No one believed the whispers—until he stepped into the picture.

A man who seemed to rise from the shadows overnight, seizing power so swiftly that the world barely had time to blink. In a single night, half the world bent to his will. Four continents fell under his command, and in his empire, his word was the only law.

It didn’t happen gradually. There was no long, bloody war to see it coming, no chain of events that could be traced back like a trail of breadcrumbs. One day, the balance of power was stable—or at least as stable as the underworld could be. The next day, everything had shifted. Kings who had ruled for decades vanished. Syndicates that had stood for generations crumbled like dry leaves. Governments found themselves obeying unseen orders. And the world… the world learned a new truth: you did not need to see the man who ruled you to know that you belonged to him.

They called themselves the Eagles—his chosen, his predators. To the outside world, they were nothing more than a myth whispered between gangsters and smugglers. But to those who knew better, they were the deadliest network the earth had ever seen. The Eagles didn’t just control territories; they owned them. Every street, every deal, every shadow that fell under their watch moved according to their will—and his will above all.

But even predators needed order. And so the empire split into four feared factions.

Claws — rulers of Africa. They tore down anything in their path, crushing rebellions before they could even take shape. If the Claws set their sights on you, your only choice was to vanish, because fighting back was the same as signing your death warrant.

Wings — masters of South America. They struck fast, silent, and without mercy. One moment you thought yourself safe, surrounded by your men; the next moment you were gone, erased so cleanly that no trace of you remained. The Wings were not soldiers—they were phantoms.

Beaks — dominators of Australia. Ruthless and unyielding, they were the enforcers, the ones who made examples out of those foolish enough to defy. Their brutality was not mindless—it was calculated, deliberate, and it was always public. The Beaks made sure the world remembered every scream.

Keen — the most dangerous of all. They served no one but him. They were not a faction; they were his personal executioners, loyal to the bone, devoted beyond reason. If the Claws were destruction, the Wings stealth, and the Beaks fear, then the Keen were inevitability. Once the Keen were sent, your end was already written—you just hadn’t reached it yet.

But “him” was not a name people spoke freely.

In fact, people didn’t even like to refer to him directly. A glance, a shift in tone, a quiet pause in conversation—that was all the acknowledgement anyone dared.

Aariz.

The name alone was enough to silence a room. To the underworld, Aariz was not just a man—he was a myth wrapped in flesh, a devil in human form. There were stories about him, yes, but no one knew which were true and which were crafted to deepen the fear. Some said he could walk into the most heavily guarded room in the world and leave without a single guard realizing he had been there. Others claimed he could command loyalty with nothing more than a glance.

In the underworld, speaking his name was like knocking on death’s door—except death, in this case, was patient, intelligent, and in no hurry to open the door right away. Sometimes it was worse to be spared than to be killed, because when Aariz spared you, it meant he had found a use for you… and you would never be free again.

Why did Aariz take half the world in one night?

What happened under the cover of that darkness?

Theories ran wild. Some claimed there had been a secret war, a massacre so silent and thorough that the outside world never even knew it happened. Others whispered that it had been a betrayal—that the old rulers had invited him in, thinking they could use him, only to realize too late that they had opened the gates for their own destruction.

Only those who were there know the truth—and they don’t live long enough to tell it.

Still, there were fragments of the story that made their way into the whispers. A meeting in a nameless city, somewhere in the heart of neutral territory. The presence of every major crime lord, political broker, and arms dealer the world had to offer. The deal that was supposed to keep the balance of power intact for another decade. And then… the blackout.

The lights went out.

The guns went silent.

And when the world woke up the next morning, there were new kings.

No one saw him that night. No one claimed to. Yet somehow, every survivor swore they had felt his presence. A pressure in the air. A sense that someone was watching—not from the shadows, but from above them all, like a predator circling high in the sky, waiting to strike.

The Eagles emerged from that night fully formed, their four factions spreading across the globe like an unstoppable tide. And at the heart of it all, the man they served—Aariz—remained a mystery. No photographs. No recordings. No confirmed sightings. Only rumors, fragments, and the occasional story of someone who had met him… and paid the price for speaking about it.

Some said he was young. Others said he was older than he appeared. Some swore he was a businessman with a legitimate empire, using the underworld as his personal chessboard. Others whispered he had no identity at all—that “Aariz” was not a person, but a mask worn by many, passed down to keep the fear alive forever.

But one truth remained unshakable: it didn’t matter who he was. It only mattered that he was. And that somewhere, at any moment, he could be watching.

The world didn’t belong to kings, presidents, or governments anymore.

It belonged to a shadow.

And that shadow had a name no one dared to speak.

The faint hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound in the room. The wide office had tall windows draped in heavy maroon curtains, allowing thin slits of sunlight to cut through the dust-filled air. Outside, the chatter of students and the distant clang of the college bell seemed like echoes from another world—one far away from the silence here.

Two figures sat on opposite ends of a long mahogany desk.

One leaned back with practiced ease, the other sat straight-backed, as if ready to spring away at any moment.

From a distance, they could have been anyone—just two people in a meeting.

Up close, the atmosphere between them was sharp enough to slice through glass.

"Your credentials are… impressive," the man said, his voice deep, measured, and oddly smooth. It carried the cadence of someone used to speaking in courtrooms or boardrooms—someone who had no need to raise his voice to command attention.

The woman across from him tilted her head slightly.

"I didn’t come here for compliments," she replied, her tone steady but edged. "Why am I really here?"

The man’s lips curved faintly—just short of a smile. "Straight to the point. I like that. But let’s talk about something far more… interesting than your résumé."

A folder slid across the desk, its leather surface making a soft hiss against the polished wood. It stopped exactly in front of her. The letters on its cover were bold, stamped in black: Aariz Case.

She didn’t touch it.

Instead, her gaze stayed locked on him.

"That’s not my field," she said coolly.

"Perhaps not yet," he countered, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. "But you’re about to make it your field."

---

The tension held for several seconds before the camera—if this had been a film—would have shifted slightly, catching the thin, ivory envelope resting on the desk beside her. The BBC insignia gleamed faintly in the slanting light. The kind of envelope that could change a career.

"Congratulations," he said casually, as if announcing the weather. "You’ve been selected by the British Broadcasting Corporation. That’s not something to take lightly, Miss—"

"You already know my name," she cut in.

The man didn’t deny it. Instead, he tapped the Aariz file with one long finger. "This is your first assignment. The BBC will be… very pleased to see you take initiative."

Her brows drew together. "And if I don’t?"

His eyes sharpened, though his tone remained soft. "Then they might hear certain things. Things that could make them… reconsider your candidacy. The media industry is small, Miss Aditi. News travels fast. Especially when I decide to spread it."

---

The name—Aditi—hung in the air for the first time, breaking the anonymity like a dropped stone in still water.

The light shifted through the window, finally illuminating her face fully.

Strong cheekbones, dark eyes with a glint of restrained fire, and the kind of quiet beauty that came from confidence rather than vanity. Her hair was pulled back neatly, her attire simple yet crisp. There was nothing in her appearance that screamed recklessness—yet there was something in her gaze that promised she wasn’t the type to be easily controlled.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the desk, her fingers brushing the edge of the BBC letter. "So this is blackmail," she said matter-of-factly.

"Call it… persuasion," he replied.

For a moment, the sunlight caught the gold-plated nameplate on his desk, but the engraving was too far for anyone standing outside the doorway to read clearly. The world outside might call him a principal, but here—inside these walls—his title seemed heavier, more dangerous.

"Why me?" she asked after a pause.

"Because you’re capable," he said without hesitation. "And because you’re smart enough to know when you don’t have a choice."

Her jaw tightened. The silence between them was broken only by the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Aditi’s eyes flickered to the Aariz file again. She had heard the name before—rumors passed in hushed tones among journalism students, the kind of story that came with warnings attached. People who had gone after it had ended up losing far more than their jobs.

"Fine," she said finally, the word clipped. "I’ll do it."

The man’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smirk. "Good. I knew you’d be smart enough to choose the right path… or at least, the only one left to you."

---

Outside, the late morning sun had risen higher, casting sharp light across the college courtyard. Students laughed, papers rustled, and somewhere, a bell rang again. The world kept moving as if nothing had changed.

But inside, for Aditi, everything had.

She rose from her chair, BBC letter in one hand, Aariz file in the other. Her steps toward the door were even and calm, but her mind was already running ahead, weighing risks against rewards.

Behind her, the man leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His smirk lingered, but his eyes had shifted—no longer merely assessing, now calculating. Watching her go, as if each step she took was exactly the one he had predicted.

The door clicked shut.

And the game began.

Evening had settled over Begumpet, painting the streets in the amber haze of streetlights. Aditi’s tired footsteps echoed faintly along the old corridor before she unlocked the heavy wooden door of her apartment. The hinges gave their familiar creak—a sound she’d grown to find oddly comforting.

This wasn’t a modern flat with polished tiles and glossy furniture. It was a small, weathered home tucked inside one of Begumpet’s older lanes, part of a crumbling ancestral property passed down through hands that had long since faded from memory. The walls bore the quiet dignity of age, their pale paint slightly peeling, and the stone floor held a coolness that remained even on the warmest days. It wasn’t fully furnished, nor perfectly compatible with the lifestyle she’d once imagined for herself, but it gave her something far more valuable—peace.

Inside, the smell of detergent mingled with freshly brewed coffee. The low wooden table in the living room was cluttered—two mugs, today’s folded newspaper, and a laundry basket spilling clothes. On the faded blue rug, Nivi Sharma sat cross-legged, methodically folding shirts.

Nivi wasn’t just Aditi’s flatmate—she was her anchor. A journalist herself, she had the sharp instincts and cautious mind that came from years of chasing dangerous leads. Protective to a fault, she had made it her unspoken mission to keep Aditi out of trouble. But Nivi, too, had her share of secrets—shadowed corners in her life she never allowed anyone to explore.

“You’re late,” Nivi said without looking up, her hands smoothing out a shirt before folding it into a neat square.

Aditi kicked off her sandals and dropped her bag onto the sofa. “Had a few things to finish at college,” she said, making her way to the small kitchen corner where the kettle sat hissing.

“Things,” Nivi repeated, glancing at her. “Things that involve chasing trouble, I’m guessing?”

“Not trouble,” Aditi said lightly, pouring water into the French press. “Just… leads.”

“Uh-huh.” Nivi didn’t sound convinced.

Aditi brought two steaming mugs back and set one in front of her friend before sinking onto the floor beside her. For a while, the two women shared a comfortable silence—Aditi sipping coffee, Nivi folding clothes, the faint hum of the ceiling fan filling the gaps between their breaths.

But the peace didn’t last long.

“So,” Nivi began, eyes fixed on the shirt in her hands, “I heard you were asking questions again. About Aariz.”

Aditi’s fingers tightened around her mug. “I was.”

Nivi stopped folding, her eyes finally meeting Aditi’s. “I told you before—stay away from that name.”

“I can’t,” Aditi said simply.

Her friend’s jaw tensed. “You can. You just won’t. Aariz isn’t someone you casually investigate over coffee. He’s the kind of man who swallows people whole, Aditi. Journalists disappear for less.”

“I know the risks,” Aditi replied.

“No, you don’t,” Nivi shot back. “You’ve read whispers, rumours, maybe even seen his shadow in the places you dig. But that’s not knowing him. If you did, you’d be smart enough to stop.”

Aditi sighed, setting her mug on the table. “I can’t stop. You don’t know what’s at stake for me.”

“Then tell me.”

Aditi hesitated, her gaze dropping to her hands. “The principal called me in today. He knows I got the BBC offer letter.”

Nivi straightened, sensing the weight behind her words. “And?”

“And he told me if I don’t… complete a task for him, the offer will disappear.” Aditi’s voice hardened. “His exact words—‘You walk away from this, and BBC walks away from you.’”

Nivi’s eyes widened. “What kind of task?”

Aditi met her gaze. “The Aariz case.”

For a moment, the only sound was the ceiling fan spinning lazily above them.

Nivi was the first to break the silence. “That’s blackmail. Plain and simple. And you’re seriously thinking about doing it?”

“I don’t have a choice,” Aditi said. “BBC was my dream. I’ve worked for years for this chance. I’m not throwing it away because some arrogant principal wants to play power games.”

“You do have a choice,” Nivi countered, her voice rising. “Walk away. There will be other opportunities—”

“No.” Aditi cut her off, her tone firm. “There won’t be another BBC offer. This is it.”

Nivi exhaled sharply, frustration flashing in her eyes. “You’re walking into a lion’s den, Aditi. No—worse. You’re walking into a den where the lion already knows you’re coming.”

“Then I’ll have to be smarter than the lion,” Aditi said quietly.

Nivi shook her head, picking up another shirt and folding it with more force than necessary. “You’re impossible.”

“Stubborn,” Aditi corrected with a small smile.

“This isn’t something to smile about,” Nivi muttered. “I can’t stop you, can I?”

“No.”

For a long moment, they didn’t speak. The steam from their coffee drifted up and dissolved into the air. Outside, the streetlight glow filtered through the window, throwing faint gold patterns across the floor.

Finally, Nivi sighed, setting the last folded shirt onto the stack. “Fine. I can’t change your mind. But if you’re going to do this, at least don’t be reckless. Promise me you’ll keep me in the loop. No solo stunts.”

Aditi’s lips curved faintly. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give you right now.”

Nivi gave her a long, searching look before shaking her head. “One day, your stubbornness is going to get you in serious trouble.”

“Maybe,” Aditi said, lifting her mug again. “But maybe it will also get me the truth.”

The air between them was heavy with unspoken worries. They returned to their quiet rituals—coffee cooling on the table, laundry stacked neatly into piles—but neither woman’s mind was at peace.

Nivi kept glancing at Aditi, the urge to push her away from this path warring with the knowledge that her friend had already chosen it. Aditi, meanwhile, was already thinking ahead, her mind turning over possibilities, names, and leads, piecing together the first steps into the darkness she was about to walk into.

The old apartment walls, silent witnesses to decades of stories, now stood watch over another—one that had barely begun.

And somewhere beyond Begumpet’s quiet streets, the name Aariz stirred like a shadow, waiting for the day it would step into Aditi’s world.