In the main hall, Aarav sat slumped on the couch, one arm strapped in a sling. Calm shadowed every line of his face.
Ayan stayed close, carefully lifting spoonfuls of broth to his lips. Aarav took it without protest, his strength leeched away by half-healed wounds.
Abhi lingered in the threshold, caught between the hall's softness and the restless beeping of the machine inside the bedroom. His arms were crossed, but his eyes betrayed him—softening as they lingered on them.
For a moment, beneath the storm of sorrow and rage, he felt something else. Not peace, but a fragile breath of comfort. A reminder that not everything was lost.
Then—a sound. Low. Shattered.
All three froze. A gasp, shallow and jagged, came from the bedroom inside.
Abhi turned back toward it. His blood ran cold.
Mr. Rawat. Conscious. He was trying to rise.
Abhi was there first, boots thudding against the floorboards. Ayan pulled Aarav up, steadying him, and together they rushed in.
On the bed, Mr. Rawat strained against the pillows, chest rising in ragged jerks beneath layers of bandages. Sweat slicked his brow, but his eyes—at last—were open. Truly open. Burning, even through the pain.
Aarav leaned in, pale and wordless. Ayan held his breath. Abhi bent close, voice tight. "Papa, please. Lie down…"
His lips trembled. A hand lifted, shaking. "Call… Mr. Singh…"
Abhi frowned. "I'll handle him, Papa."
A sudden grip clamped on his wrist. Mr. Rawat's voice rasped, raw and urgent: "No… he didn't… do this…"
The words hit like a blade. A chill swept through them.
"The one who… did this…" His eyes burned, fierce with warning. His lips moved again—
A snap—then the lights died. Darkness. The hum of power vanished.
Silence thickened. Heavy. Cold.
Ayan stumbled back, fingers clawing for Aarav's hand. Abhi didn't move. He stared at his father's dim outline, every heartbeat hammering in his skull.
From the woods—a lone wolf's howl. Cut short. The fluttering cry of birds echoed, as if announcing the uninvited presence.
Inside, the truth choked off Mr. Rawat's tongue.
"Stay together," Abhi said, voice slicing the dark. Calm. Certain. "Don't leave this room. No matter what you hear."
Aarav tried to rise, pain twisting his face. "I'm coming with—"
"No, brother." Abhi didn't turn. The word was final. Unyielding. "Not like this."
He moved fast. Low. Silent. The shutters leaked a thin wash of gray, just enough to catch his outline as he crouched by the old cupboard. His hand found steel. Cold. Waiting.
The pistol slid free. Magazine—full. Safety—off.
One glance back at the three huddled near the bed. Then Abhi slipped through the door, a shadow cutting loose from the rest.
---
The hallway was dim, only the passing moonlight through the windows. Every corner dripped with stillness. Only the creak of wood under Abhi's boots—and the faint shuffle of intruders moving in.
His breath slowed. Muscles coiled. A flicker of movement ahead.
A crack. Glass shattering.
The first intruder lunged through the window, gun flashing. Abhi fired—one shot straight to the chest. The man spun, slammed into the wall.
More followed. Five. Six. Ten.
Black shapes swarmed the farmhouse, guns and blades glinting. Too many.
A rod swung. Abhi dropped low. Wood splintered. He rose, smashed his gun into a jaw, twisted the man's wrist until bone snapped. A scream tore the silence.
Another from behind—Abhi pivoted, drove an elbow into ribs, slammed the body into the wall. Two shots cracked—their echoes dropped two more shadows.
Still they came.
He ducked back behind the dining table, then flipped it. Bullets tore through wood, splinters slicing his skin. He leaned out—one shot, two, three. Three more down.
Some others rushed.
Abhi vaulted the table, slammed a man into the floor, ripped his knife free, slashed across another's arm. Blood sprayed. The pack faltered, stunned by the ferocity.
One lunged. Abhi caught him, drove the blade up under his ribs, kicked him into the others.
A chair shattered across his back—he staggered, growled, spun, and jammed the broken wood into a throat.
The hallway lights flickered. Red and white bursts lit carnage—blood on walls, bodies strewn. Abhi stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, eyes burning.
At the door, the darkness waited to be interrupted.
Abhi tightened his grip on the knife. Fury steadied his hands. He didn't breathe. Couldn't. His mind roared with one thought: They came for my family. They won't leave alive.
---
A scream from the room split the chaos. "Senior—!"
Abhi froze mid-swing. The world shrank to that voice, sharp with terror, pulling from the main bedroom. Ice stabbed through his chest.
He ran. Boots pounding, blood and bodies blurring past. The door loomed ahead, half-open, light flickering inside like a pulse.
He burst through—stopped dead.
The bedroom was wreckage. Blood streaked the floor in dragged handprints. Curtains ripped. Furniture overturned.
Aarav stood, swaying, shirt soaked scarlet. Stitches torn open, blood dripping down his body. But his eyes still burned. He had fought with the same fury as Abhi. But now he held still.
In the corner—Ayan. Pinned. A masked man's arm crushed his chest, gun jammed against his temple. The boy shook, eyes wide, silent with terror.
Beside them, another intruder had Mr. Rawat locked in place, using his battered frame as a shield. The old man sagged, but his eyes—steady, sharp—flicked between his sons with quiet trust.
Abhi raised his gun but froze. One twitch, and someone would die.
Across the carnage, Aarav's gaze locked on his. Bloodied, silent. Wait.
The room held its breath. One second. One chance. And they could save their loved ones.
Abhi's eyes darted to the glass window behind the gunmen—a glint through the dark, figures shifting. His gaze cut to Aarav. Understanding passed between them in a single breath. Relief. The cavalry.
Aarav's bloodied hand gripped the heavy lamp beside him. Abhi's fingers tightened on the gun. Muscles coiled.
"Now," Abhi snapped.
The lamp flew—shattering against a skull with a crunch of glass and bone. At the same instant, Abhi fired.
Gunfire roared. Muzzles flashed. The room exploded into chaos.
One attacker collapsed, blood spraying the wall. Another jerked, weapon flailing, before dropping cold.
The window slid—
Karan stormed in, cutting through like a blade. Eyes hard, jaw locked, guns spitting fire.
Across the room, Mr. Raj entered through the door. Fury etched deep, his face streaked with blood that wasn't his own.
Both bore the exhaustion of the fight outside—but they didn't falter.
In the chaos, something broke inside Ayan. He bolted forward, straight into Aarav's arms. Blood smeared between them, but the boy clung tight, face buried in Aarav's chest, muffling sobs.
Aarav held him firm—one arm around the boy, the other pressed to his bleeding side.
"Are you guys okay?" Karan asked, voice softer than his hands, steady as steel. "Sorry we're late."
"Search the house," Mr. Raj barked, sharp as a whip. "No one leaves breathing."
The few men behind him spread out, hunting for more intruders.
Karan rushed to Mr. Rawat and propped him against the headboard with pillows.
Abhi staggered, still upright, voice rough but steady. "Uncle—call a doctor."
Mr. Raj's nod was sharp. "On the way…"
Relief barely touched them—
When Mr. Rawat's gaze landed on Mr. Raj, something stirred in his battered face. "Raj… Anurag…?"
Mr. Raj approached with calmness. "Don't worry, sir… Master was the one who sent me to help them."
Mr. Rawat's lips parted, but no sound came—just a flicker in his weary eyes, something between relief and gladness.
A hiss. Low. Almost lost in the noise. But they could feel the night hadn't ended yet.
Then a metallic clink. A canister rolled across the floor. One bounce. Two. Stopped dead in the center of the room.
Silence.
Then it erupted.
Smoke burst out in a violent exhale, thick and acrid, burning throat and lung. The fog swelled fast, devouring light, swallowing shape and color. Shadows melted. Furniture dissolved.
The room was gone.
Boots scrambled across wood. Panic surged. The house was no longer shelter—it was a trap.
Through the fog, a silhouette emerged. Not like the others.
Straight as a blade. His coat swayed with each step, sharp and elegant. No rush. No fear. Composed. Controlled. Cold. A predator closing in on prey already bleeding.
Ayan blinked through the sting in his eyes, lungs burning. The haze thinned—
And he saw him.
A familiar face, calm as if fear had never touched him.
Ayan froze. Disbelief cracked his voice. "Brother… Shubham?"