The courtroom was a blur of noise: whispers, gasps, and the relentless click of cameras. Seven-year-old Zunair sat still, her hands trembling in her lap. She was a killer. Not in the way the world wanted to paint her-a monster born of privilege-but as a child who had fought back. Against men twice her size. Against injustice.

"The accused will be sent to juvenile detention for reformation," the judge declared, his voice heavy with reluctant authority.

In the shadows of that courtroom stood Vikram Rathod, observing the girl with cold, calculating interest. "Reformation?" he murmured to himself. "Or destruction?"

That was the day Zunair's fate was sealed-not as a prisoner, but as a weapon.

---

Years later, in the quiet confines of Trinetra’s archives, Zunair stared at the worn leather-bound diary handed to her by Kavya. Its pages were riddled with cryptic thoughts and haunting admissions—ink that carried the weight of lives lost. She traced her finger over the spine, sensing the danger it represented.

"This is where it begins," Kavya said, her tone unreadable.

And Zunair knew this case wasn’t just about justice; it was personal.