Little Abhi sat on the edge of the bed, tiny fists balled tight, his wide eyes trembling as his mother crouched in front of him.
"Abhi…" Mrs. Rawat whispered, brushing a hand through his hair. "Let's go—" her voice cracked, the words faltering.
Abhi's baby lips quivered, his gaze darting to his father at the door, weighed down by silent guilt.
"No!" Abhi cried, running towards his father, shaking his head furiously. "I don't want to go! I won't leave Papa!"
Mr. Rawat knelt beside him, his voice gentle yet firm. "You're not leaving me, Abhi. Maa isn't going far. I'll come to see you all every day."
But Abhi clung tighter, tears streaking down his face. Then, with a sudden wrench, he tore free from his father's hands and bolted.
The door to his small room slammed, echoing through the house.
Silence fell—heavy, unforgiving.
Mrs. Rawat's eyes shimmered as she whispered, almost to herself, "He hates me already…"
Mr. Rawat bowed his head, his own heart twisting. "Do you want me to explain it to him?"
She shook her head quickly. "No… he's too young. I don't want him to grow up regretting we're his parents."
---
[Present day—hospital corridor]
At the door, Mrs. Rawat trembled, eyes fixed on the room, whispering frantic prayers.
Abhi stood tense, fists clenched, eyes locked on the doors—waiting.
Beside them, Karan gripped Vihan's hand—steady, grounding, refusing to let go.
Together, they waited. For the doors to open. For a miracle. To know if their family would survive the night.
The doors opened. A sharp gasp split the air. Everything froze.
Two teams of doctors stepped out—faces composed, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. Yet what everyone searched for wasn't fatigue. It was the faint trace of relief at the corners of their mouths.
Mrs. Rawat moved first. She didn't walk—she ran. "Doctor… my husband—my son—how are they?"
Her voice cracked, every syllable trembling. Vihan clung to her sleeve, knuckles white. Abhi and Karan closed in too, breath held tight.
The lead surgeon pulled off his gloves, his gaze sweeping over them. Finally—
"The surgeries went as well as we could've hoped."
The silence shattered. A collective gasp. Knees weakened, lungs dragging in air as though for the first time.
Mrs. Rawat nearly collapsed, one hand pressed to her chest. Abhi tilted his head back, whispering thanks to the heavens. Vihan turned away, rubbing hard at his face. Karan exhaled as if he could finally breathe.
"The bullets missed their hearts," the doctor went on, steady but grim.
"Still, the lungs and surrounding tissue took heavy damage. Both lost a dangerous amount of blood. We've stabilized them, but…" His pause landed like a stone. "They haven't regained consciousness. It's impossible to say when. But for now—" his voice softened, "they're out of danger."
Relief broke over them in a crashing wave.
Mrs. Rawat sobbed openly, hand over her mouth. Vihan's shoulders shook. Karan exhaled hard.
And Abhi—his vision blurred. His body swayed. He looked up, blinking back the sting in his eyes. For the first time since stepping into the hospital, terror loosened its grip.
The doctor's words echoed in his head—They're out of danger.
And with that, Abhi's last thread of restraint snapped.
Aarav's bloodied body. His father's lifeless stillness. The images seared into him—burning away mercy, leaving only fury.
He stepped back from the family. His face hardened. Thunder cracked outside. Jaw locked. Eyes lit with cold fire.
Down the corridor, their men waited—worried, tense.
Someone had dared touch the Rawats. Dared spill their blood. Dared try to end them.
They had failed. And now—they would pay.
Abhi turned, each step deliberate, sharp. His voice cut the air, low and lethal:
"I don't care what it takes. Find who's behind all this. Spill their blood before Papa and Brother Aarav open their eyes."
The men didn't flinch. They had been waiting for this command. Fury surged through them—united, merciless, absolute.
Vengeance had found its voice. And it would not be silenced.
---
[That night—Singh's Mansion]
The gates of Singh's mansion loomed in the dusk. Mr. Raj stood outside, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and tense.
"You all need to be careful… Only a week left until the voting. Keep everything quiet."
A faint rustle. He froze, cut the call, slipped the phone into his coat. Turning—
Mr. Sidharth stood a few steps away, arms crossed, expression calm. Eyes sharp, unreadable.
Mr. Raj's throat tightened, but his smile came smooth. "Ah, Mr. Sidharth. Didn't hear you come out."
"You seemed… occupied," Sidharth said quietly, suspicion threading his tone. "Who were you speaking to in such hushed tones?"
Mr. Raj brushed at his sleeve, chuckling lightly. "Official matter. Paperwork for the heir vote. Nothing concerning."
He dipped his head and walked past—steady, measured. Not too quick.
Behind him, Mr. Sidharth's gaze lingered. Sharp. Unblinking. Doubt had taken root.
---
[That night—The Surveillance room]
Shadows clung to the walls, broken only by the flicker of dozens of screens—footage of the Rawat estate attack, live CCTV from the hospital.
At the center sat a figure in a high-backed chair, face hidden, silhouette carved against the shifting glow.
Another man had just entered, then bowed his head. "Sir. They survived. And Abhi… he's decided to begin investigating personally."
Silence. The figure's gaze stayed locked on one screen—zoomed on Abhi's face. Rage etched into every line. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning. Fury barely chained.
A low chuckle rippled through the room—cruel, twisted. Then the voice came, smooth and dark with satisfaction.
"Then let's help him…" A pause, deliberate. "…It's time he shows us what he's truly capable of."
The screens kept flickering, Abhi's fury replaying—an omen, a prelude to the chaos yet to come.
---
[Meanwhile—Arun's room]
The room felt hollow. Curtains drawn, a faint lamp glow barely touched the walls.
Arun sat on the bed's edge, hunched forward, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched. His eyes—once burning with fire—were dulled now, fixed on the floor as if it alone could hold him together.
Annaya lingered near the door, hesitant. She'd knocked for long, unsure if she'd been allowed in—or simply not refused.
"Arun…" her voice was careful. "Abhi wasn't—"
"Don't." His voice cut sharp, trembling beneath the weight of unshed tears. "Just leave me alone."
Annaya flinched, but didn't retreat. "You're wrong about him. I've seen it. The way he looks at you—"
A bitter, broken smile slipped from Arun. He pressed his hand to his forehead.
"What did I expect then? The hesitation? The pullback, the lingering? The warmth in his hands? It was all just shadows I clung to?"
His shoulders shook once. He bit hard on his lip, holding it down.
Annaya crouched before him, searching his eyes. "You think he could fake that? The way he held onto you? The way he softened with you? No, Arun. You felt it because it was real."
Arun's breath hitched. He turned away, staring at the dim lamp as if it could swallow his doubts. He wanted to believe. He wanted to. But the room, like his chest, stayed lifeless—every touch, every glance replaying in his mind, poisoned by uncertainty.
"It's too late. You should go home..." he murmured before pulling the sheets over himself.
Silence pressed in. Annaya's hand dropped to her side. She lingered, waiting for him to look up. He never did.
At last, she left—quiet, reluctant—while Arun remained in the hollow room, drowning in a truth he refused to believe.