𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Love is hope for the hopeless and sin for the saint. Love is both a salvation for the lost and a temptation for the righteous. It drives people to cross lines they swore ne...
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📌 Warning: Deàth, Blóòd, Firé, Gang Ràped.
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The Director Genrel of Police of Delhi, Mr. Chauhan, found déad- sucide case.
DGP found hanged from the celling fan of his penthouse. Noose around his neck.
Nahella smiled.
She traced the newspaper headline again with the tips of her fingers very slowly, carefully, like she didn't want to forget the way each letter she just read.
Then she folded the newspaper once, twice, and slid it inside her bag. The air smell like the thick burning wood, melting plastic, and rotting items.
She lift her head to looked up and there it stood or rather, it used to. The grand mansion of DGP Mr. Chauhan.
His pride. His legacy. That beautiful white mansion built with blood money, fake tenders, forged signatures, and the screams of boys no one bothered to save.
Now it was burning.
Nahella had burnéd it.
She had burnéd the whole mansion just twenty-three minutes ago. The same mansion where the hidden drawer in the study had kept the one thing she came for- Rutvik's torture tape. The records of nights he screamed so much he passed out. The one that proved what they did to him was not human. The one that never made it to court because it was never meant to.
She burned it.
She didn't burn that house out of rage. No. She burned it because that house knew and it was Mr. Chauhan most loved mansion. It housed the evidence and stayed silent and anything that knew what happened to Rutvik and stayed silent deserved to die screaming.
She lit the fire and burnéd the mansion with her left hand. The same left hand she is wearing a black leather glove. Not just any glove. His glove. Prisoner 704's glove.
Rutvik's glove.
Then she walked to the car. Calm. No rush. Her fingers curled around the handle as she shut the door behind her, soft but final.
