at the Devil King was enough to decide the winner.

His arrogance returned.

His laughter echoed through the warehouse.

"So what if you dodged one bullet?"

he sneered.

"You won't dodge the next one."

His finger rested firmly on the trigger.

Confidence flooded back into his eyes.

He truly believed...

That as long as the gun was pointed at Rudradev...

Victory belonged to him.

Then...

A crooked smile spread across his lips.

He had remembered something.

One final weapon.

"Once I kill you..."

he said, forcing confidence back into his voice,

"I'll take your wife."

For the first time since entering the warehouse...

Rudradev's expression changed.

The emotionless calm vanished.

His jaw locked.

The muscles along his neck tightened.

A vein slowly surfaced near his temple.

His eyes...

They no longer looked human.

They were cold.

A darkness settled over his face so absolute that even the warehouse seemed to grow quieter.

No anger.

No rage.

Just a terrifying stillness.

The kind that existed moments before a storm erased everything in its path.

Around them...

Khurana's men instinctively stiffened.

Several exchanged uneasy glances.

One of them unconsciously lowered his gun.

Another took a hesitant step backwards.

None of them understood why...

But every instinct screamed the same warning.

Run.

Yashvardhan Khurana didn't notice.

He was too intoxicated by his own arrogance.

"You really have a beautiful wife, Rudradev."

Silence.

Rudradev didn't answer.

Not a single muscle on his face moved.

But...

His fingers slowly curled into a tighter fist.

The veins along his forearms rose sharply beneath the blood smeared across his skin.

His jaw locked.

A faint pulse flickered against his temple.

He simply stared.

A stare so cold...

That it felt less like being looked at...

...and more like being sentenced.

Khurana paused.

A sick smile spread across his face.

"Such a wife... Every man dreams about."

Still...

No response.

Only that unbearable silence.

Rudradev's fists tightened even further.

The leather of his black gloves creaked beneath the sheer force of his grip.

Every muscle in his body had gone unnaturally still.

It wasn't calm.

It was restraint.

The kind of restraint that existed only moments before absolute destruction.

Those who knew Rudradev Rajvanshi...

Would have recognised it immediately.

The Devil King never exploded in anger.

He became silent.

Terrifyingly...

Unnaturally...

Silent.

Because whenever Rudradev stopped speaking...

Someone stopped breathing.

Yet...

Even then...

He gave Khurana one final chance.

One final chance...

To stop talking about his Rani Sa.

Khurana took another step forward.

The muzzle of the gun remained fixed on Rudradev.

A twisted grin spread across his face.

His voice dropped into a mocking whisper.

"You know... The first time I saw her..."

He let out a low chuckle.

"...it only took a few seconds."

"Your wife... She's breathtaking."

Not a word.

Not a blink.

Rudradev stood like a statue carved from black stone.

Only...

The silence around him had changed.

His fists remained clenched.

Every vein along his forearms stood out beneath the blood smeared across his skin.

His eyes...

They had become something no one in that warehouse had ever seen before.

Something that made hardened men instinctively step back.

Something that made armed men tighten their grip on their weapons...

Not to attack—

But because they suddenly felt unsafe.

Khurana laughed.

Low.

Ugly.

The laugh of a fool who mistook silence for weakness.

"Everyone says you don't even look at her..."

He tilted his head with a mocking smile.

"Tell me..."

"What's wrong?"

"Couldn't she satisfy you..."

"...or were you too blind to see what every other man would?"

He smiled wider.

"So many men would dream of having a woman like her..."

"And you..."

"...left her alone for an entire year."

His laughter echoed through the warehouse.

"So tell me, Rudradev..."

"Since you never valued her..."

He spread his arms with a mocking smile.

"Why don't you hand her over to me?"

"I'll make her the queen of my world."

The warehouse fell into complete silence.

Even Khurana's own men stopped breathing.

Nobody looked at Rudradev anymore.

They couldn't.

Because the air around him had changed.

Heavy.

Oppressive.

As though the warehouse itself was struggling to contain whatever was about to happen.

Khurana laughed again.

"Don't worry."

"I'll take very good care of her."

No reaction.

Not even a flicker.

Only those lifeless eyes fixed on him.

Eyes that no longer carried mercy...

Or restraint.

A long pause.

Khurana leaned forward, his grin growing wider.

"Just imagining about her..."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"...made me hard like ston...."

The sentence never finished.

Rudradev moved.

No warning.

No shout.

No wasted motion.

One moment...

He stood several feet away—

Calm.

Composed.

Almost bored.

The next...

He was already in front of Khurana.

So fast...

Khurana never even saw him move.

His finger never reached the trigger.

The pistol slipped from his hand 

CLANG!

It crashed against the concrete floor, skidding several feet away.

Before Khurana could even understand what had happened...

A hand wrapped around his throat.

Tight.

Unforgiving.

His feet left the ground.

Khurana's eyes widened in absolute disbelief.

His face turned red.

Then purple.

Then something far closer to death itself.

He clawed at Rudradev's wrist—

Desperate.

Pathetic.

Useless.

But Rudradev didn't even blink.

He held him as though he weighed nothing.

As though crushing a man's windpipe required no more effort than lifting dust from the ground.

Then...

His other hand moved.

CRACK.

His fist slammed into Khurana's face.

Blood sprayed across the warehouse floor.

Khurana's head snapped violently to one side.

But Rudradev didn't stop.

Another punch.

CRACK.

Another.

CRACK.

Another.

CRACK.

Relentless.

Merciless.

Each blow landed with enough force to shake Khurana's entire body.

His nose collapsed.

His cheekbone shattered.

Broken teeth scattered across the concrete like white fragments of glass.

Khurana's screams ripped through the warehouse—

Raw.

Broken.

Almost inhuman.

They echoed off the rusted walls like the cries of a man already standing at death's door.

Half of his men turned and ran.

The other half...

Forgot they were even holding weapons.

Because in that moment...

They weren't looking at a man.

They were looking at the Devil King.

A king who never raised his voice...

Because his silence was always the beginning of someone else's end.

Blood streamed down Khurana's face.

His nose was no longer recognizable.

His lips had split open.

One eye had already swollen shut.

His face barely resembled that of a human anymore.

Rudradev looked at him.

Without emotion.

Without mercy.

Then...

He hurled Khurana to the ground.

THUD.

His battered body crashed against the concrete like discarded flesh.

Khurana barely managed to gasp for air.

Every breath burned.

Every bone screamed.

Yet before he could even crawl away—

Rudradev was already standing over him.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Unhurried.

His footsteps echoed through the warehouse.

Each one heavier than the last.

No anger.

No rage.

No satisfaction.

Only an emptiness...

Far more terrifying than fury.

He stopped beside Khurana.

The man lying on the floor instinctively tried to crawl backwards.

He didn't get far.

Rudradev's polished shoe came down between his legs.

Hard.

CRACK.

The sound echoed through the warehouse.

Khurana's entire body arched violently off the floor.

A scream tore from his throat—

Raw.

Broken.

Animalistic.

His fingers clawed helplessly at the concrete.

Tears mixed with blood as he writhed in unbearable agony.

Not a single person moved.

Not one of his men dared breathe.

Rudradev looked down at him.

His expression remained unchanged.

His voice was low.

Calm.

Almost bored

"This much is enough..."

A pause. He tilted his head—a predator studying its prey.

"Or do you want to lose everything else too?"

Khurana sobbed. His voice was broken. Pathetic.

"Sorry... leave me... please..."

Rudradev's voice dropped to a whisper—cold, sharp, final.

"You think sorry is enough?"

He pressed harder. Khurana's scream echoed off the walls.

"You spoke about my wife. You imagined her. You wanted her."

Another press. Another scream.

"The only reason you're still breathing..."

He leaned closer.

"...is because I want you to remember this pain."

His foot pressed down even harder.

A sickening crack echoed through the warehouse.

Khurana howled in agony.

His entire body trembled uncontrollably.

"She isn't a woman you should have spoken about..."

"But you did."

"She isn't a woman you should have looked at..."

"But you did."

A long pause.

Then Rudradev spoke louder.

"Because she..."

"...is the wife of Rudradev Rajvanshi."

He leaned closer. His breath was cold against Khurana's ear—like death itself whispering.

"The day you remember her name..."

"...the day you dare speak about her..."

"...or even allow the thought of her to enter your mind..."

"...is the day you sign your own death warrant."

A long pause.

"Now..."

"...it's your turn..."

"...to discover..."

"...why the world fears Rudradev Rajvanshi."

Deadly silence.

Khurana's screams had grown so loud—so relentless—that they pierced through the warehouse walls.

His voice cracked. Broke. Died.

"AAAHHHHH! PLEASE! STOP! SOMEBODY HELP!"

But the damage was already done.

The men outside heard everything.

Within seconds heavy footsteps pounded against the concrete floor.

The main doors burst open.

Daksh Pratap stormed in first his face stone, his hand already reaching for his weapon.

Behind him Rudradev's men flooded the room like shadows. 

Black suits. Black guns. Black souls.

They moved with military precision fanning out, securing the exits, covering every angle.

But none of them dared to look directly at Rudradev.

Because the man standing in the centre of that warehouse covered in blood, his eyes empty, his chest heaving was not the Rudradev they knew.

He was something else entirely.

Something worse.

Daksh's eyes swept across the room. The blood. The broken glass. 

The trembling men. Khurana barely conscious, barely human lying in a pool of his own blood.

Then his gaze landed on Rudradev.

"Sir..."

His voice was careful. Measured.

"Are you alright?"

Rudradev didn't answer.

His eyes were still locked on Khurana.

Daksh stepped closer. His voice dropped.

"Sir... what do you want us to do with him?"

A long pause.

Rudradev finally spoke. His voice was flat. Empty.

"...I'll make sure you forget everything else too."

He tilted his head slightly.

"So tell me, Khurana..."

A pause. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"...is there anything left worth remembering?"

Khurana's eyes widened. His lips moved. But no sound came out.

He was already broken. Already defeated.

Rudradev straightened.

His voice was flat. Empty. Like he was discussing the weather.

"I thought I would give you a simple death."

"But now..."

He pulled out his knife. The blade glinted in the dim light, catching the reflection of terror in Khurana's eyes.

"...you will die as an example."

He stepped closer. His voice dropped to a whisper cold. Sharp. Final.

"An example for anyone who dares to talk about—or even dare to think about—what belongs to me."

Khurana's eyes widened. He tried to scream.

Too late.

Rudradev cut off his tongue.

Blood sprayed. Khurana convulsed. His screams were muffled, broken, agonizing—the sound of a man being unmade. He clawed at the air, at his throat, at anything—but there was no escape.

Rudradev watched.

His face showed nothing.

No satisfaction.

No disgust.

Just nothing.

He turned to Daksh.

"Take this garbage to the penthouse."

A pause. His voice dropped.

"Make sure everything is ready by the time I come."

Daksh nodded. His face was stone.

"Yes, sir."

Rudradev's men carried Khurana away—dragging him like the trash he was.

Daksh started the car. Rudradev sat inside.

The engine hummed. The night stretched before them—dark. Empty. Waiting.

"Sir... should we go to the Rajvanshi mansion?"

Rudradev just nodded.

The blood on his hands had barely dried.

Yet for the first time in years...

His mind wasn't on enemies.

It wandered toward a woman he'd never truly met.

Then—his voice came. 

Quiet. 

Almost to himself.

"Daksh."

Daksh was confused.

"Yes, Sir?"

Rudradev looked out the rain-covered window.

"Did you see her?"

Daksh frowned.

"Whom, Sir?"

Rudradev said nothing.

He looked out the window. The rain began to fall—soft at first, then harder.

"Everyone has seen my Gharwali...... except me."

He glanced out the window.

Rain danced across the glass.

"One year..."

He exhaled slowly.

"Let's see..."

"...what kind of woman managed to survive being Rudradev Rajvanshi's wife."

A faint smirk curved his lips.

"Interesting..."

The silence no longer felt empty.

Something...

Had changed.

Or perhaps...

Something was finally about to begin.

He didn't know it yet.

But the woman he had ignored for an entire year...

Was about to become the center of every war he would fight.

Outside...

The night rain fell harder than it should have. Darker than black. Like the sky itself was mourning something or warning someone.

The cars arrived in silence.

One after another, black SUVs rolled through the Rajvanshi mansion gates. Their headlights cut through the rain like blades, but their engines were muted—deliberately quiet, like shadows moving through the night.

The first door opened.

Rudradev stepped out.

After one year—he was back.

His body was stronger. More powerful. His presence alone made the air heavier. The security guards stood frozen like statues, barely daring to breathe.

One wrong inhale, and it could be a problem.

Beside him walked Daksh Pratap—his Chief Personal Assistant, his shadow. Silent. Unreadable.

The mansion was dead silent. Everyone was sleeping.

The corridors stretched before them like dark veins of a sleeping beast.

They walked toward Rudradev's office.

Rudradev's voice cut through the silence—low. Sharp.

"Where is Rani Sa?"

Daksh Pratap didn't miss a beat.

"Sir, Meera Ma should be asleep by now."

Rudradev stopped walking. He turned and looked at Daksh  his eyes cold, but something flickered beneath them.

"...Why would I ask about my mother?"

"I'm asking about my Gharwali...... "

"The one this family gifted me against my will."

His tone was taunting. Almost mocking himself.

Daksh's expression remained neutral.

"Sir, Rani Sa is on the third floor. The last room."

Rudradev nodded.

Daksh moved toward the other side of the mansion, leaving Rudradev alone.

Rudradev's eyes slowly lifted toward the third floor.

A faint, mocking smile touched his lips.

"So..."

"My Rani Sa..."

"You've waited a year for your husband."

His voice was calm.

Dangerous.

"Wait a few more moments..."

"...your Rana Sa is finally coming."

"...to remind you what marrying Rudradev Rajvanshi truly means."

And with that...

He climbed the stairs.

Rudradev's steps changed direction.

Towards his Rani Sa.

Towards his Gharwali.

Neither of them knew...

that the next time they stood face to face...

nothing in either of their lives would remain the same.

_______________________________________

So...

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