Some hunts begin before you realise you’re not alone.
Aarohi’s POV
I was drowning in silence, the kind that presses against your ears until your own thoughts become too loud.
The giant queen-sized cushion chair swallowed me whole, its softness mocking the sharpness of my mind. I sat curled slightly into myself, messy bun tugging at my scalp, silky strands slipping loose to brush my cheeks. The oversized screen-reading glasses weighed lightly on my nose, magnifying words that refused to blur no matter how tired my eyes were. I
wore nothing but a striped top and shorts, skin bare, exposed—yet I felt anything but vulnerable.
The room was deliberately dark.
Darkness helped me think.
Muted floor lights glowed faintly, while the cold blue-white light of my laptop and tablet carved shadows across the walls. Files were scattered everywhere—open folders, printed photographs, half-annotated reports, timelines overlapping like fractured memories. The chaos around me mirrored the storm inside my head.
Then my screen flickered.
That’s when the email dropped.
From: Kavya Sharma
Subject: Raichand Farmhouse Incident — Confidential
I hummed softly, eyes scanning the screen.
Forest.
Farmhouse.
Bullets.
Murder.
No witnesses.
Case buried.
“Hmmm…” I murmured.
“Interesting.”
Very interesting.
I rose from the chair, resolve settling into my bones.
The chair released me reluctantly, as though it knew I wouldn’t be back soon.
I changed without hesitation. Black skin fit jeans hugged my body with familiar precision, grounding me in myself. The
black V-neck top revealed sharp collarbones and just enough skin to remind the world I was still human—dangerous, but human. A thin silver chain rested against my chest, cool and steady. I chose a mild perfume, intimate and restrained, meant only for someone standing close enough to matter.
My hair went into a tight ponytail. A cap shadowed my face. A cropped black jacket completed the armor.
Gun secured. Torch tucked behind. Knife slid into my left boot. Lighter inside the jacket. Keys in hand.Every movement was muscle memory, practiced, controlled.
At exactly 9 PM, I left.
The drive stretched endlessly, forest replacing city lights, silence swallowing
sound. The navigation system blinked red as the road narrowed, warning me I was leaving safety behind. I parked deep within the trees, where shadows hid metal and intention alike. It took not more than 1 hour and 41 minutes to reach there .
The air smelled wet, heavy with damp soil and leaves.
I walked.
Each step deliberate. Each breath measured.
The farmhouse emerged slowly, lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. Noise leaked from inside—laughter too loud, voices too careless, men intoxicated enough to believe the night belonged to them.
Predators who had never met something worse than themselves.
I circled the structure, every sense alert, body coiled. A half-open window offered invitation and threat in equal measure.
I slipped inside.
Dust coated the floor, rising faintly with my steps. Moonlight spilled through cracked glass, illuminating spider webs clinging stubbornly to corners. The room felt abandoned, forgotten, yet heavy with secrets. A storage room. Nothing useful.
I moved on.
The next space opened into a hall, and my stomach tightened instantly.
Men.
Broken, filthy, drugged beyond caution.
One lay bleeding on the couch, eyes glazed. Another prepared powder with shaking hands. Syringes glinted under weak light. Smoke curled lazily, poisoning the air.
None of them was enough sober to death walking past them ...
I slipped back silently, pulse steady, confidence unshaken.
Kitchen next.... I passed from the kitchen door . But ...
Then—
Everything changed.
Strong arms locked around my waist without warning, lifting me effortlessly off the ground. A rough hand covered my mouth, cutting off breath and sound in one brutal motion. I was slammed against the kitchen wall, my front pressed to cold stone, my back caged by solid muscle.
My body froze—not in fear, but calculation.
His chest was broad, firm, impossibly warm. He shielded me instinctively, positioning himself between me and the open space in the dark , as though protecting me from the world instead of trapping me in it. His hand swallowed my face, rough skin against my lips and cheek, reminding me how small I was compared to him.
Danger flooded my senses.
He smelled wrong for this place.
Smoky. Woody. Leather and musk, with a sharp citrus edge slicing through it all. Clean. Controlled. Intentional.
I was about to strike—to twist, to break, to kill if needed—
A door creaked nearby.
Footsteps approached.
His grip loosened just enough.
His mouth brushed close to my ear, breath warm against my skin, voice dropping into a low, controlled growl.
“They’re all over this house. Be aware, wild cat.”
The words sent a violent shiver through me, not of fear—but recognition.
And then he was gone.
The warmth vanished. The air felt suddenly cold, empty, hostile.
I scanned every corner of the kitchen, heart pounding now, senses stretched thin. There was no trace of him. No sound. No movement.
Only the echo of his presence lingering inside me.
I forced myself back into focus. I slipped from kitchen into the bedroom ...
The bedroom reeked of decay—blood, alcohol, vomit. I pulled my mask on, grounding myself again. Torch in one hand. Gun in the other.
I searched quickly. Cupboard first—Baldev Raichand’s clothes, papers, old photographs. I took pictures of everything.
The safe lay open, emptied already.
Someone had beaten me here.
The frames on the wall hung slightly crooked, unsettling my instincts. Something was wrong.
Before I could investigate—
“Ay… kaun hai tu?”
I turned.
The bleeding man stood in the doorway, hunger etched across his face, eyes stripping me without touch.
“Aao re!” he shouted. “Dekho mere haath kya laga hai! Bhookhe shero ki gufa mein ek hiraniya aayi hai!” said while rubbing his chest with bleeding hand .
He stepped closer.
Another man appeared—fat, pierced, barely conscious.
“Waah re,” he laughed. “Aaj toh lottery lag gayi. Pakad ke laa is behen ki—”
BANG .
The gunshot cut the air like a scream. The bullet was gone between the bleeding
man's eyebrow . Perfect shot .
The other man froze.
I struck without mercy. My fist shattered his mouth. My boot crushed his balls . He collapsed unconscious before pain could register.
I hid in the dark .
The third man staggered in, confused, half-drugged. He looked around, saw bodies on the floor. Then—confused—he lay down murmuring,
“Behen ke pakode… dara diya. Fatt ke char ho gayi ” And slept instantly thinking they fall bcoz of intoxication .
I didn’t stay.
I vanished.
In my car, mud and blood stained my boots
and clothes. I ripped off the cap, threw the mask onto the passenger seat, and slammed my fist into the steering wheel, rage vibrating through my bones.
“Dammnit.”
I drove fast, controlled, anger sharpening my focus rather than blinding it.
Questions burned relentlessly.
** Who was he?
Why had my body reacted before my mind?
Why did the word 'wild cat' still echo through my veins?**
_________________________________
At home, my phone buzzed. A notification
popped up .
Vikram (Cheeku): Good news. Found the perfect man for CSCO. Highly qualified. Dangerous temperament. I know you won’t tolerate him—but please.
One year only. For my reputation. Its for my business purpose .
I stared at the screen.
Me: But Cheeku—
Cheeku: Please 🥺 Don’t disappoint me.
I exhaled slowly.
Me: Fine. Tomorrow. 2 PM.
Cheeku: Thank you, princess.
I locked the phone.
Somewhere deep inside me, instinct screamed.
Because it felt like—
The game had already begun… and I had just stepped onto the board.
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