🔸Hello divine beauties...🪄

🔸I know you all have waited a long time for this book, and finally, I’m starting to write it now. I hope you enjoy it and it captures your hearts.

🔸Enjoy Reading

Everyone loves the full moon. But there’s something inexplicably magical about witnessing it from the edge of the ocean. That one moment, when the moonlight spills like liquid silver across the still waves—it feels like the sky is in love with the sea.

The moon, poised and glowing in all its glory, seems to be admiring its own reflection in the ocean’s dark surface—as if caught in its own vanity. And the stars? They look like silent admirers, softly whispering compliments to the moon’s beauty, twinkling with shy admiration.

The ocean, calm and unbothered, becomes the sky’s mirror. In that stillness, it doesn't just reflect the moon—it embraces it. As if both are locked in a gaze so intimate, so timeless, that the rest of the world fades away. In that one moment, it feels like the moon is blushing, and the ocean is smiling quietly beneath.

It’s not just light that’s falling over the sea—it’s love.

But, have you ever wondered what the ocean looks like when the sky is stripped of both its moon and stars? When the darkness isn't gentle, but suffocating? That same ocean, which once looked so serene and mesmerizing under the moonlight, suddenly feels like something else entirely. Something untamed. Something dangerous.

It’s unsettling how deeply the presence of the moon changes the ocean. When the moon is there, the waves seem to hum a soft lullaby. But when it’s gone—on a night like this—the sea turns violent. As if someone snatched away its only solace, its only joy. And now, it grieves. Loudly. Fiercely.

Tonight was that night. Amavasya. The darkest night of the month. The night when the moon abandons the sky, and the stars hide in fear. This is the night when the ocean is left all alone, staring into nothingness.

The winds were ruthless, whistling sharply across the surface, and the waves crashed again and again as if trying to fight the silence. There was no rhythm to them anymore. No poetry. Just rage and sorrow. It felt as if the ocean was crying—no, screaming—for the moon that never came. And with every gust of wind, with every rising tide, it became clear… this wasn’t just nature. This was heartbreak.

The ocean wasn’t calm. It wasn’t beautiful. It was terrifying. As if mourning the loss of something it could never hold, yet could never stop loving.

It was the night of Amavasya.

The sea roared in grief not far from the city’s edge, but deep in the forested outskirts—where even the moonlight feared to wander—there stood a small, decaying room. The only source of light was a naked bulb, swinging madly from the ceiling, flickering with every gust of the merciless wind clawing through the broken windowpane.

In the farthest corner of that room stood a man—tall, over six feet, his frame broad and rigid like a wall forged in darkness. He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink. His grey eyes, sharp like a falcon’s, reflected a cold, haunting stillness. Not the kind that brings peace... but the kind that whispers death.

He stood hunched over a large canvas. In his hand, a brush—drenched in thick, glistening red. But this red wasn’t the crimson of roses or passion. No. It was darker, heavier... almost wet. The strokes on the canvas weren’t art. They were violence. The red bled through the white sheet like veins tearing through skin. It looked less like paint and more like blood—fresh, angry, alive.

His hands moved with eerie calm, each stroke deliberate, obsessive... as if he wasn't painting something, but summoning it.

And then—a scream.

A bloodcurdling, bone-chilling cry pierced through the silence. It came from behind him—from the shadowed corner of the same room. A man’s voice. Raw, tortured, trembling with pain.

But the painter didn’t flinch.

Not even a twitch.

As if screams were music to his ears. As if pain was just another shade he was adding to his canvas.

The bulb above him continued to sway violently, casting his shadow in strange, demonic patterns against the peeling walls. For a moment, it looked like the shadows were moving on their own... reaching, whispering, warning.

And the sea, far away... it roared again.

But no one could hear the scream.

Except the painter.

And he wasn’t done yet.

The room was heavy with the stench of sweat, blood... and fear.

In the darkest corner, illuminated only by the trembling flame of a candle, a man knelt—shivering, broken, defeated. His knees were scraped raw, pressed against the cold, blood-stained concrete. Iron chains bound his ankles, cruel and rusted, digging into his skin with every tiny movement. His shirt, now no more than torn rags, hung loosely from his bruised, battered frame—torn in several places as if ripped apart by rage, not time.

His body was a map of agony. Purple bruises spread across his chest and arms like storm clouds, deep gashes still oozing blood. His lips were split. Blood trickled slowly from the corner of his mouth, mixing with the dried crimson trails already marking his chin. One of his eyes was swollen shut—completely consumed by pain and violence, the skin around it blackened and pulsing.

His arms were chained above his head, stretched painfully against the wall behind him—metal cutting into flesh. Every breath he took sounded like a whimper, as if his lungs were refusing to keep him alive. And yet... he was alive. Barely.

Next to him stood a man.

Still. Silent. Menacing.

Not the painter—but his shadow. The guard. Dressed in all black, he bore no emotion on his face. No pity. No humanity. Just a cold, unblinking gaze that mirrored his master’s—void of conscience. In his hand, he held a candle. A single, flickering flame dancing atop it—mocking the broken man before him.

And then... the wax began to drip.

Drop by drop, the molten wax fell—burning into the prisoner’s open wounds. First one drop. Then another. Then more. Each one landing with a soft plop, followed by a delayed reaction—a twitch, a gasp, a shudder of unbearable pain.

But the next drop landed directly inside a torn gash on his forearm.

The scream that followed wasn’t human.

It was animalistic. Raw. Echoing off the cold walls like a cursed prayer—meant not to be heard by the gods, but to summon the demons.

The guard didn’t blink.

He didn’t flinch.

The candle remained steady in his hand, as if he was performing a ritual. A ritual not to kill—but to unmake a man, piece by piece, pain by pain.

And somewhere behind them, the painter continued his work...as if the scream had inspired his next stroke.

The bound man, his body broken and spirit shattered, gathered the last remnants of strength he had. Trembling, he looked up at the man painting so calmly in the corner and whispered, “Please… let me go, Aarav… I made a mistake…”

For a moment—just a heartbeat—Aarav’s paintbrush froze mid-air, hovering above the canvas.

A dark smirk flickered across his face like a shadow dancing in firelight. His piercing grey eyes, sharp and unreadable, showed not an ounce of forgiveness—only emptiness. Cold. Calculated. Merciless.

This man… this painter… was none other than AARAV AGNIVANSHI, the world-renowned artist, the enigmatic first heir of the Agnivanshi empire. His paintings were worshipped across the globe—silent masterpieces that screamed every emotion without a single word.

The cruel irony?

The man who gave emotions life on canvas… felt none in reality.

For him, feelings weren’t something to be experienced—they were just strokes of color, forms of art to be poured out on lifeless sheets.

Suddenly, the chained man let out another blood-curdling scream.

Without even turning from his painting, Aarav spoke. His voice was ice—sharp, commanding, lethal.

“Stop.”

That single word—calm and unshaken—was enough to freeze the blood in anyone’s veins.

Silence returned like a thick fog, until the broken man cried out once more, his voice cracking, soaked in regret, “Forgive me, Aarav… I beg you…”

This time, Aarav turned.

He walked toward the man, unhurriedly, every step echoing like a drum of judgment. Kneeling to his level, Aarav leaned close—so close that the man could see his own terror reflected in those inhuman grey eyes.

Aarav lowered himself to the captive’s level, his movements unhurried, almost graceful—like a predator toying with prey. In his hand, he held what looked like a paintbrush... but it wasn’t art he intended to create. The end of the brush gleamed under the dim light—razor-sharp, menacingly pointed. Sharp enough to tear through flesh. Sharp enough to silence.

With chilling calm, Aarav brought the brush’s pointed tip to the man’s chin. The touch was feather-light at first—mockingly gentle. Then, with deliberate cruelty, he applied pressure, forcing the man’s head upward. Bloodshot eyes met cold, emotionless ones.

Aarav's gaze was unreadable. Deadly.

He leaned in, close enough for the man to feel the warmth of his breath, and in a voice darker than night, whispered,

“Shhh…”

The silence that followed was not empty—it was loaded. Ticking. Waiting.

Then, Aarav twisted the brush slightly.

The tip pierced skin.

A sharp gasp escaped the man’s lips as the first drop of blood slid down his neck. Aarav didn't flinch. He watched. Studied the pain. And then, without a flicker of empathy, he drove the point in deeper—slowly, deliberately—until the man whimpered, his body jerking in its restraints.

A smile, wicked and soulless, curled at Aarav’s lips.

“Maafi...?” he murmured, his voice drenched in cruel mockery.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean Chaudhary?”

The man convulsed, caught between agony and terror.

Aarav simply watched—calm, detached... enjoying every second.

Chaudhary’s eyes trembled—not just from the pain coursing through his veins like fire—but from the unbearable calm with which Aarav moved. That unnerving, predatory calm that only true monsters carry in their blood.

Aarav dipped his brush slowly, deliberately… into the pool of fresh blood seeping from Chaudhary’s open wound. The bristles sank into the torn flesh, soaking the crimson like silk drinking spilled wine.

The scream Chaudhary released was not human—it was a beast’s last cry, torn from his throat with such agony that even the walls seemed to recoil.

But Aarav?

He closed his eyes.

And smiled.

A cruel, serene smile. Not of satisfaction.

But of art.

To him, pain was pigment. Torture—his muse.

With the blood-laced brush in hand, he turned from Chaudhary, walking back toward the canvas with elegance so terrifying it mocked the chaos behind him.

Chaudhary coughed again, this time with venom in his voice.

“You hypocrite, Aarav Agnivanshi. The world calls you a soulful painter...but I see you for what you are. A monster. A predator in disguise.”

He spat blood, smirking through cracked lips.

“You and I...we're not so different. You enjoy watching others suffer. It thrills you.”

Aarav stopped mid-stroke. The paintbrush in his hand froze inches from the canvas.

That smile returned. But this time… darker. Wider. Hungrier.

He didn’t turn.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he spun the brush in his fingers—and with the grace of a devilish dancer—hurled it backwards.

The sharpened tip tore through the air and embedded itself deep into Chaudhary’s shoulder like a blade meant to silence pride.

The scream was raw. Personal. Final.

Aarav turned then. Slowly. Like a storm brewing in slow motion.

He walked to Chaudhary, bent at eye-level, and seized his jaw with one hand. His fingers dug into bone like claws.

Those grey eyes—silent, emotionless—met Chaudhary’s broken ones.

And in a whisper laced with venom, ice, and prophecy, Aarav spoke:

“You’re right.”

“I am a monster.”

“But I don’t feed on innocence.”

“I feast on filth like you"

Chaudhary could see one thing very clearly in Aarav’s eyes—pure, unfiltered savagery.

He couldn’t read those storm-grey eyes, but one truth clawed its way into his trembling heart:

He was not going to survive this.

And if he did—it wouldn’t be as a man.

Now he understood…

Now he truly felt why the world didn’t call Aarav Agnivanshi a painter…

They called him THE TSUNAMI.

Not because he was connected to the underworld.

Not because he ruled any mafia throne.

But because when Aarav’s storm rose, it didn’t leave behind bones—it erased existence.

Aarav wasn’t a killer by profession.

He was an artist.

But his madness was born not of greed, but of devotion.

His weakness, his obsession—was his precious family.

Touch them, and you’d awaken something darker than hell itself.

And Chaudhary…

Chaudhary had dared to harm what Aarav loved the most.

Now, in those unreadable eyes, he saw his own death—vivid, brutal, inevitable.

Not a clean death. Not a shot or a slit.

But something slow, painful, and designed to be remembered.

His skin crawled, sweat bled from every pore, and his soul shrank within him as he watched death dance in Aarav’s grey eyes.

Shaking, voice broken with fear, Chaudhary finally spoke:

“Please… forgive me, Aarav. I’ll tell you everything. Who ordered the attack. Who planned it. Just spare me…”

But Aarav didn’t move.

No flicker of curiosity touched his face.

No spark of surprise.

Only silence.

That unnerving silence that screamed one thing—

Aarav already knew.

He was playing with him. Toying with his fear.

And the smile that curled on Aarav’s lips—it grew darker, sharper… inhuman.

Just as he stepped forward, just as it felt like the devil himself would speak—

A phone rang, its sound slicing through the tension like a blade.

Aarav didn’t even glance at it.

Before he could, his guard stepped forward, voice cold, precise:

“Sir, it’s Vinay Sir. He’s calling.”

That name alone shifted the air.

Aarav’s expression, so soaked in evil seconds ago—softened.

Barely. Subtly. A change so faint it would escape most eyes.

But not Chaudhary’s.

Not the man who was counting his last breaths in Aarav’s presence.

VINAY AGNIVANSHI

Founder and Chairman of the Agnivanshi Empire.

The most respected, most powerful businessman in the country.

And the only man who could draw a flicker of restraint from THE TSUNAMI.

Aarav took the phone from his guard’s hand, his fingers moving with a kind of calm that unnerved more than any fury could.

He answered the call, pressed the phone to his ear…

But no voice was heard from the other end.

Not a word. Not even static.

Yet Aarav kept listening—his storm-grey eyes locked onto Chaudhary with a cold, deadly stillness that felt like a slow exorcism.

Like he was stripping the soul from his body with just a gaze.

And Chaudhary could feel it.

Not metaphorically—he could feel his breath shortening, his chest tightening, his limbs trembling.

He had stared down guns before. Blades too.

But never had he felt this kind of primal fear.

This was not about death.

This was about being unmade.

On the other end of the line, Vinay Agnivanshi must’ve said something, because Aarav’s lips finally parted.

In a voice so eerily calm, so devoid of emotion, it felt colder than ice, he said:

“I'm coming”

And just like that, he ended the call.

Aarav took a step back. His body shifted away from Chaudhary, and for a fleeting second—just one second—Chaudhary felt a sliver of hope.

Maybe it was over.

Maybe this torment was done.

Maybe Aarav wouldn’t kill him after all—not today.

But then…

Aarav whistled.

Not a loud command. Not a shout.

Just a soft, playful whistle… like a lullaby from hell.

And then—it began.

The wall directly across from Chaudhary—the solid wall that had stood silently all this while—moved.

A slow mechanical groan filled the room as the bricks slid sideways, revealing a hidden passage cloaked in pitch-black darkness.

No lights. No sound. Just a void.

Chaudhary’s breath caught in his throat.

His mind raced.

What was this? What was coming?

And then he saw them.

Two pairs of eyes.

Glowing. Watching. Advancing.

Not human. Not normal.

The kind of eyes that didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

One pair shimmered a venomous green—piercing, unholy, feral.

The other was icy, spectral, almost silvery-blue—cold as death’s whisper.

As they moved closer, their bodies emerged from the shadows, and Chaudhary’s body froze—

His brain couldn’t process what he was seeing.

A black panther.

And a snow leopard.

Not wild.

Not caged.

Tamed by a demon.

Their coats shimmered in the low, flickering light—one like midnight silk soaked in blood, the other like haunted snow under a dying moon.

Massive. Muscular. Perfect.

Predators carved by rage and refined by obedience.

Heavy gold chains clinked around their necks—crafted, not fitted.

With names etched into the pendants:

“KNIGHT.” – the black panther.

“DEVIL.” – the snow leopard.

Even the names reeked of annihilation.

But it wasn’t just the way they looked—it was the way they moved.

Like they’d tasted human blood before.

Like they knew how long a scream took to fade.

Like death had been their playmate.

Aarav didn’t say a word.

He didn’t need to.

They emerged from the shadows like nightmares given flesh—silent, fluid, and terrifyingly regal.

Their eyes—unnatural, glowing, otherworldly—locked onto Chaudhary like two executioners surveying a condemned soul.

Their presence sucked the warmth from the room.

The air thickened. Time seemed to stall.

Chaudhary’s breath hitched.

His body trembled—not out of instinct, but out of something far older…

Primal fear.

The beasts circled him with eerie patience, brushing just close enough for him to hear their breath, feel their cold hunger.

And then…

Their focus shifted.

In one elegant, coordinated motion, both predators turned their heads toward Aarav.

And the moment they laid eyes on him—the darkness in them dissolved into something terrifyingly beautiful.

Loyalty. Devotion. Worship.

Their glowing pupils dilated.

Their postures lowered slightly—not in submission… but in acknowledgment.

As if before them stood not a man, but something divine. Something ancient.

He was their universe.

Their god.

Their master.

Aarav didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to speak.

His very breath was a command.

Knight moved first, his massive, muscled form brushing against Aarav’s side.

Devil followed, resting his head briefly near Aarav’s knee.

Both predators pressed close, and for a moment… the room grew still.

Aarav’s storm-grey eyes softened—not with weakness, but with silent affection.

A kind of love only monsters could understand.

Deadly. Boundless. Eternal.

He lowered himself to their level, his hand gliding over their heads, fingers threading through fur with the gentleness of a king greeting his warriors.

The contrast was maddening.

How could death itself bow so gently?

Then, Aarav’s voice—low, calm, yet soaked in ice—dripped into the silence:

"I brought you both a toy today...

Play with it slowly."

Chaudhary’s soul cracked.

His body froze, but his mind screamed, trying to claw out of reality.

He wasn’t looking at pets.

He was staring at death. Cloaked in fur. Chained only by Aarav’s touch.

The guard didn’t flinch.

His eyes, instead, filled with awe—like a soldier watching a sacred ritual.

He had seen this before.

This terrifying harmony.

The untouchable bond between Aarav Agnivanshi and the beasts born of shadows.

Aarav stood. His coat shifted with the motion, like a dark wind trailing royalty.

He turned toward the door.

But before stepping out, his voice dropped—this time, darker than the night itself:

"Chaudhary…

Aarav Agnivanshi forgets nothing.

Forgives no one.

He only returns pain—

multiplied."

And then… silence.

Knight’s tail flicked once.

Devil’s lips curled in anticipation.

Their game was about to begin.

And Chaudhary… was the toy.

He screamed—but no one would hear.

Not through the thick walls.

Not beyond the roar of beasts now eager to honor their master.

Because in that room…

There were no witnesses.

Only one man. Two monsters. And a promise of slow, beautiful annihilation.

🔸So, how did you all like the first chapter? I truly hope it captured your interest! If you enjoyed it, please don’t forget to follow me and leave a like or comment—your support and feedback mean the world to me and keep me motivated to write more!

BY CRESENT...🪄