The abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Mumbai smelled of rust and decay, the flickering overhead bulb casting eerie shadows on the cracked concrete floor. The air was thick with tension, suffocating, charged with the weight of death waiting to happen. Three men knelt before Diya Rawat, their hands bound behind their backs, their faces bruised and bloodied from the beating they had received at her command. Fear radiated from them, their bodies trembling as they looked up at the woman who held their fate in her hands.
Dressed in a sleek black suit, her curly hair cascading over her shoulders like a crown of chaos, she exuded nothing but power, dominance, and lethal beauty.
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