Abhi sat on the cold bench outside the ICU, back pressed to the sterile wall, paperwork spread across his lap—figures, statements, lists of security under review. His eyes, shadowed with fatigue, stayed sharp. Too still.
Every few seconds, he flicked to the ICU door, a compass needle refusing to settle.
Despite all the Rawats' power, there was nothing. No footage. No whispers. No trails. Just a suffocating hush, thick and mocking.
He clenched the paper tightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, temples throbbing in time with the monitors inside.
Footsteps. A familiar nurse appeared with a clipboard, her tired smile gentle. "Just routine vitals… Sir."
Abhi nodded, distracted.
Behind her trailed a young man in white—steps too light, eyes too alert, badge swinging like a clock. Wrong. Everything about him scraped against Abhi's instincts: stiff shoulders, the way his gaze lingered on the ICU doors, studying instead of seeing.
The nurse entered briskly. The ward boy followed.
Abhi rose. Stopped him at the door. "Your name?" His voice was low, clipped. "Show me your ID."
A beat.
"I… I'm a new intern, sir." The man stammered, turning too fast.
Abhi's hand shot out, gripping his collar, slamming him to the floor. The crash echoed through the corridor, sharp as a gunshot.
His subordinates froze, eyes wide, circling instinctively, tension crackling in the air.
At the corridor's edge, the man's partner recoiled, slipping back into the shadows. His grip on the phone whitened. "Master… they've caught him," he hissed before bolting.
"You think I wouldn't smell fear?" Abhi growled.
The man scrambled, slipping on the tiles. Abhi's kick drove into his ribs, another strike following, then fists—one, two, three—bone and blood cracking under each blow.
"Who sent you?!"
The man didn't utter a single word. Or maybe he couldn't, as he was almost dying.
Abhi gripped his shirt with furious strength. Pulled his weak, helpless frame up and pinned him to the wall.
"Mr… Mr. Singh," the man gasped, lip split, blood pooling. "He… sent me… to make sure they die."
Everything stopped. Abhi froze, knuckles dripping red, silence pressing like stone. Mr. Singh. He had feared it, expected it. But hearing it spoken made it real.
He threw him to the floor, chest heaving. Then ordered flatly: "Take him. Make sure he never breathes again."
His men dragged the intruder away, limp and gasping. Forgotten.
Abhi turned back to the beds. His father. His brother. Unconscious, machines blinking softly. He leaned close, voice a vow.
"That man crossed a line. I won't hold back now. Not even if he was someone you once called family."
He pulled out his phone, bloodied fingers steady, rage burning. Haunting. "Senior..." he said as the line clicked alive, voice like steel. "Come to the hospital. Right now."
---
[Meanwhile, Singh Mansion]
A sleek black car idled at the edge of a dim lane, hidden from the Mansion's watch. Inside, Mr. Raj sat still, leather creaking faintly as he shifted. One tap of his fingers against his thigh—then silence.
Phone to his ear, his voice was low. "I'm on the way. Did anyone see you escape?"
A pause.
"Good. Stay put. I'm coming." His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. The Mansion stood quiet, but he checked again—twice. Danger never knocked first.
Something said on the other end drew his gaze upward. Stars blinked overhead, calm, indifferent. Their stillness steadied him.
"We just have to be brave," he whispered, almost a prayer.
The engine hummed, filling the car like a heartbeat. Then his voice again, firmer, resolved: "I'll be there in thirty minutes. Be ready."
He ended the call, slid the phone away, and leaned back. Calm didn't come. But certainty did. His eyes, sharp and unflinching, locked on the road ahead.
---
[Vihan entered the ICU]
Vihan stepped inside, clutching a small lunch box wrapped in cloth—Mrs. Rawat's cooking, still faintly warm. The guards outside had whispered fragments, but nothing prepared him for the weight in the room.
The air was heavy—antiseptic clashing with the metallic tang of blood. And there stood Abhi: back rigid, fists clenched, knuckles raw, eyes burning with a fury that looked ready to consume him.
"Brother…" Vihan's voice was soft, uncertain. "What happened?"
Abhi turned, gaze sharp, predatory. "Stay with them. No one comes in. Not a soul."
Vihan tried to speak, but Abhi was already striding out. He followed, "Brother, wait—please don't do anything rash. At least until they wake—"
The door slammed, cutting him off. The monitors beeped, steady and indifferent.
Vihan stood frozen, the lunch box slipping from his shaking hands onto the side table with a muted thud. The echo of the slammed door still vibrated in his bones.
The handle turned again.
Karan stepped in, breath uneven, eyes hard. He scanned the room quickly—Mrs. Rawat asleep in the corner, Vihan tense in his chair, Aarav and Mr. Rawat still unconscious. Relief flickered in his gaze, but it didn't last.
"Where's Abhi?" Karan asked, his voice low, urgent.
"Senior—" Vihan shot to his feet, stumbling toward him. His words tumbled out, breathless. "Brother Abhi's gone to the mansion. Alone. He's not thinking straight."
Karan's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching at the corner. His silence carried the weight of inevitability.
"You need to stop him," Vihan pressed, voice cracking. "If he charges in like this, someone will die—and it might be him."
Karan caught Vihan by the shoulders, steadying him, his palms firm and grounding against Vihan's trembling frame.
"Vihan… I'll handle Abhi. Lock the ICU. Don't let anyone near you." His tone was clipped, grim. Then, softer but no less firm: "I'll tighten the security."
He released him, spun on his heel, and strode out, boots striking the tiled floor with finality. The echo lingered long after he was gone.
Vihan turned back to the beds, sinking heavily into the chair, his hands dragging down his face. Aarav. Mr. Rawat. Silent. Defenseless. And now Abhi—storming into darkness with nothing but rage in his veins.
---
[Later—Singh Mansion]
The iron gates of Singh Mansion were never meant to yield. Towering, black iron bars—etched with curling patterns of age and rust—stood like monuments to legacy, power, fear.
But none of it mattered tonight.
Abhi didn't slow down. The engine roared, headlights carving open the dark—then impact. A thunderous crash. Steel shrieked. Chains snapped.
The gates folded, torn apart by brute force. His car fishtailed across the gravel courtyard, brakes screaming before it stopped inches from the marble steps.
Guns rose. Guards froze.
Then Abhi stepped out—traces of blood marked his hand—not his own. The brutal rage on his face, the fire in his eyes, could freeze any man in place.
Something shifted. They had fought men in war. But this young boy—no one dared stop him—looked like he'd already died once and clawed his way back.
Abhi strode forward, boots striking stone, a storm in flesh. No hesitation. Just presence—raw, crackling, undeniable.
The massive oak doors gave way beneath his shove, banging inward against the lavish walls.
Inside, the air was cool, heavy with cologne and old wood. Mr. Singh sat in the center of it all, over a glass coffee table littered with papers and photographs. One hand cradled a half-full glass of water; the other hovered over his laptop.
He looked up. Startled—for only a heartbeat. Then calm, unreadable.
The guards followed in, lining the walls, tense. Mr. Singh simply set his glass down with a deliberate clink.
"What is it you've come for?" His voice was smooth, hiding razor edges.
Abhi's boots thudded against marble, each step echoing. His steps halted at some distance.
"You sent killers after my father and brother?" His voice was ice dragged over steel.
Mr. Singh clicked his tongue, almost disappointed. "That's a weighty accusation from a boy armed with nothing but rage and assumptions."
Abhi's hand went behind his back. The gun came free in one fluid motion—sleek, black steel gleaming under sharp lights. He leveled it at Mr. Singh, aim steady, unwavering.
"Accept it. Apologize," he said, voice sharp as a blade. "So you can at least die with that much dignity."
Around them, guards poured in from the shadows, weapons raised. The air thickened, every breath one twitch from bloodshed. But no one fired. Waiting for their master to lead them.