"The darkest prison is one's troubled mind."
Cold was the room. Warm was the coffee. But warmer still was the fire raging in Vikram's chest.
He glanced out the window, checking if anyone was approaching. A mild haze of drugs and a heavier cloud of tension had driven him to a point where he no longer had control over his body. His emotions hovered on the edge of eruption, and somewhere in that chaos sat his vulnerable mind—teasing him with visions of Nafisa.
But it wasn't Nafisa his heart yearned for.
Every time he shut his eyes, it was her—Annabelle. The one woman he shouldn't touch, not in life, not even in thought. Yet, in that fragile line between reality and delusion, he imagined her against him. Her warmth. Her shape. Her breath tangled with his.
The tension inside him crested—and in that forbidden fantasy, he shattered. Alone in the cold room, with only the remnants of a longing that was never meant to be.
Vikram's breathing slowed. He wiped himself down, climbed off the bed, and yanked the soiled bedsheet, tossing it straight into the fireplace. The flames swallowed the fabric with a hungry hiss. He took a sip of coffee, now lukewarm, and slumped onto the sofa.
One pill. Two pills. A third.
He swallowed them like candy.
Then, without hesitation, he poured the remaining hot coffee over his own face. It scalded, but he didn't flinch. Punishment. For the sin his body committed while his mind was adrift.
The past few days had been a kind of hell.
Massino had shoved him out of the mansion under the polite excuse of "luxury accommodations." Nafisa remained a wall of hostility. And after seeing Annabelle, his lust had mutated—no longer a desire, but an addiction. Guilt and repentance fought for dominance in his mind, each moment teetering between control and collapse.
He exhaled sharply and picked up the phone.
Ring. Ring. Click.
"Why are you calling me now? You destroyed everything. I don't want to talk to you. Just—go to hell."
Nafisa's voice was fire. Vikram panted, gripping the receiver.
"Listen… We can talk. Anything. Start over. We're good together. Don't throw us away for someone so—so worthless."
"Worthless? You're worthless!" she snapped. "Andrich is my friend. He's a thousand times the man you'll ever be. You're arrogant, spiteful, and morally crooked. No one can be happy with you."
Click.
She was gone.
Vikram's arm twitched to hurl the phone. But he stopped himself. Barely.
He dialed another number.
Mr. Coppola.
"Hey, how are you?"
"I'm going to die, Coppola. I won't leave Italy alive. My body's going to be rotting under some bridge in Venice. I'm a sinner."
"You're not in your senses," Coppola replied flatly. "Calm down and tell me what happened."
Vikram told him everything.
Coppola laughed. "That? That's what you're spiraling over? My God, you're unbelievable. Just sleep, Vikram. You'll feel human again when you wake up. Go lie down. Close your eyes."
Click.
Silence.
"Why does no one listen to me?" Vikram muttered to the empty room.
His eyes, swollen and strained, began to grow heavy. The fire crackled. The pills worked their slow magic. His breathing softened again.
And finally, he drifted into sleep.
The room was quiet—but it wasn't his room.
The bed was softer. The walls shimmered, faintly breathing like lungs. Outside, the canals of Venice twisted like veins, dark and endless.
He stood by a window. Annabelle was there, lying on the bed, eyes half-lidded, dressed in silk and shadows. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Behind her, Nafisa stood with her back turned, slipping into darkness like a ghost.
Vikram stepped forward, but the floor beneath him rippled like water. He fell—not down, but through memory.
Blood. Sirens. A phone ringing that no one would answer.
Massino laughing over a glass of wine. Coppola at a distance, shaking his head. Andrich and Nafisa dancing in slow motion under a red chandelier, her hands on another man's chest.
He tried to scream, but his mouth was filled with ash.
Suddenly, a bridge appeared—crumbling, ancient, Venetian. He stood at the center. On one side: Annabelle, beckoning him with gentle eyes. On the other: Nafisa, her expression cold, distant. Below, the water boiled.
"Jump," said a voice. It sounded like his own.
"Choose," whispered another. It sounded like himself.
"Run," said a third. It sounded like Annabelle.
He stepped forward, unsure of where he was going. He jumped.
He jolted awake.
The fire had died. Only embers remained, glowing faintly like distant stars. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked in sweat. His mouth was dry, throat burning. The aftertaste of the pills lingered bitterly on his tongue.
A faint sound of footsteps echoed through the room like a warning bell. Vikram's heart froze.
He grabbed his gun.
Backing away from the window, he slid under the bed, clutching the pistol tight.
From his vantage point, he saw two pairs of polished shoes moving around silently. Shadows danced along the floorboards.
Then—voices.
"Sir Henderson said to take him alive. If he agrees to surrender, don't shoot."
"And if he doesn't? If he fires first?"
"Then we shoot," the first man replied, resigned.
Click.
Vikram cocked the gun.
He fired—a sharp crack of lead piercing the first man's right foot.
The second man spun, but Vikram rolled out and fired again, the bullet slamming into his head with deadly precision.
The injured man screamed. Vikram lunged, disarming him in one swift motion, and without hesitation, shot him point-blank in the eye.
Gunfire erupted behind the door.
The officers outside, startled by the chaos, began shooting through the wood without opening it.
Vikram dashed toward the window, smashed the glass with his elbow, and leapt through. Shards scraped his skin as he landed hard on the sloped hotel rooftop.
Without pausing, he sprinted across the steep tiles, nearly slipping, and clambered up to the terrace.
Three armed men. Waiting.
Their guns raised.
Bang. Bang. Vikram fired blindly.
One scream. One thud.
Then—no choice.
He dove off the rooftop, crashing into the cold waters below—straight onto a slow-moving ferry.
The ferryman barely had time to shout before Vikram shoved him overboard. Grabbing the controls, soaked and panting, he gunned the engine toward the open waters.
His destination burned in his mind:
Massino's mansion.
The only place where this madness could end.
But the water was anything but silent—it roared with the sound of boats and officers closing in, all intent on capturing the world's most wanted man. Vikram pushed his boat to its limits, dodging gunfire and weaving past intercepting vessels. But Massino's mansion was still a distant speck on the horizon.
Out of options, Vikram slowed the boat and raised his hands. A tactical boat drew near. Officers stormed in, one of them cuffing Vikram and forcing him to lie flat on the deck.
"We have him. Bring in the chopper. VELOCE!"
The order cracked through the radio.
Moments later, the rhythmic thump of rotor blades filled the air. A chopper descended, its rope ladder swinging wildly. The officers hauled Vikram up, only to shove him onto the hard metal floor. The helicopter veered toward a nearby runway, where a sleek jet awaited with engines humming.
Without a word, a black mask was yanked over Vikram's face. Hands dragged him into the jet.
Thud! The door slammed shut. Engines roared, drowning out the world.
Vikram inhaled deeply, steadying his nerves.
"Would you please take off the mask? Please."
A deep, composed voice responded from the shadows.
"Why not? I'm eager to see the face that shook half the world."
The mask was pulled off, and Vikram squinted, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness.
"Who are you?" he growled.
The man across from him offered a polite, almost mocking smile.
"Who am I? Forgive my manners. Sir Michael Lorenzo. I'm the man assigned to look after you… until you meet an old friend."
"Old friend?" Vikram raised an eyebrow.
"Not a friend? That's odd. I thought the two of you shared quite the history. You even tried to kill him once. Ring a bell?" Lorenzo grinned.
Vikram let out a dry chuckle. "Andrich?"
"Ah, so you do remember."
"Spare me the theatrics, Mr. Lorenzo," Vikram snapped. "Name your price. In five minutes, you'll be swimming in cash. I'm a busy man—and I've got places to be."
Lorenzo tilted his head. "May I ask where?"
"None of your damn business. Just let me go—and your family will never have to work again."
SMACK!
The slap cracked across Vikram's face.
Another slap followed.
His head snapped to the side.
Lorenzo leaned in, his voice cold.
"I hope you enjoy our hospitality."
With a small gesture, one of the guards stepped forward and jammed a taser into Vikram's side.
Crackling electricity. A spasm. Then darkness.
As Vikram slumped unconscious, Lorenzo sneered.
"Bloody self-righteous pig."
He spat on Vikram's face.
Vikram slowly opened his eyes and squinted.
"Where am I?" he asked, irritation lacing his voice.
"Where you deserve to be," came a sneer.
Vikram turned his head and saw Andrich sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Bastard! He put me in the same cell as you?" Vikram grunted.
"Even I'm disappointed," Andrich shot back. "He should've thrown you in the cell with venomous snakes. That's where your kind belongs."
"Stay silent—or I'll make you silent forever."
Vikram lunged, shoving Andrich against the wall.
"This isn't your home, and I'm not your pet, Mr. VPS."
Andrich retaliated, punching Vikram in the nose and driving a kick into his groin.
Vikram snarled, then kicked him in the shin and slammed him to the floor. He snatched a heavy book nearby, ready to strike, but then—
Whack!
A sharp pain exploded across Vikram's back. He screamed in agony.
"I should've killed you when I had the chance," a voice echoed coldly.
Vikram turned, gritting his teeth. A man stood there, holding a briefcase in one hand and a thick wooden stick in the other.
"Iyer?" Vikram groaned.
"Mr. Iyer. Guess manners were never in your blood," Iyer replied dryly.
"You?" Vikram raised the book again, but Andrich tackled him from behind.
Trapped between two enemies, Vikram lashed out in desperation. He elbowed Andrich, turned, and smashed his head against the concrete wall, knocking him out cold.
"Come with me," Iyer commanded, grabbing Vikram by the collar. "Sir Henderson wants a word."
Vikram was dragged outside. Sir Lorenzo and Sir Henderson waited for them in silence.
"Bring him into the room," Sir Henderson said, voice like ice.
Together, Lorenzo and Iyer hauled Vikram downstairs and shoved him into a room packed with uniformed officers and personnel. Conversations halted as eyes turned toward him.
Some had even taken the day off just to witness the infamous VPS.
Vikram was forced into a chair, facing a large stand lined with blue-uniformed men.
Iyer sat beside Sir Lorenzo and Sir Henderson, a silent sentinel in the storm of judgment.
"Vikram Pratap Singh—alias VPS. The new face of terror. The uncrowned king of the underworld. Hmph. Such grand titles," Iyer said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I expected more from you. But you're still the same weak, mannerless boy I met years ago—arrogant, ignorant. Perhaps that's the new trend in the underworld these days—glorifying fragile pawns like you."
A low murmur rose in the room.
"Get to the point, Mr. Iyer," snapped Mr. Morgan Jackson, Assistant General Secretary of Social Affairs Regarding Terrorist Organizations. His voice boomed across the room, sharp and authoritative.
"I will, Mr. Jackson. But let's not bore our audience here with bureaucratic jargon," Iyer said, flashing a sardonic smile. "Let them know exactly what kind of man this so-called kingpin really is."
"Fine. But be quick," Sir Henderson grunted, visibly irritated.
Iyer turned his eyes back to Vikram. "As I was saying... This man everyone fears so deeply—was once nothing more than a timid, shivering boy. He didn't even know how to unlock a gun's safety, let alone pull the trigger. But blood tells. Like his brother before him, he evolved—or rather, devolved—into a vicious criminal. A beast who left a trail of destruction and death behind him." His voice faltered slightly, then darkened.
"One of his countless victims was my son. Krishna. Just seventeen. Shot in the chest... while trying to save a civilian during an explosion Vikram engineered."
The room fell silent.
"But this man's thirst—for blood, for cruelty—only grew. He bathed in barbarity. And what's worse... not a flicker of remorse ever crossed his face. Not a shadow of guilt. But perhaps, it's no surprise. After all, the rot starts at the roots."
Vikram's eyes narrowed.
"His father, Amrinder Pratap Singh, was a pedophile—preying on college girls, blackmailing them into sexual favors in exchange for passing grades. And his mother, Sushila—she was no saint either. A well-known prostitute who dragged their daughter, Ambika, into the same pit. They sold themselves for money... and Amrinder? He was their pimp."
"ENOUGH!" Vikram exploded, lunging forward, veins flaring in his neck. "Don't you dare drag my family into this filth! And what were you, Iyer? A corrupt policeman who made his wife sleep with superiors for promotions! Your precious son was a drug addict who raped innocent girls!"
His voice cracked, fueled by wrath. "If I had to kill that monster again, I would—this time even more brutally!"
"Only a third-class brute like you could fabricate such venom," Iyer hissed back. "You dare speak against a man who gave his life to serve his nation? My record speaks for itself. My legacy is carved in the hearts of patriots."
"ENOUGH!!" Sir Henderson's voice thundered as he stood up, his eyes blazing. "This was a mistake. A grave mistake. Putting the two of you in the same room was a lapse in judgment."
He turned to his aide. "Sir Lorenzo will handle the interrogation. Mr. Iyer, you're dismissed. Return to your assignment."
Without waiting for acknowledgment, he walked out, followed by murmuring officers and curious spectators now buzzing with disbelief.
Lorenzo grabbed Vikram by the collar and shoved him back toward the detention block. Iyer, silent now, gave one last contemptuous sneer before following the others out.
Inside the cold concrete cell, Vikram glanced down at Andrich—still sprawled across the floor, unconscious.
He crouched, pressing an ear to his chest.
"Still breathing," he muttered. Then smirked darkly. "Cockroaches like you don't die that easily."
With a grunt, he dropped Andrich's body and slumped onto the metal-frame bed. His muscles ached, his mind throbbed, but the fire inside him hadn't gone out.
He closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion take over. Moments later, the silence of the cell was broken only by the sound of his breathing... steady, dark, and dangerous...