The city had a different pulse at night—slower, heavier, like it was holding its breath. The rain had stopped, leaving streets slick with reflected lights, but the air still carried the scent of wet asphalt and smoke from distant fires. Aryan Malhotra moved quietly through the narrow alleys, the folder from the warehouse tucked safely in his bag. Every photograph, every note, every cryptic instruction from the diary pressed against his mind, a relentless reminder that the eleventh bullet was not just a threat—it was a force already in motion.
He had learned a long time ago that survival depended as much on observation as on skill. Every shadow could hide a trap, every light could reveal an enemy, and every step could be predicted. The city had become a chessboard, and he had to anticipate
