The Chairman's office was too quiet. It had that heavy, sterile smell of expensive floor wax and old, buried secrets. Xavier stood by the glass, watching the city below. From this high up, the streets looked like a mess of glowing veins, and he was the one keeping the heart beating. He'd done it. Vikram Vardhan was rotting in a cell, the empire was under new management, and 'Arjun' was just a name on a shredded birth certificate.
But it felt like nothing. Just ash and cold air.
He looked at the text again. "The real Architect... see you at the docks." The words felt like a physical weight, a dull ache in his chest that wouldn't quit. Silas always said power was like an onion—you peel one disgusting layer only to find something even worse underneath. Xavier grabbed his jacket. He didn't call his security. He didn't even tell Silas. He needed to do this as the ghost he'd become.
The docks were a graveyard. Rusted containers, the thick stench of salt and diesel, and the sound of black water slapping against the pier. It was midnight, and the fog was so thick you could almost chew on it.
He stepped out of the car. The engine gave a final, metallic tink as it cooled. He walked toward Warehouse 44, his boots making no sound on the damp concrete. Silas had beaten that into him—move like a shadow, strike like a fever.
Inside, a single bulb hummed, flickering on a frayed wire. In the middle of the empty floor sat a woman. Tied down. Her head was slumped, her hair a tangled mess of gold and brown.
Xavier's breath hitched. A part of him—the part that hadn't died in the rain—stuck in his throat.
"Meera?" he breathed.
She looked up. Her eyes were puffy, red, but the fire was still there. Meera. The only person who hadn't spat on Arjun's name when the world turned its back. Now, she was just bait in a trap.
"Arjun? Is that... is that really you?" Her voice was a broken rasp.
Xavier froze. He couldn't go to her. If he stepped into that yellow light, the monster would have to show its face.
"Don't!" Meera suddenly screamed, her eyes wide. "It's a trap, Arjun! Get out!"
A slow, mocking clap echoed from the dark corner behind the crates. A man stepped out. He wasn't some old vulture like Vikram. He was young, fit, wearing a suit that cost more than most people's lives.
Dev Vardhan. The 'perfect' cousin. The one who used to give Arjun a hand up while quietly stepping on his fingers.
"Bravo, big brother," Dev smirked, a silenced pistol hanging casually in his hand. "Or should I say Xavier? Silas really carved a masterpiece out of you. Very... high-end."
Xavier's face didn't move. His eyes were just two pieces of cold glass. "Dev. I should've guessed. My father didn't have the stomach for a hack that big. It was you. You framed me, sold the data to the Russians, and watched the life get squeezed out of me."
Dev laughed—a sharp, jagged sound that bounced off the metal walls. "Vikram was a puppet, Arjun. He was so busy worrying about his 'legacy' he never saw me holding the strings. I needed you gone. I needed him in a cage. And now? I've got the keys to the kingdom, and the only girl you ever gave a damn about."
Dev leveled the gun at Meera's temple. "Hands up, Xavier. Or the last thing you'll see is her painting the floor red."
Xavier didn't stop. He didn't even raise his hands. He just kept walking, one heavy step after another.
"I told you, Dev," Xavier's voice was like a draft from a tomb. "Arjun is dead. You're talking to a ghost. And you can't threaten a ghost with a gun."
"Stop! I'll do it!" Dev shrieked, his grip tightening.
Crack.
The sound didn't come from Dev's gun. It came from high up in the rafters. Dev's pistol shattered into pieces of hot metal, and he collapsed, howling as he clutched a mangled wrist.
Silas dropped from the shadows like a dead weight, landing silent as a cat next to Xavier. He was holding a rifle that was still smoking.
"You're late," Silas rasped, his voice like grinding stones. "I told you: never go to a party without an exit plan. You almost let 'Arjun' get both of you killed tonight."
Xavier didn't answer. He walked over to Dev, who was sobbing on the floor. He grabbed Dev by the hair, forcing him to look up.
"You thought you were the Architect, Dev?" Xavier whispered, his voice dangerously low. "You're just a loose brick. And I'm about to tear the whole house down."
Xavier stood up, glancing at Meera. She was staring at him with pure terror. She wasn't looking at Arjun. She was looking at the thing Silas had built.
"Untie her," Xavier told Silas.
"And the trash?" Silas jerked his head toward Dev.
Xavier looked at the black harbor water outside. "The Russians are still hunting the guy who stole their files, right? Send them a GPS pin. Let them finish the job."
Meera was free, but when she reached out to touch Xavier's cheek, he flinched away.
"Arjun?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Xavier looked at her one last time—a look of cold, final recognition. "Arjun drowned in the keechad (mud) a long time ago, Meera. Stop looking for him."
He turned and walked into the fog, Silas trailing behind like a grim reaper. Behind them, the low rumble of heavy engines and the sound of Russian voices began to bleed into the docks.
The debt was settled. But as Xavier caught his reflection in the car window, he saw a third shadow in the dark. Someone bigger than Dev. Someone who had been watching all along.
The war wasn't over. It was just getting a lot more expensive.