Chapter 5: Blood on the Streets
790 Words
The Aftermath of the Casino Massacre
The Crimson Den had become a tomb.
Bodies were strewn across the tables, the walls splattered with blood. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder, whiskey, and death. The few survivors—dealers, girls, and gamblers who had hidden beneath tables—whispered in terror.
Anant had left his mark.
By the time the police arrived, Junaid’s men had already wiped the security footage. No evidence. No leads. Just a single name spreading through the underworld like wildfire.
Anant Malhotra.
And with that name came a truth that no one could ignore.
Junaid Bhatt was no longer untouchable.
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Junaid’s Response: The City Burns
Junaid didn’t wait. He couldn’t afford to.
By midnight, his men were tearing through the city, dragging out anyone connected to Anant. Old friends, business partners, even distant relatives. If Anant wanted to play a war game, Junaid would turn Mumbai into a battlefield.
In the slums of Dharavi, an informant named Deepak Rana was found with his tongue ripped out. A mechanic who had once repaired the Malhotra family’s cars was shot in broad daylight. A childhood friend of Anant’s—Nikhil—was taken from his apartment.
The next morning, his body was hanging from a bridge.
Junaid wanted to send a message.
You are not the only one who can spread fear.
But Junaid had made a mistake.
He thought Anant could still be hurt.
He didn’t realize—Anant Malhotra had nothing left to lose.
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Anant’s Return: A Ghost in the Night
The city was in chaos. The police were useless. The underworld was on edge.
And in the midst of it all, Anant moved like a shadow, untouched by fear.
Lucifer’s power flowed through him, his strength growing with each kill. His enemies no longer saw a man—they saw something else. A demon. A force beyond their understanding.
And tonight, that force was coming for another name on his list.
Bilal Ghosh.
Bilal was Junaid’s chief enforcer. A man who had killed dozens with his own hands, who ruled the slums with an iron fist. He thought himself untouchable, hidden behind layers of security.
Anant would show him otherwise.
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The Execution of Bilal Ghosh
The safe house was deep in the industrial district. A warehouse converted into a fortress, filled with Junaid’s best men. Automatic weapons, armored cars, guards on the roof—
It wouldn’t be enough.
Anant watched from the rooftops, the night air thick with tension. He could hear their conversations, their nervous laughter. They were on edge.
Good.
He wanted them scared.
He moved.
A single guard on the roof had barely taken a drag of his cigarette before Anant slit his throat. The man collapsed without a sound, his blood pooling across the concrete.
Anant slipped inside.
The first shot rang out in the darkness, silenced by the suppressor on his stolen pistol. A second guard dropped before he even registered what was happening.
Then the alarm blared.
But it was already too late.
Anant was among them, his blade flashing in the dim light. Bullets flew past him, but they never found their mark. The shadows twisted around him, moving unnaturally, making him an impossible target.
A man screamed as Anant crushed his skull against a steel beam. Another fell as Anant’s knife buried itself in his spine.
And then—Bilal.
The enforcer stood at the center of the chaos, holding a shotgun, his hands shaking.
“Come on, then!” he roared, trying to mask his fear.
Anant obliged.
He moved too fast—Bilal’s shot went wide. The next moment, Anant was in front of him, his fingers tightening around his throat.
“P-Please,” Bilal gasped, his face turning red. “Junaid—he made me do it—”
Anant’s grip didn’t loosen. His eyes burned with something unnatural, something inhuman.
“I know.”
And then he crushed Bilal’s windpipe with his bare hands.
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The Walls Close in on Junaid
By morning, the warehouse was a graveyard.
Junaid Bhatt sat in his office, his fingers digging into the armrests of his chair. Another one of his men was gone. Another message was carved into the wall.
“I AM STILL COMING.”
For the first time, Junaid’s men were beginning to break.
“He’s not human,” one of them muttered. “We’re dealing with something else.”
Junaid slammed his fist against the desk. “I don’t give a damn what he is. We end this—NOW.”
His voice was laced with desperation.
Because no matter how many guns he had, no matter how many men he sent—
Anant Malhotra was still coming.
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