Chapter 2: The Villain and His Shadow

1

When the system brought me in, the villain—whose very existence threatened the stability of the entire world line—was already 34 years old and had a son of about ten.

When I woke up, I knew nothing. My memories were a blank slate.

All I knew was that my name was Ananya, and I was 23 years old.

That’s what the system told me, anyway.

Beyond that, it kept warning me, again and again, about how dangerous the villain was, urging me not to end up like the previous strategists—dead as soon as they entered this world.

The system said the villain’s name was Rohan Malhotra, a man at the very pinnacle of wealth and power in Mumbai.

He was ruthless, cruel, a beast barely restrained by reason. The only bit of humanity he had left, perhaps, was reserved for his young son.

I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time before whispering, “I don’t see anything special about myself that would make that villain notice me.”

The system was silent for a moment, then said, with strange emphasis, “You are the last chance. If even you can’t do it—”

It cut itself off, then insisted, “No, you definitely can.”

A ceiling fan rattled overhead as I sat on the creaking bed, the faint aroma of incense from the neighbouring flat drifting in. The mirror’s silvered edges were chipped. As I looked at my reflection, I couldn’t help tracing my jaw with trembling fingers—skin tingling, heart heavy. For some reason, the system’s insistence made me feel more like a sacrificial goat than anyone’s ‘last chance.’

2

The system’s hundreds of warnings were not wrong.

Because the moment I entered this world, the moment I tried to catch a glimpse of Rohan Malhotra from afar, his burly bodyguards noticed me.

Rohan Malhotra was dressed in black, a blazer draped over his shoulders, standing at the school gates of St. Xavier’s waiting for his son to finish class.

He didn’t even look my way.

I looked at the sharp, cold lines of his profile, and some strange, uncontrollable emotion rose up in my chest.

It made me so sad I almost wanted to cry.

I was dazed, lost in the moment, not even noticing the bodyguards approaching.

They threw me hard against a wall, pain shooting through my body.

My hands scraped across the rough cement, heat flaring in my palms. A wave of humiliation washed over me as the bodyguard’s voice cut through the noise: “Yahan mat ghumo, samjhi? Next time, you’ll regret even looking.”

He shot a cold glance at my bedraggled figure on the ground. “If there’s a next time, it won’t end this easily.”

The school gate bustled with parents—mothers in cotton saris, children in crisp uniforms, the odd vendor selling vada pav nearby. Yet even among the chaos, the air near Rohan Malhotra felt icy, as if a wall separated him from ordinary life. My heart hammered in my ears, and the sting from the pavement mingled with a familiar Mumbai dust that stuck to my skin and tears alike.