The Royal Enfield idled smoothly outside Ari's office gate, its chrome accents catching the late afternoon sun as Ishaan waited. There was still an hour before she'd emerge, plenty of time to let his mind wander. He leaned against the bike, arms crossed, the engine's low hum a backdrop to his racing thoughts. Mom and Niti—they need more than money. A place to stay, school for Niti, and the business... Dad built that from nothing. The uncles stole it, but I'll take it back. The weight pressed on him, not as doubt, but as fuel. Support Mom, protect Niti, lift Ari's standing in her family—do it all. But how? The uncles have the leverage, the lawyers. I need a plan, something sharp. He pictured the Ahuja empire—restaurants, shops, factory—slipping from Madhura's grasp like sand. They sabotaged it, loaned the poison money, now they own it. I'll expose them, turn their game against them. For Dad's promise. For all of us.
Lost in the strategy, Ishaan didn't notice the sleek Mercedes pulling up nearby. Vickey Malhotra gripped the steering wheel, his face twisting in rage at the sight of Ishaan on that gleaming bike, waiting like he owned the world. That bastard—slapping me like I'm nothing, and now this? Parading around like he's someone? Fury boiled over from the staircase humiliation, his cheek still phantom-stinging. He'll pay. Today. Vickey fumbled for his phone, dialing with trembling fingers.
The call connected, a strong, rugged voice growling on the other end. "Basu Bhai."
Vickey lowered his voice, glancing around. "Namaste, Basu Bhai. It's Vickey—remember the links I sent last month?"
"Yeah, kid. What's the job?" Basu's tone was all business, gravelly and impatient.
"There's this guy—I want him beaten bad. He humiliated me before, and I want him on a stretcher. Please, Bhai, help me."
Basu chuckled darkly. "You know my ways, Vickey. I don't help for free. Who is this person? Affiliation? Who he knows? Give me details—I need to gauge what I'm up against. Risk means price."
Vickey's eyes narrowed on Ishaan, oblivious in the distance. "He's a stay-at-home husband—nothing. No family, no backup, nothing. The people in his wife's family? They hate him, won't lift a finger. Nobody will come for him—no repercussions. Just beat him senseless. That's it."
Basu paused, then grunted approval. "Easy job. ₹1,00,000. Transfer now."
Vickey's fingers flew across his phone, the bank app confirming the wire. "Done, Bhai. Sent."
"Good. I'll send 12 men—they'll beat him senseless. They'll reach in 20 minutes. Stay clear—watch from afar if you want."
"Thanks, Basu Bhai," Vickey whispered, a venomous smile creeping across his face. He hung up, eyes locked on Ishaan, the clock ticking down.
Twenty minutes ticked by like a fuse, the office gate's shadows lengthening as Ishaan waited, his mind still tangled in plans for Madhura and Niti. The roar of two battered cars shattered the calm, screeching to a halt right in front of the gate. They honked relentlessly—long, aggressive blasts—despite Ishaan already parked to the side, out of the way.
Ishaan glanced over, irritation flickering, but he shifted the Royal Enfield further, giving them ample space. The honking didn't stop; it grew louder, more insistent. Finally, the lead thug—a burly man with a scarred cheek—jumped out, storming toward him. "How dare you stand in our way, you idiot!" he snarled, spittle flying.
Ishaan stood with his back to the bike, hands loose at his sides, his voice even. "Sorry. I didn't intend to disrespect you. I've given as much way as I can. If you need me to move further, I will."
The thug's face twisted in rage, his hand whipping up for a slap. Ishaan's reflex was lightning—his palm caught the wrist mid-swing, iron grip unyielding. "Let go!" the thug growled, yanking futilely.
The others spilled from the cars like wolves, circling. "How dare you hold my brother's hand!" one bellowed, cracking his knuckles. "Break it!" he ordered the group.
Twelve against one—they rushed in a chaotic wave, fists flying, boots stomping. Bystanders froze, some fumbling for phones, but it was over before anyone could hit record. Ishaan moved like a shadow—dodging a haymaker, countering with a precise elbow to a jaw, sweeping a leg to topple two more. A knee to a gut, a spinning backfist crumpling another. Punches landed only on air; his enhanced speed turned the brawl into a blur. Fists met ribs, knees cracked knees, and in minutes, all twelve lay groaning on the pavement, a heap of bruised egos and broken momentum.
The crowd gaped, whispers rippling. "What the hell was that?" one man muttered. "Like a movie!" a woman gasped. But Ishaan barely registered them—his blood boiled from the family betrayal, the senseless attack fueling a rare fury. No reason, just like the uncles—no reason to ruin lives.
He strode to the leader, still clutching his wrist, and hauled him up by the collar, slamming him against the bike. The man's eyes widened in fear. "Why?" Ishaan demanded, voice low and lethal.
The thug sputtered, silent. Slap. Ishaan's hand cracked across his face, not hard enough to shatter, but enough to sting. "I'll ask, and you'll reply. If you don't, I'll slap you again." He leaned closer. "Why did you attack me?"
The man whimpered. "You... you were in our way!"
"So?" Ishaan pressed, grip tightening. "Why were you here? Who were you going to talk to in this building?"
No answer. Slap. "You're not going inside to talk to anybody. You're here just for me. This is the last time I'm asking. If you don't reply, I'll break both your legs. Why did you target me?"
The thug broke, sweat beading. "Our boss... got money from some guy. He paid us to beat you senseless. That's it!"
"Who's your boss?" Ishaan growled.
"B-Basu Bhai," the man stammered. "Call him—he'll tell you."
Ishaan shoved the phone into the thug's trembling hand. "Do it. On speaker."
The thug dialed, voice quaking. It connected. "Is it done? He's not dead, right?" Basu Bhai's rugged growl filled the air.
Ishaan snatched the phone. "I'm not dead. I'm perfectly fine." His tone turned ice-cold. "What you've done is totally wrong. You're going to pay for it. Tomorrow, I'm visiting you. Be ready."
Basu Bhai's laugh cut short, rage bubbling. "Who the hell is this? Put Masood back on!"
Ishaan shoved the phone to the thug's ear. "Tell him," he commanded.
"Bhai... this guy beat us—all twelve," Masood gasped. "He's not normal. Either the client didn't know, or he set us up..."
Basu Bhai's voice hardened. "Okay, come to me. We'll talk." He rattled off an address—a dingy warehouse in the suburbs.
"Tomorrow," Ishaan said into the phone. "Be there." He hung up, tossing it back. "Scram. All of you."
The thugs scrambled, limping to their cars, tires squealing as they fled. Bystanders stared, but Ishaan ignored them, wiping his hands on his shirt.
Ari emerged moments later, oblivious, her bag slung over her shoulder. "Sorry, ran late—meeting dragged." She spotted the scattered debris—overturned trash from the scuffle—but Ishaan stepped forward, greeting her with a casual smile. "No worries. Ready?"
"Yeah," she said, climbing on. "Groceries first?"
"List says so," he replied, starting the engine. They rode to the market, picking up rice, veggies, and spices, Ari chatting about her day while Ishaan nodded, the adrenaline fading into focused calm. Basu Bhai tomorrow. One threat down, more to come.
By the time they pulled up home, the incident felt like a closed chapter—handled, for now.