Morning felt no different from the night.
Maybe because Malisha hadn't slept at all.
Still, she was composed.
She had freshened up, walked the dogs, and now they sat quietly in her room—alert, watchful, as if they sensed the weight of the day ahead.
A knock sounded at the door.
Malisha opened it.
It wasn't Aryan.
Not a guard either.
It was a familiar face she hadn't expected.
"Athena," Malisha said, genuine surprise slipping into her voice. "I didn't expect you."
Athena stepped inside without ceremony.
"Aryan called last night," she said calmly. "Even as Rank Ten, I still come when you do. As your right hand, my queen." She paused, then added, softer, "And drop the codename. You can call me Tara."
She handed Malisha a sleek suitcase.
"Your outfit for the meeting. The cloak is inside as well. Aryan said you should be ready soon."
Malisha took the case without a word and disappeared into the bathroom.
When she stepped out, she looked nothing like the girl from the night before.
A fitted coat dress brushed her knees. Stockings. Branded boots polished to perfection. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and the cloak rested against her wrist.
But more than the clothes—it was the look.
Cold. Controlled. Untouchable.
Queen Conquera had returned.
"We should head to the common area," Tara said.
Malisha nodded.
Without another word, they left.
The common area was already occupied.
The entire crew. The survivors. Aryan.
Conversation died the moment Malisha entered.
She didn't look at anyone.
The survivors stared at her with open hostility. The crew avoided her eyes altogether—fear, confusion, loyalty, resentment all tangled into silence.
Aryan, however, smiled like nothing had changed.
"Yes," he said easily, eyes flicking over her. "That's more like it. Reminds me of how you used to dress. Not that… tragic outfit from yesterday." He glanced at Tara. "Took you both long enough."
He lifted a cup.
"Tea?"
Malisha met his gaze and allowed herself the faintest smile.
"I don't take tea."
"Well, I do," Tara said immediately, reaching for it. "Give me that."
Aryan raised a brow, amused.
"Well, forgive me. I haven't woken up with either of you before, so I wouldn't know."
"Oh, cut it out already," Tara snapped.
Malisha turned away.
"I'll get it myself."
She headed toward the coffee machine.
Aditya was already there, holding two cups.
Out of habit, he turned.
For a brief moment, both of them froze—caught in muscle memory neither had consented to.
Then Aditya stepped back.
"It's for Siya," he muttered, and walked away.
Malisha didn't react.
She poured her coffee slowly, deliberately, refusing to let the moment show on her face.
From that second on, she made a decision.
Until the meeting was over, she would ignore everything—the looks, the whispers, the tension, the wounds she couldn't afford to touch yet.
This wasn't personal time.
This was business.
And business came first.
Malisha sipped her coffee, then walked over to Aryan.
"Well?" she said quietly. "Are you ready—or are we still pretending this is casual? And the invites?"
Aryan checked his watch, unbothered.
"Sent. Confirmed. Five minutes to chaos," he replied smoothly. "Which brings us to the important part."
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice.
"My polite suggestion? Put on the cloak. "
A pause. A smirk.
"Of course, if you're in the mood to remind them why they kneel… feel free to do the opposite."
Malisha didn't answer immediately. The coffee cup met the table with a soft click.
"We'll see," she said
Athena cut in sharply.
"Don't be stupid. Put on the cloak."
Her voice wasn't loud—but it didn't need to be. "She and everyone connected to her are alive only because no one knows who she is. We are entitled to keep that secret."
Aryan exhaled through his nose, irritation flickering—but contained.
"Relax," he said coolly. "I was joking. No one knows anything about her. Yet."
He glanced at Athena. "You really do overreact to everything, Rank Ten."
Without waiting for a reply, Aryan slipped into motion.
He shrugged into the coat of his three-piece suit, buttoned it with practiced ease, and then—almost casually—slid a pistol into place beneath the fabric.
The smile returned. Polite. Dangerous.
"Five minutes," he said. "Let's not waste the suspense."
"Okay," Athena said, rolling her eyes as she reached for her sword.
The blade slid into place at her waist with a soft, final click—less a weapon, more a promise.
Aryan stepped out first, hands clasped behind his back, posture flawless.
Every inch the gentleman.
Which, of course, he wasn't.
Athena stepped out next, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword, chin lifted, eyes forward—unapologetic.
Malisha cast a quick glance at the crew before pulling on the cloak.
Black on the outside.
Red within.
Trimmed with purple lace and threaded in gold.
She lifted the hood, letting the shadows claim her face.
Then she stepped out as well.
Malisha stopped beside Aryan, who was waiting—quite literally—for her command.
In a voice barely above a whisper, she said,
"Keeping the crew in check is your responsibility. I don't want any problems while I'm gone."
Aryan tilted his head. "I could lock the door. Though I doubt they'd appreciate that."
"They'd hate it," Malisha replied calmly. "And then they'd try to break out. Which is exactly what we don't want. Don't lock them in. Assign one guard to each."
Aryan exhaled. "You're asking for the impossible. Three of them want the bar, one's heading to a club, the rest want their rooms—"
"Then give them everything," Malisha cut in. "Luxury. Distractions. Reasons to stay."
She looked at him through the shadows of her hood.
"You know psychology, Aryan. You don't control people with force. You control them with desire."
He studied her. "Mal. It's your team."
"Yes," she said evenly. "A team that hates me now—but still wants answers. Curiosity will keep them in one place far better than fear ever could."
A pause.
"Arrange a direct live view of the meeting for them. After that, you won't need to do anything."
Aryan stared at her for a moment, visibly impressed. Then he nodded.
He exchanged a few quick words with a nearby guard and returned.
"It's done. No disturbances."
A faint smile.
"Shall we?"
Athena was already waiting at the staircase.
Malisha nodded once.
Aryan descended first—hands in his pockets, that practiced, charming smile firmly in place.
Athena followed, alert, assessing every corner, every movement.
Malisha—Conquera—entered last.
Elegant.
Confident.
Not delicate. Never delicate.
Arrogant, perhaps—but earned.
Inside, she was already bored.
The moment she stepped in, the room rose to its feet. She barely restrained an eye roll as Aryan and Tara took their places on either side of the seat that belonged to Queen Conquera.
Everyone present was armed.
Some heavily.
Some modestly—just a gun.
Each person placed their primary weapon on the table, directly in front of them.
A silent show of force.
Everyone, armed.
Except Malisha.
Malisha took her seat.
There was no weapon for her to place on the table.
A waitress entered swiftly, silent as a shadow, serving wine to each guest. Crystal glasses caught the light as they were set down—one by one—until the table was complete.
There were ten people present.
Not all of the Top Twenty had arrived.
The seats for Rank 20—the Doctor; Rank 3—the Princess; Rank 5—the Coach; Rank 9—the Chosen; Rank 12—the Angel; Rank 16—the Devil; and Rank 1—the One—remained empty.
Present were:
Rank 4—the Butcher.
Rank 6—the Owner.
Rank 7—the Empress.
Rank 8—the Hero.
Rank 11—the Manager.
Rank 13—the Killer.
Rank 14—the Beast.
Rank 17—the Lioness.
Rank 18—the Scorpion.
Rank 19—the Cavalry.
Four women. Six men.
All armed.
All seated.
Behind Malisha stood Rank 10 and Rank 15—silent, watchful.
Rank 6 leaned back slightly, swirling his wine.
"I thought keeping your weapon on the table was tradition," he said lightly.
"Unless, of course, you wish to change the rules, my queen."
Almost everyone took a sip.
Malisha didn't.
"My weapon isn't on the table," Conquera said calmly.
"I don't carry one."
A faint scoff escaped Rank 13.
"You think this is a joke?"
"No," she replied. "But the room is already full of weapons. Why should I bring one of my own when—"
Rank 13 suddenly choked.
His chair scraped violently against the floor as he fell, clawing at his throat. White foam bubbled from his lips. His body convulsed once.
Then—nothing.
Silence swallowed the room.
"I'm an assassin," Malisha continued, her voice unchanged.
"I don't need a weapon to kill. Do I?"
No one spoke.
Eyes dropped—first to the body, then to their wine glasses.
"Oh, don't worry," she said, finally lifting the glass placed before her.
"It was meant only for him."
She took the smallest sip—barely enough to wet her lips.
"He initiated a mutiny. Arranged quite an ambitious meeting, actually. For Lower ranks to attend—and they did , from the support of him. So I dealt with the problem."
A pause.
"And the man."
She set the glass down gently.
"Be afraid only if you're planning the same mistake," Malisha added.
"I kill on contract. None of you are worth a price high enough to interest me."
Her gaze moved slowly across the table.
"Unless you force me to make you worth it."
No one touched their wine again.
The common area had been transformed into a viewing room.
A large screen dominated one wall, the feed crystal-clear—multiple angles, perfect sound. Aryan's doing, no doubt.
The crew and survivors sat or stood in a loose semicircle. No one touched the drinks or food that had been brought in. The luxury felt like a trap.
At first, there was only tense silence as Malisha entered the meeting room cloaked, flanked by Aryan and the woman called Athena.
Dweep leaned forward, whispering, "That's… Rank Ten with her?"
Siya's arms were crossed so tightly her knuckles were white. She didn't respond.
Raghav sat quietly, bandaged face unreadable.
Aditya stood at the back, against the wall, arms folded—watching without blinking.
The survivors clustered together, eyes wide.
When the ranks placed their weapons on the table and Rank 6 made his comment about tradition, a few nervous murmurs rippled through the room.
Saurabh muttered, "They're all armed… and she's not?"
Then Rank 13 scoffed.
And choked.
White foam. Convulsions. Dead.
The common room froze.
Siya's hand flew to her mouth, a sharp gasp escaping.
Dweep actually flinched backward, knocking over an untouched glass. It shattered on the floor. No one moved to clean it.
Raghav closed his eyes for a long second.
The survivors went pale. Reha whispered, "Monster…" but it came out weak, almost reverent.
Aditya didn't move. His face was stone, but his knuckles whitened against his arms.
On screen, Malisha continued speaking as if nothing had happened.
"I'm an assassin. I don't need a weapon to kill. Do I?"
Then the line that broke the room:
"It was meant only for him."
She took the smallest sip of wine.
Siya sat down hard, legs giving out. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
Dweep looked physically ill. "She… planned that. Before we even got here."
Raghav finally opened his eyes. He met Aditya's across the room—a silent, heavy exchange.
One survivor—Ram—whispered, voice shaking, "We're never getting out of here alive."
When Malisha delivered her final warning—"Be afraid only if you're planning the same mistake"—the feed continued, but the common room was dead silent.
No one spoke for a long minute.
Siya wiped her face, voice barely audible: "She warned us. From the beginning. 'Not on my watch.'"
Dweep: "We're… watching our captain murder a top rank. In real time."
Aditya finally moved.
He pushed off the wall.
Without a word, he walked toward the door.
No one stopped him.
No one dared.
He paused at the threshold—just long enough to glance back at the screen, where Malisha sat untouched among the most dangerous people in the world.
Then he left the room.
Alone.
The door closed softly behind him.
And in the silence that followed, the feed kept playing—but no one was watching anymore.
Malisha remained exactly as she had been—still, composed, untouched by what had just unfolded.
Everyone else had changed.
Postures stiffened. Shoulders squared or slumped. Hands hovered closer to weapons that now felt meaningless.
Aryan stepped forward, voice smooth, practiced.
"This meeting was called to address the ranked gathering and the incident four days ago," he said calmly.
"The aftermath—from scavengers to Rank Fifty. You've all received the files. You argued for proof, for confirmation—so here it is."
He gestured, not theatrically, but deliberately.
"The Queen herself.
Yes, she is alive.
Yes, she is here.
And no—you will not breathe a word of this outside these walls."
His gaze swept the table, sharp as a blade.
"Or you may end up worse than the killer who just died."
Silence fell heavier than before.
Then Malisha spoke—quiet, unraised, absolute.
"Any questions?"
No one answered.
Eyes dropped. Wine glasses remained untouched. No one dared shift in their seat.
After a long moment, Rank Four—the Butcher—inclined his head slightly.
"I see the necessity of the recent incident, my Queen," he said carefully.
"I have no objections."
One by one, the others nodded. Not in agreement—
In submission.
Then the Empress spoke.
Rank Eight. Old. Sharp-eyed. Unafraid enough to be foolish.
"Rank One and Rank Three are absent," she said.
"You don't care much for us, clearly—but them? If they're not here, what purpose do we serve?"
Before Malisha could respond, Athena stepped forward.
Her hand rested lightly near the hilt of her sword.
"I believe you have your answer," Athena said coolly.
"Meeting dismissed."
That was it.
The meeting had never truly begun.
It had ended the moment Malisha walked in.
One by one, the ranks stood, gathering their weapons—what little dignity they had left still intact. No one looked at Malisha directly as they left. No one lingered.
Athena remained behind, standing just a step from Queen Conquera's side.
Aryan was the last to leave.
He lifted a wine glass from the table, took a slow sip, and smiled faintly—
as if toasting an audience that no longer existed.
Then he turned and followed the others out.
The room emptied.
And Malisha sat alone among the echoes of fear she had just rewritten into law.
Outside the meeting room, something happened.
Small.
But dangerous enough to turn fatal.
As the ranks were leaving one by one, the last figure was suddenly jolted—bumped into by a boy walking absentmindedly down the corridor.
The rank was Eight.
The Hero.
And the boy—unfortunately—was Aditya.
The meeting had drained what little patience the ranks had left. Fear still clung to the walls, sharp and unsettled. This minor collision was more than enough excuse to kill.
There were no higher ranks left nearby.
No Queen.
No Rank Ten.
Only Aryan—who stepped out last.
Rank Eight's hand shot forward. He grabbed Aditya by the collar, slamming him back against the wall. In the same motion, a gun was pressed hard against Aditya's forehead.
One second.
That was all it would take.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Aryan's voice cut in smoothly—perfectly timed.
Rank Eight paused.
"He's guaranteed," Aryan continued casually, lifting his wine glass.
"Five million. Not a coin less."
The Hero's grip tightened.
"He—" Aryan hesitated, mind racing, choosing the lie carefully.
"He won the guarantee in the casino."
He took a slow sip.
"Which means he's under the protection of the owner of Davila Pearl."
"And since the owner happens to be Rank Two…"
"I suggest you let the boy go."
Then, as if this were a friendly disagreement at a bar—
"Want some?" Aryan added, offering the glass.
Rank Eight stared at him, jaw clenched, rage vibrating just beneath the skin.
He shoved Aditya aside with force.
Grinding his teeth, he turned and walked away.
Only then did Aryan move.
He reached down, pulling Aditya to his feet with an easy grip.
Aditya stared at him, stunned.
"You're such a liar," Aditya muttered, still shaken.
"But… I guess you work under Ma—Conquera.
Figures you'd learn from the best."
Aryan scoffed softly.
"I didn't lie, wannabe captain of the OGS," he said flatly.
"You didn't win anything in a casino."
He paused, then added—
"You're guaranteed by Malisha."
"You, your sister, her siblings—all of you."
"For a long time now."
Aditya froze.
He looked at Aryan like the ground had shifted beneath his feet.
"Of course," Aditya said finally, a dull, hollow smile forming.
"That's what you do when you have too much unused money, right?"
Aryan didn't stop walking.
"No," he said without looking back.
"That's what you do for people you care about."
He headed back toward the club.
For a moment, Aditya stood there alone in the corridor—heart racing, thoughts spiraling.
Then he turned.
And followed Aryan back inside.