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Chapter 1: The Night He Followed Me
My name is Zara. People call me “the hot girl” — not because I wear flashy clothes or walk with a sway, but because I own every room I enter. Confidence, mystery, and danger — all wrapped in a curve-hugging red dress.
But behind this flawless skin and seductive gaze, lies a secret — a secret that could burn anyone who tries to come too close.
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Last Friday night, Mumbai was glowing. Rooftops were buzzing, dance floors were packed, and the air reeked of lust and lies. I was at Club Mirage, not for fun — but for a mission.
A Glimpse of Him
I first saw him at the bar. Sharp jawline, dark eyes, and that leather jacket that screamed “don’t trust me.” He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile. He just stared. And I knew… he wasn’t here for drinks.
He looked like the kind of man who could make you disappear, and no one would even remember you existed. But what he didn’t know was — I wasn’t the one who disappears. I’m the one who watches.
I adjusted my strap, ordered a whisky on the rocks, and leaned on the counter just enough for him to notice my tattoo — a black scorpion inked just below my collarbone. It was no ordinary tattoo. It was a sign.
I Led. He Followed.
At 1:15 a.m., I walked out of the club. The streets were half-empty, shadows played with the streetlights, and the air had turned colder. I didn’t look back — but I knew he was behind me.
Every footstep he took matched mine. Not too close, not too far. Like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. But what he didn’t know was — I bite harder.
I led him through an alley behind the club. A dead-end. No cameras. No sound. Only darkness and secrets.
I turned.
Face to Face
There he was. 6 feet of danger, standing still, silent as death.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
He smiled — not with his lips, but with his eyes.
“I could ask you the same,” he replied.
Game on.
I took a step closer, slowly. “You think following a girl at night makes you a man?”
“No,” he whispered, “but following you... makes me curious.”
He looked me up and down. Not like a creep. Like a professional. He knew.
He knew who I was.
But the rules were clear — no one leaves alive if they know too much.
The Gun in My Purse
I slowly reached into my purse, my fingers wrapping around the small, cold metal.
He watched my every move, but didn’t stop me.
“Let’s not make this messy,” I warned.
“Too late,” he whispered, pulling out a photo. It was me. In London. Wearing a wig. Holding a syringe. That photo didn’t exist… or at least, shouldn’t have.
“Who are you?” I asked, my heart finally skipping a beat.
He looked around, then leaned in close.
“I’m not here to kill you, Zara. I’m here to help you. Because they’re coming. Tonight.”
And just like that — he turned and vanished into the night.
Alone in the Alley
I stood frozen. My heart was racing. How did he get that photo? How did he know my name? And who the hell were they?
The mission was simple: extract information from a corrupt politician’s phone and disappear. But now, someone was playing a bigger game. One that even I didn’t see coming.
I checked my purse. The chip was still there. Intact.
Then I heard a whisper behind me:
“Zara…”
I turned, pointing my gun. But no one was there.
Just a small red envelope on the ground.
I picked it up. Inside was a note:
“We know what you did in Berlin.”
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