The police station was never this quiet. Papers fluttered, typewriters stopped clacking, even the humming of the old ceiling fan felt louder than the men standing frozen in place.

At the center sat her—the minister’s daughter, Tyagi’s woman. Chubby cheeks flushed, eyes sharp yet rattled, her hourglass curves bound by authority that had no business touching her. No lady constables around, only the rough presence of men who thought they were in control—Inspector Hathi Ram, Sub-Inspector Ansari, and DCP Bhagat. They thought they had finally found Tyagi’s weakness.

And then he walked in.

Vishal Tyagi. Hathoda Tyagi.

6’3 of muscle and menace, tan skin, black hair falling across his forehead, beard shadowing a face carved from stone. His dead eyes swept across the room, and every man there felt their blood run cold. Ruthless, merciless, a predator who didn’t need weapons to kill—the air itself seemed to shift with his presence. The sound of his boots hitting the floor echoed like a death knell.

No one dared move.

His eyes landed on YN, and for the first time, something flickered in those otherwise dead irises—possession. Obsession. Rage buried under terrifying calm.

He growled, voice low enough to make the walls vibrate: “Touch her again… and I swear, not even your gods will find what’s left of you.”

Ansari instinctively stepped back, his throat dry. Bhagat’s jaw tightened, trying not to show fear. And Hathi Ram—who had stared killers in the face before—suddenly felt the weight of death itself standing in his station.

Everyone knew in that moment: they hadn’t caught Tyagi’s weakness. They had signed their own death warrants.