# KOHL & SCARS
The ancestral haveli in lucknow always bathed in a deceptive warmth. It came from the dozens of intricate, decorative brass lights suspended from the high archways, their golden, flickering glow masking the cold, unforgiving stone of the central courtyard.
To the outside world, this light symbolized wealth. Tradition. Political salvation.
But to twenty-year-old Meera, it was just the glowing spotlight of her cage.
She sat completely still in front of her antique vanity, holding a thin, silver applicator. With a practiced, steady hand, she traced the heavy, black kohl along her lower waterline. *One stroke for silence. Two strokes for obedience.*
The kohl was her armor. When she lined her eyes so darkly, people only saw the politician's perfect, traditional daughter. They didn’t see the terror hiding in her pupils. They didn't see the memories that kept her awake at night.
Two years ago, the brass lights in the courtyard had illuminated a different scene. They had illuminated her older sister, bruised and broken, being dragged back through the heavy iron gates after a failed attempt to elope. Her sister had screamed for mercy, begging their father to let her live a life of her own choosing.
The political empire of the Singhania family did not deal in mercy. They dealt in power, blood, and absolute control.
Her sister had disappeared the next morning. *Sent away to distant relatives,* her father had claimed to the press. But Meera knew the truth of the UP underworld. Women who embarrassed their powerful families didn't just get sent away. They were erased.
A sharp knock on her bedroom door shattered the silence.
"Meera *bitti*," the gruff voice of her father’s chief guard echoed through the thick wood. "Your father requires you downstairs. Wear the heavy crimson dupatta. We have foreign guests arriving."
Meera closed her eyes, taking a slow, trembling breath.
For weeks, the haveli had been buzzing with whispers of a new, dangerous alliance. Her father’s political rivals were gaining ground, and to secure his territory, he had reached out beyond the borders of India. He had made a pact with ghosts—a ruthless, underground syndicate from South Korea.
They were bringing weapons. They were bringing money.
They were bringing monsters into her home.
Meera stood up, the heavy silver anklets around her feet chiming a mournful, trapping melody. She adjusted the crimson silk over her shoulder, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles of her anxiety. She had survived this house by keeping her head down and her voice lost. She would survive these new monsters the exact same way.
She took one last look in the mirror. The girl staring back was beautiful, heavily armored in gold and kohl, and completely, utterly dead inside.
Little did she know, the man stepping out of a black SUV in her courtyard wasn't just another monster.
He was the devil himself. And he was about to set her cage on fire.
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