Priya's POV:

Rain pelted the windshield as we tore through the streets, Arjun's knuckles white on the steering wheel. The sirens were off. We didn't need attention—we needed time, and time was the only thing Karan had taken away from us.

"Four hours," I whispered again, more to myself than anyone else. My wrists still bore the angry red lines where the ropes had cut into my skin. They ached. But the pain kept me alert, grounded. Karan was gone, but his game wasn't over. And now, it wasn't about revenge or justice. It was about saving Kashi.

Arjun glanced at me. "If he said she's still alive, we'll find her."

"We have to," I said firmly. My voice was steadier than I felt.

In my house, the faint scent of gas still hung in the air. The fire hadn't started. Maybe it never was meant to. Just another diversion. Another performance. We'd alerted the control room and called in a forensics team, but we didn't stay.

Karan's last words echoed inside me—taunting, but deliberate. Calculated. He wanted to die knowing we would scramble in panic. But he wasn't the only one who could play this game.

"We need to check his house," I said suddenly, turning toward Arjun.

Without a word, he swerved the car around, tires shrieking against the wet asphalt. Every second was a countdown.

The building was in Lower Parel—an upscale high-rise, sleek and glass-paneled. The kind of place where people sip imported wine and pretend the city's chaos doesn't exist beyond their tinted windows.

We stormed in. The security guard barely registered us, and Arjun flashed his badge without slowing down. We took the elevator to the 18th floor. The air was stale and clinical—like a museum piece, not a home.

Inside, the flat was pristine. Nothing out of place. Polished wooden floors, minimalist furniture, no personal touches. Like a stage set.

Arjun checked the obvious places first—bedroom, bathroom, balcony. No false floors, no trapdoors. But this wasn't just a panic room we were looking for.

Karan wouldn't hide her far. He didn't have time. He needed her close. And then I saw it.

A mounted devil mask on the far wall of the living room. It wasn't decorative. It was... wrong. Too flush with the surface. There were faint scratch marks near the edges.

It hadn't been there before.

I stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid it might disappear. I reached out and pressed my fingers against it. There—hidden beneath the chin, a small depression. I pushed inward.

A click. A hiss.

The wall beside the mask shifted, and a thin seam split open.

Arjun stepped beside me, tense. "What the hell..."

A narrow, spiraling staircase lay behind the wall, plunging downward into darkness.

"There's a whole level below?" he murmured.

"No one builds something like this unless they have something to hide," I said.

We moved quickly but cautiously. Each step echoed slightly. The deeper we went, the colder the air became, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

At the bottom, we found a metallic door. No handles. Just a keypad and a fingerprint scanner. I crouched near it.

Arjun stepped forward and slammed the butt of his gun into the scanner. Nothing.

I reached into my coat. From a sealed evidence pouch, I took Karan's severed hand.

The grotesque weight of it chilled me. I pressed his thumb to the scanner.

A soft beep. The door slid open.

The room inside was soundproofed. The walls padded. A dim bulb flickered overhead, casting trembling shadows. On one side—an iron bed bolted to the floor. A chair. A tray of stale food. A bucket in the corner.

And on the far wall, chained at the wrists, head slumped forward—

"Kashi."

Her name tore from my throat like a gasp.

She stirred, lifting her head slightly. Her eyes fluttered open—red-rimmed, dull. But they found me.

"P... Priya?"

"I'm here," I said, crossing the room in seconds. I dropped to my knees, fumbling with the restraints. "I'm here. You're safe."

Her wrists were raw, caked in dried blood. Arjun joined me, snapping the metal cuffs apart with bolt cutters he'd picked up from Karan's tool kit outside.

Kashi collapsed into my arms. Her body was limp, fragile like porcelain, but she clung to me weakly.

"He said you forgot me," she whispered, voice cracked. "Said no one would come."

"He lied," I said fiercely, brushing the hair back from her bruised forehead. "He lied about everything."

Arjun moved methodically around the room, scanning boxes, bookshelves, a desk shoved into the corner.

"He watched us," he muttered. "For years."

I followed his gaze. A wall of photographs, news clippings, handwritten notes. Every operation I had led. Every press conference. Candid photos of Kashi and me laughing outside a café. Surveillance shots of Nila.

"He studied you," Arjun said. "Obsessed over you."

But none of that mattered anymore. I looked back at Kashi. Her eyes were fluttering shut.

"Stay with me," I urged. "We're getting out of here."

We carried her up the stairs. Slowly. Carefully. She barely weighed anything. Arjun shielded her from the cold rain as we reached the car. I held her hand the entire way.

The hospital admitted her immediately. Fluids. Pain meds. Bloodwork. The doctor said she was lucky. Malnourished, dehydrated, but no major internal damage. Her bruises would fade. Her wounds would heal.

But I knew trauma ran deeper.

I stayed beside her as she slept, curled under white sheets, IV in her arm. Her breathing was steady, her chest rising and falling like a tide finally receding.

I moved to the window, needing air. Needing perspective.

The sun was rising now, streaking orange across Mumbai's smog-draped skyline. A city full of chaos. Full of secrets. But it was still home.

Arjun joined me silently.

"He didn't win," he said.

"No," I replied. "But he nearly did."

We stood in silence, letting the dawn wash over our thoughts.

Arjun cleared his throat. "Security around Nila. Around you. I'll put in the request."

"He's dead," I said. "But people like him don't operate alone. There may be more. There's always more."

I glanced at him. His face was tight with worry, but calm.

"For now," I added, "this part is over."

We looked back into the hospital room. Kashi stirred in her sleep, her fingers curled loosely around the blanket.

"She's safe," Arjun said.

"She's alive," I corrected.

There was a difference.

Karan Ahuja had played god. Controlled the board. Written our stories for us. But in the end, he made one mistake.

He underestimated us.

He underestimated me.

_________________________________________