The midnight air around the Namdaar mansion was not merely cold; it was heavy, as if the atmosphere itself was holding its breath, terrified of what lurked within those stone walls. At 2:30 AM, the world should have been silent, but for the Namdaar estate, silence was not peace it was fear.

The iron gates groaned as the black sedan pulled into the courtyard, its headlights cutting through the fog like twin blades. When the car door opened, the gravel crunched underfoot with a sound like breaking bones. Junaid Namdaar stepped out. He stood six feet tall, a towering monument of muscle and menace. His tailored suit, once expensive and pristine, was ruined. It was soaked, heavy, and clinging to his broad shoulders, stained a deep, wet crimson that glistened under the pale moonlight.