Rented Run-down Hotel, Mumbai
The flickering yellow light above cast dancing shadows on the cracked mirror. A cheap fan rotated slowly, doing little to dry the sweat or the blood.
Butterfly sat on the edge of a rusted iron bed, hissing slightly as she wrapped a bandage around her gashed thigh. Her hands trembled—not from pain, but from memory. The image of Vikram Das, standing untouched after defeating the bulky cultivator, haunted her.
"Who the hell are you, Vikram Das…" she muttered, pulling the cloth tight.
The satellite phone on the table had been ringing for a while. Ten times now.
Finally, with a sigh, she picked it up. "Black Cat," she answered, voice hoarse.
The response was soft, melodic, but laced with authority. "Why the hell are you not answering my call, Butterfly?
Butterfly leaned back against the wall, her voice cold and detached. "I failed the mission. The Princess is alive. The Rajput lady is still breathing."
