The golden lights of the Louvre reflected off the marble floors, illuminating centuries of art and history. Nayra moved gracefully, her heels clicking softly, every movement calculated—every glance carefully measured. To the casual observer, she was just another wealthy socialite attending the private exhibition. But behind the designer mask and flawless smile, Nayra was something far more dangerous: the Crimson Queen of the underworld.

She stopped in front of a newly acquired painting—a portrait of a long-forgotten queen, her eyes hauntingly alive. Nayra’s fingers itched to trace the strokes, to study the security patterns, to understand the layout of the room. Every detail mattered. Every opportunity mattered.

A sudden, shrill alarm shattered the soft hum of the gallery. Nayra’s eyes flicked to the security cameras, then to the guards, who were frozen, unsure if this was part of the exhibition’s theatrics. Not today. Today, it was real.

Footsteps echoed—quick, deliberate, and closing fast. Nayra turned sharply—and collided with someone.

“Watch it,” she snapped, instinctively pushing herself back.

The man she had bumped into didn’t apologise. He didn’t even blink. His eyes were dark, stormy, and strangely familiar, scanning her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“Who are you?” Nayra demanded, her voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins.

“Arjunveer,” he said simply, his tone clipped, as if stating his name was enough to explain everything.

“Arjun… who?” She raised an eyebrow, though her mind was already racing. Something about him wasn’t right—too calm, too precise, like a predator in human form.

Before she could push past him, the doors to the gallery slammed shut. Automatic locks engaged, and the emergency lights flickered. The Louvre had become a gilded cage.

“You’re stuck here,” Arjunveer said, not unkindly, his voice low but commanding. “And so am I.”

Nayra’s pulse quickened. Trapped. With a stranger. A stranger who seemed more dangerous than anyone she had faced in the underworld.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, measuring, calculating, circling silently like two apex predators forced into the same cage. Sparks of curiosity—and perhaps something else—flared between them.

“You realise,” she said finally, her voice a mixture of challenge and amusement, “that neither of us walks out of here without consequences?”

He smiled faintly, a shadow of a grin that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Exactly,” he said.

And in that moment, the Louvre, with all its history and beauty, became nothing more than the stage for the collision of two dangerous worlds—one of power, one of shadows, and both hungry for control.

Outside, alarms screamed. Inside, silence—charged, electric, and terrifying.

The game had begun.