✨Dark obession: The Russian Reach✨

Mumbai Central Railway Station — Evening The station was loud. Too loud. The kind of loud that didn’t just fill the air — it pressed against the skull, crawled into the ears, and refused to let thoughts settle. Announcements echoed overhead in three different languages, each voice overlapping the last like a never-ending argument. Trains screeched against metal tracks, the sound sharp enough to make shoulders flinch. Vendors shouted over each other, selling chai, vada pav, cold water bottles, their voices trained to cut through chaos. Footsteps blended into one restless storm of noise — heels, slippers, boots, rushing, dragging, colliding. But in the middle of all that chaos… She stood still. Like the world was rushing past her, but time had wrapped icy fingers around her ankles and refused to let her move. Divya Gupta. Eighteen years old, heart freshly broken, fingers trembling around the strap of her college bag like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her knuckles were pale from how tightly she held it, like if she let go, she might collapse right there between platform signs and strangers’ shoulders. A strand of hair clung to her damp cheek, moved slightly by the humid evening wind mixed with the smell of iron tracks and diesel smoke. Her eyes were red. Not from weakness. From holding back tears too long. The kind of red that comes from pride fighting pain. From swallowing emotions over and over until they burn the throat on the way down. Her lashes were still wet, but she blinked fast, refusing to let more fall. The blue polka-dot kurti she wore fluttered in the evening wind, her silver jhumkas swaying gently as if unaware her world had just ended ten minutes ago on a park bench. That bench still felt realer than the platform under her feet. The fading sunlight through leaves. The way he couldn’t meet her eyes. The way his voice had sounded… guilty, but not enough. Never enough. Two years of love. Gone with one confession. One betrayal. One “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Her lips pressed together as she stared down at the train ticket in her hand. The ink blurred when a tear finally slipped free, landing on the paper like a quiet surrender. The drop spread slowly, soaking into the cheap paper, distorting the printed letters of her destination. She watched it happen like it belonged to someone else. She wiped it away quickly. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Her hand moved fast, almost angrily, as if she could erase the evidence of her breaking heart the same way. But heartbreak doesn’t care about dignity. It doesn’t ask where you are. It doesn’t wait for privacy. It rises like a wave and crashes wherever it wants — railway stations, classrooms, crowded streets. Her chest tightened, breath turning sharp as memories clawed back in—his laugh, his promises, the ring she still wore because taking it off would make it real. Her thumb rubbed unconsciously over the simple band on her finger. It suddenly felt heavier than gold, heavier than truth. Taking it off would mean admitting the future she built in her head had never really existed. A soft, broken sound escaped her before she could stop it. Half gasp, half sob — swallowed quickly, but not quick enough. And that was the moment— he saw her. Across the Street — Inside a Black Armored Car Rurik Viktor Morozov did not believe in fate. He believed in power. Control. Consequences. His world ran on decisions, not destiny. On calculated moves, not coincidences. Men like him didn’t survive by believing in invisible threads tying strangers together. And yet… his eyes stopped. Through the tinted window of his car, past the crowd, past the moving bodies and flashing station lights— He saw her. One girl standing too still in a place that never paused. Stillness like that didn’t belong in Mumbai. Not in a railway station at peak hour. It was wrong. Out of place. Like a pause in the middle of a heartbeat. His driver kept talking. Something about a shipment delay. Numbers. Routes. Problems. Rurik didn’t hear a word. The voice became background noise, fading under the sudden, sharp focus of his gaze. Because the girl at the station looked like the world had just broken in her hands. And for reasons he did not understand… That bothered him. His gaze sharpened. Zoomed in. Years of training his mind to assess threats, read rooms, and scan weaknesses now locked onto something entirely different. Not a rival. Not danger. A girl trying not to fall apart in public. She wasn’t dressed like the women he usually saw at business events. No designer heels. No calculated smiles. No masks. She looked… real. Soft. Shattered. Her hand lifted to her face again, wiping tears angrily, as if she was embarrassed by them. As if she hated being seen like this. Rurik felt something unfamiliar press against his ribs. A tightness. Not physical. Not pain. Not pity. He didn’t do pity. But something close to… irritation. A quiet, dangerous question forming in the back of his mind. Who made her cry? “Sir?” the driver asked cautiously, noticing the silence stretch too long. Rurik didn’t look away from the girl. “Find out who she is.” The driver blinked. “Sir?” “The girl,” Rurik said, voice calm. Cold. Final. “Blue dress. Near platform entrance.” A pause. Then, immediately, “Yes, sir.” Phones were already being unlocked. Messages sent. Cameras zoomed. The car didn’t move. For the first time that evening, Russia’s most feared crime lord sat in the middle of Mumbai traffic… Watching a girl who had no idea her life had just crossed into dangerous territory. Platform 4 Divya boarded the train with heavy steps, eyes down, heart numb. The metal steps clanged under her sandals as she climbed in. The compartment smelled like warm air, steel, and too many people returning home after long days. She didn’t notice the man standing near the pillar, speaking quietly into an earpiece while pretending to scroll his phone. Didn’t notice his eyes flick toward her. Didn’t notice the black SUV that slowly pulled away once the train doors closed. Her world had shrunk to the ache in her chest and the window seat she slid into. She found a window seat and leaned her head against the glass as the train jerked into motion. The vibration rattled softly against her temple. Outside, the platform began to slide away — faces blurring, lights stretching into streaks. The city lights blurred. Her reflection stared back at her — small, tired, trying to be strong. The girl in the glass looked older than she had that morning. Like heartbreak had reached inside and quietly rearranged something. “I’ll be okay,” she whispered to herself. The words were fragile. Hopeful. A promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. But somewhere in the city behind her… A man who had never cared about strangers was already learning her name. Inside the Moving Car “Sir,” the voice came through the phone after exactly six minutes. Efficient. Respectful. Rurik held the device to his ear, eyes still on the direction the train had gone. He tracked the invisible line of rails in his mind, as if he could still see the compartment carrying her away. “Divya Gupta. Age eighteen. College student. Navi Mumbai. Recently ended a long-term relationship.” Each detail landed with quiet precision. A pause. Then— “Witnesses say she was crying before boarding the train.” Rurik’s jaw tightened slightly. A muscle ticked near his temple — the only visible sign something inside him had shifted. “Boy’s name?” he asked. A few keyboard clicks on the other end. “Anirudh Pathak, sir.” Silence filled the car. Heavy. Dense. The kind that made grown men nervous. The driver kept his eyes on the road, hands steady, pulse not. Rurik looked out at the city lights, expression unreadable. Neon signs flashed across the window, painting brief colors across his face — red, blue, white — then disappearing just as fast. “Send me everything,” he said softly. The call ended. His driver didn’t dare ask questions. Because the last time Rurik had spoken in that tone… Someone had disappeared. Rurik adjusted the cuff of his suit, eyes dark and distant. He didn’t know why he cared. Didn’t know why the image of her wiping tears like she was ashamed of them refused to leave his mind. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty. Whoever made that girl cry… Had just made the worst mistake of his life.