"You call me Mrityu like it is a threat, but Mrityu is the only truth you have ever known."
The room smelled of steel and sweat. Cold, sterile, like the kind of place designed to suffocate secrets out of men. The walls closed in, suffocating, making it feel smaller with each passing second. It was a room where pressure built up, a place where silence screamed, a place where even the bravest trembled. But the woman in the chair didn't belong here. Not in the way they thought she did.
She wasn't a man. She wasn't here to confess.
She sat still — arms relaxed at her sides, her sari's crease as sharp as a blade. Her wrists were cuffed to the arms of the chair, but the cuffs didn't mean anything. Not to her. She wasn't contained. She was the one who contained.
Her expression was unreadable. Not defiant. Not scared. Just... inevitable.
The door opened with a creak, a sound too loud for the stillness that followed.
A man entered — mid-40s, wearing a tailored suit that tried to hide the weight of fear beneath it. His posture was perfect. Authority, power. That's what he wanted to project. Until his eyes met hers.
Then, he faltered. The suit, the power, all of it suddenly felt like a mask.
He wasn't a man anymore. He was a child pretending to be a king. A shadow pretending to be light.
He hesitated for a moment before pulling the chair across from her. The screech of metal on tile cut through the silence, a little too sharp, too desperate.
He sat down slowly, as though speed might provoke the predator. He tried to steady his breath, but it was already too late.
"I've been told you're death," he said, sliding a thick file across the table toward her. His voice trembled, despite the carefully practiced calm. "But your record says otherwise. You save more than you kill."
She didn't blink. Not once.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her voice soft, yet the words dripped with venom.
"And yet," she said, letting the silence linger, "you're trembling."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a flash of something darker. Fear. Real fear. She had that effect on people. Even the ones who didn't believe in monsters — until they met her.
They called her many things.
Agent. Spy. Traitor. Saint. Seductress. Savior. Death.
But the file before him had only one name in bold:
CHHAYIKA MISHRA
Codename: Eagle
Alias: Fatima Khan
Internal Classification: Mrityu — The Inevitable Truth.
They had brought her in after Istanbul. After the bloodbath with Khan. After too many loose ends had suddenly tightened into knots.
But the truth no one dared say aloud: She wasn't caught. She came. On her terms. Always.
The officer leaned forward, trying to regain some semblance of control, his voice tight now, barely more than a whisper.
"You crossed the line," he said, the words heavy with accusation.
She smiled. A faint, dangerous smile. One that didn't reach her eyes.
"I erased it."
Silence. It wasn't the kind of silence that was comfortable. No, it was the kind that made men sweat and gods curious. It was the kind of silence that had been forged in battle and broken hearts. The kind that seemed to go on forever, drawing out the tension, pulling everything to the edge.
The officer cleared his throat, still trying to find his ground.
"Why Mrityu?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Why call yourself that?"
She didn't lean in. She didn't need to. She was already there, all of her presence collapsing into that one moment, trapping him.
"I didn't call myself anything," she said, voice flat. "They did. My enemies. Right before the end. They started it. The name. The whispers. The begging."
Her gaze locked on his now, and for a moment, he saw it — the void. The abyss. The calm within chaos. The woman who stared down death because she was it.
"You think it's a compliment?" he whispered, almost to himself.
"No," she said quietly, her voice almost a caress. "It's a mirror."
He swallowed, the lump in his throat too big to ignore now. He looked at her, still not fully believing, still unsure whether to fear her or admire her.
"You call me Mrityu like it is a threat..." she said again, the words filling the room with heat, "But Mrityu is the only truth you have ever known."
The words hung in the air like a judgment. They were a sentence, a prophecy. Her voice was soft, but the weight of it was undeniable.
And then—the chains hit the floor.
The sound was sharp, final. She didn't even flinch as they hit the cold tile. She stood, effortlessly. Powerfully.
The guards outside didn't move. They didn't need to. They had seen what she could do to stronger men. To anyone who dared stand in her way. And maybe... maybe they wanted to live. To see tomorrow.
Her eyes flicked toward the door. The officer didn't move to stop her. No one did.
"You wanted Death?" she said, her voice low, deadly calm. "You invited her in."
And just like that, she walked out.
No orders. No clearance. No permission.
No one dared stop her.
Because in that moment, Death had no weapon. She didn't need one.
She was the weapon.
And the war had just begun.
✧༚❖༚✧ Mrityu doesn't end a chapter. She begins the reckoning. ✧༚❖༚✧
The storm has spoken. I welcome your truths — praise, critique, questions, echoes. Votes are nice, but your thoughts matter more. Drop them in the comments. Let's build this world together.