Midnight in Mumbai wasn’t for the faint-hearted—especially not in the docks of Colaba. A convoy of black SUVs rolled in silently. Men stepped out, armed, alert. In the center, Rudraksh emerged again—but this was a different realm. Gone was the suit. In its place, a black kurta, sleeves rolled, veins visible, and eyes darker than death.

“Where is he?” he asked, his voice echoing through the rusted containers.

A trembling man was dragged out.

“You think you can steal from me?” Rudraksh crouched in front of him. “Twenty-five lakhs. Missing. That’s gutsy.”

“I-I was going to return—”

Before he could finish, a gun clicked beside his ear.

“But you didn’t.” Rudraksh stood. “In my world, loyalty is survival. Betrayal is death.”

He signaled. The man was dragged away, screaming. Rudraksh didn’t flinch. The mafia bowed to no law but his. Police, politicians, and enemies knew the rule—don’t cross Rathore.

As his convoy pulled away into the night, Rudraksh lit a cigar, staring at the stars.

“Tomorrow, we move the arms consignment through the Dehradun line,” he said to his right-hand man. “And find out who leaked the numbers. I want heads.”

~Broken But Unbroken~Donde viven las historias. Descúbrelo ahora