Bob threw the first punch.
It came straight toward Arora's face — fast, heavy, and loud enough to make the crowd gasp. But to her, it felt slow. Too easy. She leaned aside, the blow missing by inches, the air from it brushing her cheek.
Bob blinked. He hadn't even seen her move.
He tried again, faster this time, fueled by humiliation. Arora stepped back, letting his fist swing through nothing but air. His anger made his movements sloppy, predictable. She could see every strike before it came — the twist of his shoulder, the flare in his eyes.
"Should we stop for a minute?" she asked, her tone mocking but calm. "You look like you're running out of energy."
"Shut your mouth!" Bob snarled, his face red with anger.
And then, breaking one of the oldest rules in her gang, he reached for a knife.
The crowd gasped. Even Nick stiffened. Drawing a blade during a duel was forbidden.
But Bob didn't care. He lunged forward, aiming straight for her ribs.
Arora's eyes turned cold. "You just broke my favorite rule."
She didn't move back. Instead, she stepped into him. Her hand caught his wrist midair — the knife stopped just before her skin. With a quick twist, she bent his arm backward until a sharp crack echoed through the hall. Bob cried out in pain, the knife clattering to the ground.
Before he could even react, her fist drove into his stomach. The first hit made him gasp. The second made him bend. The third made him collapse to his knees, breathless.
But she didn't stop.
Each hit after that was clean, powerful, and deliberate. She hit him again and again — fourth, fifth, sixth — the room growing quieter with every blow. By the eighth strike, Bob was half-conscious, his body trembling as it hit the floor.
Silence swallowed the hall.
The men who had been laughing minutes ago now stood completely still, afraid to even breathe too loud.
Bob's wheezing echoed off the walls.
Arora stepped back, brushing her knuckles. "Why are you kneeling?" she said suddenly.
Several of the men had dropped to their knees without realizing it. Her voice snapped them upright.
"I didn't ask you to kneel," she said, adjusting the wrap on her wrist. "I asked who leaked our plan."
No one answered.
Her eyes swept across the room — faces turning away, heads lowering. Not one dared to meet her gaze.
A few beads of sweat rolled down someone's temple. A chair creaked in the back. Nothing else.
For a second, her mind flickered somewhere else. Back to that night — the rain, the thunder, the sound of Kelvin's voice calling her Leader.
That one word was enough to shake her.
It had been their secret code since they were kids — a promise. If Kelvin ever called her Leader, it meant danger. It meant her enemy. It meant the woman who destroyed their family had shown her face again.
That call had started everything. The chase. The warehouse. The capture.
And now Kelvin was lying in a hospital bed because of it.
Her chest tightened. She pushed the thought away. Guilt was a weakness, and she couldn't afford it. Not tonight.
Arora looked back at the crowd. Her voice came out quieter this time, but sharper.
"Speak. Someone in this room cost me six months of work."
Still silence.
"Nick," she said finally, not turning her head. "Bring the man we caught in the warehouse."
Nick hesitated for only a second. "Yes, Leader."
He signaled to two of her men, and they left through the side door.
Arora stood there, her eyes fixed on the ground where Bob had fallen. The once-loyal crowd around her now looked smaller somehow, more fragile. These were the people she'd fought beside, bled beside. And yet tonight, she didn't trust a single one of them.
The doors opened again.
Two guards dragged in a man — the prisoner from that warehouse. His face was bruised, his lip split, his shirt torn. They dropped him in front of her like a bag of dirt.
Arora crouched, meeting his eyes. "You remember me?"
He laughed weakly, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "How could I forget?"
"Good." She leaned in closer. "Then you know what's about to happen."
He smirked — the kind of smirk people wear when they think they've already lost everything. "You can kill me, Winland. Won't change a thing."
Her jaw twitched, but her expression stayed calm. "Maybe not," she said. "But it'll make me feel better."
The man chuckled, low and hoarse. "You'll never find her."
Arora's hand shot out, gripping his chin and forcing his gaze up. "You mean the woman in the burgundy dress?" she asked, her voice steady.
For the first time, he hesitated.
There it was — that flicker of fear in his eyes.
A small smile tugged at her lips. "That's all I needed."
But before she could pull away, the man started laughing again — a weak, trembling laugh that sounded almost pitiful. "You think killing me will fix you? You've become exactly what she wanted you to be."
Her eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He coughed, blood staining his teeth. "You… her daughter… same eyes. Same rage."
Arora froze for a second. "What did you just say?"
The man smiled wider, even as he shook from pain. "You don't even know, do you? The truth about your mother. About why your father died. You're just her shadow walking the same path."
A hush spread through the room. Even Nick looked uneasy.
Arora's fingers dug into his jaw until he winced. "Say that again."
He laughed until he choked. "Find her," he said through gasps. "Find her and you'll know."
Her patience snapped. She pushed him back down, her voice ice-cold. "Lock him up. No one talks to him except me."
Nick motioned for the guards, and they dragged the man away. His laughter echoed faintly down the hall, growing fainter and fainter until the door slammed shut.
The silence that followed was heavy. Even breathing felt dangerous.
Arora stood still for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she turned to Nick.
"Bring me everything on the contacts from the warehouse lead," she said. "I want every name, every address, every person that's come in or out of West Block in the last two months."
Nick nodded immediately. "Yes, Leader."
"And get Kelvin's call records," she added, her voice quieter but sharper. "Whoever talked to him before he collapsed — I want to know their name before sunrise."
Nick looked at her, hesitating just slightly. "You sure you want to do this alone?"
Arora didn't answer right away. She stared at the floor, where drops of blood still glimmered under the lights. Then she met his eyes.
"I've always done it alone."
Nick nodded slowly. He didn't argue. He knew her too well. He'd seen her drag herself through worse nights and come out standing. That was the problem — she always came out standing, no matter how much of herself she had to kill to do it.
"Understood," he said, turning to leave.
As he walked away, the rest of the men began to scatter, each one moving quietly as if afraid to disturb the air.
The hall emptied until it was just her again — Arora Winland, the Black Rose, standing alone in the middle of a room that smelled of blood, sweat, and silence.
She stood there for a while, staring at the faint streaks of blood on the concrete, her thoughts swirling like smoke.
The man's words wouldn't leave her mind. You're just her shadow.
Her mother's face flashed across her memory — that calm defiance the day she stood in front of the woman in burgundy. The way she told Kelvin to take Arora and run. The way she smiled before the gunshot.
Arora clenched her fist so tight her knuckles turned white.
"You don't get to win," she whispered. "Not after all this time."
She turned toward the window. Rain still poured outside, tapping against the glass like a steady heartbeat. Somewhere in the city, that woman was still out there — alive, hiding, watching.
Arora exhaled, smoke and breath mixing in the same sigh. Her eyes hardened again.
"Nick," she called, her voice steady once more.
He turned from the doorway. "Yes, Leader?"
"Tell everyone," she said. "The clean up starts tonight."
Nick nodded once. "Understood."
Arora looked at the dark reflection of herself in the window — the leader everyone feared, the woman no one dared cross. But beneath the reflection, she could still see the faint outline of the little girl who once hid under a table, crying for her parents.
She blinked it away.
There was no going back. Not anymore.
She crushed the cigarette under her heel and walked toward the door. The lights flickered as she passed, and the hallway fell quiet again — waiting for whatever storm she was about to unleash.
---
To be continued...