The vehicle that arrived for Aisha was not a beat-up sedan, but a sleek, silent matte-black electric car-a ghost in the damp, deserted alley.

The driver, a large man with a neck thicker than Aisha's waist, simply gestured for her to get in the back. He didn't speak a word.

​The journey was a blur of high-speed silence through empty streets. Aisha kept her gaze fixed on the back of the driver's impassive head, trying to quell the frantic drumming of her heart.

Every shadow felt like an accusation, every distant siren a final judgment.
​They stopped at a deserted section of the old waterfront docks.

The air was heavy with the smell of brine, decay, and stagnant water. Massive, skeletal cranes loomed against the bruised sky, their cables creaking softly in the wind.

​"Stay in the car," the driver grunted, finally breaking his silence.

"Wait for the exchange. Do not look at the faces."
​He exited and melted into the dense shadows beneath a corrugated steel warehouse.

Aisha gripped the seatbelt, fighting the urge to bolt. Her instincts screamed danger, but the image of Diya's fragile face was a tether, anchoring her to the horrifying choice she had made.

​A few minutes later, two figures emerged from the gloom. One was the driver; the other was a shorter, wiry man carrying a plain, rectangular briefcase.

The exchange was quick and professional.

The driver took the case, gave the other man a quick, curt nod, and returned to the car.

​He placed the briefcase in the passenger footwell, its surface cold and hard.

​"Your package," he said. "The destination is a private penthouse in the new tower district. Raichand Tower."

​Aisha sucked in a sharp breath. Raichand Tower.

The undisputed, glittering monument to the king of this dark city. She tried to steady her voice. "Who is the contact at the delivery point?"

​"No one," the driver replied, pulling the car back onto the road with smooth, terrifying efficiency.

"You walk in alone. The top floor. The drop-off point is a pedestal in the main foyer. You leave the case, you turn around, and you walk out.

You will not be seen. You will not be spoken to. That is the agreement."

​The car glided out of the dilapidated docks and into the hyper-modern grid of the financial district.

Soon, the colossal structure of Raichand Tower dominated the view, a spear of polished obsidian and glass piercing the pre-dawn darkness.

​They stopped at a discreet side entrance.

The driver handed her a small, metallic keycard. "Final instructions: You have exactly ten minutes from the moment you scan this card until the elevator returns to the ground floor. No more. The rest of the payment is tied to the successful drop."

​Aisha nodded, her mouth dry. She stepped out, tucking the briefcase under her arm. The air here was cleaner, colder, and somehow heavier with unseen power.

​She scanned the card. The glass door hissed open, admitting her into a quiet, marble-lined lobby.

She found the private elevator-a polished steel capsule that seemed to hum with proprietary energy.

She pressed the button for the top floor.
​The ride was agonizingly fast, the world outside dissolving into streaks of light.

When the doors opened, Aisha stepped onto a carpet that swallowed the sound of her cheap shoes.

​This was not an office. It was a palace carved out of the sky.

​The space was cavernous and minimalist, featuring ancient artifacts displayed on pedestals of light. One wall was entirely glass, offering a dizzying, panoramic view of the city-a scattering of subordinate jewels beneath the undisputed crown of the room.

​In the center, bathed in a single, focused beam of light, was the designated pedestal.

​Aisha rushed forward, her eyes scanning the periphery for any sign of life.

She was utterly, terrifyingly alone. She reached the pedestal and carefully set the briefcase down.

Her hand lingered on the cold metal. It was done. Diya was safe.

​As she turned to leave, a movement caught her eye. Not a person, but an object.

​On a separate, smaller antique table near a massive desk, lay an exquisitely carved crystal goblet.

It seemed to draw the room's light, shimmering with a subtle, unnerving inner life. Beside it, lay a piece of paper, folded neatly.

​A dangerous curiosity, a lapse of judgment spurred by adrenaline and the gravity of the setting, pulled her forward.

She grabbed the paper.
​It was a printed photo. A single, high-resolution image of Diya, asleep in her hospital bed, the IV drip clearly visible.

​A cold, agonizing dread seized Aisha, freezing the blood in her veins. This wasn't a job. This was a trap. They weren't just paying her; they had been watching her.

​A sound broke the profound silence-the smooth click of a door closing in the shadows.

​Aisha spun around, dropping the photo.

​He was standing in the doorway leading to an adjoining room, silent and utterly still.

He was a presence more than a man , impossibly tall, dressed in dark silk that seemed to absorb the light. His face was a study in severe, ancient beauty, but it was his eyes that ensnared her-deep, unfathomable, and tinged with a blue color.

​He took one slow, deliberate step into the light.

​"You're early, Aisha Sharma," Siddharth Raichand murmured, his voice a low, melodic command, exactly like the one she had heard on the phone. "But you're exactly where you belong."

Siddharth Raichand

Your Emily_inktales 💖