29 July 2000 The dusk air hung thick with dust and tobacco smoke as Mani slouched against the tea stall's wooden counter, drunk on cheap hooch and his own importance. Sweat gleamed on his forehead in the yellow light of the bare bulbs strung overhead, his voice carrying over the evening crowd. The heady aroma of cardamom-infused chai masa mixed with the acrid smoke of beedis, creating that unmistakable evening perfume of Calcutta's streets.

  "Arey dekh re bhai! Photo aisa hai ki Calcutta hilega! I will shake Calcutta with this photo!" He waved a photograph like it was made of gold leaf instead of chemical paper. The gss cups clinked rhythmically against chipped saucers as the chai-walh hurried between customers.

  Across the stall, half-hidden in shadow, Madan adjusted his lens with practiced fingers. From his perch near Mani’s table, strategically pced by Hari kaka, he watched the scene unfold through his viewfinder, internally shaking his head at the spectacle. Humidity pressed against his skin like a damp cloth, making his shirt cling uncomfortably to his back.

  Look at this fool, he thought. Entire adda staring at him like he's some circus attraction, and he still thinks he's Rajinikanth's brother.

  A bitter smile crossed his face as he imagined the Syndicate members’ reaction if they discovered this thug's performance tonight. The Syndicate didn't tolerate loose ends, and Mani had become a fraying thread in a very dangerous tapestry. In the distance, auto rickshaws honked impatiently, their sound merging with street vendors' calls for st customers.

  Madan's camera clicked silently. Once. Twice. But he needed something better – Mani dispying the photograph clearly enough to identify its contents.

  Rising from his spot, Madan slung his bag casually over his shoulder and sauntered closer to Mani’s table, facing the entrance, yet still in the shadows. He moved with the unhurried gait of someone with nowhere particur to be, just another face in Calcutta's endless human tide. He stopped occasionally, framing innocent shots of street life from the stall – a rickshaw puller dozing between fares, stray dogs fighting over scraps, the st vendor packing away his wares.

  Nobody paid him any attention in the gathering darkness.

  Especially not Mani, whose boasting had grown louder with each gss of liquor.

  Madan circled closer. Mani held the photograph up again, jabbing his finger at it while his drinking companions leaned in. Perfect.

  The camera captured the moment with perfect crity. Mission accomplished.

  Priya met Madan near a shuttered hardware shop, in a back alley near the stall, his camera bag slung casually across his shoulder.

  "Thik achish toh? You alright?" Madan asked, his concern rough but genuine seeing the girl that got away.

  Priya gave a tired smile. "Bachhe gechi, Madan-da. Thanks to you. I won't forget this."

  Madan waved it off. "Arre baba, forget ki? I just clicked photos. Kunal told me what you're trying to do. Big game, big risks. But it matters."

  He chuckled, shaking his head. "Ei Mani toh pura nautanki hoye geche. Full drama king. Sitting there like a local superstar, waving that photo around like he's Rajnikanth. God help him if the Syndicate gets wind of this stunt. Syndicate ke toh pura headache de debe. If any leak happens, first name they'll suspect? Mani. Not you. Use that."

  Priya's eyes lit up, already calcuting.

  "Smart cover. Makes my job easier. The girls who work inside... if I feed them info about Mani's drunken boasting... any heat stays on him."

  Madan nodded approvingly. "Exactly. Kitchen staff, undry girls, housemaids... nobody notices them, but they see everything. And now they'll have reason to believe Mani talks too much. Easy to pass messages that way."

  Priya smiled, feeling her pn tighten. "Cheap saree. Worn slippers. Nose pin. New name. I become invisible."

  Madan grinned. "Dangerous when invisible, Priya. Just stay careful. Calcutta's roads are more slippery than the Syndicate's lies."

  She would build her whisper network. Quiet. Patient. Deadly.

  Priya moved through the dimly lit nes of BD Block, scanning the small stalls and pavement shops. No fancy boutiques. No brands. She needed to disappear in pin sight. The pungent smell of the nearby fish market lingered in the air, mingling oddly with the sweet smoke of incense from a corner shrine. Each breath left a fine coating of dust in her throat, making her crave water.

  Not just clothes. She needed something more. A way to hide her face without inviting attention. A scarf? Too obvious. Dark sungsses? Suspicious at night.

  Then it hit her. The humble cotton gamchha. Used by hawkers, cleaners, rickshaw pullers. Worn across the face or head in a dozen natural ways.

  Simple. Local. Invisible.

  She found an old street-side shop that sold them by the dozen. Muted colours. Thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to blur her features. Perfect. She ran her fingers across the rough cotton, testing its texture against her skin. It felt honest, working-css – exactly what she needed.

  Next stop: an old roadside saree shop run by a woman with tired eyes and sharper instincts. Around her, the cacophony of haggling voices competed with crackling radio music from half a dozen different stalls, each bring different songs.

  "Bhalo quality nai dorkar. I don’t care about the quality. Jemon cheap dekhay, temon bhalo. They just need to be cheap, okay?" Priya smiled lightly.

  The woman chuckled knowingly. "Arey, undercover heroine naki? (Hey, what is this? Trying to be an undercover heroine or what?)"

  Priya grinned, slipping cash to her. Soon, she had a set of simple, faded cotton sarees, worn slippers, a tiny steel nose-pin, an old canvas bag, and now a couple of pin gamchhas.

  By the time she left, she looked every bit the lower middle-css working woman who blended into Calcutta's morning crowd.

  But her work was just beginning.

  She tested her look in the reflective gss of a shut shop. Head covered loosely. Gamchha draped across her mouth and nose, as if to keep out dust. Nobody would look twice.

  Perfect.

  She made her way to a run-down chai shop near a Syndicate-run building. Some of the kitchen girls were having their quick break outside.

  Priya casually joined them, sipping her tea silently. Listening more than speaking. Learning names. Work timings. Who trusted whom. Who hated Mani's guts.

  Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low, unremarkable.

  "Arre... Mani bhai toh kal pura picture chalu kar diya. Photo wave kore, sob ke bolchhe. Drunk full. (Mani bhai was in full drama mode yesterday. Waving the photo around, telling anyone who would listen. Completely drunk.)"

  A few giggled. Others nodded knowingly.

  If Syndicate ears picked up that gossip, it would only lead back to Mani.

  Her cover was safe. And her network? Slowly forming.

  She would move in the shadows.

  Not as Priya.

  But as nobody at all.

  It would take time. But it had begun.

  Before returning home, Priya made her way to an old, half-broken godown tucked away near BD Block. It was a known refuge for trafficked girls on the move.

  There she spotted her contact — Ruksana, barely 20, sharp-eyed, toughened by pain.

  The moment Ruksana saw Priya, her eyes widened in disbelief.

  "Didi?! Tumi... tumi bachte perechho? We thought they killed you! Everyone said you were finished!"

  Priya hugged her tightly, throat dry. "Still here, Ruksana. But fighting from the shadows now. And I need help. But no names, no locations, and no stories about where I go or who I meet. This is only between us girls. No one else."

  Soon, two more girls arrived — Jhuma and choti Minoo — all part of the same battered world. Tears were wiped fast. Resolve repced grief.

  "We are with you, Didi. You say what to do. We will watch. We will listen. We'll feed you whatever news we can. Kitchens, servant quarters, washroom gossips — you'll know everything.

  But we can't meet like this again, not often," Ruksana added quickly. "Too risky."

  Priya nodded. "I was thinking the same. We'll use drops. Designated pces. One of you can tuck a note in the broken pipe outside the chai stall on the corner. Wrap it in foil or pstic. I'll check it once a day. If I need to leave you something, I'll tie it inside a newspaper and leave it behind the temple steps."

  Choti Minoo added, "What if someone's watching us?"

  "Then we wait a day or two and try again. No pressure. No heroics. This isn't a movie. It's survival," Priya replied.

  One of them quietly slipped a small bundle of coins and crumpled notes into Priya's hand.

  "Amader theke ektu. For you. For the fight. We don't have much, but it's yours."

  Priya's heart clenched. She took it, more out of respect than need.

  Before leaving, Priya, now fully disguised, made her way to a tiny photo studio tucked into the BD Block market. Worn signboard. Dusty windows. Perfect for a low-profile job.

  "Brother, I need copies. Multiple prints. No questions asked. I'm paying cash upfront."

  The old man barely looked up from his stool. "Come tomorrow morning. It'll be ready."

  Mission set. Contacts in pce. Trust slowly rebuilt.

  Priya smmed the door behind her. Bharath looked up from his magazine, springing to his feet. Relief swept across his face, mixing with the anxious tension he had been hiding since she left. The sudden silence of the apartment was a stark contrast to the constant hum of the city outside – a bubble of quiet broken only by the distant drone of a neighbor's television pying a Hindi soap opera through the thin walls.

  "Made it," he said, stepping forward.

  She nodded, locking the door behind her. "And in one piece, too."

  Bharath looked at her closely, eyes sharp with concern. "Everything okay?"

  Priya stretched like a tired cat. "As okay as it can get when you're dealing with drunk idiots and desperate girls. Mani was in top form. Gave Madan-da a full photo-op. I gave the film for developing. It'll be ready tomorrow morning. I'll pick it up early."

  He sighed, sitting back down. "First step done then. Somehow."

  Bharath poured himself a gss of water from the kitchen tap, wincing slightly at the metallic, mineral-tinged taste that was so different from Chennai's water. The evening light filtered through the thin curtains, painting orange-gold stripes across the worn furniture.

  Priya sat beside him, eyeing him sideways. "But what's this face? You look more nervous now than when I left. Thinking about her again?"

  He stiffened slightly.

  Priya's grin widened devilishly. "Ki re, thinking about Anya Das again?" Priya teased, her voice a mix of mockery and mischief. "Don't even try to deny it. I saw that faraway look. And oh no—wait a second—is that your famous Silver Spoon causing a situation in your shorts already?"" She ughed openly, catching him shifting awkwardly.

  "Aiyo Priya! Shut up! It's not like that!"

  "Yes yes, I get it. She's the dream girl, right? And look at you, full-on lover boy mode. Sitting here, sulking like you're in some imaginary love story."

  He groaned, hiding his face. But even as Priya rattled on, teasing him about Anya, another thought flickered at the back of his mind. Unforgettable? He didn't say it aloud, but if Anya's dreams were anything like his... she would remember him. Every touch. Every moment from that dream-world still burned like fire in his blood.

  However, now he also wondered about the incredible dream in the Yantra from st night with the Earth goddess and the Silver Storm goddess as well. In the dream they all fit together like they’d always belonged — limbs entwined, breath synchronised, hearts pounding in a rhythm older than time itself. It hadn’t been just fantasy. Not entirely. Something about the way their bodies had welcomed his — open, eager, reverent — felt far too intimate, too fated to be just imagination.

  He remembered the Earth goddess’s scent, like rain on tilled soil — grounding, fertile, ancient. The way she had kissed his chest, marking him with a reverence that humbled him. And the Silver Storm — wild, fierce, ughing as she rode his rhythm like a tempest. Her hair had crackled with phantom lightning as her lips whispered prayers and profanities in the same breath.

  Even now, their voices still echoed in the back of his mind. The way they had touched each other, worshipped him, offered themselves not just in lust but in power. In promise. And when they’d looked at him — those dream-born goddesses with Anya’s eyes and someone else's fire — they had looked at him not as a boy fumbling toward manhood, but as a chosen one. A lover. A king.

  He shifted in pce, the memory leaving him hard again — not from mere arousal, but from the aching, holy weight of desire that connected to something beyond flesh. His body remembered. His soul remembered.

  Did Anya?

  His thoughts were interrupted as Priya tossed a cushion at his head. “Aye! Don’t start levitating now. I can see your face turning philosophical. That usually means you’re thinking about thighs, destiny, or both.”

  He ughed, caught off guard. “Maybe I was,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

  “Thighs and destiny are a dangerous mix, Bharath Hema,” she smirked. “Be careful which one leads you where. One nds you in bed, the other nds you on a battlefield.”

  “Or both,” he murmured under his breath.

  Priya caught the flicker in his eyes, narrowing hers suspiciously. "That look just now? What were you thinking?"

  Bharath hesitated for a heartbeat. The word 'unforgettable' lingered in his head. He thought of the dreams. Of Anya. Of the goddesses. Of how no amount of fame or distance could erase that from his memory if their dreams meant anything.

  But he shook it off, giving Priya his usual lopsided grin. "Nothing... just wondering when you'll finally take off that undercover maid look. Pnning to sleep dressed like someone's missing domestic help or what?"

  Priya burst out ughing, looking down at her cheap saree, gamchha still looped casually around her neck. "Haan re... Calcutta's most dangerous undercover agent, in full aunty mode! Dekh na, one day this aunty will save your hero backside too!"

  Their ughter echoed softly in the quiet apartment, grounding them both again in the strange, dangerous, absurd life they were now living.

  Priya poked his side. "Rex, Silver Spoon. One day, I'll make sure she notices you. Mera wada hai. But for that..." she paused dramatically, "...you'll have to upgrade a lot more than just your stamina on the football field. She's rich. She's beautiful. She's a successful model. You? You eat omelette-rice daily and wear the same socks for three days."

  He sputtered. "I'm a footballer, not some hero!"

  She wagged a finger. "Listen, Bharath. Being good-looking, an athlete, even being successful or rich... that might impress other girls. But Anya Das? She's on another level. She's Calcutta's princess. Rich, famous, face of every big brand from Mumbai to Delhi. Surrounded by sharks in her world. Every guy within ten kilometres wants her attention. You? Vegetarian footballer who eats egg curry and reads tactical magazines like it's a love letter. She's not going to fall for abs alone, you know."

  He groaned. "What am I supposed to do then, become a model myself?"

  Priya snorted. "Na re. But you need to become someone unforgettable. Someone real. Someone... unshakeable. And yeah, maybe work on not going full statue every time her name comes up."

  He shifted again, embarrassed, as Priya teased mercilessly, "Oh ho... There goes Silver Spoon with another emergency in the shorts. Poor lungi won't survive the Anya Das hurricane!"

  Bharath flung a cushion at her. "Podi!"

  She ducked, ughing. "Rex, Romeo. I promised na? I'll do my part. Someday, Anya will look at you... and she won't look away. But till then — improve your game. On and off the field."

  Despite himself, he chuckled, the tension easing. "Seri, seri. Okay. Okay."

  For the first time that night, they both felt a little lighter.

  The worst part was over.

  Or at least, the first part.

  30 July 2000 After warm-ups, Kunal called Bharath aside while the others jogged into their drills.

  "You've been smart this past week," Kunal began, giving him an appraising look. "Not trying to be a hero. Pying for the team. Simple. Ugly football. That's what earns respect here."

  Bharath grinned slightly. "Funny thing, sir. That's exactly what my sister Devi told me before I left Chennai. She kept saying the same words — py ugly, survive first, show off ter."

  Kunal's brows lifted. "Devi, huh? She sounds like someone who understands real football."

  Bharath chuckled. "Honestly, sir... she should probably be here instead of me. She doesn't py, but trust me... if you sit near her during a match, you'll learn more in ten minutes than from any coaching manual."

  Kunal ughed genuinely. "She sounds dangerous. Bring her around when she visits. I'd like to meet the brain behind your game."

  "That's a promise, sir. She's pnning to come down to Calcutta soon. I'll drag her here myself. She'll probably have a full tactical breakdown for Coach Biswas by the end of the first half."

  Kunal patted his shoulder. "Looking forward to that. But till then... keep your head down. Keep pying like she's watching from the stands. Make it impossible for anyone to ignore your work. That's how real footballers are made."

  Bharath nodded, feeling a deep warmth spread through his chest. He wouldn't let Devi down. And that night, when he spoke to her, he knew exactly what he would say: You were right, Devi. It worked.

  The next morning, true to his word, the old man handed Priya a thick envelope with the developed photos.

  Back at the apartment, Priya sat cross-legged on the floor, slowly pulling the prints from the envelope one by one. Her sharp eyes scanned each image carefully.

  And then she saw it.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  A much younger Rekha Das, cd in a scandalously revealing dress, clinging with calcuted grace to the arm of a greasy, overweight politician. His face was unmistakable even today. The kind that lived on front pages.

  But what made Priya sit straighter were the figures in the background.

  Arjun. The dreaded Arjun of the Syndicate. Along with a few other senior men, casually drinking and ughing with Rekha like they belonged to the same world.

  This was dynamite.

  This wasn't just about bckmail anymore. This was power over Rekha Das. Arjun wouldn't care about reputation or scandal — but Rekha? A woman whose entire world depended on image, prestige, and her pce in elite society? This photo could destroy her standing overnight.

  Priya's mind raced with possibilities. Leak it to the press anonymously. Hint at exposure through hushed threats. Pull strings within Rekha's social circle. Turn her fear into obedience.

  Her lips curled into a dangerous little smile. She couldn't wait for him to return from training. The ideas brewing in her head were many. The opportunities... delicious.

  This wasn't just a victory.

  It was leverage.

  And in a city like Calcutta, leverage was everything.

  "When your enemies run syndicates, you learn to hustle, kid."

  Anya couldn’t focus.

  Her instructor's voice drifted through the yoga hall, soft and even like a lulby. Bance. Peace. Presence. But Anya's body had already betrayed her. Her thighs clenched tighter with each breath. Her pulse thudded in her ears like a war drum. The room was cool, but she felt flushed — as if someone had lit a fire low in her belly and fanned it with every breath.

  He was back again.

  That faceless, gorgeous god from her dreams. That man who never spoke his name, but who touched her like he owned her soul.

  She could remember it now — the way his body moved over hers, every thrust deep and deliberate. Impossibly big, but her body opened for him like it had waited her whole life to be stretched and filled. She swore she could still feel the ache between her legs from the st dream. The way he’d held her down, one hand wrapped in her hair, the other gripping her hip like he was branding her.

  "You're mine, Anya. Say it. Let me ruin you."

  A sharp breath escaped her lips. Her mat felt slick under her palms.

  She tried to adjust her pose, but all she could feel was the pulse of her wetness. Her nipples strained against the thin cotton of her top. Humiliation crept in — she was surrounded by other women seeking mindfulness and tranquility. Meanwhile, her mind was anything but quiet.

  It was filled with the image of him parting her thighs, burying his face in her cunt like he was starving. Growling into her folds. Eating her like he wanted to drown in her scent.

  "You taste so fucking sweet. Dripping just for me. Filthy little girl, aren't you?"

  Anya squeezed her eyes shut. Her knees trembled. She couldn’t take it anymore.

  She whispered an apology and hurried out of the room. Her bare feet spped against the tile as she ran to the bathroom. Locked the door. Pressed her back to it, heart racing.

  She wasn’t even fully alone with herself before her fingers found the hem of her leggings, dragging them down past her slick thighs. Her hand moved with desperate precision, two fingers instantly finding her clit.

  “Oh fuck,” she moaned softly, already panting. “Please… Bharath…”

  The name spilled out like a prayer. She didn’t even know where it had come from — the name he whispered to her in that st dream. Bharath. She mouthed it again, lips parted, eyes gzed.

  “Fuck me,” she begged, rocking her hips forward, “Just like in the dream… use me. Make me your little slut.”

  Her fingers moved faster now, her breath stuttering as she leaned forward over the sink, her forehead pressing against the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her: eyes blown wide, sweat at her temples, lips swollen with need. Her other hand rose to tug her top down, baring her breasts. She pinched her nipple, moaning louder.

  "You like that, baby? You want me to bend you over this sink, don’t you?"

  She whimpered aloud. "Yes."

  "Want me to fuck your pretty little cunt until you can't stand straight?"

  Her fingers slipped lower, two thrusting inside her now as she spread her legs wider, fucking herself harder. She imagined his grip on her waist, his cock smming into her over and over. The way he’d groan her name through gritted teeth. The way he'd hold her open after he came, watching her flutter around his seed.

  "Look at you. Dripping down your thighs. You're made for me. Say it."

  She cried out, shuddering. “I’m yours… I’m only yours… fuck—harder, please…”

  And then the images spiraled darker. Another woman appeared in her fantasy. Gorgeous. Confident. Smirking as she knelt beside Anya, spreading her folds with two fingers while Bharath watched. Anya’s breath hitched at the thought.

  Would he like that? Two women at his feet, pleasing each other for his pleasure?

  "Touch her for me, Anya. Let me watch how filthy you really are."

  She gasped, imagining herself on her knees with the girl, licking, moaning, fingers tangled in each other’s hair, while Bharath stroked himself, eyes full of hunger. He’d use her mouth next — shove himself between her lips until her throat ached, whispering all the ways she was meant to be used.

  "Good girl. Take it deeper. Look at you choking for me. So obedient."

  Anya bit her knuckle, trying to muffle the sob that ripped through her as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her legs gave out and she sank to the floor, back against the cool tiles, sweat dripping down her colrbone, her fingers still twitching against her slick folds.

  Her whole body trembled. A deep, raw ache lingered in her core.

  And still she wasn’t done.

  She closed her eyes again, panting.

  In her mind’s eye, Bharath loomed over her, dragging her up by the hair, making her lick his seed off his cock and thighs.

  "We’re not finished. Not until I’ve ruined every inch of you."

  Anya smiled, dazed, wrecked, the scent of her own need thick in the air. Her fingers ghosted over her belly, lower.

  Anya gasped as her climax tore through her, sudden and overwhelming. Her fingers froze inside her, her spine arched from the floor. Every muscle trembled as the rush hit — fierce, raw, and breathless.

  She colpsed back onto the cold tiles, panting, sweat glistening across her chest. Her legs were still spread wide, fingers twitching inside her slick heat. Her free hand y across her chest, fingertips grazing her pounding heart.

  But even as her body throbbed in release, something shifted.

  The visuals didn't fade.

  It deepened.

  She opened her eyes, dazed.

  And they were there.

  Two women. Apsaras!

  Beautiful. Ethereal. More real than anything she’d ever imagined.

  They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

  One was curvy, with thick dark shes and soft eyes that seemed to drink Anya in. Her body was a sculpted poem — firm thighs, a high waist, and breasts so rge and full that Anya’s breath hitched just looking at them. Just looking at them made her mouth water. Her hair tumbled down in waves, and she moved with a serene, unhurried grace.

  The other was luminous and sharp — glowing like moonlight. Her eyes were silver-gray and wild. Her lips curled with quiet mischief. Her figure was outrageous: slender waist, wide hips, and an ass so tight and perfect that Anya instinctively squeezed her thighs together. She reminded Anya of someone from her real life - but could not recall her. The woman’s confidence rolled off her in waves, even as her eyes softened when they nded on Anya.

  Anya’s lips parted.

  She didn’t know who they were. She didn’t know why they were here.

  But some part of her recognized them. Not by name — but by need.

  They stepped forward.

  And Anya understood.

  They were here for Bharath.

  They were part of him. Somehow. As much as she was.

  And she — who had never even kissed a man — now found herself wet again, her fingers drifting down once more, heart pounding with something far more dangerous than lust.

  Devotion.

  Her voice came out in a whimper. “Bharath… are you watching?”

  She imagined him there — not touching, not moving — just watching. His eyes dark with hunger, cock heavy in his fist, face unreadable except for the burning in his gaze.

  She sat up slowly, her breasts still bare, her thighs sticky with her own arousal. The apsara with the silver eyes — knelt behind her. She kissed Anya’s shoulder gently, lips like ice and fire, while her hands slid over Anya’s hips and held her open.

  The curvy one came closer and dropped to her knees. Her lips brushed against Anya’s thigh, slow and reverent, as if worshipping at a temple. Then she looked up — eyes glistening with awe — and kissed Anya’s cunt. Soft. Sweet. Unhurried.

  “Oh—fuck…” Anya moaned, eyes rolling back.

  She imagined Bharath groaning lowly at the sight. How his breath would hitch watching this curvy apsara taste her, watching the apsara press her breasts against Anya’s back, cradling her like a lover.

  They weren’t competing.

  They were offering.

  All of them — to him.

  Anya cried out again, her voice hoarse. “Yes, baby. Look at me. I’m yours. I’ll do anything. Anything.”

  One apsara’s tongue circled her clit while the other pinched her nipples from behind, licking Anya’s neck.

  “You want to see how good I can be?” Anya gasped. “I’ll show you. I’ll let them fuck me with their mouths. I’ll let them make me beg.”

  She looked up into nothing — into where she felt Bharath’s presence looming, watching — and moaned louder.

  “I want you to see how filthy I can be. Just for you. Because I know you love it… when I spread my legs for them… when I cry out while they taste me…”

  She imagined herself ying ft on the bed next, the curvy apsara’s face buried between her legs while the other straddled her chest, her heavy breasts hanging above her. Anya licked eagerly, fingers buried in the apsara’s pussy, trying to impress Bharath.

  Because this wasn’t about the girls.

  It never was.

  It was about serving him.

  Showing him that she could worship him by giving herself fully — body, mouth, soul.

  “Fuck…” she whispered, fingers moving again. “I’ll let her ride my face while you fuck me. Please. Please just watch. Just tell me I’m good.”

  Bharath’s voice echoed in her mind — husky, taunting. “You love being watched, don’t you, Anya?”

  She did.

  She wanted him to see her be devoured, made to beg, taken to pieces — all for his satisfaction.

  Her second climax crept up like a storm. She bucked hard, her hand spping against the tiles, her moans loud and desperate.

  “I’m yours, Bharath… yours… I want to be used… please—fuck—I want to serve—serve—”

  She came again, harder than the first, tears springing to her eyes as she imagined him finally walking forward. Taking her by the chin. Smiling.

  “You did well, my Anya,” he’d whisper. “Now it’s my turn.”

  She slumped back, ruined, sobbing with the intensity of it.

  She was still a virgin.

  She had never even been kissed.

  And yet somehow, deep in her core, she knew this truth:

  She was meant to be shared.

  She was meant to share him.

  And when the day came — when she found him, touched him, tasted him — she would kneel with the other girls.

  And offer herself. Every part.

  Because he was the center.

  And she was already his.

  Because he deserved it.

  Because if he wanted to watch her worship another woman… she would.

  If he wanted to see her fuck, taste, tease — she’d do it with pride.

  As long as he was watching. As long as he knew she was his.

  She licked her fingers slowly, tasting herself, her lips curled into a trembling smile.

  "One day, my love,” she whispered. “I’ll put on the filthiest show you’ve ever seen. And when it’s over… you’ll take me in front of them. And I’ll beg for it.”

  She pressed her hand to her belly. The aftershocks were fading, but the need never fully left.

  Not for someone like her.

  Not for someone made for him.

  One day… one day soon, she would find him.

  And when she did?

  She’d crawl to him. Spread herself open. And beg him to destroy her — again and again.

  Until she couldn’t remember a world before him.

  Warm-ups. Position-specific drills. Passing grids. Five-a-side possession games in tight spaces. Pressing drills till your lungs burned. Shuttle runs from one end of the pitch to the other. Defensive shape sessions. Rotating small group scrimmages. And then the dreaded beep test. Endless ps in the punishing afternoon sun.

  But Bharath wasn't here to show off.

  Every touch, every run, every tackle — calcuted. He remembered Devi's advice from a few days back. Py ugly football. Make others look good. Win trust before winning games.

  So he grafted.

  The smell of freshly cut grass mixed with sweat filled his nostrils, becoming more intense as the afternoon heat baked the pitch. Each time he pnted his foot, he could feel the hot turf through his cleats, the ground firm but with just enough give to grip properly.

  Bharath dropped back to cover defenders out of position. He pyed safe balls to the wings, letting the fshier forwards get the glory. He battled in the midfield trenches, intercepting, disrupting, grinding away.

  He didn't hog the ball. He didn't try Hollywood passes. Instead, he turned hard tackles into counter-attacks for others to finish.

  "Silver Spoon's got legs today!" someone joked, less sneering, more surprised.

  It stuck. But with less venom.

  By the water break, his white training jersey was stained with grass and mud, the texture rough against his skin where it had dried. He grabbed one of the sports drinks from the cooler, grimacing slightly at the taste as he gulped it down. The coaches had insisted on electrolytes in this heat, and the artificial fvor coated his tongue.

  Coach Biswas's sharp eyes tracked Bharath quietly. Kunal, standing near the reserves, didn't miss a thing either.

  More importantly? His body felt like it was running on a different fuel altogether. Ever since that night... that dream... that ciming... there was an edge to him. His stamina refused to dip. Drills that left others gasping barely raised his heartbeat. His reflexes had sharpened. His movements felt smoother, more precise.

  He didn't know why. He didn't question it. He just used it.

  Every back-breaking drill. Every tackle. Every sweaty, thankless role. Bit by bit, the reserve squad's gres shifted.

  Suspicion softened into cautious respect.

  And for the first time since joining Heritage City FC, he wasn't just Silver Spoon.

  He was one of them.

  Coach Biswas watched quietly, arms folded, leaning into Kunal without looking away.

  "Yeh dka acha seekh raha hai… this boy is learning well," Biswas muttered. "Still rough on decision-making but smart enough to hide it. Pys football like someone taught him survival early."

  Kunal grunted, pleased. "Yes. The kid listens. That already sets him apart. He might be ready to shadow the first-team midfield rotation soon. Maybe in the next friendly."

  Further down the sideline, a sharply dressed marketing executive from the club's PR team, Tapan Ghosh, had been watching Bharath just as closely. Clean-cut, good-looking, athletic — Bharath’s raw presence wasn't lost on him.

  He sidled up next to Biswas. "Ei chele ta bhalo," he said quietly. "Good background, big family name from Chennai, pys clean, looks sharp. Might be useful for a few media pieces or sponsor-friendly events ter in the season. Think he'll st?"

  Biswas chuckled dryly. "His deal is football first. Let him survive the dressing room before thinking about magazine covers."

  But Ghosh didn't back off. "That face, that lineage — he's the full package. Sponsors will line up. I'm not saying pull him off the field. But if he makes the squad sheet, I want him in the promo shoots. The club could use a poster boy who can actually py."

  Biswas raised an eyebrow. "If he makes it to the first team, he earns it. You can have your poster then. But not before."

  Biswas chuckled dryly. "His deal is football first. Let him survive the dressing room before the billboards."

  But Bharath, even from across the pitch, caught snatches of those conversations. Not enough to gloat. But enough for a small, private fme of satisfaction to burn quietly in his chest.

  He didn't show it.

  He just kept running.

  Priya sat at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, surrounded by sheets of paper littered with scribbles, maps, and crossed-out pns. A chipped cup of now-cold tea sat untouched beside her elbow.

  She had already listed five safe houses — all scratched out. Too close to Syndicate routes. Too visible. Too easily compromised.

  She sighed, circling a sixth one — a shut-down school in the fringes of Rajarhat. Isoted. Quiet. But too far.

  This isn't just about me, she thought grimly. If I stay at Bharath's pce forever, I put him in danger. If I'm followed back... everything colpses. No. I need exits. Fast exits.

  Her pen tapped against the table.

  What about spying on the Syndicate directly?

  She scribbled possibilities: crowded local markets near Bankra Road, evening tea stalls packed with daily workers, undries that serviced Syndicate locations. Pces where a tired, unremarkable working-css woman might blend in without raising a single eyebrow.

  But not too close. Never the same location twice in a row. Keep moving. Keep invisible.

  She marked the BD Block fish market with a circle. Noisy. Smelly. Perfect cover for eavesdropping. Another circle at a cheap tailoring shop two nes from the Syndicate warehouse — women came and went all day.

  Priya leaned back, exhaling slowly.

  "Safe houses. Observation points. Drop locations. Rotating paths. I'm building a war map. And Bharath doesn't even realise we're in a war yet."

  But he'd see. He'd understand.

  Tonight, she'd show him everything.

  "Okay," she murmured. "Not perfect. But it'll hold. And it'll keep him safe."

  Bharath boarded the auto rickshaw, still damp with sweat, the ache in his legs pleasant instead of punishing. As the afternoon traffic rolled past, he pulled out his phone, leaning back against the rickshaw seat, and dialled home.

  His mother's voice answered first.

  "Bharath? Aiyyo, kanna, are you eating properly? You sound tired. Are they overworking you again?"

  He smiled. "Amma, nal irukken. I'm fine. I'm just back from training. It went well today."

  "Seri seri... but you're not skipping meals, no? And wash your clothes properly — I don't want the neighbours in Calcutta thinking my son lives like a vagabond."

  "Ammaaa... I'm managing."

  He heard the shuffle as the phone was passed.

  His father's voice came through, more measured. "So. You finally remembered to update us? Or should I call this Biswas fellow directly and ask why my son hasn't made the senior squad yet?"

  He grinned but kept it respectful. "Romba nandri, thanks a lot, Appa. I'm getting there. Things are improving. Coach is noticing me. So is Kunal. They even talked about me shadowing the first team soon."

  His father gave a soft grunt. "You have three more weeks. If nothing comes of this, you come back. We had a deal."

  "Yes, Appa. I remember. But I won't need more time."

  Another grunt. A long silence. Then: "Good."

  And then, Devi's cheerful voice broke in. "Told you, idiot. Calcutta football isn't about style. It's survival first. You py hero ter."

  Bharath ughed. "You were right. I didn't do anything fshy, but I felt... in control. I wasn't tired at all, Devi. Like I had energy for ten pyers."

  She whistled. "Keep that going, and they'll pull you into the senior squad in no time. And when I visit, you're taking me to meet your coach."

  "That's a promise. Kunal and Coach Biswas were talking today — said I might be ready to shadow the first team soon. Kunal even quoted you, Devi. Said I must've learned ugly football from someone who knew survival."

  "Hah! Finally, someone appreciates the genius in the family. Just don't mess it up by doing something filmi. No stepovers unless you're in the box."

  "Noted, coach," Bharath chuckled.

  He ended the call smiling — the kind of smile that didn't need appuse or trophies. Just one that came from finally feeling like he belonged.

  —Bharath walked in just as Priya was sweeping the st of her maps and notes into a folder. He looked freshly showered, exhausted but light on his feet. A good day at training.

  "Smells like paranoia in here," he said, raising an eyebrow at the scattered paper trail she tried to straighten.

  "Baaje bakwas, nonsense" Priya shot back, smirking. "Smells like survival, Silver Spoon."

  He dropped his bag and joined her at the table, eyeing the notes. "What's all this?"

  Instead of answering, she reached for the envelope on the shelf and slid it across the table.

  "See for yourself."

  He opened it, ying out the photos one by one. His eyes widened.

  "That's... that's Rekha Das. And who are all these men? Arjun?"

  Priya nodded. "And look who she's leaning on. One of the dirtiest politicians in Bengal. Every name in this picture matters. This is real."

  His pulse quickened. "We were right. She's part of this. Not just caught in the mess — a part of it."

  "Exactly. And now we have leverage."

  They sat in silence for a moment, staring at the images.

  "This could help us get to Anya," he murmured. "If we pressure Rekha... if we threaten the right things, we might be able to break Anya out of that house."

  "That's what I'm thinking too," Priya said. "But we need to be careful. Reckless moves won't scare someone like Rekha — they'll just make her double down. We need to be precise. Patient."

  They spent the next several minutes discussing possible strategies — anonymous leaks to media, whispers in Rekha's elite circles, letting just enough truth out to put her on edge.

  Eventually, Priya turned back to her folder. "This is what I've been working on today. Safe houses. Drop points. Disguises. If this goes wrong, I can't stay here."

  Bharath frowned. "You can stay here as long as you want. You know that, right?"

  Priya looked up at him, softer than usual. "I know. And I'm grateful. But if they follow me, Bharath... I need to be able to vanish. I need to make sure they don't reach you."

  He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. The room was suddenly heavier.

  She looked away and exhaled. "You're my only safety net in this whole city. I don't want to burn it."

  For a moment, neither said anything.

  Then Priya shook it off with a smirk. "Anyway. Back to our evil pns. Ready to take down some high society?"

  He grinned. "With Anil Kapoor's chest hair as our battle cry? Always."

  They both ughed.

  But beneath the teasing, something steady had settled between them — a shared purpose, a quiet promise.

  Elsewhere, in the half-dark corners of a safehouse tucked behind Bankra Road, a few girls sat close together, sharing a borrowed bnket and whispered hopes. The same ones who had seen Priya earlier that day. Minoo, Jhuma, and Ruksana — survivors not by choice but by daily defiance.

  Ruksana, staring at the ceiling, spoke softly, "She's really back. Not just alive — fighting. For us."

  Minoo chewed on her thumbnail, nerves restless. "You think she'll be okay? The people she's going after... they don't forgive."

  Jhuma shook her head. "I don't know. But I saw her eyes. Didi isn't just surviving anymore. She's burning. And she's smart enough not to get caught the same way again."

  The house creaked in the wind, its shadows long and cold. Around them, the air carried the scent of dank rot and rusted steel. Their world hadn't changed much — still a pce where hope came in small bursts and hunger never truly left.

  "If she succeeds," Minoo whispered, "maybe someone will listen. Maybe some girl won't end up where we did."

  "Maybe... we'll get out too," Jhuma said, almost inaudibly.

  They didn't dream big. But they dared to believe now — that someone like Priya could bring a little light into their rusted, buried world.

  After the ughter faded and their pns took more definite shape, Priya opened a smaller envelope containing a simple, folded paper.

  "I've written out some communication protocols," she said, pcing it between us. "If I'm ever compromised or you can't reach me, these are the fallback options. We need a clean way to talk or signal each other if phones aren't safe."

  Bharath leaned in, curious. The sheet was filled with innocuous code phrases, time-based markers, even emergency symbols they could chalk onto walls or benches if needed.

  "You've thought this through," he said. “Do you read a lot of detective novels? How do you know all this?”

  "Beshak. Detective Byomkesh Bakshi is my god," she replied with quiet intensity. "I have to. I'm in their shadow now, Bharath. We can't assume anything is safe forever. Not phones. Not this apartment. Not even us."

  "Still... you trust me with this."

  She looked up at him. "You're the only one I trust."

  He nodded, the weight of her words pressing gently into his chest.

  They sat in silence, letting that moment settle — not out of fear, but out of understanding. They weren't just pnning operations anymore. They were ying the foundation of something bigger.

  Then Priya hesitated, her fingers trailing over one of the worn maps, her nail catching on a crease.

  "Can I tell you something?" Her voice was softer than he'd ever heard it.

  Bharath looked at her and nodded, setting aside his cup of chai. The bitter tea had gone cold, leaving a film on the surface.

  She exhaled slowly, adjusting her position on the floor. The cheap cotton of her disguise rustled as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. "You know, I wasn't always... this."

  "What do you mean?" he asked, watching her carefully. The streetmp outside cast her shadow long against the wall.

  "This... person. This fighter." She gestured vaguely at herself, then to the maps spread between us. "Before all this, I was just a commerce student. Just seventeen, an orphan, but with the whole world ahead of me!"

  "Where?"

  "Burrabazar. Textile export company." A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "I had a little desk by the window. You could see the whole street chaos from there."

  She closed her eyes briefly, and he could almost see her traveling back.

  "The office always smelled of fresh cotton and the boss's paan. My supervisor was strict but fair. I was going to be an accountant." Her smile faded. "It was a good life, Bharath. Simple. Predictable."

  He leaned forward. "What changed it?"

  Her hand froze mid-air, hovering over the map. The ceiling fan ticked steadily above us.

  "One night, I stayed te. Export report deadline." She swallowed hard. "I needed some files from the basement storage."

  She fell silent, her eyes focused on something invisible. The memory seemed to physically pain her.

  "You don't have to—" he started.

  "No." She cut him off, her voice firming. "You should know. You're part of this now."

  She reached for her water gss, took a sip. Her hand trembled slightly.

  "The basement door was usually locked after six," she continued. "But that night it was open. I heard... voices. Men I didn't recognize."

  Her eyes met his, then darted away. "The air down there was different. Cold. Damp. Like a cave. The fluorescents were flickering, giving everything this... sickly green color."

  He watched her hands ball into fists, knuckles whitening.

  "I thought it was just a routine shipment inspection. But then I heard it." She paused, drawing in a sharp breath. "A whimper. Human. Small."

  His stomach knotted. "Priya..."

  "Girls, Bharath." Her voice cracked. "Young girls. In wooden crates. Like they were merchandise."

  She wasn't looking at Bharath anymore. Her eyes were seeing that basement again, the images reflected in her dited pupils.

  "I could smell their fear," she whispered. "Mixed with the mothballs and dust. One of them saw me through the sts. Her eyes... God, her eyes."

  He reached out, hesitant, his hand hovering near hers. Not quite touching.

  "What did you do?" he asked softly.

  She blinked, coming back to the present. "What any idiot would do. I went to my manager the next day."

  "And?"

  A bitter ugh escaped her. "He patted my shoulder. Told me I was confused. Overworked. Said I should take a day off." She reached for the envelope beside her, fingers digging into the paper. "Two days ter, they came for me."

  "The Syndicate," Bharath murmured.

  She nodded. "I never saw my apartment again. Just... woke up in darkness."

  Bharath struggled to find words. His sheltered life suddenly felt obscene in comparison.

  "They kept me underground for weeks," she continued, her voice steadying. "A basement somewhere in North Calcutta. You could hear temple bells or azaan sometimes, muffled through the walls."

  She tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve, winding it around her finger until the tip turned purple.

  "I wasn't the only one there. There were girls from all over – Nepal, Bangdesh, vilges I'd never heard of." She unwound the thread, studied the mark it left. "We learned to communicate with taps on the wall. Three quick, two slow meant 'they're coming.'"

  He felt cold despite the summer heat. "How did you get out?"

  Something shifted in her expression – a fsh of pride breaking through the pain.

  "There was a new guard. Young. Careless." She straightened her spine. "I'd been... performing well in their 'training.' They thought I was broken in. Compliant."

  Her eyes met his, fierce now. "I wasn't."

  "What did you do?" he asked, enthralled despite his horror.

  "I seduced him." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "Made him think he was special. Different from the others. That I'd chosen him."

  She reached for her bag, pulled out a small steel nail file, turned it over in her hands.

  "When he came close enough..." She mimicked a quick jabbing motion. "Right into his thigh. Not fatal. Just enough."

  Bharath winced involuntarily.

  "I took his keys. His phone." She set the nail file down with a soft click. "But I couldn't just leave. There were others. Girls who'd protected me when I first arrived."

  "The ones you mentioned? Rupa and..."

  "Rehama. Aarti. Yes." She nodded. "I couldn't get them all out. The keys only opened certain doors. But I memorized everything I could. Layout. Guard rotations. Names I overheard."

  Her voice softened. "I promised I'd come back for them."

  "And you did," he said quietly.

  She looked up sharply. "Not soon enough. Some were already gone by then. Shipped off to God knows where."

  She paused, a new tension in her shoulders. Bharath could tell there was something else, something harder to say. The ceiling fan wobbled slightly on its axis, creating an uneven rhythm of air that brushed against the hairs on his arms.

  "There's more," he said quietly. Not a question.

  She nodded, her eyes fixed on the worn carpet between us. "After I escaped... I still needed to survive. I had no money, no identity papers, nowhere safe to go."

  "What did you do?" he asked, though part of me already knew.

  "I made a deal." Her voice hardened. "With a different part of the Syndicate. A woman who... specialized in certain services. She didn't know I'd been captive in another cell. She just saw potential."

  He waited, giving her the space to continue.

  "For protection, I became what they had trained me to be. A honeytrap." The words seemed to leave a bitter taste in her mouth. "Rich men. Vulnerable men. Men with something to lose."

  Her eyes finally met his, a fsh of shame crossing her face. "I heard about you through the grapevine. A new rich kid from Chennai, alone in Calcutta."

  The words nded like a physical blow. He felt his breath catch. "Me?"

  "Word spreads in certain circles. Fresh targets are... valuable." She looked away again. "I decided to act on my own, before the Syndicate officially assigned you to someone else. I thought I'd prove my initiative."

  "But you didn't go through with it," Bharath said finally.

  Her face softened. "No. I couldn't."

  "Why?"

  She was quiet for a long moment. The sounds of the city filtered in faintly through the windows—a car horn, a distant temple bell, someone's radio pying a Lata Mangeshkar song.

  She nodded. "I went to my handler that morning, told her I was done. She... didn't take it well." Her fingers unconsciously touched a faded scar near her colrbone. "I ran. Had an emergency bag stashed. Enough to disappear for a while, but not forever."

  "And you came here," he said softly. "To the one pce you knew you'd be safe."

  "To the one person I thought might help without asking for something in return," she corrected. "The Syndicate still doesn't know about you—not connected to me, anyway. They think I just ran."

  Relief flooded through Bharath. "So they're not looking for you here."

  "It's the st pce they'd look. Who runs to their mark?" The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. "But it's more than convenience now. You know that, right? This—" she gestured between us, "—it's real. It started as... something else. But it's real now."

  Bharath nodded slowly. "I know."

  She seemed to be gathering her courage for something else. "The photographs. Rekha Das. The Syndicate. It's all connected." She met his eyes directly. "That's why I need the protocols. The routes. The exits. Not just for me. For them. For what we owe."

  He folded the paper and tucked it away safely, his movements deliberate, buying time to steady his own emotions.

  "Got it. If something happens... I'll know where to look."

  "And if I disappear," she said softly, "don't look for me. Look ahead. Complete what we started."

  Bharath didn't answer. He just held her gaze and gave a slow, solemn nod, the weight of her trust settling on his shoulders like a mantle. Outside, the city continued its nightly symphony—honking horns, distant voices, the rattle of the st trains—oblivious to the war being pnned in their quiet apartment.

  Then he spoke, finding his voice again.

  "You know, Priya... hearing all that, it makes me realize I've lived in a different world altogether. Growing up, I thought the world was… ordered. Merit-based. Structured. Like if you worked hard and followed rules, things would come together. I didn't know what survival meant, not the way you do. I was protected. Privileged. I didn't even know how much."

  He looked down, voice quieter now. "In my head, I was going to make it big just on skill and passion. But now? I realise just how blind I was to how the real world operates. And if this is what's out there — if these people are running cities from the shadows — then we can't just look away. I want to help. For real."

  He hesitated, then asked, "Should I talk to my father? If he knew the scale of this—"

  Priya shook her head firmly. "No. Not yet. Bharath, you don't understand. These people have networks that mirror your father's business empire. One whisper, one mispced conversation, and the Syndicate will know. They're everywhere. Inside police stations. Inside media offices. Possibly even inside your father's boardroom."

  He stiffened. "You think—"

  "I think we can't risk your family. Not until we have something airtight. Evidence. A pn. I don't want you to end up on their radar because you trusted the wrong person with the right heart."

  He nodded slowly. "Alright. We do it our way. Quiet. Precise. No heroes."

  The air conditioning hummed like a distant lulby, failing to cool the tension in Rekha Das's opulent bedroom. She reclined against silk pillows, watching her daughter over the rim of a crystal winegss filled with blood-red merlot. The artificial chill of the room created a stark contrast with the natural heat that seeped through the windows, creating a battleground of temperatures where luxury triumphed over nature.

  "Abar shokale ghum? Early to bed again?" she asked, her tone deceptively light. The cloying scent of expensive French perfume hung in the air, mingling with the subtle smell of furniture polish that the household staff had applied earlier.

  Anya stood rigidly by the doorway, knuckles white where they gripped a gilded chair. Her bare feet felt the cold shock of marble tiles, their polished surface unyielding beneath her.

  "Yoga csses. I'm tired."

  Rekha's smile was a perfect crescent of practiced charm, sharp as a paper cut. "Eta kichhu na. Yoga won't save you from irrelevance, Anya. Beauty fades. And then what will you have left? Sweetness? Innocence?" The ice in her gss clinked musically as she swirled the wine, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.

  Something in Anya's posture changed – a subtle straightening of her spine, a hardening in her eyes.

  "Maybe not your reputation," she said, meeting her mother's gaze directly. "Shobai bolchhe je you slept your way to power. That you're nothing without bckmail."

  Rekha's ugh was low and indulgent, the ice in her gss clinking softly as she swirled it. "Child, ami-i shokti. I am power. Every man of consequence in this city has knelt for me, one way or another."

  “And you think being a harlot is shokti?” Anya shot back.

  She leaned forward, shadows pying across her perfect features. "Pradip Roy gave me construction permits because I filmed him begging for more after one night. Somnath Mitra's son's drug charges disappeared, and his factories became linked to my interests. Inspector Dutta?" A predatory smile. "He confessed everything in my bed. Now he obeys like a trained animal."

  Anya's voice was barely audible. "Ei shob... proof... kothai rakhcho tumi? Where do you keep all this... evidence?"

  Something gleamed in Rekha's eyes – pride, perhaps, or the satisfaction of a teacher seeing a student finally grasp a difficult lesson.

  "Nirapod jaigai," she answered, studying her daughter's face. "Somewhere safe. Where it ensures silence."

  "Tumi upobhog koro," Anya whispered, disgust and fascination mingling in her voice. "You enjoy this."

  "Enjoy? Ami er modhye bhaashi. I revel in it. There's nothing more exquisite than watching powerful men realize they're owned." Rekha moved to her vanity, the silk of her robe whispering against marble floors. "They're tools, Anya. And tools don't care how they're used."

  Anya started trembling in disgust.

  She turned, catching her daughter's reflection in the mirror. "Commissioner Narayan was investigating Syndicate bribes. Upright, moral man. I arranged for him to meet a particurly talented model at a fundraiser. His wife received certain photos the following week. The investigation vanished overnight."

  "Keno?" Anya asked, her voice hollow. "Why?"

  Rekha's answer was simple, unapologetic. "Because it profited me."

  "Tahole ami tomar kachhe ki?" Anya asked suddenly. "What does that make me to you?"

  Rekha assessed her daughter with clinical detachment. "A valuable asset. A bnk canvas I've cultivated carefully."

  "A puppet," Anya transted.

  "Aadhar," Rekha corrected. "A vessel. And someday, you'll inherit everything I've built – if you learn to be smart about it."

  Anya's lips trembled, not from weakness but from fury barely contained. "Ami beshi thaakbo na tomar moto hoye. I'd rather have nothing than become you."

  For a fraction of a second, something flickered beneath Rekha's perfect mask – a hairline crack in porcein. Then it vanished, sealed over by years of practiced cruelty.

  "Tumi bokha," she said softly. "Then you're a fool."

  They stood in silence, two generations at crossroads – one who had chosen power at any cost, one still deciding what price she was willing to pay for freedom.

  In the quiet of her heart, Anya made her choice.

  She would tear her mother's world down.