A U T H O R 'S P O V 

The basement reeks of mildew, copper, and something sharper, and that is the unmistakable stench of fear. Bare concrete walls glisten with condensation, cold and unwelcoming, and a single bulb sways gently overhead, casting fractured shadows that leap and twist across the room like restless spirits. Every time the prisoner twitches, the chain rattles, a harsh metallic reminder of his confinement. His wrists are raw, rope bites etched deep into his skin, and his shirt clings to him, soaked in blood and sweat. His chest heaves violently, as if every breath he draws is laced with knives.

From somewhere in the corner, a boot scrapes against the floor.

Slow. Deliberate. Almost casual.

The prisoner's eyes snap toward the sound, pulse hammering in his throat. Then he sees it. The faint glint of metal. A gun, dangling effortlessly from the hand of the man stepping into the light.

"I'm back, my obedient pet. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" The voice drips with playful danger, smooth and chilling all at once. The prisoner's blood runs cold. Every nerve in his body screams that this man isn't here to kill him, he's here to play, and the rules are entirely his.

"Hey, guys! Ready for some entertainment?" The man announces, casually, almost cheerfully, and the prisoner flinches. This is no ordinary intruder.

This is Rishiraj Chauhan—the Jester of Death.

He steps fully into the dim light, dressed in black from head to toe: a leather jacket over a fitted tee, black trousers, polished boots that echo with every measured step. His smile is effortless, perfect, and terrifyingly charming enough to disarm anyone, deadly enough to make the bravest soul tremble. Every movement radiates control. Every glance carries the promise of carnage.

"Yes, Boss!" The men surrounding the prisoner respond in unison, voices echoing against the concrete. Rishiraj's smile widens, a slow, dangerous curve that only amplifies the terror radiating from the center of the room. The prisoner feels it deep in his bones and the certainty that his life is no longer his own.

"Kya bolte ho, Mr. Darshan Shah? Thoda apne hidden talent ke darshan dikhaiye," he says, voice dripping with amusement yet razor-sharp with menace. Darshan swallows hard, pulse hammering in his throat. Every instinct screams that this is no ordinary man, no ordinary punishment.
("What do you say, Mr. Darshan Shah? Show us a glimpse of your hidden talent.")

"Raghav, iske pair khol de, aur ise waha khada karde. Samar, speakers lao. Aj toh jashn ka din hai," Rishiraj commands. His men move instantly, obedient, precise, each motion a silent testament to their training and fear. The basement hums with the sound of chains, boots scraping concrete, and the low hum of equipment coming alive.
("Raghav, untie his feet and make him stand there. Samar, bring the speakers. Today is a day of celebration.")

Rishiraj's eyes flick to Darshan, the sharp smirk on his face almost cruel in its calmness. "Bahot hi mazedaar jashn hoga, Mr. Shah." Darshan dares a fleeting sigh, maybe, he thinks, it will be quick. But hope dies as soon as it surfaces; he knows instinctively that Rishiraj's amusement is built on fear, not mercy.
("It's going to be a very entertaining celebration, Mr. Shah.")

Raghav forces Darshan Shah to stand. His knees are like jelly, threatening to buckle, but he wills himself to stay upright, hoping to avoid further torment and find a swift death. He is tragically mistaken. There will be no peace for a man who has committed such atrocities against his own niece and nephew.

Darshan Shah is more than a womanizer; he is a predator, a child abu$er, and a r@pist. He violated both his niece and nephew when they were just nine years old who were too innocent to comprehend his monstrous acts, too terrified to speak out.

Fate, however, intervenes in the form of Abhiraj Singh Rathore and Rishiraj Chauhan. They arrive at Darshan's office for a business deal but quickly uncover his dark secrets. He is a fraud, buried in debt and facing charges of financial malfeasance. As they dig deeper, they discover his depraved connections to a brothel and, most chillingly, the heinous abu$e of his own kin.

With this revelation, his fate is sealed. Abhiraj and Rishi's men swiftly abduct Darshan Shah. When a commissioner comes to inquire about his whereabouts, his family, including his now thirteen-year-old niece and nephew, fabricate a story of his flight abroad. With no evidence of foul play, the case is closed. But a grim secret persists: Darshan Shah is still in India, a broken husk of a man, barely clinging to life.

"The rule is simple. We'll play the music, and you have to do the song's hook step. If you fail, you lose one finger for each mistake." Rishiraj says, his voice light and teasing, but every word carries a sharp, dangerous edge.

Darshan Shah freezes, his heart hammering in his chest. Rishiraj's words strike him with a chilling familiarity, mirroring the exact torture he used to inflict on his own niece and nephew. He used to play music for them right after mercilessly beating them with a leash, their legs still raw with red welts. Despite their small, trembling legs, he would order them to dance without stopping. If they faltered, he would beat them again until their skin bled.

He swallows hard, knees trembling, palms slick with sweat. The basement feels smaller, darker, every shadow magnified, every sound amplified. He knows instantly: one mistake, one falter, and there will be no mercy. The fear tightens around him like a vice, squeezing his chest, clouding his thoughts.

" Kyu chaunk gaya, haramzaada!" Rishiraj growls, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating through the basement. Darshan Shah shivers violently, knees trembling, body rigid with fear, and can only offer a helpless, vacant stare toward his captor. Every fiber of him screams to move, to escape, but there is nowhere to run, no shield against the predator standing before him.
(" Got shocked, b@astard!)

"Samar, play the music." Rishiraj commands, calm yet unyielding. Samar moves instantly, almost as if anticipating the order before it leaves Rishiraj's lips. The sound erupts, filling the basement with a deafening rhythm, the bass reverberating through the concrete walls, shaking the very air. Darshan Shah's eyes widen as he recognizes the tune as it's the same music he played in the brothel when he brutally killed a woman, driven by his hunger for twisted desire and sadistic behavior.

"Abe nach, saale!" Raghav barks, his voice cutting through the thundering music. He gives Darshan a sharp shove into the center of the basement floor. Darshan stumbles forward, his legs wobbling like they might give way at any second, but the beat forces him on. With trembling arms and sweat-soaked face, he begins to move, clumsy steps at first, then hesitantly falling into the hook step of the song.
("Dance, you scoundrel!")

The sight is absurd, pitiful even. A man once feared by many is now reduced to a trembling figure trying to keep rhythm under the mocking gaze of his captors. Laughter erupts around the room, echoing off the cold walls. Coins rain down at his feet, tossed not in reward but in ridicule. The metallic clinks only deepen the sting, each coin a reminder of how low he has fallen.

Rishiraj lifts a hand. "Stop the music." Instantly, the pounding beat dies, leaving behind a suffocating silence. His lips curl into a slow smirk. "Impressive," he drawls, each word laced with mockery. "I didn't know you were such a great dancer."

He turns to his men, eyes glinting with mischief and asks, "What do you think, boys? Having fun?"

"Yes, Boss!" they roar in perfect unison, the basement vibrating with their voices.

One of the men steps forward, grin wide, eyes cruel. "Boss, we should strip him and make him dance like that. That would be even more fun."

The others erupt, hollering in agreement, clapping, egging each other on. The atmosphere turns heavier, the air thick with anticipation.

Rishiraj chuckles softly, shaking his head, says, "See? I was being lenient with you, Mr. Shah. But my men seem to want... more. Who am I to deny them?" His teasing glint sharpens, his smile cold. "Let's add a little twist to our game."

Darshan's face drains of all color, his knees buckling slightly under the weight of humiliation. He shakes his head desperately, but his pleas stick in his throat. Raghav doesn't wait. With one swift motion, he yanks at Darshan's clothes, tearing fabric away. Another man joins in, and within moments, the powerful figure of Darshan Shah, once untouchable in his own world, is stripped bare of every shred of dignity. The only thing left binding him is the coarse rope tied tightly across his chest and arms.

The basement explodes with laughter. Men double over, clutching their stomachs, their jeers bouncing mercilessly off the walls. They whistle, clap, and stomp their feet, their mockery louder than the earlier music.

Rishiraj himself covers his mouth, trying to smother his laugh but failing, a sharp snicker breaking free. "Look at you," he murmurs, voice dripping with contempt.

"Because of this shitty thing," Raghav looking at Darshan's manhood, spits out between bursts of laughter, "you thought you could torture innocent people?"

Samar joins in, sneering, his tone venomous. "You walked around thinking you were powerful... thinking people should fear you... because of this?" His laughter crashes into the others, sharp and cutting.

Darshan ducks his head, unable to meet their eyes. Shame burns hotter than fire, his face collapsing into despair. He shuts his eyes tight, but that only makes the flood of memories worse. He hears echoes of his own voice in his head—taunting, mocking, demeaning his victims in the same merciless tone. Now, those words come back to pierce him, each one twisting into his chest like a blade.

"Okay, enough, boys," Rishiraj finally raises his hand, his voice cutting through the laughter. "Our dancer is getting embarrassed. Let's not waste time and continue our game."

At his command, another track explodes through the basement speakers, the beats bouncing against the damp concrete walls. Darshan Shah stumbles back into the center, sweat streaming down his temples. His wrists are bound, his knees wobble as if they might collapse any moment, yet he forces himself to sway, to mimic the hook step. Each movement is clumsy. His arms twist painfully under the restraint, his body jerks like a puppet. He sways left, then right, sweat dripping into his eyes, and the men around him laugh. Coins clatter on the ground at his feet like mock rewards. He dances through one song, then another, his chest rising and falling in harsh gasps.

But then, his luck runs out. The music continues, the hook step comes, and his body betrays him, he stumbles, falters, loses the rhythm. A single mistake, yet enough.

Rishiraj clicks his tongue. "Tch tch..." His eyes narrow with amusement that barely hides his simmering rage. "You tried your best. But see? You slipped. Aur galti ki hai toh saza toh tumhe milegi." His tone is deceptively soft, almost mocking, but the weight of it makes Darshan's stomach twist.
("You will the punishment for your mistake.")

Darshan can't take it anymore. His voice cracks, desperate, helpless. "Please... kill me at once."

Rishiraj's smile vanishes. His voice drops low, sharp like a blade. "Kill you? Just like that?" He steps forward, every word pressing on Darshan like iron chains. "Did you ever give anyone that mercy? Did you kill those women quickly? Or that man? No." His jaw tightens, his eyes darken. "You tortured them. You dragged out their pain until they begged for death. And now you stand here, asking for an easy end? Tell me, why should you be spared from what you made others feel?"

The air thickens. Darshan's lips part, but no words come. His shoulders slump, his knees bend slightly as if the weight of truth pulls him down. There is no hope in his eyes now, only the quiet realization that this man will not grant him peaceful death.

Rishiraj doesn't waste more words. He flicks his fingers in a sharp gesture, and Raghav steps forward like a shadow obeying its master. Another man positions himself beside Darshan, gripping his arms tightly to keep him still.

Within moments, Raghav appears with a gleaming knife. Its edge is so polished it catches the dim light, throwing a cold shimmer across the basement. The sight alone makes Darshan's breath hitch; he drops his gaze, unable to face the weapon.

Raghav's lips curl into a dangerous smirk. Slowly, almost playfully, he takes Darshan's trembling hand. The steel kisses skin, and with deliberate cruelty, he begins scraping along the forefinger.

A raw scream tears from Darshan's throat, echoing violently against the walls. The sound curdles the air, but his voice soon falters, breaking down into muffled sobs as his strength wanes. His chest heaves, his cries choked, yet his body continues to shudder from the agony.

Then, with a swift motion, Raghav presses deeper and slices through. The finger drops. Blood rushes out in hot rivulets.

Darshan's body convulses, his throat tears itself apart as he lets out a scream so loud it rattles the ears. The sound is half roar, half plea, born of pain so sharp it burns through his entire being. His knees buckle, his face twists in anguish, and yet the men around him only watch.

And slowly, one by one, smiles spread across their faces. Not kind smiles. Not mocking either. But victorious one, like predators rejoicing in the hunt, feeding on his suffering as proof of justice delivered in their own brutal way.

"Try not to make any mistakes, okay... our entertainer." Rishiraj's tone is calm, almost playful, but the smirk on his lips sharpens the warning. His eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he turns toward Samar. "Arey, gaana baja."
("Play the music.")

"Boss!" one of the men shouts eagerly from the side, clapping his hands together like a child demanding a treat. "Please play Saki Saki! I want to see him dance on that." His excitement rings with mischief.

Rishi lifts his chin, pretending to consider, then nods. "Samar, play the music as he requested."

The next moment, the heavy beats of Saki Saki explode inside the basement, bouncing off the concrete walls until the ground itself seems to tremble. The men's faces light up as though they've been waiting for this exact moment.

And in truth, they had. Hours before, the group had sat together, replaying dozens of item numbers, arguing and laughing, until they finally settled on this one. Saki Saki. The song with a hook step that demands rhythm, flexibility, and grace qualities, which Darshan Shah, bound and sweating in the center of the room, doesn't possess. They had designed this trap, crafted it carefully, not for entertainment alone but for justice. Every man here has a past scar, a wound carved by men like Darshan. Some lost sisters. Some lost wives. Some still live with memories that choke them at night. For them, watching him stumble and beg is not cruelty. It is retribution.

Darshan's body trembles as he tries to move. The music pushes him forward, his knees bend, his torso sways, his sweat-slick hair falls across his forehead. He attempts the step, totally awkward, stiff, wrong. His waist refuses to bend the way the dance demands. He forces it once, twice, then his limbs flail in confusion. His face twists with panic.

He halts suddenly, eyes wide, chest heaving. The realization hits him like ice: he has already made the mistake. He has failed. And he knows exactly what the consequence is.

"Arrey, look at that." Raghav clicks his tongue, his voice full of mock pity. He shakes his head slowly, feigning disappointment. "I'm surprised you know every song, Darshan. Truly, I am. But alas..." He sighs dramatically, leaning closer so his words pierce Darshan's ears. "You couldn't manage the hook step." His tongue clicks again, dragging out the sound like a taunt.

The men around laugh, some clapping their hands, others whistling at Darshan's misery.

Rishi doesn't laugh. His smirk only deepens. "It's good for us, Raghav," he says, his voice steady, satisfied. His gaze doesn't waver from Darshan's trembling frame. "It's good to hear him screaming like a madman. Isn't it?"

Raghav's grin widens as he steps forward, knife glinting in the dim light. Without hesitation, Rishiraj gestures with his hands like a silent order. The others tighten their grip on Darshan's arms, pinning him down.

A moment later, Darshan's scream splits the air, raw and ragged, echoing through the basement as Raghav slices through another finger. Blood spatters the cold floor. His body shakes violently, his head jerks back, his cry rising higher, shriller, until it shreds into broken sobs.

Like this, Darshan is now left with nothing but the thumb of his left hand; the fingers of his right hand remain untouched.

Rishiraj lazily takes out a cigarette, places it between his lips, and lights it. The tip glows red in the dim basement as smoke curls from his mouth. The music blasts again, filling the underground walls with merciless beats. Darshan tries to move to the rhythm, but his body betrays him. His steps are sluggish, wrong, incomplete and his legs wobble from blood loss and exhaustion.

Rishiraj watches with an amused smirk, toying with the cigarette between his lips, savoring the sight. His eyes are sharp, cold, filled with dangerous satisfaction. Then, suddenly, he pulls the cigarette from his lips, blows out a slow stream of smoke, and lifts his hand.

"Stop the music," he orders.

The basement falls into silence, heavy and suffocating. Rishi takes long, purposeful strides toward Darshan, his boots echoing against the floor. Darshan, too weak to resist or even process what is coming, lifts his drowsy, half-shut eyes at him. His entire body senses dread, his heart pounds, his wounds scream, yet he can do nothing but wait.

Rishiraj's voice cuts the silence, low and growling, sharp enough to slice through Darshan's chest.
"Hold your filthy thing, b@stard."

Darshan's body jolts. He trembles violently, his lips quivering. Slowly, with his bloodied left hand raised in defeat, he whimpers, "You... already cut... my fingers."

Rishiraj's jaw tightens. He grabs Darshan's hair in a vicious fist and yanks his head back, forcing his tear-streaked face upward. Darshan winces, gasping in pain, as Rishi leans closer.
"Your right hand is still good. Or did you forget about it? If you forgot..." his voice drops to a dangerous whisper, "then let me cut it off entirely."

The threat slices through Darshan's haze. His weak, drooping eyes snap open in alarm. Terror floods his veins like fresh fire. He shakes his head desperately, trembling in horror. With his right hand shaking uncontrollably, he obeys by grabbing his m@nhood, choking on his own shame, dread dripping from his every breath.

A twisted grin pulls at Rishiraj's lips. He releases Darshan's hair and straightens with a mocking laugh. "That's like a good slave."

The cigarette in his fingers is still burning. Without a flicker of hesitation, Rishiraj drops it onto Darshan's manhood.

Darshan's world shatters in that instant. His eyes widen to the brink of madness, tears bursting like floodgates. A guttural, animalistic cry tears from his throat as the burning pain sears through him. His body jerks, writhing, desperate to escape the fire, as a result the cigarette tumbles off and lands on the floor.

Rishiraj's face twists with rage. "Kya be, thodi si toh aag lagi thi... aur tu ne meri cigarette neeche gira di." His voice is venom. He grabs Darshan's hair once more and yanks it with cruel force, his words dripping with contempt.
("What's this, man? That was just a little fire... and you dropped my cigarette.")

"Hamare boss ko gussa mat dila, kutte. Niche jhuk aur apni naak ragad kar maafi maang." Raghav growls in a voice sharp with anger and authority. His boot collides hard against Darshan's back, sending him crashing down to the ground with a loud thud. The impact knocks the last bit of strength out of him.
("Don't make our boss angry, dog. Get down, rub your nose on the ground, and apologize.")

Darshan sobs, his body trembling as he tries to comply. Slowly, painfully, he bends forward. His broken body shudders, his nose pressing against the cold, dusty floor that reeks of sweat, dirt, and the metallic stench of his own fresh blood, oozed from the raw stumps of his mutilated fingers. The humiliation cuts just as deep as the pain, forcing tears to mix with the blood and grime beneath his face.

Before Rishiraj can unleash another wave of torment, the sharp buzz of his phone cuts through the tense silence. The sound vibrates in his pocket, snapping his attention for a moment. With measured calm, he pulls the phone out and glances at the glowing screen. The name flashing across it curls his lips into a knowing smile.

"Take care of this b@stard. If you all want to make him entertain you, then fine but make sure one of you records a video of his antics and sends it to me."

The command leaves Rishi's lips in a cold, effortless tone. His men, disciplined and loyal, answer immediately in unison, "Okay, boss!" Their voices echo against the damp concrete walls like a vow of obedience.

Rishiraj doesn't waste another second. He slips the buzzing phone from his pocket, his expression tightening into focus as he strides out of the basement. The heavy metal door creaks before slamming shut, muffling Darshan's trembling sobs behind him. With each step, the dim lights lining the corridor cast fleeting shadows across his face, until he finally pressed the phone to his ear.

"Boss..." The voice from the other side is laced with tension, worried, careful, almost trembling.

Rishiraj inhales sharply, his chest tightening with the weight of expectation. "Did you get her?" His voice drops into something softer, almost hopeful, so unlike the ruthless man who ruled the basement moments ago. That quiet hope carries a fragility so rare in him that even Atharv, his trusted assistant, who is on the other side of the phone, feels his heart twist.

"Boss... actually..." Atharv begins, hesitation clogging his throat.

Rishiraj doesn't let him stall. His tone grows urgent, tumbling out faster than he intends. "Tell me, Atharv. Did you find anything? Her name, her address, any trace at all?" His words blur together, desperate, betraying how deeply this search consumes him.

There's silence, just the faint crackle of the line, and then Atharv finally exhales. His voice carries the weight of news he wishes he didn't have to deliver. "Boss... I did find something. But it's not what you wanted. Nine years ago, she ran away from her village. That's why we couldn't trace her."

Rishiraj freezes mid-step, the hallway air suddenly feeling heavier. His jaw clenches, anger and disbelief surging. His eyes narrow as though he could crush the truth through sheer refusal. "Why would she run away? Did you get her new address? Forget that place and start searching somewhere else....." His words spill out in a rush, the spark of renewed hope refusing to die, clinging desperately to the possibility.

But Atharv's next words shatter it all.

"Boss... she had a boyfriend. She ran away with him."

The line goes quiet for a heartbeat too long. Atharv can almost hear the sound of his boss's heart breaking across the silence.

Rishiraj closes his eyes. Betrayal burns through him like acid, scorching his veins. His heart bleeds in a way no knife, no bullet, no enemy had ever managed. His lips twitch, curling not in amusement but in something broken, a bitter, trembling smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"So this is how it feels," he whispers, voice hoarse, raw. "To lose without even fighting."

He doesn't give Atharv the chance to reply. With a final press of his thumb, the call disconnects, the screen going dark.

 For the first time in years, the Jester of Death isn't laughing. 

For the first time, the man feared for his cruelty and games is simply... breaking.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Bye bye for now, stay safe and keep reading💛