Morning unfolded slowly over Singh Mansion. Golden light streamed through the tall arched windows, stretching across marble floors. The house seemed to hold its breath. Guards alert. Servants busy.
Mr. Singh crossed the grand hall with measured steps, each footfall echoing faintly. Authority lingered in his frame, but fatigue shadowed his eyes.
At a narrow table, his fingers brushed polished wood before closing around his phone. He hesitated. A beat. Then another. Finally, he dialed.
The ring barely reached a third tone before the call connected. Mr. Singh said nothing at first. Then, low and frayed:
"Sid… I need you back tomorrow. For the voting. We can't afford gaps now."
Silence. Then Mr. Sidharth's uncertain voice: "Okay, Brother… but without the Rawats' side, is this really the right time?"
Mr. Singh paused, eyes fixed on the light inching across the floor. His reply came soft, almost raw:
"Isn't this convenient for us?"
The line went quiet. Long enough to sting.
When Mr. Sidharth finally answered, his voice was subdued, confused, but obedient. "Okay, Brother."
Mr. Singh lowered the phone, exhaling slowly. He turned to the window, where the world glowed too brightly for the weight in his chest.
"The voting must go as we wanted..." A brief pause as he looked at his phone. "I had to confirm this myself."
...
Then—a faint creak. His head turned sharply toward the staircase.
Arun was descending the steps. Dressed in his university uniform, a satchel slung across one shoulder. He moved like someone trying not to disturb the ghosts of a place—quick, silent, careful.
This distance between them had always been there, quiet and familiar—but after that day, it deepened into something that felt almost permanent.
Their eyes met halfway. But neither spoke.
Arun's gaze flickered away first, and he finally tried to look normal. "I'm leaving for university, Papa."
His voice was calm, but clipped, as if rehearsed.
Mr. Singh gave a small nod. But just as Arun took a step toward the door, his voice broke the silence again—firm, but not unkind. "Is Ayan safe?"
Arun paused mid-step. Just for a moment. His shoulders tensed, spine straightening—but he didn't turn. "I couldn't reach them since that day... But I'm sure he is doing well..."
Then he left. The heavy door closed behind him with a hush.
Mr. Singh remained where he was, unmoving. The morning light continued its slow crawl across the floor—stretching, reaching. But not quite touching him.
He had to find them. No matter what it takes. He couldn't let it slip this easily.
...
[Later—Rawats' house]
The morning sun bled through thin clouds, laying a dull sheen over the Rawat estate. The once-regal iron gates loomed in silence, their ornate curves etched with rust and shadow.
Arun's car rolled to a stop, gravel crunching under the tires before quiet settled again. He cut the engine. Birds sang faintly in the distance; leaves stirred. Nothing more.
He stepped out. The car door shut with a hollow click.
He approached slowly. The gate stood locked. Cold. Unyielding.
Arun paused, staring through the bars as if into another world. His fingers brushed the iron, lingering there, a breath catching in his throat. Stillness pressed in.
Shadows shifted. A few guards appeared, their boots crunching faintly on the gravel—wandering, or perhaps patrolling the bungalow's condition.
The leading guard approached the gate. He stopped just short, shoulders stiff beneath the dim light.
He bowed. "Good morning, sir. Mr. Rawat and their sons… they aren't home."
For a moment, absence pressed against Arun's chest. Then his jaw tightened. Fingers loosened. He turned back. His expression shifted—longing, regret, guilt—all passing like shadows across his face.
The car rumbled to life and rolled away. In the mirror, the Rawat estate shrank into haze.
Arun didn't look back. But his eyes—distant, glassy—held the ache of something lost, locked behind gates that would never open.
...
[The university]
The university pulsed with movement—backpacks jostling, footsteps echoing, laughter breaking between rows of lockers. Students flowed like a river. Arun was a stone in the current.
He moved with purpose. Shoulders stiff, jaw set, eyes scanning. Searching.
Then he saw them.
Near the stairwell, beside a row of blue lockers—Vihan, with Karan and Dino, mid-conversation. Vihan's face was lit with easy brightness, the kind that made Arun hesitate. For a moment, he wondered if he still had the right to walk forward. After everything.
Abhi's face cut through his hesitation like flint to stone.
Arun stepped forward. "Vihan."
The name sliced the noise clean.
Conversation broke off. Vihan turned. His expression shifted—sunlight gone in an instant, replaced by something colder. Sharper.
Arun stopped a few paces away, breath unsteady. "Where's Abhi? And everyone? Are they okay?"
A beat. Vihan's jaw tightened. "You didn't care before. Why now?" His voice was quiet, but biting. "Haven't you and your father done enough?"
The words landed raw, without flourish. Arun flinched, lips parting—but nothing came. For a second, his face cracked, vulnerable.
Vihan stepped forward, eyes burning, ready to strike again. "I never saw Brother Abhi cry... But because of you, he—"
But Karan caught his arm. "Vihan… it's school. Let it go. Go back to practice."
Silence stretched. Vihan's gaze stayed locked on Arun, frustrated. Then he turned away. No parting shot. No glance back.
It cut deeper than words.
The corridor surged again—lockers slamming, laughter spilling, shoes scuffing tile. Arun stood lifeless in the crowd.
...
Karan remained. He looked at Arun with a calm that held no judgment. "They're safe..." he assured at last. "He's with Ayan. Taking care of Uncle and Aarav."
Arun swallowed hard, voice dry when it came. "Could you tell me where they are? I want to try, just once at least."
Karan's answer was gentle, but there was no softness in the truth. "He's hurt," Karan said softly, his eyes holding a quiet ache. "It's not that he doesn't want to understand… he just doesn't know how to, not right now. If you go to him like this, you'll risk losing whatever's left between you."
There was no cruelty in his words. Only understanding. And Arun knew that. Then, slowly, he nodded. Heavy. Weighted.
"Thanks..." he murmured, barely audible.
Karan didn't reply. Just watched as Arun turned, stepping back into the tide of students until he was gone.
...
[Evening: Annaya's House]
The room glowed under a flickering vintage lamp, its amber light trembling across the walls. The clock ticked loud, sharp, like a warning.
Arun sat hunched on the couch, elbows on knees, hands knotted. His gaze kept cutting to the window, chasing reflections he wasn't sure were real.
Then—a soft click. The front door unlocked.
His head snapped up. Footsteps, steady, deliberate. Annaya entered—composed, unreadable. Two men in dark suits flanked her, silent as shadows.
One stepped forward and set a small brooch, sealed in a clear pouch, on the table.
Annaya didn't sit. Arms crossed, eyes fixed on him. "This was found at the Rawat estate after the incident. Familiar, right?"
Arun stared. Reached out slowly. The plastic crackled as he unwrapped it.
Time stilled. His fingers closed around the brooch. Jaw clenched. No words—just white knuckles, eyes flashing pain, recognition, fury. His body spoke what his lips withheld.
Annaya's gaze narrowed. She knew. This wasn't just a clue—it was a trigger. A lure back into the storm. "Do you think... it's true?"
The room held its breath.
And Arun—he didn't look up. But in that silence, in that restrained rage and grief, something inside him shifted.