The elevator rattled as it rose from Level 10, its lights flickering faintly above Aanchal’s head. The NBC suit she wore felt heavier than before, the air inside hot against her skin. Her heartbeat echoed louder than the mechanical hum around her. Every second in the underground lab had pushed her nerves to the edge. She needed to get out before anyone realized who she really was.

  Her gloved fingers tightened on the stolen keycard. It had gotten her this far, but she knew she couldn’t rely on luck forever. The plan was simple: step out, move quickly, disappear into the staff exit, and melt into the city night. She repeated it in her head like a mantra. Step out. Move quickly. Disappear.

  The elevator slowed. Her pulse spiked. She adjusted the headgear of the NBC suit, trying to steady her breath.

  A dull chime rang. The doors slid open.

  And her chest locked up.

  Someone stood directly in front of her, blocking the exit. A mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and towering, his silhouette filling the doorway. He had the kind of presence that could silence a room before he even spoke. His eyes, sharp under a scar that cut across his cheek, pinned her in place.

  Veeraj.

  Aanchal’s stomach dropped. Shivam had told them about him SynerTech’s enforcer, the man who had nearly crushed him back in their last encounter. Seeing him up close was worse. He radiated danger.

  Veeraj’s lips curled faintly, like he already knew the truth. His voice was a low growl. “And who might you be? You don’t look like one of mine.”

  Aanchal froze, her mind racing. She tried to keep her posture stiff, mechanical, the way a worker might under orders. If she could just walk past.

  But his hand shot out, gripping her shoulder with crushing force. The suit’s thick padding didn’t soften it; pain flared under his fingers.

  “Answer me,” Veeraj said. “Where are you coming from?”

  She tried to keep her voice muffled, distorted under the NBC mask. “Lab sector. Monitoring.”

  He chuckled, humorless. “Monitoring? You’ve got no clearance for this level. I know every face that works down there. And yours… isn’t one of them.”

  Before she could react, his other hand reached up and gripped the edge of her headgear. With one sharp motion, he ripped it free.

  The stale underground air hit her face, her hair spilling loose from under the mask. Veeraj’s eyes narrowed, recognition flashing across them.

  “Well, well,” he murmured. “What do we have here? A trespasser? Or…” his grip tightened on her arm, “…a spy.”

  Every muscle in Aanchal’s body screamed at her to act. She didn’t give herself time to think. She shifted her weight, drove her knee up, and snapped her boot hard into Veeraj’s knee.

  His grip loosened with a grunt. Not much, but enough.

  She ripped free, adrenaline flooding her veins. Without hesitation, she sprinted forward, boots pounding against the polished floor of the corridor.

  “Stop her!” Veeraj’s roar shook the walls.

  Two doors ahead burst open, and uniformed guards spilled into the hallway, blocking the path to the exit. Their eyes widened when they saw her running straight at them.

  Her mind raced. No way around. Too many to push through barehanded. Then her gaze snagged on something leaning against the wall near a maintenance cart.

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  An iron rod. Long, thick, heavy.

  Aanchal’s hand shot out and grabbed it, the metal cold against her palms. She swung it once, feeling the weight, the balance. Her breath was sharp, her body thrumming with fight-or-flight.

  If they thought she was going to fold easily, they were wrong.

  She raised the rod, holding it like a sword, eyes locked on the men closing in.

  The first guard lunged before Aanchal could even steady her stance. His baton came down in a brutal arc aimed at her head. She raised the rod instinctively, metal clashing against metal with a jarring crack that vibrated up her arms.

  The impact nearly knocked the weapon free, but she used the recoil to pivot, swinging her rod down into his ribs. The guard grunted, folding sideways, and she shoved him back against the wall.

  The second man didn’t wait. He charged from her blind side, aiming to grab her waist. Aanchal spun low, crouching as his hands cut through the empty air.

  She swept her rod along the floor, catching his shin with a sharp smack. The man’s balance gave way, and she twisted her hips, using her shoulder to ram into him. He toppled onto a stack of metal crates, the crash echoing through the corridor.

  The third was quicker. He closed in, catching her forearm before she could reset. His grip was vice-like, twisting her wrist until the rod nearly slipped free. Pain shot through her arm, but Aanchal gritted her teeth and drove her elbow straight into his nose.

  The crunch was sickening. He staggered back with a strangled cry, clutching his face, and she followed through with a brutal sideways swing of the rod across his jaw. His body hit the floor before he even had time to scream.

  For a moment, the corridor froze. Three bodies writhed on the ground two groaning, one unmoving. Aanchal’s chest heaved, sweat dripping beneath the NBC suit’s inner lining, but her grip on the rod didn’t falter. Her mind raced with fragments of every training drill she had ever pushed herself through. This wasn’t sparring. This was survival.

  The first guard recovered, dragging himself upright, eyes burning with fury. He lifted his baton again, charging headlong. Aanchal sidestepped, letting him overcommit, then rammed her rod into the wall beside his head.

  The reverberation stunned him just long enough for her to drive a knee into his stomach, doubling him over. She brought the rod down across his back with a sharp crack, and he collapsed for good.

  The second tried to rise from the crates, but she was already moving. She swung the rod like a quarterstaff, pinning him by the throat against the steel edge.

  His hands clawed at the weapon, gasping for breath. Her eyes flicked upward, spotting a dangling pipe overhead. She shifted her weight, pushing him hard to the side, and the back of his skull smacked against the pipe. He slumped instantly, his body going slack.

  The third guard, bloody but not broken, staggered toward her again, rage overtaking reason. He charged with a desperate roar. Aanchal let him come, planting her feet wide.

  At the last second, she shifted, thrusting the rod upward like a spear into his sternum. The momentum stopped him cold. She pivoted on her heel, yanking the rod free and slamming it across the side of his head. His body spun awkwardly before crashing against the wall.

  Silence fell again, broken only by Aanchal’s own ragged breathing. Her arms trembled, muscles screaming from the effort, but her stance remained steady.

  She could feel the throb of bruises forming beneath the suit where fists and grips had landed. Every nerve screamed to stop, but she refused. Stopping meant capture. Stopping meant the end.

  Her gaze darted around the corridor, checking corners, every shadow a threat. The iron rod felt heavier now, slick with sweat, but it was all she had.

  She adjusted her grip, holding it like a sword, the way she had trained herself to adapt with makeshift weapons. Her breathing steadied as adrenaline forced clarity back into her mind.

  The three guards were down, scattered across the floor, groaning or unconscious. Their bodies were proof of her resilience, but also a reminder: more would come. This wasn’t over. She could already hear the echo of boots deeper in the hallway. Reinforcements.

  Aanchal braced herself, shoulders rising and falling with each breath. Her chest burned, her legs ached, but her resolve sharpened like the edge of a blade. This was no longer about sneaking out unnoticed. She had been exposed, her disguise torn away. Now she had to carve her way out.

  She planted her feet, raised the rod, and fixed her eyes on the dark mouth of the corridor ahead. The fight was just beginning.

  The iron rod trembled in Aanchal’s hands, slick with sweat, but her stance didn’t waver. Three men lay sprawled on the floor behind her, groaning or unconscious.

  Her lungs burned with every breath. The weight of exhaustion was clawing at her shoulders, but her eyes remained sharp. She knew more were coming she could hear the boots hammering down the corridor, growing louder with each second.

  The door at the far end burst open, and four more guards rushed in. Behind them, standing at a deliberate distance with arms crossed, was Veeraj. He didn’t move, didn’t shout, didn’t even blink. He simply watched, as though studying her like a trainer might watch a fighter in a cage.

  “Come on then,” Aanchal muttered under her breath, tightening her grip on the Rod.