The room was drenched in blood, bodies crumpled like discarded paper. Dhanush stood in the center of the carnage, gun hanging loosely from his fingers. His grey compressed shirt clung to his frame, streaked with a splatter of red. Black cargo pants, a long black coat draped over his shoulders—he looked like a man who had walked straight out of hell. His father stood nearby, surveying the aftermath, unfazed.

Then, the door creaked open.

Dhanush’s grip on the gun tightened. His eyes flickered up—and froze.

His voice came out low, sharp. "Get her out of here."

No one moved.

His jaw clenched, his shoulders going rigid. “I said—get. Her. Out.”

Still, nothing. His men were too stunned. Too damn scared.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as he exhaled harshly, finally stepping forward, boots echoing against the blood-soaked floor. His voice was rough, edged with something unreadable.

“You have no idea what you just walked into.”

His fingers curled around the gun tighter before he forced himself to lower it. His heartbeat was a hammer against his ribs.

His father scoffed from the side, amusement lacing his tone. “She’s seen it now. No point in pretending, Dhanush.”

Dhanush snapped his head toward him, voice like steel. “I don’t pretend. And I don’t let her see this.”

His father raised a brow but said nothing more.

Dhanush turned back, his gaze dark, torn between fury and something deeper. His voice dropped, just above a whisper.

"You shouldn’t be here, jaan."

A pause. His throat bobbed, and for the first time that night, the ruthless king of fear felt unsteady.

His voice was almost pleading now. “Let’s go. Before I forget who I am with you.”