Mumbai's rain had an odd timing—it always came when blood was spilled. On that night, the heavens tore open in sorrow as if grieving sins too ancient to hide and too profound to admit.
Samruddhi perched on the floor of Arpan's hideout in Versova, soaked, shivering—not from the weather, but from reality.
"I am not who I believed myself to be," she whispered.
Arpan stood across the room, nursing a fresh cut on his temple. "None of us are."
Silence lingered like a ghost.
She clutched the photo tighter—her infant self, held between Jai Jadhav and Rina More. The implications coiled around her throat like a serpent.
"We're siblings?" she asked, almost in disbelief.
Arpan looked up, his eyes shadowed. "Half. If the diary's right."
She breathed, an empty noise. "And still we danced on a thread between love and ruin."
Arpan filled a glass. "That thread is gone now."
She did not reply. Could not. Because she did not know what seared more—betrayal, blood, or the instant pain of forbidden emotions that had not quite perished.
Meanwhile, in the docks east, ACP Raghav Rao lit a cigarette and watched the flames consuming a stack of files.
Kavya—no, Karishma—stood next to him, serene, unscathed by the heat of the fire.
"You killed her mother," she whispered.
He did not blink. "Your mother overstepped. You don't get to live in this world if you don't take a side early."
Karishma moved closer to him. "What side are you taking now?"
He looked back at her. "Mine."
She retreated into the darkness. "Good. Then don't get in my way."
That evening, Samruddhi's phone vibrated.
Private message. Encrypted.
"Come to Dadar Station. Platform 3. 1:00 a.m. Alone. The ledger is real. I have evidence."
No return address. But her instincts whispered one name: Karishma.
She looked at Arpan. He slept on the couch, gun next to him, jaw set like he never slept.
She didn't wake him.
Dadar Station was almost empty. The previous train had departed. Rainwater collected on the concrete floor, and flickering lights provided a surreal glow.
Samruddhi arrived at 12:55.
At 1:03, someone appeared.
Karishma, wrapped in a black hoodie, grasping a battered satchel.
"You came," she said.
Samruddhi nodded. "What proof?"
Karishma unzipped the bag. Within—a torn piece of the fabled ledger. Names, payments, places. All genuine.
"Where's the rest?" Samruddhi asked.
Karishma's eyes gleamed. "Somewhere only the betrayers would think to look. Rina left clues. We're all pieces of her plan. You, me, Arpan. Even Raghav."
Suddenly, a gun cocked.
From behind them.
"Nice speech," came Raghav's voice. "But the show's over."
Karishma spun, drew her weapon—but he was faster.
He shot her in the leg.
She screamed and collapsed.
Samruddhi pulled her own gun, aimed at him.
"Don't," he said. "You won't shoot me."
"I will," she said, fingers steady.
"No. Because you still desire justice. And you know I'm the only one who can obtain it. Legally."
She faltered.
Behind her, Karishma coughed. "Justice? From a man who murdered to mute truth?"
Raghav swiveled his gun towards Karishma once more. "She's a liability, Samruddhi. You of all people should realize that."
"Perhaps," Samruddhi whispered. "But so are you."
She shot.
Not at his head.
At his shoulder.
He let the gun go, screaming with pain.
Samruddhi rushed towards him, kicked the weapon off his hand.
Karishma looked up at her, pale and smiling. "So the real Samruddhi still exists."
Samruddhi's tone was icy. "Not for long. She's killing herself with every lie we learn."
Meanwhile, back at the safehouse, Arpan wasn't sleeping.
He watched the security feed—saw all of it.
Saw her leave.
Saw her kill Raghav.
And saw her take Karishma away.
By the time Samruddhi returned, dripping wet once more, he didn't say a word.
He simply handed her a towel.
She accepted it, gazed at him.
"You knew I'd go?"
"Yes."
"You didn't stop me."
"No."
There was silence.
Then she said, "She has half of the ledger. We need the rest."
"I know."
She moved closer. "You still trust me?"
"I never did," Arpan said. "But I still choose you."
Her breath froze. "Even after knowing we're—"
"Half of everything we are is lies. The other half… is choice."
And that evening, as morning broke, the rain ceased.
But the war was only just starting.
To be continued.