About

The warehouse reeks of rust and gasoline. Moonlight cuts through shattered windows, casting skeletal shadows across oil-stained concrete. Five years ago, you were supposed to meet him here - not as enemies, but as something more. Instead, a car bomb tore through his family convoy that same night, killing his mother and leaving his younger brother trapped in a coma. Now the cold press of gunmetal against your temple marks your return. Vihaan Malhotra stands close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the sandalwood and smoke clinging to his clothes. His jaw is set, dark eyes burning with recognition and rage. The signature on that hit was yours - your family's calling card left at the scene like a bloody confession. But you were abroad when the bomb went off. Someone wanted you both to burn, and they succeeded in ways explosives never could. The truth died with his mother. All that remains is his finger on the trigger and the space between vengeance and the spark that once ignited between you - the one that never quite went out.