Prologue:

Rajib walked through the familiar streets of Calcutta, his steps aimless yet heavy with purpose. The city, always alive with its cacophony of sights and sounds, felt quieter to him now. A year had passed since Vikram’s empire crumbled, but the shadows it cast still lingered.

He slipped into a corner café, the same one he had frequented with Ritu during their stolen moments of happiness. The memory hit him like a train—her laughter, the way she’d twirl her tea spoon absentmindedly. Now, the table across from him was empty. Memories clung to him, suffocating and relentless.

He pulled out the photograph he always carried, its edges frayed from overuse. Ayesha and Ritu, their faces captured in a moment of fleeting joy. Their smiles haunted him in different ways: Ayesha’s, a memory of loyalty, fire, and loss; Ritu’s, a reminder of betrayal wrapped in love.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a voice said, pulling him from his thoughts.

The voice startled him. Rajib glanced up, his grip tightening on the photo. A man in his early thirties stood before him, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit. His presence exuded confidence—calculated, but not overtly threatening.

“Who are you?” Rajib asked, his tone guarded.

The man slid into the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. “A friend. Or at least, I can be.”

Rajib’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve had enough of friends who end up holding knives.”

The man smirked, unfazed. “Fair point. But this isn’t about you, Rajib. It’s about her.”

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The words hit like a punch to the gut.

The man leaned in, his voice low and deliberate. “Ritu. She’s alive.”

Rajib froze. For a moment, the café’s noise dissolved into silence. He’d spent the past year convincing himself that Ritu was gone—her letter a final goodbye, her disappearance at the end of a story better left buried. But the stranger’s words brought something he’d tried to kill within himself back to life: hope, tangled with anger and regret.

“I’m done chasing shadows,” Rajib said, though his voice lacked conviction.

The man reached into his briefcase and slid a folder across the table. “Then don’t think of this as chasing shadows. Think of it as closure.”

Rajib hesitated, his hand hovering over the folder. The stranger’s gaze never wavered. Slowly, Rajib opened it.

Inside were grainy, candid photos—Ritu, her hair shorter, her face harder. She was standing outside a high-security compound surrounded by dense forests in what looked like Eastern Europe, her expression sharp and unyielding.

Rajib’s stomach churned. “What is this?”

The man leaned back, his tone calm but pressing. “That’s Ritu now. The woman you knew is gone. She’s rebuilding.”

“Rebuilding what?”

“Vikram’s empire,” the man said. “Piece by piece. Vikram’s death didn’t end his syndicate. It fractured it. And Ritu? She’s picking up the pieces, uniting the factions that splintered. In some ways, she’s doing what Vikram couldn’t.”

Rajib’s fists clenched as he looked at the photos again. The woman in them was familiar, but distant—someone transformed by the choices she’d made.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice low and sharp.

The man stood, smoothing his jacket. “Because someone needs to stop her. And whether you like it or not, I think you’re the only one who can.”

Rajib’s gaze followed the man as he walked toward the door. Before leaving, the stranger turned back, his expression unreadable.

“Do yourself a favor, Rajib. Don’t let your history with her blind you. She’s not the same woman you loved. And if you go after her, you might not come back the same either.”

The door jingled shut, leaving Rajib alone with the folder and the ghost of a past he thought he’d buried.

He stared at the photograph one last time. Ritu’s face seemed to mock him, a challenge written in her hardened gaze.

“Ritu,” he whispered, his jaw tightening. “What have you become?”

The prologue ends with Rajib stepping out of the café, the folder clutched tightly in his hand. The streets of Calcutta felt heavier now, the shadows longer. Somewhere out there, Ritu was waiting—and this time, it wasn’t just love or revenge driving him. It was the need for answers.

The stage is set. The shadows have returned.