The city of Delhi never truly slept.
Even at two in the morning, the streets pulsed with restless life—distant horns, flickering streetlights, the hum of traffic on the Ring Road, and the faint echo of sirens cutting through the night.
But tonight, those sirens carried fear.
A black SUV sped recklessly through the deserted stretch near Connaught Place, its tyres screeching as it took a sharp turn, nearly slamming into the divider.
Inside, three men sat in panic.
"Bhai, he's still behind us!" the driver shouted, sweat dripping down his forehead.
The man in the passenger seat turned back, his face pale.
A police interceptor was chasing them like a predator stalking prey.
Its headlights burned like twin flames in the darkness.
"No way…" the third man muttered, his voice trembling. "It can't be him."
The name hung unspoken in the air.
A name feared by gangsters, smugglers, kidnappers, and corrupt politicians alike.
The driver cursed and pressed harder on the accelerator.
The SUV shot forward.
Behind them, the interceptor didn't slow down.
Instead, it got closer.
Steadily.
Relentlessly.
Inside the police vehicle, a young man sat behind the wheel, his sharp eyes fixed on the fleeing SUV.
His face was calm.
Too calm.
No panic.
No rush.
Only focus.
Aryan Rathore.
At just eighteen years old, he had already become a name whispered across police stations and criminal hideouts.
The youngest IPS officer in the country.
A legend.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in his black tactical uniform, Aryan's presence alone was enough to unsettle even the bravest criminal.
His sharp jawline, disciplined posture, and cold, calculating eyes reflected years of military upbringing.
After all, he wasn't raised in an ordinary household.
His father, General Vikram Rathore, was one of the most decorated generals in the Indian Army.
His mother, Ananya Rathore, headed one of the nation's most feared intelligence divisions.
Discipline had been his first language.
At age five, he had learned martial arts.
At age ten, he had graduated from university with a finance degree.
At twelve, he completed four master's degrees.
At thirteen, he secretly founded Rathore Global Technologies.
At fifteen, he became the youngest trillionaire in Asia.
And now, at eighteen—
He hunted criminals for sport.
The radio crackled.
"Officer Rathore, backup is five minutes away."
Aryan's lips curved into a faint smile.
"Five minutes is too long."
Before the voice on the other end could respond, he accelerated.
The interceptor surged forward.
The distance between the vehicles shrank rapidly.
Inside the SUV, panic reached its peak.
"He's insane!"
The driver swerved violently.
But Aryan had already calculated the trajectory.
His photographic memory and terrifying IQ made real-time prediction effortless.
Every angle.
Every speed.
Every turn.
He knew exactly what they would do before they did.
"Left in three… two… one."
The SUV turned left.
Exactly as predicted.
Aryan's fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
Then—
He rammed the side of their vehicle.
BANG!
The SUV lost balance and skidded sideways.
Sparks flew across the road.
It crashed into a barricade with a deafening sound.
Before the dust even settled, Aryan was already out of his car.
His movements were swift and precise.
One criminal stumbled out with a gun.
Big mistake.
Aryan grabbed the man's wrist, twisted sharply, and the gun clattered to the ground.
A punch to the stomach.
An elbow to the jaw.
The man collapsed instantly.
The second criminal was charged with a knife.
Aryan sidestepped.
A clean kick to the ribs.
The man flew into the side of the SUV.
The third tried to run.
Aryan looked at him coldly.
"Running?"
His voice was calm.
Almost amused.
The criminal froze.
Then Aryan moved.
In the blink of an eye, he appeared behind the man and slammed him face-first onto the hood.
Handcuffs clicked.
The entire fight lasted less than thirty seconds.
Sirens approached in the distance as backup finally arrived.
The officers who stepped out stared in disbelief.
One of them whispered, "He did it alone again …"
Another shook his head.
"No wonder criminals call him the Demon Officer."
Aryan straightened his uniform.
His expression remained unreadable.
For him, this was routine.
As the criminals were dragged away, one of them glared at Aryan with hatred.
"You think you're some hero?"
Aryan looked at him with icy calm.
"No."
His voice dropped.
"I'm the consequence of your choices."
The criminal shivered.
Even the surrounding officers fell silent.
That was Aryan Rathore.
Cold.
Precise.
Unstoppable.
But behind that terrifying image was a side only his family knew.
A teasing son.
A caring grandson.
A man who secretly donated crores to orphanages and schools.
A man who stopped his convoy to help lost children cross the road.
A man whose heart softened at the sight of innocence.
His phone vibrated.
The screen displayed one name.
Dadu
Aryan's expression changed instantly.
The icy sharpness melted.
He answered.
"Ji, Dadu."
His grandfather's warm voice came through.
"Beta, when are you coming home? Your dadi made kheer."
A faint smile appeared on Aryan's lips.
"I'm on my way."
"Good. And don't scare the poor officers too much."
Aryan chuckled softly.
"No promises."
As he got into his vehicle, one of the constables whispered to another,
"Sir smiled…"
The other stared in disbelief.
"The legend smiles?"
The interceptor drove off into the Delhi night.
Far away, in the shadows of a luxurious penthouse, a man watched the news footage of the arrest.
His eyes narrowed.
"Aryan Rathore …"
His lips curled into a sinister smile.
"So the youngest legend finally steps onto my chessboard."
He picked up his phone.
"Prepare the hijacking operation."
Back on the road, Aryan drove through the silent city, unaware that destiny had already begun moving its pieces.
Very soon—
A mission would come that would change his life forever.
A mission involving a family.
A girl.
And a marriage that would shake his world.
For the criminals of Delhi, one name was enough to bring fear.
Aryan Rathore.
The youngest legend.