Year: 2008 - Jodhpur

Six-year-old Mili Shekhawat stood trembling in her pink birthday frock, its frilly sleeves now torn and stained with blood. The scent of cake and candles had long been replaced by the stench of burning flesh and gunpowder.

This was no birthday.

This was hell.

Her father, Manoranjan Shekhawat, was lying in a pool of blood - his chest riddled with bullets, eyes wide open as though still trying to protect her even in death.

Mili clutched his lifeless hand, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Papa... get up, na... Please..." she whispered.

"You promised you'd stay with me all day..."

"Papa, please! It's my birthday!"

But Manoranjan wouldn't wake up.

His hand was cold. His shirt soaked. His soul - gone.

Her tiny frame shook as she looked up-just in time to see her mother, Manorama, being dragged by the hair.

"Let my mummy go! Please, uncle..." she screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Please, Don't hurt my mumma...

But they didn't stop.

They weren't listening.

They weren't human.

One of them retrieved a hot iron rod, its tip glowing orange, fresh from the fireplace.

"She saw everything," the man with the silver chain muttered.

"Kill her."

"Start with the girl," another voice snapped. "Let her feel it."

The rod came down on Mili's back with a sickening hiss.

"AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"MUMMAAA!" she shrieked, falling face-first to the floor.

She tried to crawl away, but another blow landed - burning the soft skin between her shoulder blades.

Her birthday frock caught fire for a second before melting against her wounds.

She screamed again, raw, her cries bouncing off the walls like the wails of a dying animal.

Her little hands tried to cover her back, but the third blow struck her right palm, scorching it black.

"Please! Don't burn me!”

But mercy had long left the room.

They struck her again - across her left arm, her lower back, and the top of her hand as she tried to shield her face.

The skin blistered instantly, blackening, cracking open.

She writhed, crying until no sound came out. Her body couldn't take it anymore.

Still, she tried to drag herself to her mother - who now lay coughing, dying, eyes red and swollen.

With her last breath, Manorama reached toward her broken daughter.

"Forgive me... my baby..." she whispered.

"We couldn't stay with you for long...

Forgive your helpless mother...

Forgive your brave father who died to protect you..."

Mili sobbed through blood and burns, her small mouth trying to speak but unable to.

"We never wanted to drag you into this. I am sorry my child, you could not live your part of life. You wanted to live it, forgive your helpless mom”

“But Remember this... If you live...

And one day-take revenge for us."

Her mother's hand fell.

Her eyes froze.

Her voice... silenced forever.

Mili's burned body lay curled in a puddle of blood and melted fabric.

Her hands - blackened, trembling.

Her back - a map of fire.

And then-

A rod struck her head.

Her scream died mid-throat.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

──────────────────

Year: 2018 - City Hospital, America

It was quiet. Too quiet.

A cold silence wrapped itself around Room No. 407 of the VIP wing - a silence not of peace, but of something long buried... and dangerously alive.

A girl lay on the white hospital bed, her pale face untouched by the sun for a decade.

Her name was Mili Shekhawat.

Or at least... that had been her name once.

To the world outside, Mili was dead.

Burned.

Buried.

Erased.

Everyone believed she had been murdered along with her powerful businessman father Manoranjan Shekhawat and elegant mother Manorama, on that cursed night in 2008 - a night that ended in screams, gunshots, and fire.

But in this room... the truth breathed softly.

For ten long years, Mili had been in a coma.

Only two people knew the truth - a man and a woman, sitting quietly on either side of her bed.

Her uncle Vikrant Shekhawat, and his wife, Sarla Shekhawat.

Vikrant was a serious man with sunken eyes and greying temples. He looked nothing like the brother he had lost. His hands were folded in prayer, but his mind never rested. Sarla, his wife, was softer - always wiping Mili's forehead with warm water, brushing her hair, whispering prayers into her ears.

They had never told anyone. Not family. Not friends. Not even the police.

"We can't let anyone know she's alive," Vikrant had said, the night they moved her here.

"If those monsters find out she survived... they'll come back to finish the job."

And so, the world moved on. The news cycle ended. The Shekhawats were declared dead.

But in this hidden wing of the hospital... Mili's heart still beat.

Her body had grown - taller, thinner, yet frail.

Her back still bore the faint marks of those hot iron rods.

Her hands still trembled from the trauma her body had buried somewhere in her locked mind.

Sarla adjusted the blanket over Mili's legs.

"She's sixteen now," she whispered. "I wonder what she'd have become... if that night never happened. A doctor, maybe. Or a poet. She used to write on the walls with crayons."

Vikrant didn't answer. He was staring at the monitor - at the flat, emotionless lines that blinked.

But Manoranjan never would.

The silence felt heavier than ever before.

He closed his eyes - and in that stillness, the past came rushing in like a tidal wave.

2005 - Shekhawat Mansion, Jodhpur

"Bhaiyya! Bhaiyya, please come fast-"

A younger Vikrant, panic written all over his face, burst into the grand study, clutching a letter in his trembling hands.

His business had just collapsed. The bank had sent a final notice.

But Manoranjan didn't ask a single question. He looked up calmly from his chair, stood up, and placed a reassuring hand on Vikrant's shoulder.

"You're my brother, Vikrant. Your burden is mine. Always."

He took the letter from Vikrant's hands and tore it without a second glance.

That was Manoranjan.

The elder brother. The protector. The shield.

Vikrant saw another memory-

He was lying bruised and broken after being attacked by goons over a land dispute. It was Manoranjan who carried him to the hospital that night.

"No one touches my brother," he had roared.

"As long as I breathe, nothing will happen to Vikrant."

And now... Manoranjan was gone.

Burned. Beaten. Slaughtered like an animal.

While Vikrant had survived.

He opened his eyes, staring at Mili - the only blood left of his brother.

Tears welled up.

"Bhaiyya... I couldn't save you," he whispered.

"But I'll protect your daughter. With my life. I promise."

He gently touched Mili's forehead.

"No one will ever know you're alive... not until you're ready. And when you are... they'll pay. Every last one of them."

In Mili's unconscious body... a tear slid down.

As if her soul had heard.

──────────────────

Present Day, 2025 - Location: New York, Mili's Private Estate

Mili

The morning outside was calm.

But my heart hadn't known peace in years.

Wrapped in the silence of my towering palace, I lay breathless under silk sheets, trapped again in the same nightmare - the one that had chased me every night since I opened my eyes ten years ago.

---

Blood. Screams. A man's shadow. A silver chain clutched tight in a small fist. An eagle-shaped ring glinting in firelight. My mother's voice crying for help. My own scream-too weak to matter.

My body thrashed. My fists clenched. Sweat soaked my temples.

Then it came-

That final moment.

The searing pain.

The blow to the head.

The darkness.

And then-

I shot up from the bed, gasping for air, my chest rising like I was drowning.

"Maa!" I cried out, a tear escaping the corner of my eye.

"Stop... please stop hurting her..."

The room was dimly lit. Expensive. Safe. But I didn't feel safe.

I never did.

My eyes scanned the space around me like a wounded animal. My hand trembled as I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

"I've been having this dream for so long..." I whispered to myself, voice laced with defeat.

"It's like it owns me. Like it waits for me every night."

I looked at the silver chain lying beside my pillow - the same one that haunted me in the dream.

"Ever since I woke up from that coma... it hasn't let me live."

Ten years.

That's how long I was asleep.

Six years old when I went into the coma.

Sixteen when I opened my eyes to a world I didn't recognize.

A world where I had no parents.

No memories.

No past.

Nothing but a broken name and a foggy mind.

"I can't remember anything. Not my mother's face. Not my father's voice. Not even... who I used to be."

Doctors called it selective memory loss. They said the trauma had buried my memories deep inside - locked in a room I couldn't open.

But the nightmares?

They broke in.

Every. Single. Night.

I stood in front of the tall mirror now, my reflection staring back with eyes that held secrets even I didn't understand.

I didn't know who had hurt me.

I didn't know why I was the only one who survived.

I didn't even know what I was supposed to do next.

But I knew one thing.

"That ring... that man... he's real."

"And someday... I'll find him."

Even if it meant burning the world down.

-----

And I was trying-trying so hard to remember. But the more I pushed my mind, the more violently it pushed back. A sharp, splitting headache clawed through my skull, and the world around me began to spin like a cruel carousel.

Clutching my temples, I stumbled out of the room, my vision blurry, breath heavy. I somehow reached the drawer and opened the glove compartment with trembling fingers. My emergency kit was there. Without wasting a second, I pulled out the injection, filled it with the stabilizing drug, and drove the needle straight into the vein of my arm.

I didn't flinch. I couldn't afford to.

The pain numbed. The spinning dulled. But the storm in my mind... it still raged on.

The cold wind slipped through the half-open window, brushing against my skin like ghostly fingers. I stood quietly in front of the mirror, staring at the stranger looking back at me — the girl with tired eyes, haunted by dreams, dressed in silk but burdened by scars no one could see.

Then…

The door creaked open.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t turn around.

I didn’t need to.

I could recognize those footsteps even in a crowd — slow, careful, familiar. The scent of sandalwood and soft cotton followed.

My aunt.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

From the mirror’s reflection, I saw her standing behind me, her eyes tracing my face with quiet worry.

For a moment, we just stared at each other — her from behind, me through the glass.

“You had the dream again, didn’t you?” her voice was barely above a whisper.

I swallowed, my throat tight.

I couldn’t lie to her. She knew. She always did.

“It never leaves me,” I whispered back, voice hollow.

“Even when I’m awake… I feel like I’m still in that burning house. Still screaming for her.”

She took a step forward, hesitant — as if afraid her presence would make me break.

But I didn’t break.

Not anymore.

I just kept watching myself in the mirror — a broken memory stitched into a perfect life.

“You’ve grown up into a warrior, Mili,” she said gently.

“But even warriors bleed.”

I turned to her slowly, my voice sharper this time.

“Then why do I feel like I’m bleeding silently every night and no one notices?”

Her eyes welled up, but she stayed strong — like she always had to be.

“Because your war hasn’t begun yet.”

I saw the tears building in her eyes — and in mine too — but I blinked them away before they could fall.

She stepped forward to hold my hand, but I stepped back.

"I don’t want to talk about it," I said quickly, my voice low but firm.

She looked at me, surprised by the sudden shift, but I kept my gaze cold and steady.

"Because whenever I do… that night… that cursed night," I paused, my lips trembling.

"It plays in front of my eyes like a movie I never asked to watch."

I turned away from the mirror, walking slowly toward the balcony. The breeze hit my face, but it couldn’t cool the fire that rose in my chest.

"The screams, the blood, my mother's helpless voice… it all becomes real again. As if it happened just yesterday."

My aunt stood silently behind me, knowing this wasn’t the moment to push.

After a pause, I took a breath and changed the subject, trying to distract myself. My tone shifted — soft, hopeful.

"Uncle… when will he come back from London?" I asked, still looking out at the city lights.

"It’s been weeks."

She walked up beside me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Soon, Mili. He said he has something important to finish first. Something about… finalizing old accounts."

I gave a small nod, but my mind was far away — half in the past, half in the future I was yet to face.

“Tell him not to stay long,”

She left quietly, closing the door behind her.

And the moment I was alone…

The mask broke.

Tears escaped the corners of my eyes — not loud sobs, just silent proof that my heart still remembered. My soul still bled.

I turned away from the door, biting my lower lip to stop the storm building in my chest.

“You can’t cry, Mili,” I whispered to myself.

“You don’t have the right to cry… not yet.”

I looked at the mirror — not for comfort, but to remind myself.

Of who I am now.

Of who I used to be.

Of what was taken from me.

“You have to take revenge,” I said through gritted teeth.

“You have to make them pay — for Maa, for Papa… for everything.”

I slammed my hand on the table, the pain grounding me back into my resolve.

“You cannot be weak,” I reminded myself.

“You will find them. You will kill them — one by one. Slowly. Mercilessly. The way they destroyed my family.”

I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and stepped toward the large floor-to-ceiling window of my room. The city lights of America sparkled far below, unaware of the fire burning inside me.

“I am no longer that six-year-old girl in a pink frock — lying in her parents' blood, screaming, begging for mercy.”

“I am the CEO of Shekhawat Corporations. The empire my father built. The legacy they tried to erase.”

My eyes moved to the framed photograph on my desk — a rare photo of my father holding me as a baby. There was pride in his eyes even then.

“They tried to usurp his company,” I said with quiet rage.

“But Uncle Vikrant stood between them and the throne.”

My voice softened, but the steel remained.

“He guarded it all... until I returned from the darkness.”

I walked over to my safe, opened it, and pulled out the silver chain and the eagle-shaped ring — the same ones from my nightmares.

The same ones worn by the men who killed my parents.

I held them tightly in my palm.

“I remember this… even if I’ve forgotten everything else.”

I closed my eyes, the pain a familiar ache now.

“They think Mili Shekhawat died that night.”

“Let them think that.”

“Because the girl

who woke up… is not here to cry.”

I opened my eyes — no longer red with tears, but blazing with purpose.

“She’s here to destroy them.”

──────────────────