Light flickered from dying bulbs and muzzle flashes outside the shattered windows. Smoke drifted thick through the farmhouse, cloaking the wreckage in a ghostly haze.
On the right, near the bed by the door, Abhi shielded his brother. Aarav bled heavily, one arm still clinging to Ayan.
Across the room, Mr. Rawat slumped in the second bed, breath shallow, skin drained of color. Beside him, Mr. Raj and Karan held their ground—guns raised, hope slipping.
At the door stood Shubham. Untouched. Composed. A gun at his side, eyes fixed on the wounded old man.
With effort, Aarav pushed himself to speak, clutching his stitched side. His voice rasped like gravel. "He… was there. The night of the estate attack."
Shubham's lips curled into a thin, venomous smile. The smoke seemed to part for him, as if it obeyed.
More intruders forced their way inside behind him, holding everyone at gunpoint.
"You've lived far too long, Uncle," Shubham murmured, stepping closer to Mr. Rawat's bed.
Abhi checked his gun. Empty. The hollow click mocked him.
Shubham's gaze flicked to him. His voice dropped like a blade. "Stay still…"
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his gun—barrel leveled at Mr. Rawat. "Or you won't see your father alive this time."
Pain twisted across Mr. Rawat's pale face—fury and betrayal mingling. "Do you even think… how Sidharth will feel about this?"
Shubham's tone hardened. "You don't have to worry about my father, Uncle. Because you all die tonight."
Silence thickened. The traitor stood revealed.
"Don't you dare!" Mr. Raj roared, his voice tearing through the smoke.
Shubham glanced at him, eyes glinting. "Ah… Mr. Raj. Tell me—how will you save them?"
The answer came not in words, but in gunfire.
A single crack split the room. Then shadows surged. From doors, windows, and halls, the Protocol team poured in—silent, precise, merciless. Weapons rose in unison.
Shubham's men collapsed in sprays of blood, skulls and chests torn open, bodies hitting the floor in brutal rhythm. Smoke curled over them like a final shroud.
Shubham froze, barely processing the slaughter, before a voice cut through the haze—sharp as steel.
"Not a step further, Shubham."
Mr. Singh stepped through the door like a storm—trench coat flaring, gun smoking. His stance was that of a man long at peace with pulling the trigger.
"All your men are gone." His voice cut like steel. "Drop the gun."
Shubham faltered. A flicker—doubt, fear—then gone. His eyes darted to a survivor hidden in the smoke. A subtle signal.
The man slipped behind Mr. Singh, viper-quick.
But failed—
From the side hall burst Arun—face pale, smeared with blood, eyes blazing. He lunged, silent, driving the attacker into a shattered table. Wood splintered. The man crumpled and didn't rise.
Annaya followed, armed and elegant. Her gaze shot left—Aarav swaying, half-conscious, Ayan straining to hold him.
She snapped back, fierce. "Doctor!"
Through the broken doorway, a doctor and assistants rushed in, kits clutched tight, fear battling duty.
Arun darted to them too, leaning down, voice low but steady. "Ayan, you okay?"
His hand wrapped Ayan's shoulder, guiding him gently. "Let them handle Aarav."
Ayan shook, pale and tear-streaked, his haunted eyes fixed on Aarav. Arun covered him, shielding what he could—trying to keep him from breaking.
Just a few steps apart, in the haze of smoke and ringing echoes, Abhi stilled. His gaze locked on Arun—blood staining his knuckles, chest rising and falling with ragged force.
Arun's eyes were already on him, searching, steady, making sure he wasn't hurt.
For a single heartbeat, the chaos blurred to silence. The world narrowed, pared down to just two figures holding each other's gaze across the wreckage.
Then Abhi looked away. Not anger. Not fear. Something heavier. He had doubted Arun, pushed him away. How would he erase it all?
Meanwhile, the other half of the room hung suspended—battlefield, betrayal, unraveling truth—all in one breath.
Shubham stood encircled, his men fallen, walls closing in. Mr. Singh's gun never wavered, his finger near the trigger like a promise.
The room held its breath. Gunpowder still curled in the air, heavier than the silence.
Mr. Singh stepped forward, floorboards groaning under his boots. His voice cut low, cold.
"You're pointing that gun at your uncle, Shubham. Do you even know what that means?"
Shubham's stare was hollow, cruel. "I'm fighting for what was stolen from us. For my father. For everything crushed under your legacy."
The words struck like a slap from decades past.
"It's all in your head—" Mr. Singh faltered, only for a breath. "You still have a choice. Step down. It doesn't have to end this way."
But Shubham had already turned, gaze falling on Mr. Rawat slumped in the bed.
"It ended the day Grandfather chose Rawat over his own son. I was just a boy when you both let my father rot in your shadows." His voice dropped, bitter. "I couldn't do anything then. But now I can."
He stepped closer, smoke trailing his heels like a shroud. "You were never meant to have it all—the family, the name, the legacy. We were born to lead it. Not you. Not your sons."
His voice cracked—not from weakness but from rage too long caged. He knew, in some corner of his heart, that he couldn't win now. But he wasn't ready to accept it.
"Grandfather gave you everything. And no one ever opposed him."
He spun back to Mr. Singh, eyes blazing. "No one."
Mr. Singh only stared—uncertain, lips pressed into a hard, grieving line.
A voice broke the standoff.
Mr. Rawat, breath ragged, still found strength. "You are my family," he rasped. "I would've given you anything… if only you'd asked."
The room froze. For a moment, silence held.
Shubham's face twisted—not remorse, but rage. "That's the difference," he spat. "I never wanted scraps. I wanted what was mine. What my father never fought for."
He lifted his gun. The barrel aligned with Mr. Rawat's head. His whisper dripped finality. "And now I'll take everything—not just mine… yours too."
But before he could fire, Mr. Singh stepped into his line of sight. Calm. Cold. Gun leveled.
"He didn't steal from us," he said, voice steady as iron. "Papa chose him—for reasons you refuse to see."
His gaze turned to Mr. Rawat—weak, but sparkling. "Aadi deserved everything." His grip tightened. "So don't try anything stupid… because I won't hesitate either."
Shubham scanned the room—guns aimed, faces set. His chest rose and fell like a man seeing the wreckage of his own storm. For a heartbeat, his grip faltered.
A flinch. Barely there. But everyone saw. Yet he couldn't give up now.
His eyes snapped back to Mr. Singh—wide, almost startled, as if hearing a ghost.
"You think you can do this? What if your dear younger brother learns you killed his son?"
His words cut, but the tremor betrayed him. He was trying his last and strongest weapon—emotions.
Silence pressed in, suffocating.
Abhi's jaw locked, fists curling tight. Shubham's words weighed on him like stone.
Mr. Singh's gun stayed steady, but his eyes flicked—once to Mr. Rawat, then back to his nephew.
The silence split like a thunderclap. Shubham's gun hand faltered. His mask was at the edge of falling.
Mr. Singh didn't lower his aim, but something shifted inside him. He couldn't hurt the boy—his nephew, the one raised with his sons. His gaze slid to Mr. Rawat—as if the past itself pressed forward through the smoke.
"You think Sidharth would be proud of you?" His words came jagged but sharp. The gun loosened in his hand, just for a moment.
Shubham's chest heaved, breath ragged. Fury hardened into something worse. Resolve.
"My father would be proud," he growled. "If everything—this business, the name, the family—finally became his. I'll give him everything."
His eyes burned into Mr. Singh. "And if you try to stop me—"
The last word broke as his arm rose, slow, deliberate. The muzzle leveled with Mr. Singh's heart. His lip curled.
"Then be ready to face the consequence."
Mr. Singh didn't flinch. His voice was barely a breath. "Shubham. Stop this all."
But then—the click of a chamber cut the air. A single suspended heartbeat—
BANG!