Aditya_KD

Amit never wanted a life of crime—until it stole everything from him. When his father is murdered in cold blood by a nameless gangster, the system turns its back. No leads. No justice. Just silence.

Now, Amit steps into the same blood-soaked streets that made him an orphan. As he claws his way through the city’s brutal underworld, chasing whispers and shadows, every move pulls him deeper into a web of lies, betrayal, and violence. But vengeance has a cost—and by the time he faces his father's killer, Amit may no longer recognize the man he’s become.

MADE IN BLOOD

Crimson Fangs Temporary Hideout – 02:03 HRS

Sleep didn't come easy after hearing that name.

I hadn't thought of him in years. Not really.

The footage was old, but I would've known his voice even in a dream.

The whisper of it still echoed in my skull.

I opened the drawer under my bed, pulled out an old cigar box.

Three men. Standing together. Laughing.

My father, Karan Rathore—dressed in uniform, eyes blazing with that same stubborn fire I used to see in the mirror.

Dev Sharma—older, bulkier, with salt-and-pepper stubble and those worn-down knuckles he never bothered to treat.

That day felt like yesterday and another lifetime all at once.

Mumbai Police HQ – 11 Years Ago – Evening Shift

The room smelled like coffee, gun oil, and sweat.

"Again?" Dev Sharma grinned, spinning his baton and leaning back in the creaky steel chair.

"Just one more round," I begged, holding the training gloves like they were sacred relics.

"You'll burn yourself out, champ," Dad said from across the room, signing a report.

"I wanna punch like you guys," I pouted.

Dev chuckled. "You don't punch like us. You punch like you."

He stood, stretched, and ruffled my hair with one bruised hand. "That's better."

They were heroes to me. Two cops in a rotten city who refused to bend. Who'd rather bleed than compromise.

Especially when the rot grows too deep.

Dev's "death" came without ceremony.

A report. A whisper. A closed casket and a silent funeral.

"Killed in action during a smuggling investigation in Kurla West."

But even back then, something didn't feel right.

He died chasing shipments that no one wanted to trace. Files vanished. Witnesses disappeared. And smugglers—the brutes who ran that sector—only got bigger.

Less laughter. More silence. A man hollowed out.

Karan Rathore's funeral – 5 Years Ago

I stood outside the gates. Rain pouring.

The city lights were blurred behind tears.

One officer walked out holding a plastic bag of my father's belongings. Badge. Notebook. A shattered watch.

"He never stopped looking into Dev," the officer said quietly. "Right up to his last breath."

Because that was the day I stopped being a boy.

Unknown Underground Surveillance Bunker – 03:47 HRS

The screen glowed faint blue in the dark.

On it, Amit stood frozen. The footage paused on his face—jaw tense, eyes haunted.

Dev Sharma stood behind the monitors, arms folded.

Older now. More scars. More shadows in his eyes than lines.

He didn't flinch as he watched the boy he once taught how to throw a jab now standing on the edge of war.

Around him, rows of monitors showed Ghatkopar tunnels, satellite feeds, encrypted dashboards.

Behind him, a door slid open. A silhouette entered, saluted.

He clicked the screen forward. Watched as Amit moved across the war room map with his team.

"Let's see if the boy can survive the truth."

#26 : THE GHOST WHO KNOCKED TWICE