The gates of the Prime Minister's residence opened at precisely 5:00 AM, revealing the silhouette of a man who moved like a storm and spoke like thunder. Digvijay Saho didn't need a nameplate to be recognised. Standing at 6'2", with broad shoulders and sharp features that never betrayed emotion, Digvijay looked like the kind of man who didn't bow to fate—he bent it. The press called him "India's Prince of Power," and yet, the power he wielded wasn't just inherited—it was built, brick by ruthless brick. His lineage may have begun with political royalty, but his dominion was carved with his own hands. Silent. Calculating. Deadly, if needed.

Six black SUVs flanked him at all times, their tinted windows hiding trained eyes that never blinked. Delhi woke slowly, but Digvijay was already ahead—jogging past Lutyens' lawns, the early morning fog cutting around him like he owned the air itself. The sprawling lawns, dotted with vintage lamp posts and lush hedges, trembled slightly under the synchronized footfalls of security commandos jogging behind the man known across Delhi's corridors of power as The Scion.