Location: Unknown Coordinates — Abandoned Textile Mill
There were six men kneeling in a flawless circle.
Their faces obscured by black veils sewn with red thread—each of them bearing a single Sanskrit letter inscribed in blood.
Agni. Rakt. Vadh. Dahan. Krodh. Naas.
Fire. Blood. Slaughter. Burn. Rage. Annihilation.
The masked leader, acting as the others, moved forward. His voice was young, silky, charismatic. Too unruffled.
He set a framed photo at the center of the circle.
Arpan More.
And another next to it.
Samruddhi Jadhav.
Then a third.
Rina More.
"We are the children of those burned by their reign," he said. "We were orphans while they built palaces from ash."
The men bowed.
He raised his hand.
"Tonight, we light the city."
Scene Shift – Safehouse in Varanasi
Rina's wounds had been stitched by a local doctor paid enough to keep his mouth shut for life.
Arpan stood beside her bedside, eyes hollow.
"She wanted to die back there," he murmured.
"She was ready to," Samruddhi said, taking a sip of tea gone cold. "But not for us. For her story."
Rina opened one eye.
"I'm still alive, you know."
Samruddhi did not blink. "Unfortunately."
Rina grinned.
"You're welcome."
Arpan intervened. "We have to discuss the group that ambushed us."
Rina came up to sitting slowly. "They're not a gang. Not a cartel. Not even mercenaries."
Karishma intervened, holding a folder.
"They call themselves Agniputra. Sons of the Fire."
She tossed it onto the table.
Photos were scattered.
Victims. Children. Widows. Names no one recalled.
"They're offspring of the More dynasty's collateral damage victims. Each explosion. Each assassination. Each muzzled journalist. They followed it all. They planned. In secret. Strategically. And now… they're on our doorstep."
Flashback – Mumbai, 2010
A young boy sees his mother burn alive within a post office.
Wrong place. Wrong time.
She'd set out to mail a letter of complaint regarding illegal evictions by the More family's shell company.
The building got bombed.
The fire report attributed it to "gas leakage."
The boy had kept the letter.
Grew up on silence's leavings.
Here and now – Varanasi Ashram
Arpan gazed at a picture of that same boy—now a man in his late twenties. Serene eyes. Sharpened fury.
"He's their leader?" Arpan asked.
Rina nodded. "Name not known. Codename: Anvaya."
Samruddhi scowled. "That means lineage."
Karishma interrupted, "He thinks he's the spiritual son of all those souls who shed blood under your father's rule. He doesn't desire justice. He desires poetic vengeance."
"What's that?" Arpan inquired.
Rina answered, voice as paper-thin.
"It means… he desires to get you both to fall in love with each other entirely… just to rip you apart in front of everyone."
Silence enveloped the room.
Samruddhi gritted her teeth.
"He wants to make our love the last mistake we make."
Elsewhere – Mumbai Suburb, Night
Three buildings rose up in synchronized explosions.
No one was killed.
But scrawls spray-painted on the rubble:
"Love won't save you. Legacy won't protect you. Fire remembers."
– Agniputra
Back in Varanasi
Arpan paced.
"Then we attack first. Locate Anvaya. Sever the head."
Karishma shook her head. "Too late. He's already in motion. And worse… he's got insiders."
Rina sighed.
"I spent my entire life attempting to make rulers who would not become monsters. Now my crimes have given birth to their own."
She turned to Arpan.
"You wish to save her?" she inquired.
Arpan nodded.
Rina hurled him a black notebook.
"Then begin by reading what I never shared with anyone. About Jai. About Samruddhi's true inheritance."
Samruddhi's eyes grew wide.
"What do you mean?"
Rina spun around.
Voice cold.
"Jai Jadhav didn't fall in love with me. He betrayed Devraj. Sponsored our enemies. Assisted in faking the deaths of underworld players to grant them new beginnings. And he left you… with more than what's true."
Samruddhi took a step back, shocked.
"You mean… "
Rina nodded slowly.
"You weren't born to be a journalist. You were born to be the detonator."
Final Scene – Somewhere in Bandra
Anvaya was on top of a building, hair in the wind, staring at the screen in front of him.
Arpan and Samruddhi were in view—live feed.
He grinned.
Children were behind him, gathered.
Ex-child soldiers. Abandoned orphans. Tamed minds made subservient.
He swept an arm towards the cityscape.
"See that city?" he asked the children.
They nodded.
"That's where your parents are buried."
He held up a red flare.
Lit it.
"We start the funeral tomorrow."
To be continued…