The Mumbai morning was grey, matching the cold, unyielding atmosphere inside the Raichand mansion. Aman had not slept. He was in his gym, pounding a heavy punching bag with brutal, rhythmic strikes. Thud. Thud. Thud. His bare torso was slick with sweat, the faded scars glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights. He was channeling every ounce of his grief, frustration, and obsessive lust into raw, physical power.

His phone buzzed on the bench. It was a secure line.