Chapter 15 Arrival Of Black King
Not a single man questioned the order. With weapons loaded and eyes focused, the convoy broke into formation and disappeared into the narrow jungle trail, heading straight toward Samar Rajput's villa.
Raaka and Vihan took a different route. Inside the car, I watch Vihan stare silently out the window, his thoughts dark, his revenge near. Soon very soon it will be over.
But deep within the jungle, as the convoy moves forward through a sharp bend in the trail, suddenly gunfire rips through the night.
Bullets fly from every direction in a deafening ambush. Guards scream as chaos breaks out. Some dive for cover, others don’t get the chance.
“Take cover!” one yells.
“It’s a trap!” another shouts.
But before they can regroup, three more men are hit. Smoke, sparks, and blood fill the air. What was supposed to be a clean hit is now a bloody nightmare.
The smoke slowly begins to clear. Gunfire fades into silence. Bodies lie scattered on the ground, blood soaking into the jungle floor. A few bodyguards, still alive, crouch in fear behind trees and rocks, hearts racing, breaths shaking.
And then the smoke fully lifts. What they see freezes them in place. A tall figure stands in the clearing. Wearing a long black coat, a high-collared hood, heavy black boots, and a matte black mask that covers his entire face. Only his eyes are visible, piercing, dark, and locked directly onto them.
In his gloved hands, he holds two sleek black guns, arms steady, deadly calm. No one dares to move. Until one of the bodyguards whispers in shock, “K-King...?”
Another turns pale, his voice shaking as he shouts, “That’s the Black King! If you want to live, run!”
In a heartbeat, all of them turn and bolt in the opposite direction, stumbling over roots, dodging trees, desperate to survive. But the Black King doesn’t hesitate. He raises both guns.
And unleashes hell. A rapid spray of bullets echoes through the forest. Each shot perfect. One by one the guards fall. No mercy. No warning. He isn’t just shooting; he’s delivering judgment.
Then, suddenly, a loud, shrieking roar pierces the night. “SSHHHHHHHHHH...”
The ground trembles. Trees sway violently. From the heart of the jungle, a sleek black stealth jet touches down with flawless precision, its lights slicing through the shadows.
The Black King doesn’t look back. With calm purpose, he turns, walks straight to the jet, steps aboard, and disappears inside. The cockpit seals. The engines scream.
And within seconds, the jet soars into the sky, leaving behind a trail of fire, wind, and whispers. The Black King is gone.
It is 2 AM. The entire Rajput villa is wrapped in silence, the kind of stillness that only the dead of night carries. Now and then, the distant chime of a clock echoes softly, or the gentle clinking of wind chimes outside stirs in the wind.
Samar pushes open the door to his bedroom, his steps calm, deliberate. The room is completely dark, except for a faint sliver of moonlight slipping in through the half-parted curtains. His eyes immediately fall on me, sleeping on the bed.
I am curled up slightly, lost in sleep. The silver moonlight brushes across my face, soft, pale, and glowing gently, making me look almost unreal, like a quiet soul tucked safely away from the chaos of the world.
I draw myself inward, arms wrapped around my knees like a child seeking warmth. There’s something innocent in the way I sleep untouched, peaceful, fragile. My breath moves in slow, steady rhythm. My lips barely part.
Samar stands there for a few seconds, watching me. His face is blank, unreadable no anger, no warmth, no emotion. Just silence, and something buried deep in his eyes that even he can’t name.
He keeps watching me. Maybe he wants to say something. Maybe not. But no words come. And then, without a sound, he turns away and walks to the sofa in the corner of the room.
He lies down, his eyes open, the moonlight now stretching across both of us one deep in sleep, the other far from it.
Samar has long lost his sleep. He lies on the sofa, eyes open, lost in thoughts too heavy to name. The room remains cloaked in silence, lit only by the faint silver glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains.
And then I hear something. A soft voice, trembling and broken. “Please don’t hurt me No please don’t.”
It is my own voice, but I am not awake. I am mumbling in my sleep, shifting restlessly beneath the sheets. My face twists in fear, hands slightly trembling, my forehead glistening with cold sweat as if trapped in a nightmare too real to escape.
Samar immediately gets up and rushes to the bed. He gently grabs my hand, concern flashing in his eyes. Leaning in close, he calls out softly but urgently, “Ishani! Ishani, wake up! It’s okay I’m here. You’re safe.”
But I don’t wake. My breathing grows faster, more panicked. I look utterly terrified. And then with a sharp gasp, I jolt awake.
I sit up, wide-eyed, heart pounding in my chest. My chest rises and falls rapidly as if I’ve just run through fire. My eyes search the room in confusion and fall on Samar.
Without thinking, without a single word, he begins rubbing my back gently, as if trying to ease the fear out of my body with his touch.
And then, without warning, I throw myself into his chest. Not with force, but with the quiet desperation of someone who has finally broken down. Samar freezes. Completely still.
His arms hang mid-air unsure, shocked, stunned. He doesn’t expect this. Doesn’t know how to react. Time seems to pause in that moment. Moonlight still pours into the room, wrapping around us in quiet witness.
For a few long seconds, I remain pressed against Samar’s chest. The moment is still. No sound, no movement. Just a fragile silence, where a sliver of comfort lives inside the chaos.
But then I suddenly realize what I’m doing.
As if startled by my own emotions, I quickly pull back, my body tense, my face filled with hesitation and guilt.
I look up at Samar, eyes softly apologetic, a bit scared. He says nothing. But in his eyes, there is something unspoken a quiet sting not of anger, but maybe of disappointment.
I whisper, barely loud enough, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize, I must’ve fallen asleep. I-I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Just as I am about to move away, Samar reaches out and gently holds my wrist. Not harshly. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop me.
He looks me straight in the eyes and says, “You can sleep here.”
I hesitate, unsure, voice soft and questioning, “But...?”
Samar’s voice drops deep, calm, and final, “No questions.”
That is it. Nothing more. And somehow, that says everything. I go silent. I look at him for a second longer as if trying to read something in his expression, then quietly lay back down on the bed. Samar turns without another word, walks back to the sofa, and lies down again.