Darkness presses in from all sides.

The only sound is her ragged breathing.

She stumbles, her heels scraping against the rough concrete as she darts through the desolate alleyway. The stench of dampness and rust clings to the air, thick and suffocating.

A cold wind cuts through her thin dress, sending a violent shiver down her spine. But she can't stop. She won't.

A shadow flickers against the brick walls.

She whips around—no one. Maybe she managed to outpace him.

Her heart pounds against her ribs.

She grips the torn fabric of her sleeve, trying to calm herself. Think. Move.

A soft click echoes behind her. The unmistakable sound of a knife being drawn.

A low, chilling voice echoed through the empty street behind her, laced with eerie amusement.

"How far are you going to run? Sooner or later... I'll catch you."

Her blood runs cold.

She skidded to a stop, her breath sharp and uneven. The air around her felt heavier now, thick with something unsettling. Slowly, she turned, her gaze locking onto the figure standing a few steps away.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

The dim glow of the streetlights barely touched him, his face swallowed by the shadows—but she could feel his eyes on her, cold and unrelenting.

She takes a step back, her pulse a deafening roar in her ears.

A metallic gleam catches the dim light. A blade.

Her breath hitches. The air stills.

Then—he lunges.

She throws herself to the side, barely dodging the slash aimed at her throat. The knife scrapes against the wall, sparks flying as steel meets stone.

Pain shoots up her arm as she lands hard on her elbow. But there’s no time to register it.

She scrambles to her feet, only for a strong hand to seize her wrist.

"No more running," the voice taunts.

She struggles, thrashing against the grip, but his fingers dig into her skin like iron shackles. Her free hand claws at him, nails scraping against fabric—

BANG!

A gunshot. A scream.

She flinches, eyes squeezing shut—

"CUT!!"

A deafening silence follows.

Then—laughter. Applause. The buzz of a hundred voices. The eerie stillness of the previous scene is swallowed by the chaotic energy of production.

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Bright set lights flood her vision as the world shifts around her. The cold alley disappears, replaced by sleek cameras, thick cables, and bustling crew members.

She blinks. Her body is still trembling, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"That was insane!" someone cheers.

A hand reaches out, offering a bottle of water.

---

Backstage Chaos

Meanwhile:

"Where is she?! He asked for her—get her, now!"

A young assistant, Riya, rushes through the set, scanning the crowd frantically. Her earpiece crackles.

"Riya, have you found her yet?"

"Still looking!" She dashes past costume racks, dodging a prop sword, nearly colliding with a lighting crew member.

Her eyes finally land on the lead actress—breathless, poised, and in the middle of an intense scene. The cameras roll, capturing every flicker of emotion in her eyes.

The camera lingers on her trembling figure. The world around her is silent—only the sound of her sharp, uneven breaths fills the space. A single drop of blood trails down her cheek, a stark contrast against her now pale skin.

The moment the director calls “Cut!”, there is silence.

She closes her eyes. Just for a second. Then—she lifts her head, her expression shifting. The fear, the desperation, the vulnerability—it all vanishes.

What remains is something unreadable. Cold. Resolute.

Riya hesitates, momentarily awed.

The tension shatters. The set explodes into motion. Crew members rush around, adjusting lights, checking angles, reviewing footage.

She exhales, rolling her shoulders as someone hands her a water bottle.

The cap twists open with a soft crack. She raises it to her lips, taking a slow sip, her throat moving as the cool liquid washes away the dryness.

A single droplet escapes, trailing down the curve of her jaw before she wipes it away with the back of her hand.

"Riya!" The voice in her earpiece snaps her back to reality.

She takes a deep breath and hurries forward. “Ma’am, Ajay sir needs to see you. Urgently.”

She doesn’t even glance up. Instead, she tilts her head back, taking another sip of water, her expression unreadable. Then, with deliberate ease, she lowers the bottle, taps her fingers against the side, and finally—slowly—meets Riya’s eyes.

"And?"

Riya hesitates. "I—he said it's important."

Still, she doesn’t move. Instead, she takes a seat on the director's chair, stretching out her legs like she has all the time in the world.

"Let him wait," she murmurs, resting the bottle against her knee.

Riya swallows but nods, stepping back thinking "Seems like she already knows what this is about".

The message is clear. She moves when she decides to.

She wouldn't dare say it out loud, but sometimes she wonder, “Why do Miss. Alice and Mr. Ajay always have to make everything a silent power struggle?”

For a few moments, she simply sits there, watching the crew reset the scene, letting the weight of the performance slip off her shoulders at her own pace.

Then, and only then, does she rise.

She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t ask. She just walks, making her way toward Ajay’s office, her presence commanding without a single word.

Show’s over. Now, it’s time for the real game.

---

Alice Rains.

The name alone carried weight—an aura of mystery and prestige that even the brightest lights on set couldn’t quite illuminate.

A famous actress, adored by the public, yet distant enough to keep the world at arm’s length. People knew her name, knew her face, but few truly understood her.

Those who worked with her knew one thing for certain: Alice wasn’t someone you provoked.

And those who dared to cross her?

They would learn exactly how dangerous the quietest storms could be.

She had achieved so much, but the real question was: How?

--

Stepping Out of the Spotlight

The moment Alice stepped out of the studio, the blinding lights and constant murmurs of the crew faded behind her. The cool evening air brushed against her skin, a welcome contrast to the suffocating heat of the set. She pulled off her coat from where it had been draped over her arm, slipping it on with practiced ease.

Her manager had called her to his office—urgently, as usual—but she wasn’t in a rush.

The narrow hallways of the building carried echoes of conversations, hurried footsteps, and the occasional call for last-minute changes. Alice, however, walked through it all with an effortless grace, as if she were strolling through a quiet park rather than the chaos of the entertainment industry. She was used to it. Fame made people watch her, but it never dictated her pace.

She finally reached the elevator and pressed the button. The doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing an empty space. Perfect. The last thing she needed was someone babbling about the day's shoot. She stepped in, leaned against the polished steel walls, and exhaled slowly. She wasn’t tired—just recalibrating.

The moment the elevator doors reopened, she was greeted by the icy, pristine atmosphere of Ajay Rajput’s office floor. Unlike the liveliness of the studio below, this space was silent—controlled. The floor was polished to a mirror-like sheen, and the faint scent of coffee mixed with the sharp sterility of clean air. Even the employees here moved with precision, each glance wary, each step calculated.

Alice's lips twitched. Ajay’s kingdom.

She didn’t bother knocking.