In Delhi,
The sun rose lazily over the skyline of Delhi, casting a golden hue across the city that never truly slept. Inside a sprawling mansion nestled among the elite neighborhoods, silence ruled—so thick and deep that even time seemed to slow.
In the heart of this opulent palace-like home, a grand bedroom bathed in soft ivory and charcoal tones lay quiet, save for the subtle ticking of an antique clock. A man stirred in the massive king-sized bed, the silk sheets slipping off his well-built frame.
Slowly, he opened his eyes—icy blue, piercing, and tired. The first ray of sunlight pierced through the sheer curtains and brushed across his face, as if daring to greet him. But warmth had no place in his world.
He was Ashtram Raghuvanshi—a name spoken in hushed whispers across the underworld, a shadow that haunted boardrooms by day and struck fear in the darkest alleys by night. Known as the "Dark Devil", his reputation was legendary. Ruthless. Unforgiving. Untouchable.
But beyond the sharp suits, wealth, and power was a truth even darker than his nickname—a curse that had chained him to this world for over two centuries.
Two hundred years of existence. Two hundred years of watching the people he cared for die. Two hundred years of begging for death and receiving silence in return.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his dark, tousled hair. His chiseled features bore no signs of age, but his eyes betrayed him. They held the weight of generations, of secrets buried and lives lost.
Every morning was the same. A quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, today would be his last. That the curse would lift. That he’d be allowed to sleep—truly sleep—for the first time in centuries.
Dragging himself out of bed, Ashtram padded into his sprawling bathroom, lined with black marble and chrome fixtures that gleamed under the soft lighting. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, trying to wash away the memories that clung to him like shadows.
He brushed his teeth methodically, not because he needed to—but because routine was the only thing that kept him grounded.
Moments later, he stepped into the shower. Hot water cascaded down his body, but it couldn't touch the coldness buried in his chest. With one hand braced against the wall, he let the water flow, eyes closed, jaw clenched.
How long must I live like this? How many more lives must I see end while I remain untouched? When will I be free?
He stayed there for a long time, unmoving, until the steam began to cloud the mirrors and the glass walls around him. Eventually, he stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He stared at himself in the mirror—not out of vanity, but almost disbelief. He didn’t look a day over 30. But inside, he felt ancient.
Back in the bedroom, he opened his custom-built closet, selecting a crisp white shirt, black tailored pants, and a sleek black suit jacket. Every stitch screamed elegance, dominance. A look that said he was in control—even when he wasn’t.
Once dressed, he descended the grand staircase. The halls were quiet, the walls lined with historical artifacts and weapons collected over decades. The mansion was a fortress and a prison all at once.
In the dining room, his staff—loyal to him out of fear or favor—waited silently. They served him breakfast with lowered gazes. Ashtram didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. His presence was command enough.
After breakfast, he stepped into his private study and dialed a secure number.
“Come quickly,” he said coldly. “We have important matters to discuss.”
Thirty minutes later, the heavy wooden door creaked open and in walked Vedant—his best friend, his right-hand man, and perhaps the only person alive who spoke to him without fear in his voice.
Vedant: “You really know how to make a guy feel loved. You only call when it’s time for business,” he joked, dropping onto the leather couch casually.
Ashtram: (cracking a rare smirk) “If you’re done with the theatrics, can we get to the point?”
Vedant: (chuckling) “Straight to the kill. As always.”
Ashtram walked over to the table, opening a hidden drawer and pulling out a thick file.
Ashtram: “The next shipment from Venezuela needs to arrive undetected. No mistakes. I want every checkpoint secured, every man briefed. If this goes south, it won’t just be bad for business—it’ll start a war.”
Vedant: (suddenly serious) “Understood. I’ll personally oversee everything.”
They spent the next half hour outlining routes, back channels, and who to bribe and who to threaten. Every detail mattered. Every move had to be perfect.
Vedant: (leaning back with a sly grin) “By the way, when are you going to stop acting like a machine and start living? Maybe find someone to soften that granite heart of yours.”
Ashtram: (eyes narrowing) “Will you shut up or should I kill you now?”
Vedant: (grinning) “There’s the scary boss I know and love.”
Ashtram: “Get it done. Or next time, I won’t just threaten.”
Vedant left with a wink, leaving Ashtram alone once more.
Silence settled around him again, thick and heavy.
He stared out of the tall glass window at the world beyond his gates. So full of life, of color, of love. Things he could no longer afford to feel.
What’s the point of love, when I’ll only lose it? What’s the point of hope, when eternity means watching everything fade? This curse... has taken everything. Even the will to dream.
And yet, deep inside, a sliver of something remained. Something he refused to name.
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