The overhead lights hummed as they flickered back into full brightness, picking up right as Bob charged forward, his massive fist cutting through the air with enough force to make several front-row members flinch. The crowd instinctively stepped back, widening the makeshift arena.
Arora didn't move—at least, not immediately. She stood there with her hands relaxed at her sides, watching him approach with an expression that almost looked bored. To Bob, it felt deeply insulting; to everyone else in the room, it felt terrifying.
The punch came straight toward her face. At the very last possible moment, she tilted her head.
The fist missed. Not by much—just enough.
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
Bob stumbled forward slightly before regaining his balance, his face immediately darkening with embarrassment.
He attacked again. Then again. Then again.
Each strike was stronger than the last, fueled by raw frustration rather than skill. Arora avoided every single one of them with minimal movement—a slight shift of her shoulders, a quick turn of her waist, a single step backward. Nothing more.
To the untrained eye, it looked effortless. To the experienced fighters in the room, it looked humiliating.
"Should we take a break?" Arora asked calmly. "You look tired already."
Laughter erupted from somewhere near the back.
Bob's face turned beet red. "Shut up!"
He lunged forward recklessly. This time, something silver flashed in his hand.
The room instantly fell dead silent.
A knife.
Nick's expression darkened. Miso swore under her breath. Even Jack froze where he stood. Everyone knew the rules—no weapons, no exceptions.
Bob didn't care. With a snarl, he drove the blade straight toward Arora's ribs.
The smile disappeared from her face. For the first time since the fight began, her eyes became completely cold.
"You broke my favorite rule."
The next movement happened so fast that most people missed it entirely. Arora stepped forward instead of stepping back. Her hand shot out and caught his wrist.
A sharp crack echoed through the hall.
Bob screamed. The knife clattered across the floor.
Before he could recover, Arora's fist drove directly into his stomach. The impact folded him in half. A second punch followed. Then a third.
Each strike landed with frightening precision. There was no wasted movement, no anger, no showmanship—just pure efficiency.
Bob tried to fight back, but he couldn't. By the time Arora's eighth strike landed, he collapsed onto the floor, barely conscious.
Silence swallowed the hall. Nobody cheered. Nobody moved. The only sound was Bob's uneven, ragged breathing.
Arora rolled her shoulder and looked around the room. Several members had unconsciously dropped their heads. Some had even taken a step backward.
She noticed immediately.
"Why are you looking down?" she asked, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. "I didn't ask who could beat me. I asked who leaked our plans."
The heavy silence returned, feeling even heavier this time.
Arora slowly turned in a circle, studying the faces around her. Three hundred people. Three hundred expressions. Three hundred possibilities. And yet, not a single answer.
For a moment, her thoughts drifted elsewhere—to Kelvin at the hospital, to the memory of her brother lying unconscious beneath white sheets while machines breathed beside him.
Her jaw tightened. Someone had poisoned him. Someone had manipulated Jennie. Someone had led her toward the textile warehouse. And somewhere behind all of it stood the woman in burgundy.
Arora pushed the thoughts aside and looked toward Nick. "Bring him."
Nick immediately understood. His expression changed. "So we're doing this now?"
"Now."
The crowd exchanged confused glances, but nobody dared to ask questions.
Within minutes, the side doors opened. Two guards entered, dragging a man between them—the warehouse prisoner, the fifty-year-old man Arora had personally chased through the abandoned textile district.
His condition was worse than before. Dark bruises covered one side of his face, his lip was split, and one eye had swollen nearly shut. Yet despite all of it, there was still something irritatingly calm about him.
The guards forced him to his knees in the center of the ring. The room became completely silent.
Arora approached him slowly. The prisoner looked up, then smiled.
"Still angry?"
Arora crouched in front of him. "You remember me."
"Hard to forget." The smile widened slightly. "Most people introduce themselves before punching me."
A few nervous members chuckled. Arora didn't.
For several seconds, neither spoke. Then she reached into her coat.
The prisoner immediately stiffened. The reaction was tiny, almost invisible, but Arora saw it.
Slowly, she pulled out a photograph—the same photograph found in the warehouse, the same photograph that had kept her awake for nights on end. The photograph of her mother.
She held it in front of him.
The smile vanished from his face.
There it was. A reaction. His breathing changed—not much, just enough.
Arora's eyes narrowed. "You know this picture."
The prisoner looked away. "No."
"You do."
"No."
His answer came too quickly. Arora studied him for a moment, then smiled—a real smile this time, small and dangerous.
"You just told me more than I expected."
The prisoner frowned. "What?"
"You reacted."
For the first time, uncertainty appeared in his eyes.
Arora stood up, the photograph remaining in her hand. "You don't care about me. You don't care about Black Rose." She took a step closer. "But the second you saw this photograph, you panicked."
The hall remained silent. Nobody understood what was happening—nobody except Arora, and perhaps the prisoner.
"You know what this means."
The prisoner's jaw tightened. "Not talking."
"You will."
"No." His smile slowly returned. "You'll never find her."
The words hung in the air. Every member present heard them.
Arora's gaze sharpened. "The woman in burgundy?"
For the first time, the prisoner hesitated. Only for a second, but it was enough.
A small smile appeared on Arora's face. There—another reaction, another confirmation. The photograph, the woman, her mother—they were all connected.
The prisoner realized his mistake immediately, but it was already too late. Arora had seen everything she needed to see.
She folded the photograph carefully and slipped it back into her coat. "Take him downstairs."
The guards grabbed his arms. The man laughed as they pulled him away—a strange laugh, not fearful, not broken, but almost pitying.
"You still don't know, do you?" he called out.
The room froze. Arora stopped walking.
The prisoner looked directly at her. "You think you're chasing her. But you're just following the path she left behind."
The laughter echoed through the hall as the guards dragged him away. The heavy doors slammed shut.
Silence returned.
Arora remained standing in the center of the room. The photograph felt heavier than before.
For the first time since returning from her mission, she was certain of one thing: the photograph had never been left behind by accident. Someone wanted her to find it.
And whoever that person was... they knew far more about her family than she did.
To Be Continued...