The city was beginning to fall asleep when a convoy of black SUVs rolled through the mist-shrouded streets of Chicago. Streetlights glinted across polished paint as the vehicles moved like shadows through the quiet grid. Etched near the door handles of each car was a silver insignia—a single, blooming rose.
Inside the lead vehicle, Arora leaned against the leather seat, staring out the tinted window. Rainwater crawled across the glass in long streaks, blurring the passing skyline. Her expression remained unreadable, but her thoughts were far less disciplined.
She clicked her tongue softly.
The idiot's golden hair and broad, disarming grin flashed across her mind again. It was infuriating. Not because she liked him, but because she couldn't stand being unable to control her own focus. Most civilians vanished from her memory the moment they left her sight—her life was far too dangerous to waste energy on random encounters. Yet somehow, that smiling fool had taken up residence in her head.
Arora pressed her temple against the cool glass, then sat upright. Enough. Work was waiting, and concrete problems were much easier to execute than feelings.
The convoy turned onto a private road guarded by heavy steel gates. The security detail stationed outside stood straight as the lead vehicle approached, opening the entrance without a word. No questions. No delays.
The vehicles glided into the courtyard of the Black Rose headquarters and drew to a smooth stop. The driver opened the rear door. "Leader."
Arora stepped into the crisp night air. Before her rose seven floors of sleek steel, reinforced glass, and concrete—a structure resembling a high-end financial firm far more than the command center of Chicago's most feared syndicate.
Guards bowed as she crossed the threshold. "Leader." "Leader." "Leader."
She offered a single, quiet nod and walked through the doors.
The lobby remained an engine of activity despite the hour. Logistics operatives moved between glass-walled offices carrying encrypted tablets and financial reports, while a massive wall of security monitors tracked live feeds across the city's districts.
Chaos reigned on the streets outside. Inside these walls, absolute order ruled.
As she stepped into the private executive elevator, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the machinery. "Working overtime again?"
Kelvin caught the sliding doors with his hand, stepping inside with a fresh mug of coffee.
Arora's eyes narrowed slightly. "Aren't surgeons supposed to be sleeping at midnight?"
"Aren't gang bosses supposed to stop sending me emergency trauma cases?" Kelvin countered smoothly.
"Fair point."
The elevator hummed as it ascended. For a few seconds, only the soft mechanical chime filled the car. Then Kelvin reached out and dropped two glossy white cards onto the top of her head.
Arora let out a long sigh, taking the cards into her hand. "What now?"
"You know exactly what," Kelvin said, leaning against the handrail. "Those are two of my private clinic cards. Two guys showed up in my ER tonight holding them—one with a dislocated shoulder, the other with a shattered wrist."
Arora looked away, unbothered. "Sounds like standard practice for a doctor."
"Standard practice?" Kelvin repeated, raising an eyebrow. "One of them brought two beat cops with him. I had to spend forty-five minutes explaining to a precinct captain why my private practice keeps treating men folded like origami by pressure point strikes."
She clicked her tongue. "Tch. That diner waiter actually called the police?"
Kelvin stared at her in utter disbelief. The fact that she was more annoyed by the waiter's lack of spine than the police presence said everything. "You really are impossible."
The elevator chimed, opening to the sixth floor.
Arora stepped out, glancing over her shoulder. "You're welcome."
"For what?"
"Increasing your private billing numbers."
Kelvin groaned, rubbing his temples. "One of these days, Arora, you're going to give me a heart attack."
"No," she said, a brief, wicked smirk touching her lips. "I need my surgeon alive."
Her office spanned the majority of the upper floor. The moment she crossed the threshold, Miso was already standing by the grand desk, a sleek leather binder in hand.
"Leader."
"Report."
Miso handed over the files instantly. "The northern district protection accounts are fully audited. Security routes for the waterfront shipments have been updated, and three new night venues have formally requested Black Rose oversight."
Arora sat in her leather chair, unpenning a silver fountain pen as she reviewed the ledgers.
Miso watched her in quiet respect. Even after years at her side, she found it remarkable how effortlessly Arora shifted gears. On the street, she was a terrifying force of nature; behind this desk, she operated as a brilliant, razor-sharp CEO.
Minutes bled into an hour. Signatures filled pages, directives were issued, and territorial reports were filed. Yet twice during the review, Arora's hand paused over a document, her eyes drifting toward the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the Chicago skyline.
Blue eyes. Sunlight hair. That ridiculously warm smile.
She caught herself, cleared her throat, and went back to reading. Miso noticed the slip, but wisely kept her mouth shut.
A sudden commotion echoed from the ground floor, cutting through the silence of the suite. Heavy boots scrambled down the outer corridor, followed by heated argument.
Arora raised her head from a contract. "What now?"
Before Miso could cross to the door, it flew open. Edwin stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his collar rumpled.
"Leader!"
Arora rubbed her temples. "Why are you shouting, Edwin?"
"I brought the target in from the south alley grab," he panted.
"Good. Throw him in holding."
"I did! But Leader—he's driving me out of my mind!"
Arora raised an eyebrow. Edwin was usually unflappable. "What did he do?"
"He won't stop talking!" Edwin rasped, pointing wildly down the hall. "He's been tied to the chair for ten minutes and all he keeps doing is shouting for someone named 'Baby'!"
The silver fountain pen slipped from Arora's fingers, clattering onto the glass desk.
Miso's head snapped up, her eyes wide.
Neither of them made a sound. A suffocating silence descended on the office. Edwin blinked, looking between the two of them in utter confusion. "What? Did I say something wrong?"
Arora stood up, her face completely pale. "Take me to holding."
The ground floor interrogation room was cold, lit only by an industrial overhead bulb dangling from a exposed concrete ceiling. By the time Arora arrived, Kelvin had already wandered down from the medical bay, leaning against the doorframe out of pure curiosity.
Inside, a man sat bound tightly to a heavy iron chair, his hands secured behind his back. His head hung low under the glare of the light.
The moment Arora crossed the threshold, her footsteps stopped dead.
Not because of a threat—but because she recognized him instantly.
Golden hair. Blue eyes.
The exact same idiot from the diner. The exact same idiot from the gym.
For a terrifying second, Arora genuinely wondered if she had finally lost her mind due to sleep deprivation. Beside her, Miso's eyes bulged as she looked back and forth between the prisoner and her leader.
"Leader..." Miso whispered, shocked. "Tell me you're seeing this too."
"Unfortunately," Arora muttered through gritted teeth, "I am."
Across the room, the sound of her voice made Jack lift his head. At first, his eyes squinted against the harsh overhead bulb, looking bewildered. But the moment his gaze locked onto Arora, the confusion vanished entirely.
His face lit up with absolute, pure delight.
"Baby!"
The shout rang off the concrete walls like a gunshot.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Kelvin's jaw dropped, looking utterly bewildered. Edwin stared back and forth between his terrifying boss and the tied-up civilian as if waiting for someone to get executed. Miso covered her mouth, her shoulders trembling from suppressed shock.
And Arora... Arora stood perfectly frozen.
Only the slight tightening of her knuckles against her coat sleeves betrayed the chaotic storm inside her head.
Jack, meanwhile, looked thrilled—as if being tied to a chair in the basement of Chicago's most dangerous gang HQ was just a pleasant surprise date.
"I knew you were incredible," Jack beamed, squirming in the iron chair. "But you have your own building?!"
The room remained dead silent, heavy, and completely absurd.
For the first time in her entire life, Arora regretted every single decision that had led her to this moment. Especially giving a stranger a fake nickname.
Because even in her wildest nightmares... she had never seen this coming.
To Be Continued...