Rain poured down in relentless sheets, its sharp rhythm hammering against the windowpanes. The world outside was gray and blurred, a chaos of wind and water, but inside the small apartment, warmth lingered - a cocoon of light and laughter against the storm's roar.

A television flickered in the corner, its glow painting the walls in hues of blue and white. On the screen, a news anchor's grave expression matched the tone of his words.

"...the laboratory explosion on the Bangalore highway-classified until now-has raised serious questions about government transparency..."

The sound filled the cozy living room where a man, about thirty, sat cross-legged on the sofa. His hands were busy weaving his daughter's long, dark hair into a neat braid, his eyes only occasionally leaving the TV.

The girl, barely seven, sat still - unusually quiet for her age - watching the shifting images with an unreadable expression.

The news continued, "...sources suggest that the opposition claims this was a planned conspiracy to eliminate their party head, though the government-" The news channel showed a picture of an old, burly man, with deep brown eyes and below it the label read-Opposition party head, Dr. Jitendra Singh.

A voice cut through from the kitchen, sharp and irritated.
"You said you'd be helping in the kitchen! Come here now!"

The man sighed, securing the end of the braid with a small ribbon. He smiled down at his daughter, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"There you go, princess. Perfect as always."

He stood and walked toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Alright, alright, I'm coming!"

The woman, busy at the sink, shot him a look when he entered.
"Change the channel, will you? I don't want my daughter turning into a politician already."

He chuckled, leaning on the counter. "Chill, babe. She won't understand a thing. And even if she did - maybe it's good to know how messy the world really is."

"So irresponsible!" she said with a playful grin, wiping her hands and walking over to the TV. "Cartoons it is."

But as her finger touched the remote, a deafening crack of thunder ripped through the air. The lights flickered, and the TV let out a sharp pop. A thin crack snaked across the screen before it went entirely black.

"Hey..." she murmured, startled. "The TV broke."

From the sofa, the little girl didn't move. She kept staring at the dead screen, her small fingers absently brushing beneath her nose - wiping away a faint, fresh trail of blood.

Her father and mother didn't notice.

Outside, the storm raged louder.

And in the brief flash of lightning that followed, the girl's wide eyes reflected not fear - but something far more dangerous. With a hint of anger.