MUMBAI.
FIVE YEARS AGO.
I was just 15 years old, but that day aged me forever.
The rain had been pouring nonstop—relentless, angry, like the sky itself was warning us. I remember sitting on the cold tile floor of our one-bedroom apartment, watching the clock tick past midnight. My father—Karan Rathore, an upright police officer, the last honest man left in uniform—still hadn't returned.
It wasn't unusual. He worked dangerous cases, stayed out late, chased monsters in a city that was already rotting from the inside.
But that night felt different.
I still remember the metallic scent of gun oil on his holster. The sharp creases of his uniform. And most of all, his words before he left:
"Amit, lock the doors. Don't let anyone in except me. And remember—never bow your head to anyone who uses fear as a weapon."
I didn't know then…
That those would be the last words he ever said to me.
---
EARLIER THAT DAY :
He came home late, bruised and limping. I rushed to help him, but he waved me off with a tired smile.
"It's nothing, son. Just another day messing with the rats in this city."
My father wasn't just a cop. He was that cop—the one who didn't take bribes, who spoke in court when others stayed silent, who raided the dens of gangsters who thought they were above the law.
And because of that... they hated him.
The Black Vultures, The Iron Dogs, The Shinde Cartel—they all had one thing in common: Karan Rathore was a thorn in their side. But he never showed fear. Never once.
He kept a framed photo of my mother, Asha, on his desk—she passed away when I was just a kid. Cancer. Quiet and cruel. My father never remarried. Said she was his only peace in this brutal world.
He tried to be both father and mother for me. Strict, but fair. Always present, even when the city tried to swallow him whole.
---
THEN CAME THE KNOCK
It was around 1:20 AM.
Three sharp knocks at the door.
I froze.
We lived on the third floor, barely any neighbors awake at that hour.
I didn't open it, but I heard voices.
Then—gunshots.
Four.
Quick.
Precise.
Silenced.
I ran to the window, heart hammering in my chest.
Below, I saw the front gate wide open. A black car speeding off. And lying in the pool of rain and blood was...
him.
My father.
Face down. His badge still clipped to his belt.
---
I don't remember screaming, but the neighbors say they heard me from two floors up.
---
The next few days were a blur—funeral, reporters, fake sympathy from corrupt cops who probably tipped off the gang that killed him. They called it an unsolved case. Said it might have been a "robbery."
Bullshit.
They knew who did it.
Everyone did.
But no one dared to say the name.
They just called him "the Ghost."
A shadowy figure that even gang lords feared. No photos. No evidence. Just whispers.
And my father had gotten too close to exposing him.
---
I had no family left.
I was just a number in the system after that.
Orphaned. Alone. Forgotten.
They sent me to a shelter outside the city. A cold, crowded hellhole where kids either broke or turned into animals. I lasted three months before I ran away.
I spent the next few years living in the streets, stealing food, fighting to survive. I got tougher. Smarter. Meaner. I started hanging around the gangs—not to join them at first, but to learn. Who controlled what. Who answered to whom. Who was afraid of whom.
The Ghost.
The name burned in my brain every single night. I didn't care how long it took—I was going to find him. And I was going to kill him.
---
Now here I am.
Amit Rathore—once a scared 15-year-old, now an Executive in the Crimson Fangs, one of the biggest gangs in the city.
Some might call me a traitor.
But this is just my way in.
Because to kill a monster, you don't wear a badge.
You wear the mask of one.
And I'll wear that mask until the Ghost is the one lying face down in the dirt—just like my father was.
---
This is not just revenge.
THIS IS WAR !