Chapter 1: The Devil's Routine
Raaz Singh's POV
Blood was routine.
The smell of it. The sticky warmth of it. The sound of bones snapping beneath pressure—it had stopped affecting him years ago. In his world, mercy was not a virtue. It was a weakness. And Raaz Singh had no use for weakness.
The sun had barely risen over Mumbai when Raaz walked barefoot into his private gym, housed on the top floor of his penthouse. Shirtless, his body was carved in muscle and marked with ink—each tattoo a memory, each scar a warning. The punching bag swung violently under his fists as he hammered into it, the rhythmic thuds syncing with the storm in his head.
This was how he quieted the noise. This was how he remembered who he was.
He wasn’t born into violence. He had been forged in it.
From the slums of Nagpur to the blood-soaked alleys of Mumbai, Raaz had carved his empire with his fists and fire. The Black Viper Syndicate was the culmination of a life of war, and he stood at the top, surrounded by shadows he could trust more than people.
"Another body found in Dharavi, boss. Looks like Kartik’s boys were trying to make a statement," said Yash, his second-in-command, standing by the glass wall that overlooked the city.
Raaz didn’t stop. One. Two. Three. Final strike—hard enough to tear the bag from its chain.
He turned, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat and blood from his knuckles.
"They want to play war? Let them. We’ll answer in blood."
Yash nodded, unflinching. Raaz didn’t need yes-men. He needed soldiers. And Yash was the only one who had been with him since the beginning.
Raaz walked through the penthouse—minimalist, cold, designed for control. Steel, glass, leather, nothing out of place. No family portraits, no distractions. Just weapons, files, and silence.
He sat in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, watching the city wake beneath his feet. Thousands of lives moved like ants. Innocent lives. Unaware of the wars waged in their shadows.
He lit a cigarette.
Memories flickered. A blood-soaked alley. A man screaming for his life. Raaz at fifteen, holding a knife with shaking hands. That was the night he realized fear was useless. Power was survival.
Later that day, he met with his lieutenants. The meeting room was deep beneath the city, under a legitimate import-export warehouse the syndicate ran as a front.
Maps, photos, and red-marked dossiers filled the long table.
"Kartik is expanding," said Taneja, one of the older lieutenants. "He’s trying to push through the Goa port."
Raaz stared at the map. He didn’t speak.
"We have a source in his ranks. A customs officer," said Yash. "The shipment arrives Friday."
"What’s in it?" Raaz asked, voice low.
"Modified ARs. Tactical-grade. Not street-level. This is military."
Raaz smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
"Bomb the shipment. Leave a trace. Something that points back to him. Let the police start asking questions."
Taneja looked up. "You want to involve the law?"
"No," Raaz said coolly. "I want to distract Kartik. Make him sweat. We’ll hit his pipeline when he’s too busy dodging investigators."
There was a reason Raaz had survived where others hadn’t. He didn’t just use bullets. He used fear, timing, and silence.
After the meeting, he returned to his private bunker. No one but Yash was allowed inside. It wasn’t paranoia. It was protocol.
The walls were lined with firearms. Files. Surveillance monitors. The Black Viper Syndicate had eyes everywhere—ports, airports, even the mayor’s office.
He stared at the monitor tracking Kartik’s daily schedule.
"You think he’ll retaliate?" Yash asked from behind.
"Of course," Raaz replied. "And when he does, we’ll bury him."
The night brought rain.
Raaz stood on the rooftop terrace of his penthouse, the city lights glinting in puddles. He watched the rain wash over Mumbai, watched cars snake through traffic like veins pulsing beneath a skin of neon.
He poured a glass of whiskey and sat down, legs stretched out. Rain tapped against his glass, against the steel rails. It reminded him of the days he used to run alone, hunted by both cops and rival gangs.
Back then, he fought to survive. Now, he fought to feel.
Sometimes he wondered if he still could.
He'd tried to find meaning in women, in wealth, in violence. But the more he built, the more empty it felt. He had no one to trust except Yash. No one who truly knew him.
The world feared Raaz Singh. But no one saw the man.
And that suited him just fine.
By midnight, he was in his personal training ring, sparring with his trainer. Blow after blow landed with precision. He welcomed the pain. It grounded him. Reminded him he was still
human beneath the myth.
"You're off today," his trainer muttered, ducking another swing.
Raaz didn’t reply.
He delivered a brutal jab to the ribs that sent the man sprawling.
Yash entered quietly, as always. "The Goa shipment is confirmed. Ten crates."
Raaz nodded. "Send the team. No survivors."
"Including the officer?"
"Especially the officer."
At 3 AM, Raaz sat at his desk again, staring at a sealed envelope. He had never opened it. It had arrived the day after his mother died.
He kept it, untouched, in the top drawer of his desk.
She’d written him a letter before she passed.
He couldn’t bear to read it.
He never forgave her for the life they had.
Never forgave himself for surviving it.
Raaz Singh, king of Mumbai’s underworld, closed his eyes.
Somewhere in the city, a child cried.
Somewhere, a man begged for his life.
And somewhere deep inside Raaz—beneath the steel, the scars, the silence—something stirred.
But he crushed it. As he always did.
Morning would come. More bodies. More war.
And Raaz Singh would rise again.
Because monsters don’t sleep.
They wait.
They plan.
They endure.
Until the world bleeds for them.