The sharp crack split the room like thunder.
Shubham's body jerked, blood spraying from his wrist. His pistol spun out of his grip and hit the floor with a hollow clang.
Before his knees touched the blood-slick tiles—BANG.
A second shot slammed into his abdomen. His body folded, twitching. Fingers clawed at the air, desperate to hold on to something—anything. But all he found was blood. His own.
Then silence. Thick. Smothering.
Muzzle smoke drifted in slow coils, clinging to the wreckage like ghostly fingers. The walls seemed to echo with what had just happened—and with the horror of what almost did.
Guns stayed raised. No one moved. Even time felt held at gunpoint.
Mr. Singh stood rigid, finger tight on the trigger—but the shot hadn't come from him.
Karan and Mr. Raj kept their posts at Mr. Rawat's bed, weapons steady, eyes wide.
Arun was frozen, gun limp in his grip. Behind him, Ayan trembled, pale and wide-eyed.
Annaya lingered at the doorway, her breath caught like a scream too afraid to break free.
Then—Click.
A shell bounced across the cracked tiles with a metallic clink. All eyes turned.
Abhi.
Gun raised. Chest heaving. Smoke curling from the barrel. His finger trembled on the trigger, not with regret—but with rage that had finally burned itself out.
Everyone stared. Stunned.
Abhi didn't look away from Shubham—collapsed on the floor, gasping through his final breaths. Slowly, he lowered the gun. The silence pressed heavier than any gunfire. At last, his gaze found Mr. Singh.
"I did what you couldn't," he said. Flat. Hollow. A statement carved from stone. The weight of his emotions was too heavy to fit inside words.
Then he walked. Past Shubham. Past the spreading pool of blood where ambition had drowned itself.
Each step thudded until he reached his father's bedside. He knelt. Mr. Rawat was pale but awake, his shirt dark with blood, his eyes raw with pain and grief.
Abhi's voice came tight, strained. "I know what he meant to you. He was family. And I—" His voice broke. He forced himself to meet his father's eyes. "I'm sorry, Papa."
The room seemed to hold its breath again. No one knew what to feel.
Mr. Rawat lifted a trembling, bloodied hand and placed it on his son's. His gaze flickered—not at Abhi—but past him. Toward Mr. Singh.
And in that look there was no demand. Only a fragile bridge of shared grief.
Mr. Singh met it. Their eyes—weathered by years of bonds, battles, and heartbreaks—locked. And for the first time in years, his gaze softened. Not with calm. Not with victory. With trust.
Then both men turned their eyes to Abhi.
"He made his choice the moment he raised a hand against us," Mr. Singh said, his voice low but unshakable. "And you made yours—to protect us."
Abhi looked up. His eyes, rimmed red, found Mr. Singh's steady gaze. In it he saw resolve. Pride.
Mr. Singh's voice steadied further, steel wrapped in gentleness. "Don't carry this as shame. Carry it as proof. When it mattered—you stood. You protected the family. Like your father."
Abhi parted his lips, but only a breath escaped. No words.
"You didn't fail me, Abhi," Mr. Rawat whispered, pain woven into every syllable. His gaze shifted between Mr. Singh and his son. Then it landed on Abhi again. His voice cracked. "You saved what I loved most."
Abhi bowed his head. Not in guilt this time. In peace. In respect.
Around them, the room exhaled. Weapons lowered. Shoulders sagged. The storm had finally broken.
Aarav leaned against Ayan, weak but stable, his breaths steady. Ayan clung to him, relief trembling in every touch.
Arun stood apart, but his eyes were fixed only on Abhi. Relief shone there too—but deeper than that was love, understanding, and a vow too fierce for words. You're not alone.
The tension that had held them all snapped at last—not with a crash, but a sigh.
Outside, the wind pushed through shattered panes, carrying smoke and blood with it. Then the rain began—soft, steady, cleansing. Washing the floor, the walls, the stains… and some part of what had been lost.
---
[After the breath]
Silence settled like winter fog—thick, unyielding. No one spoke. No one dared.
Then Mr. Raj's voice cut through, steady, low. "Master, I informed Mr. Sidharth. We must return to the mansion now."
Outside, the rain had thinned to soft sheets. At the yard's edge, Abhi stood alone, a dark silhouette against the clearing sky. His hand stretched out, palm open—as if confessing to the night itself.
Drops slid across his skin, cool whispers washing away the grime—gunpowder, blood, guilt. The rain felt like absolution. Fragile. Fleeting.
From the doorway, a figure stirred. Arun.
He stepped out slowly, each movement deliberate, hesitant. His eyes never left Abhi—the rain tracing down his outstretched hand, so simple, yet unbearably heavy.
He wanted to cross the space, to take Abhi into his arms, to share the weight he carried. But he lingered in the doorway, light framing him like a barrier he couldn't yet cross.
The distance between them was more than steps. It was words unsaid. Feelings buried. The horror still clinging to their skin.
Inside, their friends felt it too—the charged stillness, the fragile thread holding these two apart.
Neither moved. Neither spoke.
The rain murmured on. Time stretched, trembling. Waiting for one of them to step forward—not with words, but with heart.
---
After half an hour, the cars waited at the edge of the farmhouse drive, engines low, headlights cutting through the misty drizzle.
Mr. Singh stepped out first, his coat drawn tight against the night air. Arun followed close behind, his eyes still lingering inside with quiet emotions. Mr. Raj moved like a shadow himself, keeping pace just behind them.
At the door, Annaya and Karan stood ready. They had been watching the preparations, their calm composure a steady anchor amidst the storm of the past hours.
Mr. Singh paused before them, his voice low but firm. "Annaya… you'll stay here. See that everything in this house is handled. The doctors, the guards. Keep them steady. And tomorrow, move them safely back to Rawat house."
Annaya nodded once, her expression unwavering.
Mr. Singh studied her for a breath, then his gaze flicked past her to the hall where Mr. Rawat lingered, still heavy with what had just happened. For a moment, something unreadable crossed his eyes. Then he turned away.
"Come," he told Arun and Mr. Raj.
The three men walked out into the rain, their footsteps steady against the gravel. The engines hummed louder, doors shut, and the convoy rolled forward into the night, leaving the farmhouse in careful hands.