CHAPTER 6
The rain falls steadily, blurring the neon glow of Mumbai’s streets. Water fills the potholes, streams into gutters, and makes the alleys shine like glass. Ayesha Sharma moves through the dark streets quietly, blending into the shadows. No one notices her, but she notices everything. Her leather jacket is heavy with rain, clinging to her shoulders. Strands of damp hair have come loose, falling into her face.
Tonight, she isn’t the disciplined police officer who wears her badge with pride.
Tonight, she’s someone else entirely. She has no choice.
Ahead, the dim light of a rundown bar flickers. Khauf Ghar, the locals call it—House of Fear. It’s a haven for the city's worst, a place where deals are made in hushed tones, where power shifts hands over spilt drinks and spilt blood. She steps inside, the stench of cigarette smoke, sweat, and cheap liquor hitting her instantly. The crowd is rough—scarred men with hard eyes and women with blood-red lipstick. Conversations hum, but heads turn the moment she walks in. She feels their stares—some curious, some suspicious, others predatory. But she doesn’t falter. Her boots click against the sticky floor as she walks to the bar, her confidence like armour.
A bald man leans against the counter, his bulky frame spilling over the edge. A jagged scar runs down his cheek, giving him an intimidating look.
“Shinde,” she says, her voice calm but firm.
He turns slowly, his eyes narrowing as they sweep over her. “Who wants to know?”
“Meera,” she says smoothly. “Tell your boss I’m here. I’ve got what he’s looking for.”
His gaze lingers for a moment too long, assessing her. She holds it, unflinching, until he finally jerks his head toward a door at the back.
“Wait there.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
----------------------------------------
The Back Room
The room smells worse than the bar—like mildew. A single bulb with yellowish light hangs from the ceiling, swaying slightly, casting uneven light on the battered table and mismatched chairs. She’s been rehearsing this moment for months—every detail, every lie, every move.
Tonight, she is Meera—an ambitious smuggler looking for a way in.
The door creaks open, and a wiry man steps inside.
Vikram Bhosale.
His name is well-known in the city’s underworld. Mid-forties, with sharp features and a reputation for ruthless efficiency. He sits across from her, his fingers drumming lightly on the table.
“You’re brave to come here,” he says, his voice smooth but with a warning edge.
“Not brave,” Ayesha replies, meeting his gaze. “Valuable.”
His eyebrow arches slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that so?”
She leans forward, her voice steady. “I’ve got connections—real ones. The kind that could make you more than just a middleman. But only if you’re smart enough to listen.”
For a moment, there’s only silence. Ayesha’s heart races, but she doesn’t let it show.
Vikram studies her, his sharp eyes searching for cracks. Then, he leans back and lets out a small chuckle.
“You’ve got guts, Meera. I like that.”
The conversation begins—coded words and subtle threats, promises of power and wealth. Ayesha matches his tone perfectly, playing the part she’s spent months perfecting. But her mind keeps drifting to a file she read earlier.
Fifteen years ago. A night that still haunts her.
She clenches her fists under the table, forcing the memories away.
“Something on your mind?” Vikram asks, his tone is casual but his eyes sharp.
Just planning my next move,” she says with a small smirk.
But the truth is far more complicated.
----------------------------------------
By the time she leaves Khauf Ghar, the rain has turned into a downpour. She moves quickly, slipping into the shadows as if she were never there. The stares from the bar still linger in her mind, but she doesn’t look back. Back in her car, she exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The adrenaline fades, leaving behind the familiar ache of loneliness.
As she starts the engine, her phone buzzes. A message lights up the screen:
"Good start. But remember—one misstep, and you’re done.”
Ayesha tightens her grip on the steering wheel, her jaw clenched. The line between duty and destruction has never felt thinner. The rain blurs her windshield, but her focus doesn’t waver.
She isn’t just chasing justice anymore.
She’s chasing redemption.
And she’s willing to risk everything for it.