The sprawling administrative office of the Chauhan corporate headquarters was a monument to glass, steel, and absolute, unyielding power. Located on the penthouse level overlooking the city skyline, the room was vast and clinical, smelling faintly of expensive leather, mahogany polish, and high-end air conditioning.

Rishabh—fully settled into his stolen identity as Siddharth Chauhan—sat behind his massive, custom-built marble desk. The afternoon light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling glass panels, casting sharp, angular shadows across his tailored dark grey suit. His blue eyes, usually masked by a practiced warmth when dealing with the public, were currently fixed on the paperwork of the Italian weapons deal. The empty signature lines where Kabir’s name belonged were glaring back at him like a silent mockery.