The tension in the hall shifted the moment Arora leapt down from the podium.
Her boots struck the floor like punctuation marks — heavy, deliberate, final.
A hundred eyes followed her as she crossed the room, cutting through the murmuring crowd. The scent of gun oil, sweat, and stale smoke filled the air.
She didn't have to say a word for people to move out of her way.
Power didn't need noise. It lived in silence — in the way she carried it.
Arora stopped in front of a man sitting lazily at the edge of the gathering, legs spread, chin tilted high like he owned the floor.
Bob Harrington.
The same man who'd spent months whispering poison into ears too weak to resist.
He looked up with a crooked smirk. "Leader," he drawled, the title sounding like an insult.
Arora's gaze stayed cold. "I heard," she began, her voice steady and sharp, "that you've been asking for a new leader."
Bob leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "I did," he said simply. "You ready to step down?"
A ripple went through the crowd — half shock, half anticipation.
No one breathed too loudly.
Jack stood near the doorway, his pulse hammering in his ears. This man had a death wish.
And Arora... she looked terrifyingly calm.
She took one slow step forward, her voice lowering to a tone that made the air itself go still.
"You know why I let you stay this long, Bob?"
He grinned. "Because deep down, you know we've got more power than you. Half the men here follow me, not you."
"Wrong." Her eyes glinted. "I was curious to see how far rats like you would crawl before the trap closed."
That wiped the grin off his face — but only for a second. He stood, towering over her by a few inches. "You think that little temper of yours scares me? You're just another pretty face hiding behind your father's shadow."
The sound that came from her throat wasn't quite a laugh — it was quieter, colder, like metal scraping against silk.
"Funny," she said softly, unbuttoning her sleeves. "That's what the last man who underestimated me said. He hasn't spoken since."
Gasps rippled through the room.
She slipped a black elastic band around her wrist and began tying her hair, slow and measured. It was such a mundane gesture, yet everyone watched — like soldiers waiting for a general to draw her sword.
Then she reached into her coat and pulled out a small silver knife.
Its edge caught the dim light, a sliver of reflection dancing across Bob's throat.
"Let's settle this," she murmured. "A duel. Winner owns the gang."
Her voice turned deadly soft. "Loser? They're erased."
Bob's smirk faltered for the first time, but pride kept him from backing down. "You sure you want to do this, Winland? You know what they call me?"
She tilted her head, feigning curiosity. "Enlighten me."
"They call me the Puncher." He puffed his chest out, his voice echoing. "I've taken down men twice your size with one hand."
"Mm." She took a step closer, her knife grazing his collar lightly before she slid it back into her belt. "Let's see if you can keep both hands after tonight."
Her smile wasn't human — it was the kind of smile predators gave before they moved in for the kill.
"Nick," she said, eyes still locked on Bob, "clear this floor. Make a ring. I want every one of them to watch."
Nick swallowed hard. "Yes, Leader."
As she turned to leave, the air behind her cracked with murmurs and whispers.
---
The hallway outside was cooler, quieter — the hum of the rain still audible from the windows.
Arora walked with her usual poise, but her mind was racing.
Not with fear — she never feared. But with calculation.
Bob wasn't the problem. The men behind him were.
If she didn't crush him in front of everyone, her leadership would fracture.
This wasn't about pride. It was survival.
Jack lingered behind her, unsure if he should speak. His stomach twisted with unease.
He wanted to tell her not to do it.
He wanted to tell her that this wasn't worth it.
But one glance at her profile — the steel in her expression — and he knew his words would be useless.
When Arora Winland made a decision, nothing in the world could bend it.
---
Fifteen minutes later, the third floor was unrecognizable.
The furniture was pushed aside. Lights were dimmed except for a single row above the newly formed circle in the center.
The polished floor gleamed, and men surrounded it, whispering, betting, waiting.
The atmosphere buzzed like a live wire.
Nick stood at the center, checking his watch. His stomach knotted. He'd seen Arora angry, but this was something else.
The last time she'd looked like this, an entire rival syndicate had disappeared by sunrise.
Then the elevator doors slid open.
Silence.
Every head turned.
Arora stepped out, and the room drew a collective breath.
Gone was the coat, the authority of her tailored suit.
Now, she wore a black sports bra beneath a loose jacket that hung open, and fitted tactical pants. Her dark hair was pulled high into a tight ponytail.
The scars along her ribs caught the light faintly, each one a whisper of battles survived.
Her eyes — sharp, cold, deliberate — swept across the room, and the crowd unconsciously backed away, giving her space.
Even Bob blinked once, thrown off by the transformation.
Jack couldn't take his eyes off her.
He'd seen power before — men who shouted, threatened, waved guns around.
But Arora didn't need volume. She didn't need a weapon.
Her silence was the weapon.
Nick exhaled, lowering his mic. "Leader's ready," he said to no one in particular.
Arora stepped into the circle. Her bare feet touched the polished floor with soundless precision.
Bob was already there, flexing his wrists, cracking his knuckles like a showman. "Didn't think you'd actually show up, sweetheart," he sneered. "Guess you want to go down swinging."
Arora tilted her head. "Swinging isn't really my style. I prefer precision."
The crowd laughed nervously.
Bob spat on the floor. "You sure you're ready? I don't pull punches — not even for a woman."
She smirked. "Good. I don't slow down for men."
Nick raised his hand. "Alright, listen up! Rules are simple — three clean hits, and it's over. No weapons. No interference. You two understand?"
"Got it," Bob said, rolling his shoulders.
Arora didn't speak — just gave a single nod.
Nick took a step back. "Begin on my mark."
---
Miso leaned toward Jack in the crowd. "He's dead," she whispered.
Jack didn't answer. His hands were cold, his throat tight.
He'd seen Arora handle a gun, a knife, a negotiation — but he'd never seen her like this.
Barehanded. Calm. Focused.
Beautiful in a way that terrified him.
Nick's voice cut through the silence.
"Three…"
Bob grinned, bouncing lightly on his heels.
"Two…"
Arora exhaled, slow and steady.
"One…"
The room held its breath.
"Fight!"
---
Bob lunged first, his fists swinging like hammers. The air shifted, heavy and fast.
Arora's body barely moved, her weight light on her feet, her eyes locked on his center.
She smiled. Just slightly.
The crowd roared.
Jack's pulse raced.
And as Bob's fist came down, Arora moved — quick as lightning, precise as a blade.
But no one saw how fast.
Because at that exact second — before anyone could see who landed the first hit — the lights flickered.
And the scene froze on Arora's smile.
To be continued…