The deadly chase begins

As Aksh moves through the underground network of Kuragari, his instincts sharpen. The man with the cross tattoo is near—he can feel it. The dimly lit alleyways pulse with danger, but he walks with purpose, his presence commanding silent respect from the criminals who recognize his name.

Back at the safe house, Ahana struggles with the weight of her thoughts. Her fingers grip the soft fabric of her sleeves, her mind replaying every moment since she stepped into Aksh's world. The warmth of his embrace, the fear in his voice when he saved her, and the cold distance he still keeps—it all twists inside her like an unsolved puzzle.

Mr. Jung, stationed elsewhere, pieces together the layers of Black Shadow's operations. His sources whisper about movements in the underworld—silent figures pulling strings behind the scenes. But something doesn't add up. Black Shadow isn't just an organization; it's a ghost, a force that works from the shadows, never revealing its true face.

Then, a breakthrough.

A name surfaces—one that sends a flicker of recognition through Mr. Jung. It's not just any enemy; it's someone close. Someone playing a long game.

And Aksh is walking straight into their trap.

The underground city of Kuragari pulsed with hidden danger, its narrow alleyways lined with shadows that seemed to breathe. The air reeked of oil, metal, and deception—each scent woven into the very fabric of the underworld. Aksh moved through the chaos like a predator, his sharp gaze scanning the faces around him. He wasn't here to play games.

The man with the cross tattoo was close.

Somewhere in the depths of this smuggling hub, a man with four fingers on one hand held a crucial piece of information about Black Shadow. The name had lingered like a curse on Aksh's mind ever since the attack. Every move he made, every piece of information he uncovered, led him back to that same enigma.

Black Shadow wasn't just an enemy. It was a force lurking beneath the surface, orchestrating events like a master puppeteer. And tonight, Aksh would rip off the mask.

He turned a corner, his steps soundless against the damp pavement. The streets were alive with low murmurs, backdoor deals, and the occasional clink of a blade against a bottle. His presence didn't go unnoticed. A few men leaned against the walls, their hushed conversations stopping as he passed.

They knew who he was.

Aksh paid them no mind. Fear was a weapon, but right now, he needed something stronger—answers.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from Mr. Jung.

"Something's off. Don't trust anyone."

Aksh's jaw clenched.

He was already two steps ahead.

Ahana paced the length of the safe house, her anxiety growing with every second. She had tried to sleep, but her mind refused to rest. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the crash. The flames. The fear of losing him.

Aksh had walked away from the explosion that night, but something had shifted between them.

She had told him she loved him.

And he hadn't said a word.

The memory burned inside her, but what unsettled her more was the silence. He hadn't spoken much since that night, and now he was out there, hunting ghosts while she sat here, useless.

Her fists tightened. She hated this feeling—this helplessness.

A noise outside the window made her freeze.

She turned sharply, her breath hitching.

The balcony doors were locked, but the curtains fluttered as if disturbed by movement. A chill ran down her spine. She stepped closer, her pulse quickening. The city stretched below, its lights glittering like scattered stars, but something felt… wrong.

Someone was watching.

Aksh reached the meeting point.

The warehouse loomed ahead, a structure built of rusted metal and whispered secrets. The intel had led him here. The man with the cross tattoo was supposed to be inside.

But something was off.

Too quiet. Too still.

His fingers brushed against the concealed weapon at his waist as he pushed the heavy doors open.

Inside, the dim glow of hanging bulbs cast long shadows across crates stacked high with smuggled goods. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and damp cement.

A single chair sat in the middle of the room. Empty.

Aksh stepped forward, every muscle in his body coiled for action.

A flicker of movement—

Then, the overhead lights cut out.

The room plunged into darkness.

Silence.

Then came the sound.

A slow, deliberate clap.

The hairs on Aksh's neck stood on end.

Footsteps echoed from the shadows. A voice, smooth and amused, drifted through the darkness.

"You're just as sharp as they say, Aksh. But tell me—"

A click. The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

"Are you fast enough?"

The air in the warehouse crackled with tension. Aksh didn't move, his instincts razor-sharp. A single wrong step could mean death.

At the same time, miles away, the penthouse security fell—one by one. Silent, precise. Shadows slipped through the halls, moving toward Ahana's room like wolves closing in on their prey.

Back in the warehouse, Aksh's grip tightened around his gun. The voice in the darkness chuckled.

"Looks like you're running out of time, Aksh. Tell me—"

A sharp scream pierced through his earpiece.

Ahana.

His blood turned ice-cold.

And then—gunfire erupted.