The sun was halfway into the sky when Vikram Das's phone vibrated on the side table. He'd just returned from his morning practice in the backyard—shirtless, drenched in sweat, eyes focused on a single leaf floating in the pond, his breath in rhythm with the wind.
He picked it up without expectation.
But the moment he saw the name flashing—Arya Roy—his heart stilled.
Call Connected.
"Vikram..."
Her voice was soft. Controlled. But behind it... was a tremble.
"I'm in Mumbai. Meet me. Hotel Sea Monarch. Room 1902."
And she ended the call.
No greetings. No extra words.
Because some bonds don't need them.
Because some silences... say everything.
An Hour Later…
The maids and guards looked up in confusion when Das stepped out of his chamber.
He was... different.
Dressed in a deep black suit, the fabric embroidered with silver threads that shimmered with the morning sun, hair neatly tied, a tilak across his forehead—a faint symbol of his lineage.
No mask today.
