Kiara Oberoi stood in front of the large screen in her office.
CCTV footage played silently.
The car owner — an ordinary office worker.
Routine life. Routine schedule.
He left work late that night.
Stopped near a small restaurant.
Entered alone.
Minutes later—
A man dressed entirely in black approached the parked car.
Black hoodie. Black gloves. Black mask.
No hesitation.
No rush.
The car door unlocked smoothly.
The vehicle drove away.
Kiara watched carefully.
"Replay," she said calmly.
The footage rewound.
The timing was perfect.
Precise.
Calculated.
After a few minutes, the same car returned to its original spot.
Parked neatly.
Exactly where it had been.
When the office worker came out after eating, he didn't even realize the car had been missing.
Clean.
No fingerprints.
No visible face.
No panic.
"He left nothing behind," her assistant said quietly.
Kiara crossed her arms.
"No," she corrected. "He left a message."
Her assistant frowned. "Should we dig deeper into the car owner?"
"No," Kiara said after a pause.
This was too neat.
Too controlled.
A professional job.
And professionals don't work alone.
"It was the first move," she murmured.
"Ma'am?"
Kiara turned toward the window.
"If I don't find anything this time, it doesn't matter."
Her eyes were calm.
"There will be a next move."
A faint, almost dangerous smile appeared.
"And next time… I'll be ready."
She picked up her phone.
"Stop the investigation for now."
Her assistant looked surprised. "Stop?"
"Yes."
Let them think she stepped back.
Sometimes retreat was strategy.
Across the city—
A man lay on the cold floor of a dim warehouse.
His face was swollen. Bruises dark against his skin. Blood at the corner of his mouth.
Another man sat calmly on a chair in front of him.
Well-dressed.
Composed.
Terrifyingly quiet.
"Why," he asked dangerously, "is not she dead?"
The injured man trembled.
"B-Boss… please forgive me. I didn't expect her to survive."
Silence.
Only the sound of slow footsteps.
"She survived," the seated man repeated calmly. "With only a fractured leg."
The calmness was more frightening than shouting.
The injured man bowed his head. "It was dark. I thought—"
"You thought?" the man interrupted.
His voice didn't rise.
But the air grew heavier.
"She survives because of your mistake."
The injured man began to panic. "Please… I'll fix it. Give me another chance—"
"There are no second chances."
The man stood up slowly.
"And mistakes," he said quietly, "must be paid for."
The warehouse fell silent.