Hukum's Rani Sa

37. More than DEATH

The next morning, Ishqi's eyes snapped open as a ray of sunlight sliced through the darkness, illuminating her face. She turned to the other side of the bed, her hand searching for Rajveer's warm presence. But he was gone.

"Veer... Veer kahan hai aap?" ("Veer... Where are you, Veer?") she called out, her voice laced with concern. There was no response.

Ishqi's eyes widened as she scanned the room, her gaze landing on a note on the bedside table. Rajveer's handwriting danced across the page, informing her that he had some work and had left early. A heart sign at the end made her blush, but it couldn't shake off the feeling of unease.

📍 Scene involves torture, hurt and may some readers find triggering so read at your own will...

An old abandoned mill basement, dimly lit, with only a flickering bulb overhead. The air reeks of iron, dust, and the slow burn of fury.

The chains clinked.

Ronak hung like a rotting fruit in the center of the room, suspended from a rusted iron beam. His wrists were shackled tight, blood mixing with sweat as it dripped in rhythmic patterns onto the cracked cement below.

Rajveer stood in silence. He hadn’t spoken a word in the past twenty minutes. He didn’t need to.

Ishan, standing by the table in the corner, picked up a steel rod slowly—intentionally. The table was littered with tools. Not sharp. No. That would be too merciful. What they had selected were things that broke—not pierced. Things that maimed—not ended.

"Still quiet?" Ishan muttered, tossing the rod from one hand to the other. He turned to Rajveer, jaw clenched.

"You sure we don’t kill him tonight?"

Rajveer’s voice was low, measured, terrifyingly calm.

“No. Death is a release. I want him to remember every breath he takes after this night as a curse.”

He walked up to Ronak, his black boots echoing through the hollow space. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t scream. That would be too easy.

“You touched her” he whispered, brushing the back of his fingers gently across Ronak’s bruised cheek. “You.Dared.To.Take.Her.”

Ronak flinched, eyes barely open from the swelling. One was completely shut, purple and black. His lips were split, blood dried in thin cracks.

Then Rajveer struck.

Not with a punch—but with a hammer. Not to kill, but to shatter. The blow landed square on Ronak’s left knee. The crunch echoed in the silence. Ronak screamed—a raw, strangled sound that bounced off the cold walls like a soul tearing itself apart.

Ishan didn’t even blink.

Rajveer dropped the hammer, picked up a bottle of water, and poured it slowly over Ronak’s face. Just enough to wake him. Not enough to cleanse him.

“Tell me how you dared to do this ?” Rajveer said.

Ronak spat blood. “She's mine—”

CRACK. Ishan stepped forward and drove the steel rod into Ronak’s ribs—not through, but along—like drawing agony across his bones. The pain was precise. Focused. It forced Ronak to scream through his broken jaw.

“Wrong answer” Ishan hissed.

Then came the salt.

Rajveer dipped a cloth in saltwater—coarse Himalayan salt. He pressed it gently against the open wounds carved into Ronak’s chest, each a gift from earlier sessions. The salt bit into him like fire, his body jerking in place, chains rattling wildly. But no one moved to help.