The heavy wooden door to my private dungeon groaned on its hinges as I pushed it open, the sound echoing through the underground chamber like a death knell. The dungeon was a relic from the old days of the Rajvansh legacy—built by my great-grandfather during the British era when justice was often a personal matter. The walls were carved from solid stone, thick enough to muffle any sound from reaching the outside world. Iron brackets lined the walls, remnants of a time when chains and shackles were tools of interrogation. Gas torches flickered in their holders, casting dancing shadows that made the already intimidating space feel like something out of a medieval nightmare.