NUISANCE BLOOD

Listen. This is how it began—on a rooftop in Mumbai, past midnight, where the city’s lights bled like cheap glitter below and the air tasted of rust and old rain. A woman stood before an easel, lost in the furious quiet of creation. Above her, a man finished a very different kind of work. His knife moved once. Clean. Final. Then he let the evidence fall. The head hit her canvas with a wet thud, smeared crimson across three nights of sleepless obsession, and rolled to a stop against her paint box. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She stared at the ruin, and something inside her cracked open—not with fear, but with a rage so pure it burned cold. Karan dropped from the fire escape, landing light as a predator, knife still dripping. He expected weeping, blubbering, the usual collapse. Instead, the woman fixed him with a glare that could strip paint. “Well,” he said, calm as morning coffee. “That wasn’t meant for you. My aim is usually better. Apologies for the mess.” “Apologies?” Her voice shook, but it was fury, not fright. “You just threw a severed head onto three nights of my work, and all you can say is apologies? Are you even human, or did someone stitch you together wrong?” He circled her, intrigued by the lack of sobbing. She was vibrating. A live wire. “I’m whatever the night needs me to be. But you—you’re still not screaming. Most people would be clawing at the door by now. Why aren’t you?” She met his eyes. Cold, unblinking. “Because screaming is for people who think someone will come save them. I’ve learned nobody’s coming. So I’ll stand here and be furious instead. You owe me a canvas, you knife-wielding circus act.” A quiet laugh escaped him. The sound didn’t touch his eyes. “A circus act? Harsh. I prefer conductor. Everyone else dances to my rhythm. And yet here you are, off-beat, making demands. What a beautiful obsession you have—a head rolls into your lap and all you see is ruined paint. That’s not normal.” “Normal is a cage. I’ve never fit. And you’re avoiding the subject. Canvas. Replacement. Now. Or do you only destroy things and never pay for them?” He stepped closer, curiosity gnawing at his predator calm. “I pay in blood, little nuisance. Yours or someone else’s. Which would you prefer?” “Neither.” She didn’t miss a beat. “I prefer cash. Or a bank transfer. I’m modern. But if you insist on blood, start with your own. I’ll wait.” He laughed again, short and sharp, genuinely delighted. She was nothing like the broken, pleading creatures he usually disposed of. She was a puzzle, a thorn. “Oh, I like you. I shouldn’t, but I do. Tell me your name.” Shraddha felt her pulse hammer, but she let none of it show. Names were power. He’d get none of hers. “Tell me why I should give it. You started this conversation by throwing a man’s head at my art. Manners first.” “I’m not known for manners,” Karan said, his tone a velvet blade. “I’m known for making problems disappear. Right now, you’re a problem. So convince me you’re worth the headache.” “I’m not here to convince you of anything.” She let a smirk curl her lip, using her anger as a shield. “You’re the one stalling. If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it by now. Which means either you’re curious, or you’re bad at your job. Which is it?” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. She was reading him, and she was right. “Curious. Dangerously so. Most people look at me and see death. You look at me and see an inconvenience. That’s rare. That’s valuable. For now.” “Inconvenience is the right word. You’ve inconvenienced my evening, my painting, and my mood. If you’re not going to kill me, at least offer me a drink. I’m parched from all this survival.” It was a masterful deflection, a stalling tactic dressed as boredom. She was already plotting. He saw the quick flick of her gaze toward the edge of the roof, the tensed muscles ready to move. She wasn’t surrendering; she was negotiating with her life. Karan raised a lazy hand. Two shadows detached themselves from the deeper dark behind her—Rajveer and Arjun, built like boulders in suits. “Gentle. She’s got a bite, and I want her intact. For now.” Shraddha scoffed, but inside, her mind raced. She had seconds. As the men closed in, she let her body go loose, her right wrist twisting with a practiced, almost invisible flick. A slim bracelet, custom-made, heavy with engraved symbols, slipped from her skin and dropped into the gutter grate. The clink was swallowed by the sound of her own voice, loud and sharp. “Gentle? They look like they bench-press small cars. And you want gentle? What a joke. Come on then, mountain men. Let’s see if you can handle one artist without breaking a sweat.” They grabbed her arms. She fought, not to break free—she knew she couldn’t—but to mask the truth. Every kick, every twist was noise. The bracelet was gone. Her only lifeline to the outside world now sat glinting in the drain, waiting for the right eyes. Karan stepped into her space, unnervingly close, and studied her face. “You’re not afraid of them either. Remarkable. Are you afraid of anything?” “I’m afraid of mediocrity. And of people who monologue too long.” Her voice dripped with insolence, but her heart was a war drum. “You’re dangerously close to the second one.” He signaled again, and the men’s grip tightened. “I could monologue all night and you’d still be here, tied up, listening. So adjust your expectations, nuisance. You’re in my world now.” “Your world?” She let her gaze sweep the dirty rooftop, the rusting vents, the shattered glass. “Looks like a dirty rooftop with bad lighting. Very underwhelming. I was promised dungeons and torture. This is just… real estate disappointment.” Behind them, Vikram arrived—the secretary, the shadow, the one who saw everything and said little. He picked up her fallen bag, glanced inside. Only art supplies. But as he straightened, his eyes caught a faint metallic glint near the drain. A bracelet. Not cheap metal, not costume jewelry. Custom. Inscribed. The kind of piece that belonged to someone with connections, with people who would come looking. He paused for exactly one breath. Then his face smoothed into careful blankness. He said nothing. “Sir, her bag is only art supplies. Nothing else.” “Leave it,” Karan said, not even turning. “Let the rats find it. She won’t need paints where she’s going.” Shraddha used the scuffle to lean hard against one of the goons, creating just enough noise to cover her own satisfaction. The bracelet was hidden. “Where am I going exactly? Some underground bunker? A yacht? At least tell me there’s a view.” Karan’s smile was a knife wound. “The view is me. Every day. Until I get bored. Consider it an exclusive exhibition.” “Oh wonderful. A one-man show starring a psychopath. Do I get popcorn, or is that extra?” He stopped them at the stairwell door. The cold metal of his blade came up, tilting her chin. “You get answers if you behave. Tell me—did you drop anything during your little performance? A phone? A weapon? A piece of jewelry?” Her blood chilled, but her sneer stayed fixed. She’d prepared for this question. “I dropped my patience. My faith in rooftop safety. Maybe a little bit of my will to live, but that’s been waning for years. Nothing valuable. Why, did you want a souvenir?” Karan’s eyes flicked to Vikram, who stood motionless, face a mask. “I collect interesting things. You, for example, are now in my collection. But something feels incomplete.” Vikram’s voice came steady, betraying nothing. “The area is clear, sir. No dropped items visible.” The lie settled into the space between them like smoke. Karan studied Vikram for a long beat, then let it go. He had other things to play with. “Fine. Take her down. The night’s not getting any younger.” They dragged her toward the stairs. Shraddha’s mind was already shifting from survival to strategy. They didn’t know who she really was. She’d keep it that way. The bracelet would be found. She just had to stay alive long enough for her people to track it. And she would stay alive. She’d be the splinter under his nail, exactly as she’d promised. Karan watched her walk, head held high despite the rough hands on her arms. At the threshold, he lifted the flat of his knife to her chin again, forcing her to stop. His voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for her. “What a nuisance you are. Truly. A messy, loud, impossible nuisance. Now… shall you rest for the eternity, darling? Don’t wander at night. See, some people are too good to be true. And you—so fearless, so sharp—you’re hiding something. I can taste it in the air between us.” Shraddha held his gaze, even as the steel kissed her skin. This was the moment. A wrong word and he’d slit her throat out of sheer irritation. The right word would feed his obsession and buy her time. She chose the right word. “Hiding? I’m an open wound, darling. Bleeding everywhere. If you can’t read what’s in front of you, that’s not my problem. But here’s a free lesson: you’re not the first devil I’ve smiled at. You won’t be the last. So go on. Do your worst. Or are you all monologue and no finish?” A pause. The air cracked. Then Karan laughed—a genuine, dangerous sound that never reached the predator’s gleam in his eyes. She’d just made herself indispensable entertainment. “I was going to kill you quickly. Clean. Professional. Now I think I’ll keep you alive. You entertain me, and I haven’t been entertained in years. Don’t waste that.” “Entertainment?” Her defiance burned brighter, a fire she would not let him extinguish. “I’m not a jester. I’m not here for your amusement. If you keep me alive, I’ll make you regret it. Every single day. I’ll be the splinter under your nail, the itch you can’t scratch. That’s a promise.” “Promises from a captive are just dreams with sharper edges.” He leaned in, breath grazing her ear. “But I like sharp edges. They make me feel alive.” “Then you’re going to feel very alive,” she whispered back. “Just wait. Sunrise hasn’t come yet.” Karan’s smile faded into something unreadable, something darker than amusement. He didn’t know her name, her past, or the people who were already searching for her. But he knew she was no struggling artist. She was a weapon hidden in plain sight, and he intended to figure out exactly how she was meant to be used. “Sunrise?” He pulled back, voice cold silk. “Sunrise is a fairytale for people who think they’ll escape. You’re not escaping. You’re not leaving. You’re mine now, and the sun answers to me. Sleep, nuisance. We’ll play again when you wake.” He gestured. A cloth soaked in something sweet clamped over her mouth. Shraddha fought, but her limbs were already betraying her. Her vision swam, the rooftop dissolving into streaks of shadow and neon. But her mind—her mind stayed sharp. He doesn’t know who I am. That was her anchor. She would survive. She would make him pay. And she would make sure he never saw the sunrise coming. “Just… you… wait…” The words came out muffled, a promise dragged into unconsciousness. Karan watched her go limp, the fight finally bleeding out of her body. He didn’t move for a long moment, studying the slack lines of her face, the tension still coiled in her jaw. She was a masterpiece of hidden fury, and he intended to be the one to unveil it. He turned to Vikram. “Take her to the Cage Room. And Vikram? Nothing out of place?” Vikram met his eyes without flinching. “Nothing, sir. Rooftop is clean.” No hesitation. No flicker of guilt. Just a loyal servant, lying with perfect conviction. The bracelet in the drain remained unspoken—a silent seed of treason planted in the dark. Vikram had his own reasons. And those reasons, like Shraddha’s true identity, were a mystery waiting to crack the whole game wide open. The rooftop fell silent. The ruined canvas still bled beneath the city’s indifferent stars. Somewhere in the gutter, a custom bracelet gleamed under the streetlight, waiting for the right eyes to find it. The story had only just begun, and already the board was set with lies, silence, and the promise of a sunrise that would bring more than light. It would bring a reckoning.