SP Samradh sits alone in his office.
The ceiling fan spins lazily above him, pushing around warm, stale air. Files are scattered across his desk—some open, some half-read, all heavy with stories that never truly end.
In his hand is a postmortem report.
Rokda.
Once the king of organ trafficking. Now just another body reduced to paper and ink.
Samradh exhales slowly, placing the file aside. His fingers immediately reach for another.
Malle.
The previous king of Indira Dockyard.
His eyes narrow.
—
Two months ago.
Night.
The streets are dim, lit only by flickering streetlights and distant headlights.
Malle runs.
His breath is ragged, footsteps uneven, panic driving every movement. Sweat drips down his face as he pushes himself forward.
Behind him—
Samradh.
Relentless.
Silent.
Closing in.
Earlier that night—
A saloon.
Broken glass everywhere.
Gunfire echoing in tight spaces.
Malle's men dropping one by one as police bullets tear through the chaos.
Now…
Only Malle is left.
Back to the present chase—
Malle glances over his shoulder.
A mistake.
In that instant—
Samradh accelerates.
The distance vanishes.
And while both of them are still running—
Samradh throws a punch.
Clean.
Precise.
Brutal.
It lands on the back of Malle's neck.
Crack.
The sound is sharp.
Final.
Malle's body collapses mid-step, lifeless before it even hits the ground.
Silence returns to the street.
That single moment—
Ends a terrorist threat looming over Mumbai.
—
Afterward.
Dockyard.
Searchlights cut through the darkness.
What Samradh finds inside…
Is hell laid bare.
Stacks of drugs.
Weapons.
RDX explosives.
Women locked in containers.
Organs stored like merchandise.
Millions.
An entire empire of crime.
Dismantled.
—
Present.
Samradh leans back in his chair, pressing his fingers against his temple.
"What a headache…" he mutters.
A dry chuckle escapes him.
"I kill one king… and another is born."
He exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling.
"At least those two were too busy fighting each other to come after me."
—
Hospital.
Afternoon.
The room is quiet.
Machines hum softly.
Ansh sits beside the bed, watching his sister sleep.
Neha looks peaceful.
Too peaceful for someone with a hole in her heart.
"Shh… type slowly…" Ansh mutters under his breath, though there's no one to hear it.
A pink saline bag hangs beside her, fluid dripping steadily into her veins.
It's around 1 PM.
The curtains are drawn, but thin lines of sunlight slip through, falling across Ansh's back.
His hands tremble.
Constantly.
He wipes his face, exhales, then grabs his phone.
Dials.
The call connects.
"When are you starting the surgery?" Ansh says immediately, frustration cutting through his voice. "You said you had a heart."
On the other end—
A soft chuckle.
"Normally, I don't share such details," the doctor broker says casually. "But since you're our golden-egg hen…"
Ansh's tone turns cold instantly.
"Choose your next words carefully," he says. "You're talking about lives. I wouldn't mind emptying my gun into that thick skull of yours."
No reaction.
The doctor remains calm.
"You're a policeman. Learn patience. Be grateful we even accepted your deal."
Ansh lets out a quiet scoff.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" he says. "That clinic of yours? Foreign patients everywhere. One Arab looked like Dubai royalty. An American I've seen at presidential rallies."
A pause.
"So don't pretend you're scared of a small police officer."
His voice sharpens.
"What's your deal? Or should I find someone else?"
Silence.
Then—
The tone changes.
"You're sharp," the doctor admits. "Fine. I was stalling."
A brief pause.
"Rokda is dead. Anna took over the dock."
Ansh's grip tightens on the phone.
"Before dying, Rokda cut Anna's son into pieces… and stole his organs."
The words hang heavy.
"Now Anna wants them back."
Another pause.
"But for you… I'll make an exception. Surgery starts tonight."
Ansh closes his eyes.
Relief floods in.
"Thanks… a lot."
The doctor laughs.
"Don't thank me. And remember—fifty lakh extra for urgency."
The call ends.
Ansh stares at the phone.
Then scoffs.
"One day… I'll break his jaw."
A beat.
Then—
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face.
"Everything… is going exactly as planned."
—
3 PM.
Four Mahindra Marazzo cars stop outside a building.
Doors open in sync.
Men step out.
Silent.
Disciplined.
One of them opens the door of a red Marazzo.
A man steps out.
Blue shirt.
Heavy gold chains.
Lungi.
Fisherman Anna.
His presence alone shifts the air.
Without a word, the men fall in behind him.
They move.
Up the stairs.
—
Inside an apartment—
A woman laughs softly into her phone.
"Yes, Ma… we'll come soon. Stay for a week. I want your pickle."
She ends the call, smiling, and walks toward the living room.
Then—
She stops.
Frozen.
Her smile disappears.
Men.
Everywhere.
Sitting casually.
Watching.
Her children sit on the floor, still playing on an iPhone.
Unaware.
And in the center—
Anna.
He looks up.
Smiles.
"What beautiful eyes you have, madam."
He pats one child's head gently and stands.
Walks toward her.
Slow.
Measured.
He gestures toward a chair.
She sits.
He sits opposite her.
"You have such cute kids," he says calmly.
Her throat tightens.
"It must be nice… seeing them every day."
Her eyes flick to her children.
Then back to him.
Fear floods in.
"Yes…" she whispers. "I always wanted to see them."
Tears slip down her face.
"What do you want? We already paid extra… for the eyes."
Anna gestures.
A bag of cash lands on the table.
"This is what you paid, right?"
Confusion.
Fear.
"What do you want?" she asks again.
Anna leans forward slightly.
His eyes lock onto hers.
"I still see the same fire," he says softly. "The same fire my son had."
A pause.
"His mother… lost her mind after his death."
His voice drops.
"She wants to see him again."
He leans closer.
"How do I show her a corpse?"
The realization hits.
Hard.
"No… no… please…" she sobs. "I don't want to lose my eyes!"
Anna leans back.
Cold.
"Those are my son's eyes."
He gestures subtly toward her children.
"Either you take them out yourself…"
A beat.
"Or I sell your son's organs… and your daughter."
Silence.
"…Think carefully."
The woman breaks.
Completely.
She glances at the man standing behind her children.
Knife in hand.
Her body trembles.
"You're… a monster…" she whispers.
Anna grabs her chin.
Forces her to look at him.
"Do it."
Cold. Final.
"Or I kill your husband too."
Her voice shakes.
"…Call an ambulance."
Anna smiles.
—
Minutes later.
The cars leave.
Inside one—
Anna sits calmly.
In his hand—
A blood-soaked paper bag.
He dials a number.
"Where are the other organs?"
—
Evening.
Hospital.
Surgeons enter the ward.
Their faces are unreadable.
Professional.
Ansh stands immediately.
He walks to Neha.
"Don't worry," he says softly. "They're here."
She looks at him carefully.
Grabs his hand.
"Where did you find a donor?" she asks. "How did you pay them?"
Her fingers touch his face.
"Ansh… tell me."
He gently moves her hand away.
"My police job helped."
Tears fill her eyes.
She hugs him tightly.
"You're the best little brother…"
His expression softens.
He hugs her back.
"Recover first," he says lightly. "Then I'll make you do all the dishes."
She gasps.
Even now.
A small smile.
Soon—
They wheel her away.
The doors of the operation theatre close.
Ansh stands outside.
Alone.
He wipes a tear quietly.
—
Dockyard.
Evening light fades into darkness.
A man sits, assembling a sniper rifle piece by piece.
Precise.
Patient.
"Keep an eye on the SP," he says.
Another man frowns.
"Why? Anna has the magical sword now."
The man looks up.
Vyum.
His eyes are cold.
"Magic isn't power," he says quietly.
"It's timing."
He clicks another part into place.
"SP Samradh was corrupt once. That's why he understands this world better than anyone."
His phone rings.
He glances at it.
Doctor Broker.
He answers.
"Did you find the organs?"
A nervous laugh.
"Yes… Anna has them."
A pause.
"But the heart…"
Vyum's eyes narrow.
The room feels colder.
"It's already inside…" the doctor says.
A beat.
"…Officer Ansh's sister."