The elevator doors slid open with a dull chime, spilling the faint glow of fluorescent lights across the polished floor.
Ayan was ushered out first, his wrists bound tightly with coarse rope; the grip on his arm was firm but not brutal. His captors moved with quiet efficiency, their masked faces betraying nothing as they guided him down a narrow corridor.
At the end of the hallway, a heavy wooden door stood ajar, warm light seeping through the crack. One of the men knocked once before pushing it open.
Mr. Mayank looked up from behind a broad mahogany desk, his eyes narrowing slightly as the group entered. The office smelled faintly of leather and sharp cologne, the air-conditioned chill at odds with the sweat on Ayan's palms.
One of the men stepped forward, his voice clipped and businesslike. "Sir, Mr. Sidharth asked you to keep him here until further instructions."
Mayank's gaze shifted to Ayan, assessing him in a single, measured glance. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Relax," he said evenly, his voice low but clear. "I won't harm you."
Ayan's heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced his voice to remain steady. "Let me go," he said, each word deliberate. "If my father finds out about this… it won't be good for you."
A faint smile touched the corner of Mayank's mouth—more curiosity than amusement. He turned to the masked men and nodded once.
"I'll handle it from here."
They exchanged quick glances, then filed out silently, the door clicking shut behind them.
The sudden quiet was deafening.
Mayank rose from his chair and walked toward Ayan, the sharp click of his shoes against the polished floor echoing in the room. He stopped in front of him, his expression unreadable.
"Hold still," he said calmly.
Ayan stiffened as Mayank crouched slightly, fingers working at the knots around his wrists. The rope scratched against his skin before finally loosening and falling away.
"There," Mayank said, straightening to his full height. His voice remained cool and controlled. "You're safe."
Without another word, he reached for his phone on the desk, his sharp eyes never leaving Ayan as he began to dial.
The call connected in just a few seconds.
"I have received him," Mayank informed the receiver, his tone still laced with sharp edges.
___
[Later — the meeting]
The conference room pulsed with a low, restless energy. Around the polished round table, officials murmured in clipped, uneasy tones, their eyes darting toward the heavy oak door every few seconds. A faint hum from the air conditioner filled the gaps between their whispers, cold and relentless.
At the head of the table, Mr. Singh sat in measured silence, his presence commanding even without a word. Beside him, Mr. Raj remained poised, his sharp gaze sweeping the room with quiet vigilance.
Mr. Singh leaned closer, his voice low but edged with impatience. "Any update from Arun?"
"Not yet, master," Mr. Raj replied smoothly, his tone respectful yet alert.
Mr. Singh's jaw tightened. "Inform Annaya not to move until we find every traitor."
Before Mr. Raj could respond, the door creaked open.
The quiet murmurs died instantly. Mr. Rawat entered with firm, deliberate steps, his expression unreadable. For a brief, startling moment, his eyes met Mr. Singh's—no spark of rivalry, no sharp edge of old grudges. Only a calm, almost reluctant acknowledgment.
But Mr. Singh's focus shifted past him. His eyes hardened as he registered what—or rather, who—was missing.
"Where is Ayan?" his voice cut through the room like a blade.
Mr. Rawat halted mid-step, a frown deepening. "What do you mean by that?"
"He said he was going to meet you," Mr. Singh replied sharply. "I sent him with a driver."
A heavy pause descended, thick as storm clouds.
Mr. Rawat's brows knit in sudden alarm. "Ayan never came to us," he said firmly. "We haven't seen him at all."
A ripple of unease ran through the gathered officials. Chairs scraped softly as some shifted, their faces pale and restless.
Mr. Singh's eyes darkened. Without another word, he shoved his chair back and stood, his movements sharp with restrained fury.
Mr. Raj rose with him, tension etched into every line of his face.
He had barely taken a step when the door swung open with a violent bang.
A group of armed men stormed in, black-clad figures forming a wall of quiet menace. The air snapped tight as startled gasps broke out. Papers fluttered to the floor, scattering like frightened birds. Only a handful of officials remained unnervingly still—their blank, calculating expressions betraying silent allegiance.
Mr. Singh froze, eyes narrowing dangerously as his security men reached for their weapons. Just a few steps away, Mr. Rawat moved with trained precision, a gun flashing into his hand.
Before he could fire, Mr. Raj raised a sharp hand. "Not yet," he requested, his voice barely a whisper.
One of the intruders stepped forward and extended a tablet toward Mr. Singh.
The screen flickered to life—Mr. Sidharth's face emerged, his cold smile slicing across the silence.
"Hello, brother," he said, his voice smooth and deadly calm. "Don't try anything foolish if you want to see Ayan again."
The sudden threat settled like a suffocating fog. No one moved. No one breathed.
Mr. Singh's reply came sharp and controlled, each word vibrating with contained fury. "I thought you'd be brave enough to face us, Sidharth, not hide behind an innocent child."
Mr. Sidharth's smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with malice. "I'm not foolish enough to dig my own grave, brother. I knew Arun started suspecting me… after Shubham's death."
"I should have seen it coming," Mr. Singh spat, frustration cracking through his voice. "When you poisoned your own son against us."
Mr. Sidharth gestured off-screen, and his men moved instantly, cornering everyone at the table. "Bring out the documents," he ordered, his voice a velvet threat. "Hand them to my dear elder brothers."
Two gunmen stepped forward, weapons steady as they handed a set of papers to Mr. Singh and Mr. Rawat. Both men accepted them, their expressions tightening as they scanned the pages with cold, calculating eyes.
Mr. Sidharth's voice slithered through the speakers, smooth and taunting. "Don't look so shocked. You already know what I want. So… you decide—your son, or the power of attorney."
Mr. Singh's voice hardened, disappointment threading through the steel. "I never thought you'd sink this low, Sidharth. We gave you love and care."
Mr. Sidharth laughed, the sound sharp as broken glass. "Save the sentiment, brother. You think you can play mind games with me?"
His eyes narrowed, a sudden flicker of alarm breaking through his cold composure.
"Where are your sons?" he demanded, a sharp edge of fear betraying how dangerous their absence could become.
No one answered—because no one truly knew.
His tone turned lethal. "If any of you are playing games behind my back, I will kill Ayan for sure."
Mr. Singh nearly shouted, his voice cracking with fury. "Touch him, and you won't live to regret it!"
Sidharth's eyes narrowed to a deadly glint. "Of course—if I give you the chance." He turned to his men with chilling calm. "Find their sons. Make them sign the papers. Then shoot them all."
He paused, his cold smile twisting cruelly. "Except that little fiery boy. He killed my son. I will kill him last. Let him watch his loved ones die first."
The room thickened with terror. Rage burned in Mr. Singh's and Mr. Rawat's eyes, barely restrained beneath the weight of strategy.
Mr. Singh's eyes flicked toward his right, and with a hideous, practiced flick of his finger—a signal only Mr. Raj would read—he ordered the unspoken.
Mr. Raj's hand slid to his pocket; for a heartbeat his thumb hovered over the screen. Then, with the same controlled calm he wore for the room, he typed and sent a single terse message to Arun: "Ayan in danger…"
He didn't let his gaze waver from the table, scanning the officials' tense faces for flickers of fear and betrayal, searching for the hidden traitors.
And above it all, the air conditioner hummed on—a steady, merciless rhythm against the chaos to come.