Dawn crept through the towering glass windows of the Rathore mansion like a thief stealing shadows, spilling molten gold across marble floors that had witnessed fifteen years of unspoken grief. Mumbai sprawled beneath them, oblivious to the storm brewing in the clouds above—a storm not of weather, but of blood and legacy, discipline and chaos, all wrapped within walls that breathed power with every sunrise.

The gymnasium stood like a temple to controlled violence, its mirrored walls catching the first light and fracturing it into a thousand golden fragments. Chrome machines gleamed with surgical precision, punching bags swayed like hanged men, and the air itself seemed thick with the scent of leather, sweat, and the jasmine that drifted up from the living quarters below. Here, before Mumbai could shake off its dreams, the Rathore brothers forged themselves into weapons.