The GPS brought them to the border of the Sanjay Gandhi National Park, where the trees converged thick and the law grew thin. No police, no cameras, no streetlights—nothing but sheer wildness holding old ruins and older transgressions.
Samruddhi pulled up the car beside a weathered iron gate, its hinges gnawed away by the passage of time. Arpan emerged first, covering the perimeter.
"Deserted temples, forest silence, and mystery writings," she grumbled. "Typical horror film premise."
"Only this one has a blood finish, not spirits," Arpan answered, patting the clip of his gun.
They marched together through the thicket, along a weathered path until they found a neglected shrine. Covered by vines, it blended into nature, an etching in stone. But what Samruddhi saw wasn't the shrine—it was the figure standing before it.
Tall. Gaunt. Gray coat. Scar above his brow.
"Junaid." Arpan's voice fell like a sledgehammer.
Junaid Sheikh—disputed More enforcer, presumed dead for years.
"Thought you were feeding sharks off the Versova pier," Arpan said icily.
Junaid grinned. "That was the plan, wasn't it? But fire doesn't drown, Arpan. It waits."
Samruddhi moved forward. "You sent the message?"
"I did," Junaid nodded. "Because your fathers constructed an empire out of deceit. And now it's time to burn it all."
He tossed a folder at their feet. Inside: photos, documents, and a map of Mumbai's underworld operations—with the names of every ally, enemy, and traitor. At the center: Devraj More and Jai Jadhav.
"They started the blood pact," Junaid said. "And Rina? She tried to break it. That's why she died."
Samruddhi's knees buckled. She stared at a picture of her father holding her as a child—on the same day, according to the timestamp, he signed a land deal with Devraj.
"So my father wasn't a victim?" she whispered.
"He was a general," Junaid replied. "But Rina—she defected. She fell in love with Jai, but she also stole from Devraj. Documents. Evidence. Enough to destroy them all."
Arpan's face was a stone. "Where is it now?"
Junaid gazed at him. "Where she left it. In plain sight. With someone who doesn't realize they do."
"Who?" Samruddhi demanded.
Junaid gazed at her, then at Arpan.
"Ask him. He already knows."
Before Arpan could answer, a shot echoed through the air.
Junaid's chest burst into red. He slumped forward, his eyes wide with unspoken truths.
Samruddhi spun around, gun at the ready—but the shooter had vanished.
"Sniper," Arpan growled. "Military grade. Silencer. Someone didn't want him to speak again."
She knelt by Junaid's body, hands shaking. "We were so close."
Arpan crouched beside her, lifting the folder. "We're still in it. They just moved the finish line."
From the folder, a single photo slipped free.
A woman.
Familiar.
Older now, but unmistakable.
"Kavya," Samruddhi whispered.
"She was Rina's friend," Arpan said. "She inherited the house after Rina died."
They both looked at each other.
"She has the proof," Samruddhi declared.
Arpan's jaw clenched. "Or she's already applied it."
They sprinted to the car.
Because if Kavya was in the middle of this.
Then the next bullet might not miss.
To be continued.