The study lamp burned dim, its glow carving restless shadows across towering shelves. The air was heavy—aged wood, leather, and silence. The kind of silence that demanded obedience.
Behind the mahogany desk, Mr. Rawat sat poised, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on his son.
Across from him, Aarav mirrored the same posture—rigid spine, unreadable face. Whatever warmth once lingered in his gaze had long been smothered beneath duty.
"There's nothing to worry about now," Mr. Rawat said at last, voice smooth yet unyielding. "Nearly everyone has agreed on your name. It's only a matter of time."
Aarav gave a single nod. Inevitability didn't require words.
Then—
A sound. Faint. Precise. Too deliberate to be chance.
Footsteps. Several. Boots dragging across marble in measured unison.
The air shifted. Both men stilled. Not afraid. Ready.
A knock followed—sharp, insistent. Not a request. A threat.
Mr. Rawat's hand slid into the drawer. A click. Steel glinted in the lamplight.
Aarav moved to the window. His gaze swept the estate—then froze. Shadows. Dozens. Advancing with military precision.
"They've surrounded the house," he said, voice clipped.
Mr. Rawat cocked the gun, steady, unshaken. He had survived attacks before. But this one—this one carried weight.
The door exploded inward with a deafening crash, wood splintering under a battering ram. Boots stormed the threshold.
Gunfire.
Aarav and his father moved as one—predators unleashed. Every shot was clean, final. Bodies fell in heaps, blood seeping into marble. The study thundered with violence, yet the Rawats did not falter.
Minutes stretched like hours, until the tide broke against them. One after another, the intruders fell—shadows torn apart by precision, by fury, by fire.
Then—
A storm of bullets tore through the hall. Furniture shattered. Glass exploded. Dust and smoke swallowed the room.
Pain struck sudden and sharp. Mr. Rawat's right arm jerked back, the bullet ripping through flesh. Blood spread fast, soaking his shirt, hot and sticky.
"Papa—!"
Aarav surged forward, shielding him, guns blazing with merciless rhythm. Every pull of the trigger dropped another man, his body moving on instinct, unyielding.
When the smoke thinned, silence returned. Corpses littered the marble. The air reeked of iron.
Aarav stood tall, chest heaving, still guarding his father. Mr. Rawat slumped against the desk, pale but alive, grip firm on his weapon.
For a heartbeat, it seemed the storm had passed. They had won.
Aarav leaned closer, eyes restless. "Papa… are you okay?"
Then—
A whisper of movement. Too fast. Too close.
A single shot cracked through the stillness.
Aarav jerked as the bullet slammed into his back. His knees buckled, vision fracturing into shards of light and darkness.
Still, he collapsed beside his father, body curling over him in a final shield. Blood poured fast, hot, unstoppable, staining the marble beneath them.
Mr. Rawat's voice thundered through the haze, desperate, commanding—but Aarav could barely hear. His hand twitched weakly against his father's sleeve, refusing to let go.
Breath rattled.
Voices cut through the ringing silence. Cold. Distant.
"It's finished, Master. You only need to wait for the voting now."
Aarav tried to hold on, his mind screaming one name—Abhi.
But the world slipped away, drowned in silence. The kind that belonged to the dead.
...
[After half an hour time]
The night lay heavy, draped in an unsettling hush. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the low hum of Abhi's car as it cut through the empty road toward the estate.
Then—the gates. The post was empty. No guards. No movement. It felt wrong.
He drive forward. The house loomed ahead, silent, hollow. And the front door—ajar. A sliver of black.
Every instinct screamed: Don't go in. He went anyway.
Inside, the hall stretched before him—an eerie tableau. Bodies. Blood smeared across marble, deep and dark. Guards, staff, strangers—felled where they stood. Some with precise shots, others mid-motion, as if time had been cut short.
His breath stilled. The stench of iron and gunpowder thickened, burning his throat. This wasn't a nightmare. This was real.
Papa. Brother.
The thought struck like lightning, snapping him forward. His pulse roared as his eyes swept the wreckage—until he froze.
A few feet ahead. Two figures.
Aarav slumped against the wall, shirt soaked in crimson, chest wound spreading dark. His face too pale. Too still.
Beside him, their father—Mr. Rawat—sprawled on the marble. A wound across his back. Another on his leg. But his chest—moving. Barely.
Abhi dropped to his knees, hands trembling, pressing against the blood at Aarav's chest. Still breathing. Weak, but there.
His fingers found his father's wrist. A pulse. Faint. Uneven. But there.
A shuddered breath left him, half a sob, half a prayer.
"Brother?" His voice cracked as he pressed harder, willing the blood to stop. His gaze flicked to his father. "Papa—hold on... please."
His phone was in his hand before he knew it, voice sharp and shaking. "Get medics to the house. Now."
The silence of the estate pressed in, heavy with death. But Abhi's hands stayed firm, vision blurring as he fought to hold on.
No it couldn't end like this.
....
[Later—The hospital]
The hospital corridor glared under sterile light, bleaching everything pale. Antiseptic stung the air, but it couldn't mask the blood still clinging to Abhi's skin.
He stood against the cold wall outside the emergency ward, motionless. Hands twitching at his sides, lungs dragging in shallow, uneven breaths.
Beyond the steel doors, they fought for life—and he could do nothing.
Silence pressed in, heavy, suffocating. His mind refused it, spinning instead through every outcome, every fear. His fists curled, nails biting deep, but the pain wasn't enough.
Footsteps. Rushed. Urgent.
"Where are they?" The voice cut sharp, desperate, familiar.
Abhi's head lifted sluggishly. Figures rushed toward him.
Mrs. Rawat. Vihan. Karan.
They stopped short. Her breath caught. She barely knew him like this—rigid, hollow, his dry eyes an abyss of fear.
Vihan moved first, trembling fingers brushing Abhi's arm. "Brother… what happened? Are they okay?"
No answer. Just silence. His lips parted, but no sound came.
"Vihan." Karan's voice steadied, pulling him back, folding him into an embrace as Vihan shook. "Give him a moment..."
Then she stepped forward. Mrs. Rawat. Her hands shook, but she reached anyway.
"Abhi."
No reaction—until her touch landed. Warm. Familiar. A mother's touch he hadn't let near him in years. It broke through the numbness.
"They'll be alright," she whispered, as if willing it into truth.
At last, he looked at her. Their eyes met. And something cracked. The unbearable weight fractured, just enough for him to breathe.
Her words still echoed, even after all these years.
"I can't live like this, Abhi. Always waiting… never knowing if your father, or any of us, will make it back. This fear—this isn't the life I dreamed of with him."
He had stood in the doorway, four years old, fists clenched, voice trembling.
"But I don't want to go, Ma. You always said… when we love someone, we stay. So why are you leaving?"
She knelt, cupped his cheeks, eyes wet. Then she pulled him close, whispering, "I know… I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
And now—she was here. Shaken. Afraid. He wasn't sure if he wanted to push her away.
Maybe she regretted it. Maybe she never stopped loving them.
His breath shuddered. Before he could speak, she pulled him in—arms tight, desperate, tears streaking as she held him like her little boy again.
The years of distance broke. The coldness shattered. Raw. Wordless. Everything unsaid.
Abhi froze, as his once-distant mother clung to him. Something cracked inside. Slowly, he raised his arms and held her back. But he stayed composed—for Aarav, for his father, for all of them.
He could not let himself be weak right now.