The sterile hum of the hospital filled the stark white room. Fluorescent lights flickered as Vihan sat between the beds of his unconscious father and brother. His eyes were red—restless with a weariness too deep for sleep.
A knock sounded against the door.
Vihan stiffened. His hand froze on the edge of Aarav's blanket. He hesitated, heart thundering, before rising to his feet.
Slowly, he peeked through the square glass at the top of the door.
Three familiar faces—Abhi. Karan. Ayan.
He pulled the door open and stumbled forward, gripping Abhi's arms as if to anchor him in place. "Brother?" His voice broke.
Then he saw it—dried tear streaks down Abhi's cheeks. For the first time in his life. Red, swollen eyes. Vihan's grip faltered, panic rising. His gaze darted to Karan.
Karan stood close, a steady presence, his stoic mask edged with quiet concern.
Then Ayan. Unexpected. His face unreadable.
Vihan's eyes flicked between them, but before he could ask anything, Ayan moved—slowly, each step carrying him toward the beds.
The sight struck him. Aarav. Mr. Rawat. Motionless. Fragile.
He reached the bedside, fingers trembling above the bandages—hovering, then brushing gently against Aarav's wound. His lashes dampened. His smile ached. Memory after memory surfaced with that touch—laughter, warmth, the bond that had never left.
Abhi hadn't moved. His posture was rigid, held together by sheer force. Then, gently but firmly, he pulled free of Vihan's hands. His voice was low, hoarse. "It's not safe here. We'll move them to the farmhouse in the morning."
And he turned, walking out—shoulders tight, jaw locked, grief spilling through every step.
Silence fell again. Only the monitors spoke—steady, merciless, echoing the weight of everything unsaid.
...
Abhi pushed the washroom door open, the sharp echo of its swing cutting through the silence. The fluorescent light above buzzed faintly, casting a cold glow across the tiled walls.
He stopped at the sink, gripping its edge. Slowly, his gaze lifted.
The mirror stared back. His own reflection—hollow eyes, streaks of dried tears, a face he barely recognized.
And then, unbidden, Arun's image surfaced in his mind. His voice. His face. That memory burned through the haze of exhaustion.
Something surged.
With a guttural sound, Abhi drove his fist against the wall. Once. Twice. Again. The dull thud reverberated through the empty space until skin split and blood smeared across the pale tiles.
Breathing ragged, he finally stumbled back. His back pressed against the cold wall. His wounded hand hung limply by his side, shaking, dripping crimson on the floor.
He shut his eyes.
A single tear broke free, tracing a slow path down his cheek.
It wasn't just pain in his chest—it was devastation, the kind that hollowed him out from the inside, leaving nothing but silence and the faint sting of salt and blood.
...
[Meanwhile—Singh mansion]
The night pressed against the windows like a silent witness. Arun stood alone on the narrow balcony, the blinds behind him casting uneven stripes across the cracked floor. The only light came from the room inside—an amber glow that dared not follow him fully into the cold.
His hands gripped the iron railing. The damp metal bit into his palms, grounding him, but nothing could still his mind.
It kept replaying—Abhi's trembling hand, the gun rising, his eyes wild with a fury born of deeper wounds… and Arun, standing in the way.
He hadn't flinched. But something had cracked inside him. Not fear—guilt.
Had I chosen the right side?
He had stopped Abhi. For the man he'd grown up calling father. But Abhi's eyes—raw, betrayed—that would haunt him longer than the threat of a bullet.
Behind him, the door clicked softly. A knock. Silence. Then hinges creaked open.
Arun didn't turn. He knew who it was. And he couldn't bear to explain the storm tearing him apart.
Annaya stepped inside like a whisper. She saw him silhouetted against the night, but didn't speak. She simply crossed the room, sitting quietly in the cushioned chair by the bed. No intrusion, no comfort—just presence.
The silence stretched, heavy but kind.
Finally, Arun's fingers uncurled from the railing. He turned, shadows carving hollows beneath his eyes. He walked back into the room and sank onto the bed's edge, shoulders slumped, expression unreadable—too exhausted for anger, too bruised for tears.
Time held still.
Then Annaya's voice came, soft but steady. "You stood between your two worlds today. Not many have the heart to do that."
Their eyes met. Hers didn't waver.
Arun swallowed hard, his voice low and broken. "I thought if I tried harder… everything would be okay. But I messed up again. Maybe Ayan was right. I always end up choosing wrong."
"You didn't choose wrong," Annaya said gently. "You chose Uncle Singh because Uncle Aadi still had his family. You stayed with Uncle Singh because Ayan had Aarav. You only chose who needed you more."
"But Abhi..." she paused. Her words didn't absolve—only reminded.
"But Abhi…" Arun's fists clenched, trembling. His voice fractured. "It's hard to live without him. Can't I just… have him by my side again?"
Tears blurred his vision.
Annaya rose, her smile soft, touched with sadness and resolve. "Then why don't we try," she whispered, stepping closer, "to bring your boy back."
The light behind her caught her face, gentle and unwavering. And in that moment, Arun didn't just see a friend. He saw a shadow—one who would walk beside him through every fracture, even if the road ahead was lit only by the faintest promise of hope.
...
[The dark surveillance room]
The room was drowned in shadows. A single bulb swung overhead, its faint glow slicing long, broken silhouettes across grimy walls. Dust clung to the still air.
A worn armchair faced a wall of monitors—static-ridden feeds showing fractured glimpses of the Mansions' gates.
A man sat motionless, his features hidden, hands steepled before his face. The only sound was his slow, measured breathing. A predator waiting.
The heavy metal door creaked open.
A subordinate stepped in, hesitating at the threshold as if the air itself warned him back. Still, duty dragged him forward.
"Sir… everyone at the Singh Mansion is alive. Mr. Abhi reached there but…"
He faltered.
The man didn't move. Didn't speak.
"Mr. Arun stopped him," the subordinate forced out. "Talked him down. Just… talk."
The bulb flickered. The room held its breath.
Then came the voice—low, venomous, disbelieving. "And Abhi stopped…?"
The words dripped like poison. He knew Abhi's rage wasn't something to be tamed. Not by words.
"Yes, sir. He walked back. Without harming anyone." The subordinate's whisper cracked, his eyes darting to the floor.
The man exploded to his feet. The chair screeched, toppled. His tall frame loomed, muscles taut beneath his dark shirt.
And then— Thud.
His hand shot out, clamping the subordinate's neck with a grip of iron. He pinned him to the wall as though he weighed nothing. For a heartbeat the swinging bulb revealed his face—not enough to name, but enough to see the eyes. Eyes burning with fury. And beneath it—fear. Fear of losing everything. Fear of a plan unraveling.
His chest heaved. His breaths came ragged, hot against the subordinate's cheek.
The subordinate choked, struggling. His hands clawed weakly at the man's wrist, but the grip didn't relent.
"You came here to showcase your failure," the man snarled. His jaw was locked, his teeth bared like a cornered beast. "No more gameplays. Tell the men to gear up."
And with that, he released him. The subordinate collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. The man turned back to the shattered glow of the screens, his silhouette jagged and menacing.
"The Rawats aren't a concern at the moment. The Singhs must be eliminated too."
The subordinate staggered up and fled. The door slammed shut.
And the man stood alone in the dark—no longer a shadow. A storm about to break.