Mr. Singh remained calm and unreadable, dismissing the accusation, while the room brimmed with tension—every guard armed, yet waiting for their master's command as Abhi aimed the gun at him.
Mr. Singh lifted a single hand, halting them. His sharp razor gaze cut the silence. "You've grown bold. I thought you'd be like your father—rational and strategic."
Abhi didn't blink. His gun never wavered. "And I thought Singh men fought in the open. Not by sending rats into hospital rooms." A brief pause. "Seems we were both wrong."
The silence bristled.
One guard in the corner quietly slipped out his phone, calling Mr. Raj to inform him of the standoff.
Mr. Singh finally stood up, unflinching. His polished shoes clicked against the floor, his shadow stretching long. "One wrong move, and you won't leave this house alive," he warned.
"Maybe not..." Abhi's venomous smile spread, spark catching the light, soaked in vengeance. "But I'll make sure your soul is the one waiting for me after death."
Steel and silence ruled the air—two men standing, one bloodied and burning, the other composed and cold.
Then—
A voice cut through, urgent, trembling. "Abhi…"
Heads turned. Guards shifted. Shock cracked the room.
At the far end of the hall stood Arun, chest heaving, shoulders tense beneath his shirt. His wide eyes burned with horror. His gaze flicked—father, love, barrel of a gun.
Abhi's grip tightened on the weapon. His eyes narrowed, sharp as broken glass. "Stay away from this, Senior."
Arun moved. He came forward until his body planted firmly before Abhi, a human barricade. His gaze darkened—piercing straight through the storm in Abhi's eyes.
"What do you think you're doing?" His voice was steady, yet something shattered inside.
Abhi froze. The gun stayed raised, but his hand twitched, sweat burning the grip. "He sent killers after my family. This ends tonight."
Arun didn't flinch, not even as the barrel pointed at him. "He's my father. I know him, he can't do this."
The words struck like a blade. Abhi's jaw clenched until his teeth ached. "What about my father? My brother?... They were fighting for their lives. And you're still protecting him?"
"I'm protecting you." Arun's voice dropped, low but unshakable. "Uncle Aadi always wished to hold this family together. I won't let you tear it apart."
"Don't push me, Senior." Abhi's voice cracked, raw, as the gun tightened in his grasp.
And those words sounded like a warning.
"Then shoot." Arun stepped closer, close enough that the barrel nearly brushed his shirt. His words were a clean cut, sharp as a blade. "If revenge means more than us—then don't stop."
Silence thundered. Abhi's chest heaved, shoulders quaking with the weight of it. His knuckles had gone bone-white, arms trembling. The gun never lowered. But it didn't fire either.
Around them, guards shifted uneasily, caught between orders and the impossible tableau before them.
Mr. Singh stared, unsettled for the first time. His son stood protecting him—a shield forged not of pride or power, but conviction and plea.
And Abhi—he shook. Every cell screamed for blood, for revenge. Yet his body betrayed him, locked in a battle no bullet could resolve.
And suddenly—boots echoed sharply against the marble.
Karan entered, flanked by armed men. His eyes swept the room—the gun, the standoff, Arun's unarmed defiance, guards frozen mid-breath.
His men moved fast, taking position—covering both him and Abhi.
Karan's voice cut through, low, firm. "Abhi… let's go back. If Uncle and Aarav heard of this—they wouldn't be proud. You know how much they respected this family."
Abhi didn't turn. His body trembled, every muscle locked in a war fiercer than any firefight. His soul was already burning.
"NO." His snarl cracked, raw. His gaze flickered at Mr. Singh. "After what he did… he deserves this."
But the gun didn't move. His finger hovered over the trigger, frozen. He was now staring at Arun, and in his eyes—rage was gone. Only devastation remained. Tears rimmed, held back by clenched teeth and a shuddering breath. His grip trembled, forcing a choice that refused to come.
Arun's chest twisted. He saw it—the storm tearing Abhi apart. Grief, fury, love, all choking him like smoke from a burning house.
Abhi's lips parted. A gasp of breath—and then the gun dropped to his side.
A beat.
Then the crack of a gunshot split the hall. The bullet slammed into marble, stone splintering. Gasps rippled. Tears broke free, streaking Abhi's face. For the first time since childhood, he didn't hold his tears back.
Guards flinched. Even Mr. Singh and Karan stiffened at the violence turned inward.
And then—he emptied the magazine into the floor. Bullet after bullet sparked and shattered stone. Fury warred with heartbreak.
The final click echoed like a death knell. Hollow.
Abhi stood shaking, chest heaving, eyes bloodshot. His whole body trembled as he met Arun's eyes.
"You once said that love makes people weak… and I feel the weakest now." His words cracked with pain.
The words sliced into Arun like glass. His vision blurred. He could hear it—Abhi's cry, buried in the cracks of his voice. The sound of a devastated soul unraveling.
The silence hadn't yet settled when one more time footsteps echoed at the entrance.
Mr. Raj stepped in first, face pale with dread. With him came Ayan—small suitcase in hand, still in travel clothes, unaware he was walking into the eye of a storm. He had returned the moment he heard of the Rawat attack.
They froze.
Mr. Raj's blood drained. Ayan's eyes darted—Arun, stricken. Abhi, hollow-eyed. Confusion and panic clouded his voice. "What—"
But Abhi turned before he could finish. His expression was void, yet fire smoldered in his red-rimmed eyes. He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, until he stood before Ayan.
Everyone held themselves. Their eyes still on Abhi.
His voice landed like stone. "Your father gave Brother Aarav an offer… I'm giving it to you now." His gaze locked on Ayan's, unflinching. "If you still want to be with my brother—cut ties with your father, and come with us."
The words cracked the air like thunder.
Mr. Raj flinched. Ayan froze, heart hammering.
Abhi didn't wait for an answer. He turned, footsteps echoing down the hall like fading shots. Karan followed, signaling his men with a single glance.
In seconds, the battlefield emptied. What remained were the fragments—shattered loyalties, broken stares, and a choice waiting to be made.
Ayan's breath quivered. His eyes stayed fixed on the door where Abhi had vanished, but behind them—something shifted. Doubt gave way to resolve.
Mr. Raj stepped forward, hand light on his shoulder. "Ayan, think of your father."
Ayan pulled away. Slow at first, then firm.
Across the room, Arun stood hollow, his chest rising unevenly, grief and guilt choking him. Their eyes met. For years, Ayan had leaned on his brother for strength. Now, in Arun's fractured stare, he found only silence.
He drew in a breath, gaze cutting past Mr. Raj to the looming door. "I won't repeat my mistake."
The words landed heavy. Gasps stirred. No one moved.
Ayan stepped forward.
"Ayan!" Mr. Singh's voice cracked like thunder, shaking the hall. "Don't you dare cross that threshold without my permission!"
Ayan paused—but didn't stop. He turned, fists clenched, voice trembling not from fear but from years of silence breaking.
"This is the first time you've ever talked to me, Papa." His eyes burned. "I used to wish for that—crave it. I thought if I obeyed, stayed quiet, maybe you'd look at me the way you looked at Brother. With expectations."
Mr. Singh faltered. His lips parted, but no words came.
Ayan's voice steadied, sharper now. "But being your son costs too much. And I'm done paying." A beat. "Maybe that's the only fortunate thing—that I was never the son you wanted."
He turned toward Arun. His brother stood frozen, eyes glistening, crushed beneath Abhi's absence.
"Brother," Ayan said softly, "you never stood up for him. Not then. Not now. You always stayed silent—for Papa, for family. But please…" his voice cracked, raw, "just this once—forget everything. And choose what you love."
Then he walked on. Past the bullet scars, shattered marble, broken illusions. Suitcase in hand, shoulders squared.
The door shut behind him with a hollow, deafening thud.
No one followed. Not Mr. Raj. Not the guards. Not Arun.
Mr. Singh stood rooted, an emperor staring at ruins. His silence was no longer power. It was hollow. Heavy. Unforgiving.
Arun moved at last, steps dragging like a man carrying wounds too deep to show. He climbed the stairs without a glance back. No tears. No words.
The corridor swallowed him.
And Mr. Singh was left alone—truly, irreversibly alone.