CANVAS OF COURAGE [Ongoing]

Enjoy ready ❤️

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"Sometimes love doesn’t knock on the door—it dances in wearing pajamas, spills secrets mid-song"

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AURHORS POV

The stench of blood clung to the air—iron-rich, thick, and suffocating. Dim, flickering lights cast ghostly shadows on the bullet-ridden walls of the warehouse. It was no longer a building, just a tomb waiting to be sealed.

The vikram Mehra stood in the center, chest rising and falling slowly, like a beast who had feasted.

His tailored black coat was soaked in blood—some his, most not. His silver hair clung to his temples with sweat, and a faint tremor ran through his hand as he raised the pistol one last time.

Across from him, the last man alive crawled backward, gasping, blood spilling from a wound in his side. His mouth opened to beg.

Too late.

The crime lord's s hand steadied. His eyes—glacial and empty—held no emotion, just silence before the storm.
With a click and a thunderous snap, the final shot echoed.

Skull. Clean. Final.

He didn’t look away as the body slumped into the filth.

Only then did he exhale, slowly, the weight of violence sitting heavy in his bones. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his sleeve, jaw tightening with effort. Even now—battered, bloodied, and aging—he stood like a king who knew no one would dare touch his throne.

Footsteps approached—measured, crisp.

Victor, his ever-calm shadow, stepped past the carnage, avoiding pools of blood like puddles on a rainy street.

The vikram didn’t look at him. He stared at the last body, smoke still curling from the barrel of his gun.

Victor cleared his throat. “There’s news, sir. Very interesting.”

His eyes narrowed, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile—dark, knowing.

His voice, gravelled and low, cut through the silence like a blade.

“Is it about my dear son?”Victor just nodded

He moved without a word—methodical, cold.
One by one, he crushed phones beneath his heel, threw lighters into gasoline-soaked papers, and set the final blaze.

No evidence.
No witnesses.
No traces.

He wiped his bloodied hands with a white handkerchief—stained red now, like a war flag—and walked out of the warehouse as flames licked its bones.

Outside, the night air was thick, humid, heavy with the smell of fire and rain.

Vikram slid into the backseat of the black car, exhaling slowly. His suit clung to him, torn at the shoulder, but his expression was calm—calm like thunder before it cracks.

Victor sat beside him in the passenger seat, briefcase already open.

Without a word, he handed over the photos.

One by one, Vikram pulled them from the envelope.
Glossy. High-resolution. Intimate.

—Siddharth and Sanvi at the art gallery, her laughter caught mid-frame.