Kabir's eyes grew distant, lost somewhere far beyond the quiet room. His breathing slowed as the silence between them deepened. The ticking of the clock faded away — and only memories remained. Memories from sixteen years ago.
The same night.
The same pain.
The same wound that never healed.
He could still see the flashes of that day — the burning lights, the chaos, the screams that echoed through the corridors of his mind. It wasn't something time had softened. It was something that stayed buried, like fire trapped beneath ash, waiting to breathe again.
Rajiv watched him quietly. He had known Kabir Rathore for years — the man who ruled boardrooms with just his voice, whose single decision could shake markets. But today… the Kabir sitting in front of him looked nothing like that man.
There was no command in his posture. No pride in his voice. Only silence — and a deep, unspoken grief.
Rajiv's brows furrowed slightly. "Kabir ji,"he said softly, choosing his words carefully, "main aapke kehne par sab kuch kar dunga… par kya aapne socha hai, iske consequences kya ho sakte hain?"
Before he could say more, Kabir lifted his right hand slowly — a quiet gesture that froze Rajiv mid-sentence.
"Bas," Kabir said, his voice calm but heavy. "Ab mujhe farq nahi padta, Rajiv."
He paused for a moment, eyes still fixed on the floor, his tone quieter now.
"Main sirf chahta hoon… ke tum ye kaam kar do."
The words carried a weight that filled the room — not anger, not desperation, but something deeper. The kind of pain that breaks even the strongest men.
Rajiv looked at him silently, unable to respond. And then he saw it — a single tear slipping down Kabir's cheek, tracing a slow path before falling onto his hand.
For a moment, Rajiv forgot who he was sitting in front of. Not Mumbai's most powerful businessman, not the face of Rathore Enterprise — just a man, broken by memories he couldn't erase.
Rajiv took a deep breath, his voice low and steady.
"Kabir ji…" he said softly, "main samajh gaya. Aap akela nahi hain."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes firm now.
"Main ye kaam karunga."
Kabir didn't say anything in return. He just nodded once, slowly, his gaze still lost in that same corner of the past — the place where everything had changed sixteen years ago.
Rajiv kept waiting, hoping Kabir would say something more. The room had gone still again. Kabir sat there in silence — not the silence of someone thinking, but of someone fighting memories he didn't want to remember.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Kabir inhaled slowly and spoke, his voice low, "Rajiv… main koshish kar raha tha ke tumhe is maamle se door rakho. Par ek baar phir soch lo."
He lifted his eyes and looked straight at Rajiv. There was no force in his expression now, just honesty and exhaustion.
Rajiv didn't take long to respond. He had already made up his mind before Kabir asked again.
"Mera jawab wahi rahega," Rajiv said, his tone calm but firm. "Main poori tarah se aapka saath dunga."
Kabir let out another slow breath. He wasn't relieved — not exactly. It was something else. Acceptance. He needed Rajiv, but he didn't want to drag him into something this deep. Still, Rajiv had made his choice.
Kabir leaned forward slightly, his voice steadying.
"Rajiv… yeh taiyari bohot zyada khamoshi se karni hogi. Jitne kam logon ko pata hoga, utna behtar. Kisi ko bhi shaque nahi hona chahiye."
Rajiv didn't question him. He simply nodded once — a clear, controlled gesture of agreement.
Kabir watched him for a brief moment, making sure he understood the seriousness of what was coming.
The decision was made. The line had been crossed.
And from this point onward, there was no turning back.
Rajiv and Kabir spoke for a while longer, quietly, almost in fragments.
Neither of them raised their voice, neither tried to convince the other anymore.
Everything that needed to be understood was already understood.
When Kabir finally stood up to leave, Rajiv also rose from his seat.
"Kabir ji, main chal kar chhod deta hoon," Rajiv said.
Kabir shook his head lightly. "Iski zaroorat nahi hai. Main khud jaa jaaunga."
But Rajiv didn't step back. He simply walked alongside him. Kabir didn't repeat himself. He knew when someone's mind was made up.
They walked together through the corridor and out into the driveway.
Kabir's car was waiting — a black Lexus LX570, the kind of vehicle that didn't shout wealth, but carried it quietly. Its body was polished enough to reflect the evening lights, the windows tinted dark, and the engine running with a steady, low hum.
The uniformed bodyguard standing beside the car straightened immediately upon seeing Kabir. He stepped forward and pulled the rear door open.
Rajiv moved slightly, instinctively ready to open the door himself — an old habit of respect, not formality.
Kabir stopped him with just a small shake of the head.
"Ab yeh sab mat karo," Kabir said softly. "Main thak gaya hoon."
There was no harshness in his tone — only exhaustion.
Rajiv stepped back.
Kabir lowered himself into the seat without another word and the door closed behind him.
The car began to move a second later — smooth, silent, unhurried — disappearing down the long driveway and past the gate.
Rajiv stood there watching it go.
He didn't move until the taillights vanished around the corner.
Only then did he breathe out and murmur to himself, not loudly, but enough for the night to hold the words:
"Is aadmi ke saath bahut bura hua hai."
He thought of Kabir's reputation:
strong, immovable, unbreakable — a man others were afraid to cross.
But today, the strength was gone.
What remained was a weight any ordinary person would have collapsed under long ago.
Rajiv knew exactly what had happened sixteen years ago — every detail.
And yet, seeing Kabir like that…
It struck differently.
For the first time, Rajiv's heart felt heavy for him — not out of sympathy, but out of understanding.
Some wounds don't stop bleeding just because years have passed.
Rajiv stood there in the quiet night, hands in his pockets, lost in thought.
There was no turning back now.
It was late. The kind of late where the whole city feels asleep and the streets look abandoned, like even the wind has called it a night.
On one of those empty roads, a lone figure walked with his hands in his pockets, humming something under his breath.
It was Krishna.
He wasn't scared. This road was always deserted, hardly anyone passed through it, and he knew that well. Still, he walked like it didn't matter… like nothing in the world could bother him anymore.
In his mind, he was singing a line over and over — not a romantic song, not something playful… just something that fit his mood, something rough and lonely.
"Akela hoon… aur ab shayad aadat si pad gayi hai," he murmured quietly to himself.
There was no rhythm, no melody. Just words. Words that made sense only to a man who had spent the entire day being broken from the inside.
His footsteps echoed across the empty road — crisp, sharp, lonely.
With every step, he kept thinking about the same thing:
No job.
No stability.
Rent due.
No savings.
He kicked a loose pebble on the road and muttered, "Shahar aaya hoon tab se problems hi problems… jaise pichle janam ka koi bada gunaah le aaya hoon."
The pebble bounced once and hit another stone. Krishna didn't stop. He kicked again, harder this time, and the small stone sped away across the dark road.
"Zindagi ne toh main hona mar rakha hai," he hissed. "Koi ek din bhi aaram se nahi jaane deti."
He wasn't talking to anyone. He was just venting — at himself, at the world, at fate. The way a man talks when he's too tired to keep everything inside.
The road stretched long ahead of him, silent and empty.
And Krishna kept walking, humming the same lonely line again…
not to comfort himself, but because silence felt heavier tonight.
Krishna kept walking at his own slow rhythm, tapping stones on the road like it was some private game only he understood.
For some strange reason, he was actually enjoying the silence tonight. This loneliness… it felt almost peaceful to him, as if the world had finally stopped bothering him.
But peace never lasts.
At the far end of the road, someone's footsteps crashed into the silence — fast, frantic, uneven.
A girl.
She was running full speed, breath breaking in sharp bursts, her hair flying behind her. Her eyes kept darting back every few seconds.
Behind her, at least seven or eight men were tearing down the street, shouting:
"Pakdo! Jaldi pakdo! Bahut zaroori hai usey pakadna!"
Their voices were desperate, angry, hungry.
The girl knew the road was empty. She knew no one would normally be here at this hour.
But today, she saw a silhouette ahead — a lone guy walking casually, half lost in his thoughts.
Krishna.
For a second, the girl slowed almost imperceptibly, took a quick glance behind… the men were still far.
That gave her maybe five seconds.
Just five seconds to breathe and push harder.
She clenched her teeth, forced her legs to move faster, and sprinted straight towards Krishna.
"Bas pahunch jaa… bas thoda aur…" she whispered to herself, her voice shaky.
Krishna, meanwhile, was completely unaware of the chaos charging straight at him.
He was still humming his lonely line under his breath, flicking stones ahead with his shoe like a bored kid.
"Akela hoon… aur rehne do…" he muttered, flicking another pebble.
He didn't hear the running.
He didn't hear the shouting.
He didn't notice the panic slicing through the night air.
Trouble wasn't coming for him — trouble was practically sprinting to shove itself into his life.
The girl checked behind again.
The men had increased their speed, screaming louder now:
"Ruk ja! Kahin nahi bhaag paayegi!"
Her breathing was breaking, chest burning, but her focus didn't waver.
The boy ahead… he was her only option.
"Please… bas vo ruk jaaye… please," she whispered, almost pleading to fate.
Krishna kicked another stone and sighed, "Mere hisaab se toh aaj ka din aur kharab ho hi nahi sakta…"
But he had no idea.
Not one trouble.
Not two.
A whole storm was about to slam into him.
And it was running at full speed.
Krishna muttered under his breath, kicking a tiny stone ahead, "Zindagi mujhe aur kya de degi? Jo bura ho sakta tha, sab ho chuka. Ab isse zyada kya bigad sakta hai…"
Zindagi ne bina notice ke jawab de diya.
The storm hit him full speed.
The girl, who had been running like the world was ending behind her, couldn't stop in time. Her shoes skidded, her breath cracked, and—
Dhadd!
She smashed straight into Krishna.
Both went staggering back. Krishna nearly fell flat, and the girl hit the ground on her palms before scrambling up again, breathing fast, hair all over her face.
Krishna held his shoulder.
The girl clenched her fists.
Both were in pain.
Both were confused.
The girl glared at him, jaw tight, eyes sharp.
"Tum… thoda dekh ke nahi chal sakte the? Main—"
She stopped mid-sentence.
She wanted to say sorry.
It was right there on the tip of her tongue.
But anger glued her mouth shut.
So instead, she turned her face away like she had done nothing at all.
On the other end of the road, three of the men chasing her suddenly started behaving like toddlers in pain, while the remaining five stood there staring at them like they couldn't understand what just happened.
One grabbed his head.
"Aaah! Mere sir me kya laga?!"
The second grabbed his chest dramatically.
"Mujhe toh seedha yahaan dard ho raha hai! Jaise kisi ne thok diya ho!"
The third grabbed his leg and hopped like a wounded pigeon.
"Mere pair par kisne maara?! Agar mil jaaye na, uski taange tod dunga!"
They looked less like dangerous pursuers
and more like three school kids complaining after getting hit by a cricket ball.
"Tum log chhote bachchon ki tarah kyun chillaa rahe ho? Ladki bhag rahi hai! Usse pakdo!"
But the three still kept whining and holding their head, chest, and leg like they were in a drama contest.
Meanwhile, near Krishna…
The girl brushed her hair back, taking short breaths, still refusing to look him in the eye, still unable to say sorry despite wanting to.
Krishna stared at her, confused, irritated, and wondering what kind of circus he had just walked into.
He thought his day couldn't get worse.
He was wrong.
END OF THE CHAPTER