Every head turned as the doors groaned wider. Footsteps carried through the silence—measured, unyielding.
Abhi emerged at last, shadows peeling off him, his eyes unreadable. His voice was calm, almost too calm. "You want a Rawat at this table? You've got one."
Arun moved before thought, his body snapping toward him. Relief burst in his gaze, raw after days of sleepless dread—the joy of a lost heartbeat returned.
Abhi stepped in, black from head to toe. He looked carved from the Rawat estate itself—cold, resolute, untouchable. His men stayed at the door. Only he walked forward, slow, certain. He took his father's place.
Then he spoke again—calm, but sharp as broken glass:
"Brother Aarav will be the heir to the Rawat legacy. Anyone who thinks otherwise should reconsider their place at this table."
The room froze. Breathless.
Abhi's presence wasn't loud—it was absolute. He radiated authority like a storm on the verge of breaking. No one moved. No one dared.
Across the table, Mr. Sidharth's eyes stayed locked on him. A spark flickered—caution, calculation. He scanned the others—their rigid shoulders, their silence, the tremor in the air. He understood: fear had entered, wrapped in a young body.
Then all eyes turned to Mr. Singh. In Mr. Rawat's absence, the final verdict was his.
The older man's eyes flickered—calculation, then gone. He studied Abhi with an unreadable gaze. And in the silence, something stirred beneath the guard: sorrow, pride, something lost and now returned—fractured, but standing.
He nodded. Legacy weighed in the motion.
The voting procedure started—and as predicted, no one opposed the proposal.
"Then it's confirmed," the managing official declared. "Mr. Arun and Mr. Aarav will be the next representatives for their father's positions."
Mr. Singh's gaze swept the room like a hawk. Cold. Precise. Deadly.
Silence. Nods. No objection.
Beside him, Arun stared only at Abhi. Relief swelled in his chest, warm and aching, tangled with pain. He wanted to reach out, to explain, to hold him.
But Abhi never looked back. Not once. He stood like judgment itself—unyielding, absolute. And when the room gave silent consent, he turned and walked out.
No goodbyes. No acknowledgments. Only silence trailing him, like a curtain falling.
---
[Parking Lot]
Cars scattered, gleaming like relics beneath the fading light. Shadows stretched across cracked asphalt—long, grasping, ghostlike.
At the center, a lone vehicle waited.
Abhi approached in silence. His steps made no sound, but memory filled the air—this place had once held chaos, stolen glances, whispered words. Now it was hollow. A graveyard of moments.
He reached for the driver's door, fingers brushing cold metal—
"Abhi…"
The voice broke the stillness, raw, trembling.
He froze. Back stiff. Hand on the handle. He didn't need to turn. That voice lived inside him, equal parts balm and blade.
It was Arun.
"You don't have to forgive me," Arun rushed out, regret tumbling into every word. "Just hear me out."
"I don't want to..." Abhi's voice was soft, lethal—frost across glass. He didn't turn. Shadows blurred his face, eyes fixed on anything but the figure behind him.
"If you still feel the same for me," he said, each word tightening, "then don't ever come to me defending your father's wrongs."
His hand gripped the handle, knuckles white. Breath uneven. Jaw locked.
"I don't want to hurt you more." The ache cracked beneath his tone, a fault line straining to split.
The door creaked open. "You chose your family," he said, firmer now but no less broken. "Let me choose mine."
A gavel striking down. Final.
He slipped inside. The door slammed—a hollow thud that echoed through Arun's chest. For a moment, silence. Then the ignition. Red taillights flared, bleeding across Arun's face.
He stood frozen. No chase. No cry. Only stillness, burning.
The car slid into the horizon, into the fading sun.
From the far edge, half-hidden by a pillar, Mr. Singh watched.
Arun stood in the wash of retreating red. Small. Fragile. His profile cut sharp against the dusk—shoulders caved, lips parted, whispering to someone already gone.
Something inside Mr. Singh gave way. Not a snap, but a slow, relentless break.
He turned. Not because he wanted to—because he couldn't bear the sight of love he'd never recognized, now blazing on his son's face.
---
[Later—Elsewhere in the city]
Night draped the outskirts of the city. Crickets sang. Wind stirred the trees around a secluded bungalow. A pair of headlights cut briefly through the dark, then vanished.
Gravel crunched under slow, deliberate steps. Mr. Raj stopped at the gate, his coat collar raised against the cold. His breath fogged in the air as his eyes swept the shadows. He lifted a hand and rang the bell. The sharp chime echoed, then faded.
The door creaked. Karan stood in the frame, half his face swallowed by shadow, the other carved in dim light. His expression held no surprise—only calculation.
"Uncle?" His voice was low, wary. "You're not supposed to be here. Did anyone see you?"
Mr. Raj's chest rose under the weight of tension. His tone was steady, but a tremor lingered. "I was careful. Switched cars twice. No one followed."
Karan studied him for a beat, searching. Then he stepped aside. "Come in."
The house absorbed them in silence. The door closed with a muted thud. Karan turned the key—one, two, three clicks. Each one sharp as a verdict.
...
The corridor stretched ahead like the throat of a forgotten beast—narrow, stone-lined, damp with breath. Dust clung to the corners like secrets too old to name. Each step Mr. Raj and Karan took echoed faintly, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Neither spoke.
The silence pulsed—thick, unshed words hanging heavy. A single bulb flickered overhead, throwing shadows that danced like ghosts from another life.
At the passage's end, a door waited. Its latch groaned as Mr. Raj pulled it open.
Inside, decay met precision. Stone walls sagged under shelves of crumbling files, leather cracked, twine frayed. Yet in the center, a sleek table gleamed—lit monitors, papers, surveillance maps. Wires coiled like serpents, feeding consoles that blinked with movement, time, heat.
Mr. Raj moved with quiet purpose, pulling an untouched file, its edges curled with age. His voice, calm but cold, broke the silence:
"Abhi returned stronger. So it won't be easy."
Karan's gaze swept the monitors—the farmhouse, Singh's office, maps inked with circles and arrows. His brow furrowed. "Isn't it too early for them to move, Uncle?"
Mr. Raj turned slowly, eyes fixed on the frames—timestamps burning into images of gates, gravel paths, stillness before motion. His tone dropped lower, steady as stone: "They won't let their power slip that easily."
The silence that followed wasn't peace. It was pressure—truths buried, mistakes festering, all waiting to break.
Mr. Raj's jaw tightened. He leaned over the desk, fingers splayed on the papers as if to pin the world in place.
When he spoke next, it was barely breath.
"We misled them well. He won't see it coming. Not from me."
Their stares met. In the breath between, years of buried truth surfaced. Watching was over.
Mr. Raj drew a sleek phone from his coat, dialing numbers etched into memory.
The line clicked alive.
"It's time," he said quietly. "Activate protocols. Stay close."
"Okay! Papa." Annaya's voice came through the speaker.
Then he ended the call, sliding the phone away.
When they stepped back into the corridor, the shadows didn't follow. Whatever was coming—they weren't stopping it. They were stepping into it.