Adritya's POV:

The sun had barely risen, just a faint gold line brushing the horizon when the private jet cut through the quiet sky. Soft light filtered through the oval windows, turning the cabin into a warm cocoon of muted amber and casting a warm glow over the sumptuous leather seats and polished wooden panels. The serene hum of the engines filled the spacious cabin, segmented into elegant lounging areas with plush cushions and bespoke furnishings. The world outside was still asleep—but inside, I wasn’t.

Miraaya my newly wedded wife lay curled beside me, wrapped in the thick cashmere blanket the crew had brought earlier. Her breathing was slow, steady, almost melodic—the only softness in a life that had been chaos for far too long. A stray strand of hair had fallen over her cheek, and even in sleep, she clutched the edge of my jacket like she was afraid I might disappear.

I didn’t move. I just watched her.

My world in Russia was cold, sharp, demanding. But this moment—her sleeping so peacefully beside me—felt like a fragile warmth I wasn’t sure I deserved.

The jet hummed a low rhythm beneath us, steady and unchanging, but my thoughts weren’t. I traced my thumb lightly across the back of her hand, memorizing the calmness she brought into my darkness. Outside, the sky shifted fully into dawn, splashing light across her face, making her look almost ethereal.

For the first time in years, I didn’t think about the men waiting for me in Russia.

Or the danger.

Or the empire ruled by me.

My thoughts only drifted towards her.

My wife, my amber.

Asleep beside me—so unaware that she was the only thing capable of taming a man like me.

The memories of past swirled around me.

3 Days ago

Moscow, RUSSIA :

The winter wind howled outside the fortified warehouse on the outskirts of Moscow, carrying flakes of snow that battered the reinforced windows like desperate pleas.

Inside, the air was thick with the metallic tang of fear and blood. I stood at the center of the dimly lit interrogation room, my tall 6'3" frame casting a long shadow across the concrete floor.

At twenty-eight, I was no longer the frightened boy who had fled India;  I was the Weapon King, a name whispered in terror across Russia's underworld and Asia's boardrooms. My sharp chocolate brown eyes, framed by a chiseled jaw and raven-black hair, scanned the bound figure slumped in the metal chair before me.

The intel had come at dawn—a encrypted message from one of my most trusted lieutenants: a spy had infiltrated the inner circle of my arms empire, siphoning shipment manifests and client lists. In my world, betrayal wasn't just a mistake; it was a death sentence.

The traitor, a mid-level operative named Viktor Kuznetsov, had been snatched from his apartment hours ago, dragged here to this soundproof chamber buried beneath layers of steel and secrecy. I circled the chair slowly, my polished boots echoing like a predator's footsteps. Viktor, a wiry man in his thirties with a bruised face and sweat-slicked hair, lifted his head defiantly. His wrists and ankles were secured with reinforced cuffs, a single bare bulb swinging overhead casting harsh shadows that made his eyes gleam with false bravado."You thought you could play in my empire without paying the price?" My voice was low, a silken blade edged with ice.

I stopped in front of Viktor, towering over him. "Who sent you, Viktor? Names Now." Viktor spat blood onto the floor, his lips curling into a sneer. "Go to hell, Rathore. I say nothing."A faint smile ghosted my lips—cold, devoid of humor.

I nodded to the two hulking guards flanking the door. One stepped forward with a toolkit of horrors: pliers, a cattle prod, and a syringe glinting under the light. I didn't flinch as the first blow landed—a calculated punch to Viktor's ribs that cracked bone.

The spy gasped, doubling over as far as the restraints allowed."Tell me who pulls your strings," I repeated, my tone unchanging. I knelt to eye level, gripping Viktor's chin with iron fingers, forcing our gazes to lock. "My business spans continents—arms deals from Siberia to Singapore. Someone bold enough to send a rat like you must want my head. Give me the name, and your end is quick."Viktor wheezed, defiance cracking under the pain. "You'll... get nothing."The torture escalated methodically, as precise as my deals. Electricity from the prod arched through Viktor's body, eliciting screams that echoed off the walls. Waterboarding followed, the drip of liquid torture mirroring the relentless tick of a clock.

I watched impassively, my mind a fortress—years of surviving Russia's brutal underbelly had forged me into this: ruthless, unyielding. I thought briefly of the palace I fled, the father's betrayal that taught me trust was a luxury for fools. No mercy for those who threatened what I built. Hours blurred into agony.

Viktor's resolve shattered with a final, electric jolt. He slumped, sobbing, "Dimitri Volkov! It's Volkov—your rival from St. Petersburg! He paid me to leak the Indian shipments. He's planning a takeover!" I released my grip, standing tall as the name hung in the air like a verdict. Volkov—a snake I'd suspected but never proven.

The guards dragged the broken spy away to his fate, but my mind raced ahead. This breach threatened everything: my Asian expansions, the weapons networks that made me untouchable.

First India called—Delhi a business summit to solidify alliances. Later Volkov would bleed. I straightened my tailored black coat, wiping a speck of blood from my cuff. "Clean it up," I ordered the guards. "And prepare my jet" As I ascended the stairs into the snowy night, my eyes hardened with vengeance. Empires weren't built on forgiveness—they were carved from the bones of traitors.

Sheremetyevo International Airport, RUSSIA :

The clock struck 2:17 AM at , where the vast expanse of Terminal F lay shrouded in an eerie midnight hush, broken only by the distant roar of jet engines slicing through the biting Russian cold. Snowflakes danced under the harsh floodlights illuminating the tarmac, coating the runways in a thin, glistening veil, while the terminal's glass facades reflected neon signs in Cyrillic script—reds and blues flickering like distant stars against the black sky.

Inside, the cavernous halls echoed faintly with the footsteps of weary night owls and the low hum of automated announcements, the air heavy with the scent of jet fuel and stale coffee from a lone 24-hour kiosk.

I strode purposefully through the VIP lounge's private exit, my long black wool coat billowing like a shadow, chocolate brown eyes scanning the shadows with predatory vigilance. Flanked by two silent bodyguards, I carried the weight of Volkov's betrayal fresh on my mind—the spy's confession still burning like frostbite.

My private jet, a sleek Gulfstream G650 emblazoned with discreet Rathore insignia, waited on the apron, its engines idling with a predatory purr amid the scattering snow.

At my side hurried Elena Petrova, my sharp-eyed secretary of five years—petite, impeccably dressed in a tailored pantsuit, tablet in hand, her breath visible in the chill as we descended the escalator to the tarmac access. "Sir, all manifests are cleared for Delhi via Nainital layover," she murmured, voice steady despite the late hour. "Volkov's movements are tracked—intercepts ready on your signal. Fuel topped, crew briefed." I nodded curtly, my breath clouding the air as we stepped onto the frost-kissed ramp, wind whipping my black hair. "Good. No loose ends, Elena.

India awaits—my past and my empire collide there." He glanced at the jet's open door, stairs aglow with interior lights revealing plush leather and mahogany accents. A final scan of the perimeter—empty runways stretching into the night, ground crew silhouetted like ghosts—before he ascended, Elena close behind.

As the stairs retracted with a hydraulic whine and the door sealed shut, the jet taxied into the flurry, lights piercing the snowstorm. Moscow faded into a glittering blur below, I settled into my plush leather seat, mind already plotting the throne I fled and the darkness I would reclaim.

I exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Time to remind them” I murmured to myself,

“Why the world fears weapon king of Russia.”

Little did I know that destiny has its own plan waiting to change my life forever.

“Thank you for turning the first page of this journey with me - your time means more than you know.”

@GloomMythos