𓆩❤︎𓆪

Wednesday | 10:30 AM | Raichand Global Headquarters, South Mumbai

INAAYA's POV:

The glass walls of Raichand Global glimmered like a lie in the morning sun—clean, pretty, perfect. Just like her life was supposed to be.

Everything about the corner office screamed luxury: the curated art, the signature candle burning by the windowsill, the hum of the espresso machine just outside her door. But beneath it all, it felt... sterile. Like walking into a staged version of her own life.

Inaaya Raichand sat behind her polished mahogany desk like a queen who didn't want the throne.

The black blazer hung perfectly over her frame, sleeves rolled once at the wrist. Her makeup was clean, professional, her nails painted a glossy nude. The image was immaculate—one that demanded respect before a single word was spoken. But her gaze...

Her gaze was distant. Like it was always searching for something she'd lost a long time ago, or maybe never found at all.

She stared at the email open on her laptop, but her eyes were unfocused. Her inbox buzzed with meetings, budget revisions, an urgent follow-up from legal—chaos dressed in corporate language.

And then there was that email.

The one that had popped up half an hour ago from her father's personal assistant:

"A gentle reminder: Aarhan Raghani will be joining the Raichand family brunch this Sunday. Please be present."

No room for negotiation. No curiosity about her opinion. Just an instruction.

A tall iced Americano sat beside her mousepad, untouched. The condensation had formed a quiet, spreading puddle beneath it, bleeding into a printed sales report. She didn't move the cup. Let it stain. Let it ruin something. Everything else already felt ruined anyway.

Across from her, on the oversized teal sofa in the corner of her office, Sharanya Sharma let out a dramatic groan, tossing her phone on the table like it had personally betrayed her.

"Okay, but like—why are you not freaking out?" she demanded, flopping back like a sitcom character. "Aarhan Raghani is not just a guy. He's a walking power play. His LinkedIn profile has more zeroes than your dad's ego."

Inaaya blinked, her expression dry. "Which is why my family wants me to marry him, Plus, we are richer than him, you know that."

"God. You're ice cold."

"I'm realistic."

Sharanya narrowed her eyes. "You're not even pretending to be excited."

"I'm not pretending," Inaaya said, voice flat. "I'm surviving."

Sharanya sighed dramatically, brushing her perfectly done caramel hair out of her face. "Seriously, Inaaya. I don't get you. Half the girls in this building would sell a kidney to be in your place."

"Maybe they should. I'll donate mine for free if it gets me out of this brunch."

That made Sharanya laugh. "Shut up. You're impossible."

Inaaya's mouth tilted in a half-smile. "And yet, you love me."

"Unfortunately."

The air settled for a moment, the hum of the city far below leaking faintly through the glass. In here, it felt like time was paused. Corporate heaven outside, slow death inside.

Sharanya sat up straighter, now a little more serious. "But like... what if he's hot?"

Inaaya raised an eyebrow. "I don't care if he looks like Greek sin and sounds like Morgan Freeman. I'm not marrying a man I don't even like."

"Yeah, but attraction grows. Maybe he surprises you."

"Sharanya," Inaaya said, tone sharpening just slightly, "I'm not looking for surprises. I've had enough of those to last me a lifetime."

That shut her up for a second.

Then—softly, almost like a challenge—Sharanya asked, "Okay, then who would you marry?"

There was a pause. A quiet one.

Inaaya's fingers tapped her pen slowly against the edge of her desk. The question wasn't hard—but the answer was. She looked away from her screen, out toward the skyline, then back again.

"Someone who doesn't scare me."

Sharanya tilted her head. "You mean, like... emotionally?"

Inaaya exhaled. "No. I mean in every way."

Sharanya blinked. "Okay...wow. That's... low-bar tragic."

"Exactly," Inaaya said, her voice like silk wrapped around a blade. "Which is why I'm probably going to end up marrying someone who terrifies me to my bones."

They both looked at each other for a moment.

And then, as if on cue—they burst out laughing.

It wasn't a loud, obnoxious laugh. It was the kind that crinkles your eyes, that knots in your chest, that makes you forget—just for a second—that life is cruel.

That kind of laugh.

The kind where you joke about something just enough to convince yourself it won't happen.

But the thing about irony?

It doesn't need permission.

It just waits. Watching.

Smiling.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Tuesday. 3:17 p.m. Raghani Headquarters.

AARHAN'S POV:

The city sun filtered through the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows of Raghani Headquarters, casting long shadows across the polished teak of his desk. The air conditioning hummed low, steady. Outside, the office floor buzzed with the efficient chaos of industry—phones ringing, heels clicking, interns darting in silence. Inside his cabin?

Stillness.

Aarhan Raghani sat at his desk, elbows resting on the armrests of his matte leather chair, fingers steepled against his lips. The glow from his dual monitors illuminated the clean lines of his face—high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, neatly trimmed stubble that looked like it belonged in an editorial shoot, not a boardroom.

Six-foot-four. Always impeccably dressed. The kind of man who walked into a room and made people straighten their spines without knowing why.

But right now, he wasn't thinking about market shares or mergers.

He was thinking about her.

Inaaya Raichand.

He hadn't seen her in weeks. Not in person, anyway. And still—she lived somewhere just under the surface of his thoughts, constant like background noise, like hunger.

He had told himself it was strategy. That paying attention to her made sense—they moved in the same social circles, came from dynasties that pretended to be friends, often discussed alignments. That the possible match between them, whispered by parents in closed drawing rooms, was simply... a smart pairing.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being smart.

And it started being personal.

He clicked through an old interview of hers playing in a minimized tab on his screen. The volume was muted. He didn't need the sound. He remembered what she had said. What she always said—so controlled, so composed. Every word perfectly delivered like she was made of marble and thunder.

He paused the video when she turned slightly toward the camera. Just enough for her jawline to cut like a blade. Her lips were curved in the smallest, most dismissive smile.

He stared.

How the hell did she look bored and fascinating at the same time?

Aarhan leaned back slowly, letting his head hit the chair. He closed his eyes.

What is it about you?

He'd dated before—beautiful, brilliant women. Women who came from old money, or built their own. Some who were fiery, some soft, some sharp enough to slice him open. He respected them. Even liked a few of them, genuinely.

But none of them made him restless.

Inaaya did.

She moved through the world like she owed no one anything. Like she could kill a deal with one blink. She had the kind of cold elegance that made men stupid, and the kind of mind that made them feel even smaller afterward.

And when her name had come up in a dinner with her father—a casual suggestion over dessert—it had been like fate dropped a match in a forest.

Aarhan had smiled politely.

Said he'd think about it.

Inside?

He'd already decided.

There was something about her that didn't make sense. Something he couldn't quite pin down, and Aarhan hated things he couldn't define. That's what drove him.

Not love.

Not lust.

Control.

Not over her—he didn't want to own her. That would be stupid.

He wanted to understand her. Completely. Enough to unravel her without her even noticing.

He wanted her to choose him. Not because her family wanted it. But because she couldn't help it.

And he would wait. Work. Maneuver. Charm, if needed. Fight, if necessary.

She didn't know it yet—but she was already his endgame.

The intercom crackled. His assistant's voice cut in. "Sir, your 3:30 is waiting."

"Give me ten," he replied, voice smooth, steady.

He minimized the interview, stood up, and walked to the tall window that overlooked the city. His reflection stood beside the skyline—sharp, patient, and already writing the next chapter in his head.

He didn't know yet that someone else had already seen her.

Someone who didn't ask for ten minutes.

Someone who didn't wait.

And the shark, quietly circling the same ocean, was about to take the first bite.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Rathore Headquarters — 37th Floor

AARAV'S POV:

The office was silent.

Too silent.

Even with the faint hum of servers and the occasional rustle of paper outside, the silence inside Aarav Rathore's cabin felt like pressure building in a sealed box. The kind that cracked bones.

He sat there—hulking, still—at the head of a long obsidian desk inside the towering black-glass Rathore Industries building, twelfth floor. The city stretched behind him, but he wasn't looking at it.

He couldn't.

Because all he saw was her.

That drenched girl. That smile. Those goddamn eyes.

The moment had replayed in his head like an endless, fevered hallucination. The way the rain had kissed her skin. The sound of her laughter, carried on the wind like it had belonged to him. Like she belonged to him.

He didn't know her name that night. Just the location—Raichand Mansion, Sector 12, Elysian Park Road.

So he did what any monster in love would do.

He ordered every file tied to the Raichands.

Rivals. Enemies. Parasites dressed in luxury.

The manila folder arrived that morning—thick, confidential, sealed with digital records. One of his men had placed it on his desk like it weighed the damn building.

And now it lay open, splayed across the darkness like a wound.

Dozens of profiles. Family trees. Surveillance photos. Transactions.

He flipped through them like a madman, his eyes sharp and cruel—until they weren't.

Until they softened.

Until they froze.

There.

His hand stopped.

Her face.

Her name.

Inaaya Raichand.

His breath hitched. Not audibly. Not visibly. But he felt it. A punch to the lungs.

That was her. The girl in the rain. The one who had smiled at the sky like it had never betrayed her. The one who had no idea she had ruined him in one second.

She was real.

She had a name.

She had a life.

He scanned the profile, eating up every detail with devouring eyes. Age. Birthday. Education. Occupation.

And then—

His vision narrowed.

A single line.

"Soon to be engaged to Aarhan Raghani—heir of Raghani Enterprises and known associate of underground South-Asia circuits. Business & personal rival to Rathore Holdings."

Aarav didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't breathe.

And then—

CRACK.

The glass tablet under his hand exploded with the force of his clenched fist.

The jagged screen shattered beneath his knuckles as blood pooled—slow and viscous—across the broken Apple logo, seeping between the shards. Red and violent.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't even look at the wound.

He was staring at her face, still glowing from the cracked display.

His Inaaya.

His Ruin.

His mouth curled into something unholy. Something not human.

Mine.

You are mine.

A knock came.

Not loud.

Measured. Deliberate.

The kind of knock that belonged to someone who had already guessed what lay beyond the door.

Then—a slow creak, as the heavy wooden door parted.

Devyaan Rathore stepped inside.

Tall. Controlled. Dressed in black like always, as if mourning something the world hadn't seen die yet. He carried a thick dossier in one hand—no rush in his walk, no urgency in his step. Only that calm, brutal stillness that made people afraid without knowing why.

He froze three steps in.

His sharp gaze swept the scene—once, thoroughly.

The blood.

It trailed from Aarav's knuckles, still dripping in thick, red lines onto the broken remains of what had once been an Apple tablet. The glass sparkled, spiderwebbed and fractured, soaked in red.

The desk was a mess of chaos—files torn open, papers stained, the air still vibrating with rage long after it had been unleashed.

And at the center of it all stood Aarav, unmoving, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched, breathing heavy but silent. Like a caged animal trying to hold in a scream.

Devyaan didn't ask what happened.

He didn't need to.

Because he knew.

He'd seen that look in Aarav's eyes before.
When they lost Devyaan and Ishra's Parents to betrayal.
When their father bled out in a rival's warehouse.
When Aarav found out who pulled the trigger.

But this wasn't grief.

This was possession.

This was obsession.

This was the exact moment Aarav Rathore fell into madness.

"You should bandage that," Devyaan said, his voice soft. Neutral.

But Aarav didn't respond.

He didn't even look at him.

Instead, he rose—slowly, like every movement cost him restraint. His hand smeared crimson across the edge of the table as he passed it. His veins were bulging beneath his skin, twitching like they were trying to claw out.

The glass door at the end of the room hissed open as he walked out to the terrace. The wind greeted him like a violent lover, tousling his hair, stealing the heat from the blood still dripping off his hand.

But he didn't feel the cold.

He didn't feel the pain.

He only felt her.

His mind burned—crackling and wild.

Inaaya.

That name pulsed inside his skull like a drumbeat.
Inaaya.
The girl who belonged to no one.
The girl who made rain look like a poem.
The girl who would soon wear another man's ring.

Aarav's chest heaved as he gripped the railing, his knuckles red and raw, his blood smearing across the steel like war paint.

Inaaya. Aarhan. Inaaya. Inaaya.
INAAYA.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Inside, Devyaan watched him for a second through the glass. Silhouetted against the skyline, Aarav looked like a ghost wrapped in thunder. Like a man who'd already decided he would destroy the world to have what he wanted.

Devyaan exhaled quietly.

And then—he moved forward.

He didn't speak. Didn't sigh.

He simply stepped closer to the chaos his brother had left behind.

The Raichand file lay wide open across the desk—pages creased, some blood-smeared, most of them tossed around like they weren't the lives of real people. Devyaan picked one up gently, his fingers careful despite the mess. Not out of sentiment.

Out of habit.

Because Devyaan read people for a living.

He read their smiles like weapons.

He flipped through the profiles with the grace of someone who didn't need to hurry—until he stopped.

His hand stilled over one page.

A photo.

A name.

"Iranya Raichand."

His fingers lingered.

He didn't know why.

She wasn't dressed to stand out. No sharp blazers, no sultry expression. Just a clean, natural look—simple smile, open eyes, soft earrings, hair half-tied like she hadn't overthought it.

But somehow... it stayed.

His gaze rested on her picture longer than it should have.

Longer than he meant to.

Maybe it was her eyes. Or the curve of her lips.

Or maybe it was the absurd, ridiculous ache that bloomed in his chest—sharp, quiet, and annoying. Like something had cracked open, just a little.

He didn't like it.

Didn't want to name it.

Didn't even think about it.

Because he had more important things to do.

Because Aarav was unraveling.

He shut the file slowly, the paper folding with a whisper of finality.

And as he turned away, lips quirking into a smile that didn't reach his eyes, Devyaan whispered to the silent room—

"Time to bleed myself for you, brother."

And then—he was gone.

Leaving behind only blood, broken glass, and two names that would destroy everything they touched.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

SHAURYA'S POV:

Raichand Global Headquarters
Late Afternoon

The city sprawled beneath the glass walls of Shaurya's office, yet somehow, the view felt distant. As though it belonged to someone else—someone who wasn't standing here, trying to hold it all together.

Shaurya Raichand stood by his desk, his hand resting on the polished surface as he stared at the screen in front of him, eyes unseeing. His mind? Nowhere near this room. He should've been on top of the reports, delegating tasks, doing what a CEO was meant to do. But right now, nothing seemed to matter more than the thoughts circling in his head.

The same thought he couldn't shake—Aarya Malhotra.

He felt the familiar sting in his chest, an ache that refused to disappear. It was the quiet kind of pain, the one that settled into your bones, the one that made you believe that maybe it wasn't worth it, maybe nothing ever was. He had tried to convince himself that it was over. That he'd moved on. But when the call had come last night—Aarya Malhotra's engagement reception invitation—everything had come flooding back.

He shouldn't have been surprised. She had moved on. It had been inevitable. She was always going to move on. And now, it was official—she was marrying someone else, someone who wasn't him.

The irony was almost laughable. He, Shaurya Raichand—the one who had sacrificed so much, carried burdens, done things in the shadows of their past—was left standing with nothing. All those nights they spent talking about forever, about building an empire, were now fading like old photographs.

The door to his office creaked open.

Akshay entered, his expression one Shaurya knew all too well—concern wrapped in quiet curiosity. Akshay had always been able to read him, even when no one else could.

"You okay?" Akshay asked, tone light but probing.

Shaurya didn't respond. Instead, he picked up the invitation that had been sitting on his desk, untouched, mocking him with its pristine edges and gold-embossed lettering. The words Engagement Reception danced in his vision. Aarya and her new fiancé—someone else's name was already attached to her.

Akshay's eyes followed his gaze, narrowing when he saw what Shaurya was staring at.

"You're not going, are you?" Akshay's voice broke through the silence like a sudden gust of wind.

Shaurya didn't answer at first. He couldn't. He just couldn't.

"I have to," he finally muttered, his fingers clenching around the edge of the invitation.

"Shaurya..."

"I can't back down," he said, voice strained. "It's business. Family. The Malhotras. We're intertwined, and I'll be damned if I let anyone think I'm weak."

Akshay said nothing for a moment, just standing there, watching his brother wrestle with himself. Akshay could see it. He could see the cracks forming in the stoic mask Shaurya wore so well. But he wouldn't push. Not yet.

"Bhaiya," Akshay said quietly, taking a step closer. "This isn't just business, and you know it. It's not about strength or weakness. It's about you. It's about her."

Shaurya looked up at him then, his eyes flicking to Akshay for the first time since he'd entered. His face was an impassive mask, but Akshay could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his fists were clenched at his sides.

"She's gone, Akshay. She's gone," Shaurya said, voice rough. "And I'm still here... alone."

The words hung in the air between them, thick and suffocating. Akshay watched his brother, the man who had always been the pillar of strength for their family, the one who always held it together, and now... now, he was breaking.

Shaurya's eyes dropped to the invitation again, his gaze empty. "I don't know how to let go of something that was never really mine."

Akshay took another step forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground him. "You've done everything for her. She knows that. But you have to let go, Shaurya. You're not going to find peace if you keep holding onto her memory like this."

Shaurya flinched at the touch, like it burned him, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his eyes darkened as a sudden rage surged within him.

"She was supposed to be my forever," he whispered through gritted teeth, his voice cracking. "And now... now, I'm just some consolation prize. I was never enough for her."

Akshay watched in stunned silence as Shaurya's control shattered completely. For the first time in years—in the history of their bond—Shaurya Raichand's carefully built fortress cracked open. A tear slid down his cheek before he could stop it.

The sound of that single tear hitting the cold surface of the desk was louder than any scream Shaurya could have made.

Akshay didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say. His brother was a hurricane, and the storm had just hit. Akshay only stood there, his heart aching for the man who had never shown vulnerability—until now.

Shaurya wiped the tear quickly, but it was already too late. He'd let it slip. He'd let someone see him.

"I'll go," Shaurya muttered, voice raw. "I'll show up to her engagement reception, stand there, pretend it doesn't tear me apart."

Akshay took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before speaking.

"Are you doing this for her, or for you?"

Shaurya's face twisted, and his lips pressed into a thin line. "For me, Akshay. I need to be there. For me."

The weight of his words settled in the air, heavy and suffocating. Akshay nodded slowly, as though finally understanding the depths of his brother's torment.

"You don't have to pretend with me, Bhaiya."

Shaurya's eyes met his for one last time, and for a moment, there was a flicker of vulnerability, something so raw and unguarded that it caught Akshay off guard.

"Just... don't let her see me like this," Shaurya whispered, voice cracking again.

Akshay swallowed. "You're still Shaurya Raichand. You don't have to pretend for anyone."

Shaurya gave a stiff nod, his face hardening once again.

But Akshay saw the way his hands trembled when he reached for the invitation, a small, barely noticeable tremor that betrayed the war raging inside his older brother's chest.

After a long while, Shaurya spoke again.

His voice was calmer now. Emptier.

"There's going to be a war soon."

Akshay nodded. "Between who?"

Shaurya's lips curved into a small, tired smile.

"Everyone."

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Moments after Shaurya breaks down for the first time in front of Akshay.

The air was still, heavy with a silence that didn't feel peaceful—it felt dangerous.
Akshay stayed near, hand still resting on the back of Shaurya's chair, unsure if he should speak or just stay.

Then—

The door opened.

No knock. Just quiet authority and footsteps that knew they owned the place.

Vedant Raichand walked in—sharp suit, colder and tall, 6'5 presence, and a gaze that cut cleaner than any blade. He stopped just past the threshold, taking in the sight before him: Akshay and Shaurya. The posture. The atmosphere. The crackling tension.

He didn't blink.

"You weren't in the boardroom," he said to Shaurya, voice flat. "I had to cover your segment. Again."

Shaurya didn't move.

Akshay straightened, his voice tense. "Uncle... not now. Please."

But Vedant had already stepped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounded far too final.

"You think sulking in your cabin like a heartbroken child is how we lead Raichand Global?" Vedant's tone wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It was dismissive. Cold. Calculated. "You embarrass yourself. And me."

That was it.

Something inside Shaurya snapped.

He stood slowly, like the rage inside him had been waiting for permission.

"You don't get to talk about embarrassment, Dad."

Akshay turned sharply. "Bhaiya—"

Shaurya didn't look away. He took a single step forward, gaze locked on Vedant's face.

"You want to know what real embarrassment is?" His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous. "It's your own son waking up every day knowing he's just another pawn in your power games."

Vedant arched a brow. "Don't be dramatic. If you can't handle pressure—"

"Pressure?" Shaurya laughed, bitter and hollow. "You call what you did to me and Aarya pressure? You backed her into a corner. You forced her to choose."

Vedant said nothing. He didn't need to. His silence was louder than most men's screams.

Akshay stepped forward. "Don't do this—abhi nahi bhaiya, please—"

(not now brother, please)

But Shaurya didn't stop.

"You told her I wasn't stable. That she wasn't fit to marry me. Ki voh mere laayak nahi hai. You said she deserved someone with less... status."

His voice cracked then—just a little. And that was worse than shouting.

"You never wanted me to be happy," he continued, softer now. "You just wanted me to be obedient."

Vedant finally spoke. "She made her own decision, Shaurya."

"No," Shaurya said sharply. "You made it for her. You manipulated her Papa, twisted the narrative, played the victim."

He stepped closer again, until there was barely a foot between them. "She told me once that she was afraid of you."

Vedant's expression didn't flinch. But something in his eyes flickered. Something old. Something cruel.

Akshay moved between them now, hands raised. "Please stop. Both of you. Yeh sab mat karo—"

(don't do this)

Shaurya's voice dipped again. Quieter. Not for Akshay.

"You took the only thing I ever truly wanted. Just because you could."

Vedant straightened. "You were weak. Love makes men weak."

Shaurya's face twisted. "Aur aap insaan nahi hain."

(And you are not a human)

Vedant stepped forward. "Watch your tone."

"OR WHAT?" Shaurya's roar exploded through the room, shaking glass and air alike. "You'll cut me out? Disown me? You've already done that in every way that matters!"

Akshay looked frozen. This wasn't just a fight—it was years of silent wars erupting all at once.

Shaurya's fists trembled.

"I gave you everything," he whispered. "I spent years trying to be the son you wanted. I ran your empire. I destroyed myself for this family. For you."

Vedant said nothing. The silence made it worse.

And then, it happened.

Shaurya's voice dropped. So low it barely reached the corners of the room.

But it was the loudest thing Akshay had ever heard.

"You did this because I'm not your real son... didn't you?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Akshay's breath caught in his throat.

Vedant didn't answer.

He didn't deny it.

And somehow, that was so much worse.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Streets of MumbaiPOV: Akshay Raichand

Mumbai's night was humming.

A strange calmness settled across the city—like the air itself was holding its breath. The roads, for once, weren't screaming with horns. Streetlights blinked down at the blackened tarmac, casting golden halos over the highway.

Akshay's hands rested on the steering wheel of his matte black car, tapping a soft, rhythmic beat.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The windows were down. A breeze swept through, tangling his hair just slightly. On any other night, it would've been peaceful. Maybe even soothing.

But tonight?

Something was wrong.

He could feel it.
A weight in his chest. A tightening in his gut.

Ryesha was already home—he'd seen the family group ping. Safe. He should've felt at ease.

But then—

A screech tore through the stillness like a blade.

His rear-view mirror lit up.

And then it began.

Seven black SUVs.

Out of nowhere.

Surrounding him.

One cut in from the left, forcing him to slam the brakes. Another blocked the right. Three more swarmed in from behind like a pack of wolves. The final two slid in from the front and diagonals.

Caged.

In seconds.

Trapped.

"Shit," he muttered, eyes narrowing.

The doors of the SUVs flung open.

Men poured out.

Too many to count at once.
Maybe twenty. Maybe more.
Armed to the teeth—metal rods, machetes, pistols glinting in the moonlight.

But Akshay?

He didn't panic.

His pulse slowed.
His grip tightened.
Something old and violent flickered in his eyes.

He kicked open his car door—hard.

It slammed into the man nearest to him, cracking his jaw against the edge. The guy went down with a grunt.

And then—

All hell broke loose.

Akshay moved like a beast let loose from a cage.

The first punch shattered a man's nose.
The second—his elbow—drove straight into someone's throat, cutting the scream before it could form.

A rod came swinging toward his face—he ducked.
Came up with a vicious hook that sent the man flying backward into a car.

Someone came from behind—he grabbed them by the wrist and twisted till the bone cracked, then smashed their head against the hood.

Another man charged with a machete—

Akshay side-stepped, grunted, and slammed his knee into the attacker's ribs—**three times in rapid succession—**until he felt the bone give.

Gunfire.

A sharp, violent snap of reality.

Pain exploded in his shoulder.
One bullet.

Then—another.
Right through his abdomen.

He stumbled.

Just for a second.

His hand instinctively clutched the wound, blood already soaking through his white shirt.

But even in that agony—he roared.

The kind of roar that stops hearts.

He didn't fall.

He charged.

Grabbed one man by the collar and dragged him across the asphalt, using his body as a shield to absorb another bullet. The man screamed, then went limp in his arms.

Akshay tossed him aside.

Another man tried to flee—Akshay caught him by the leg, pulled him down, and smashed his boot into the guy's face.

The metal rod clanged against his ribs.

He turned—rage burning through his veins like wildfire.

No thought. No mercy. No hesitation.

Just war.

His knuckles were bloodied. His chest heaved. His shirt torn.

The ground was littered with bodies—some groaning, some still.

And then—

There was only one man left.

Tall. Thin.
Face masked.
Gripping a wooden staff.

The coward hesitated.

Akshay stood tall, despite the bullets in his body, despite the bleeding, despite the brutal pain that racked his limbs.

His jaw clenched. His eyes burned.

He walked toward the man.

One step. Then another.

No words.
Just blood.
Just fury.

The man flinched.

Akshay's voice came low, hoarse, soaked in crimson rage:

"You think this'll scare me?"

He spat blood onto the ground.

"You think this is enough?"

The man's grip tightened on the staff.

He swung.

Wood slammed against Akshay's side.
He grunted. Didn't fall.
Another swing—this time against his already-shot shoulder.
He staggered.

But the man didn't answer.
Didn't run.
Didn't speak.

He just swung.

Crack.

The wood slammed straight into Akshay's skull.

A white-hot explosion of pain tore through his head.

The world didn't just spin—it tilted, like someone had ripped gravity away and hurled him into another dimension.

His knees buckled first.

The asphalt felt cold.
His palm scraped the ground, catching loose gravel and blood.

Somewhere, in the distance—he could hear the faint howl of traffic. The echo of a car alarm.
But it was all drowning beneath one deafening, sharp ring in his ears.

His breath rattled.

Chest heaving.

Vision swimming.

Darkness curled around the edges of his sight like smoke.

Still—his hand moved.

Blind. Shaky. Slow.

He fumbled for the seat of his car, his body screaming in pain.

His blood-slicked fingers gripped the edge of the leather seat.

Slipped once.

Then again.

Then—found it.

His phone.

He slid it out.
Unlocked it with instinct.

Didn't think. Couldn't.
Only one name lived behind his shattered mind.

Shaurya.

The call connected.

A low dial tone buzzed in his ear, distorted and distant. His mouth tasted of blood.
Metallic. Bitter. Familiar.

His lips trembled.

A shiver ran through his spine.

He pressed the phone to his ear with whatever strength he had left.

The sky above him swirled.

His voice cracked—raw, broken, filled with the desperate sound of someone trying not to die.

"B-Bhaiya..."

His breath hitched.
Blood slipped from the corner of his mouth.

"A-aa... j-jao..."

His chest seized.
His vision went almost fully black now.

"S-Singhania... n-ne..."

CRACK.

The man slammed the staff down again—

Straight across his temple.

Brutal. Final.

The sound was sickening.

The phone slipped from his hand.

Fell beside him.

The screen was still lit.
The call still active.

But Akshay Raichand—bled into silence.

The last thing he heard was the faint echo of Shaurya's voice screaming his name through the receiver—before everything—

went black.

POV: Shaurya Raichand

The city blurred past him in streaks of yellow and white.

His hands gripped the steering wheel like it had personally wronged him.
The call had dropped.
Akshay's voice—broken, blood-choked—still echoed in his skull.

"B-Bhaiya... a-aa... j-jao... S-Singhani... n-ne..."

Then—nothing.
Just the sound of the world ending.

He didn't wait. Didn't think.
Just pressed his foot to the floor, the engine of the black Jaguar screaming like his soul had cracked open.

Blood pounded in his ears.
Every cell in his body roared with one truth—
Touch my brother, and I will burn your world down.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.
He didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.

Just rage.
Just Akshay.

He turned the last corner.

And then he saw it.

The wreckage of chaos.

Bodies littered the road like discarded trash.
All of them breathing no more.
Blood streaked across the pavement—some fresh, some already drying in the humidity.

And in the center of it all—

Akshay.

Lying there like a goddamn warrior who'd given everything.
His shirt soaked crimson. His body mangled. His phone still in his outstretched hand.

Shaurya stopped the car so hard it screeched.

He ran.

Dropped to his knees beside him.

"A-Akshay—!" his voice cracked, rage choking on grief.

He touched his face—his brother's face—still warm, but barely.
He felt for a pulse.
Faint. So faint. But there.

And that's when he saw the bullet wounds.
The bruises.
The blood pouring from his head.

His throat burned.

He didn't cry.

Not yet.

Instead—he screamed.

A deep, guttural, soul-ripping scream that shattered whatever remained of his control.

The city didn't hear it.
But the night did.

He lifted Akshay into his arms—like he weighed nothing, like death hadn't already tried to claim him—and staggered to the car.
The back door was thrown open.
He laid him down gently—then slammed it shut like war itself was behind it.

He turned.

And that's when he saw the symbol on one of the dead men's necks.

A snake. Coiled. Branded.

Singhanias.

Arvind.

He didn't move.

He didn't blink.

He just stared at it.

And his rage changed.

It stopped being fire.

It became ice. Cold. Deadly. Slow.

"You wanted war?" he whispered.

"You came for my brother?"

"You think blood will make us bow?"

"You picked the wrong fucking family."

His hands balled into fists.

His eyes burned red—not from tears, but from something older, deeper, more dangerous.

The Raichand in him.

He got into the driver's seat.

Started the engine.

The tires burned as he pulled away.

And behind him—the street lay silent, soaked in blood and consequence.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

POV: Shaurya Raichand

Time: 10:43 PM — Somewhere in Mumbai

The city blurred past him—just a haze of neon lights and shadows.

The engine roared beneath his foot like a beast barely held back, and the steering wheel burned under his grip.

He was driving like he was possessed.

Like the world had tilted sideways and only one thing mattered now—getting to the hospital before his brother bled out.

Akshay.

The name wouldn't stop echoing in his head.

His younger brother.
His pain-in-the-ass shadow.
His partner in crime.
His best friend before they knew what friendship even meant.

And now—his blood was soaking into the backseat of the car, fast and dark and unstoppable.

Shaurya stole another glance into the rearview mirror.

What he saw nearly ripped his heart out of his chest.

Akshay's body had slumped further to the side. His face was pale, lips bloodied. His arm dangled at an angle that wasn't natural.

His shirt had turned from navy to black with how much he was bleeding.

"Stay with me," Shaurya muttered, voice hoarse. His throat burned, his lungs tight.

Another glance at the mirror.

Still breathing.

Barely.

Fuck.

He turned the wheel hard, missing a divider by inches. Horns blared. A car swerved out of the way.

He didn't even look.

Red lights were just colour.
Speed limits were just suggestion.
Nothing mattered. Nothing but Akshay.

"Come on, come on—hold on, you idiot," he hissed, slamming the accelerator again.

His chest was tight. His eyes burned.

He couldn't think straight.

His mind was spiraling.

This wasn't happening.
This couldn't be happening.

"Bhaiya's here, okay?" he said again, like maybe the sound of his own voice would anchor him.

"You don't get to leave. You don't get to go like this. You have a hundred dumb things left to do with me."

And then—finally.

The glow of fluorescent lights.

RATHORE MULTI-SPECIALTY HOSPITAL.

Shaurya didn't even fully brake.

The tires screeched as he spun the car into the emergency bay, the vehicle barely stopping before he flung the door open.

He was out in seconds—running to the back, yanking the door open, arms reaching for his brother.

"Come on, come on—"

Akshay's head lolled.

Shaurya let out a sound. Not a word. Not a name. Just a raw, guttural sound of panic and rage and heartbreak rolled into one.

He lifted him up—

All 6'4 of unconscious, bleeding muscle and bone—held him like he weighed nothing.

"HELP!!" he bellowed, voice thunderous, cracked with fear.

"HE'S BEEN SHOT!! HELP!!"

The glass doors flew open.

White coats ran toward him.

A stretcher wheeled.

Shaurya laid Akshay down, hands shaking, his shirt drenched in blood.

"Vitals are weak—prepare trauma team!"

"We need the neurosurgeon on call!"

"Bullet wound to abdomen, left upper arm—suspected cranial trauma—someone page Dr. Ishra!"

Shaurya heard none of it.
His ears were ringing.
His vision had narrowed to Akshay's face.

A nurse tried to pull him back, but he grabbed her wrist.

"He's my brother," he whispered. "You save him. You save him."

She nodded, Scared of the fury in his eyes. "We will. I promise."

And then they wheeled him away.

Shaurya stood there, chest heaving, blood on his hands, his knees finally buckling—

But only for a second.

Because a Raichand didn't fall.

Not until the fight was over.

And this one had just begun.

Doctors ran. Nurses scattered. Gurney wheels screeched against tile.

A trauma team closed in instantly, surrounding Akshay as Shaurya laid him onto the stretcher, breathless, blood-soaked.

"Vitals?"

"BP dropping—90 over 60 and falling fast."

"Pulse is weak—multiple entry wounds. Arm and lower abdomen. Possible internal bleeding."

"Contusions on the back of the skull—level 3 head trauma. No response to light. He's crashing!"

"Move him! OR 3 stat!"

They raced through the corridor, pushing the gurney at top speed.

Shaurya ran alongside, refusing to let go of Akshay's hand—until a nurse blocked him.

"Sir, please. We need to prep him. You can't go beyond this point."

Shaurya froze.

His hand dropped.

His fingers were stained crimson.

Blood. His brother's.
Still warm.
Still soaking his skin.

His legs didn't move—but the doors did, swallowing Akshay inside.

Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Flatline threat.

Behind the doors—chaos broke loose.

"Type and cross for six units of O-negative blood!"

"Prep the defibrillator!"

"Notify neurosurgery and general trauma—NOW."

A junior nurse bolted toward the intercom, slamming her hand on the pager button.

Her voice shook, but she forced calm into it.

"Dr. Ishra Rathore—code red surgical alert. Emergency neurotrauma, OR 3. Repeat—Dr. Ishra Rathore to OR 3 immediately."

The hospital walls seemed to hold their breath.

A moment passed.

Somewhere in the upper floors—a woman in scrubs turned her head.

Dark hair tied back. Mask already on. Sharp eyes narrowing as the voice echoed again.

"Ishra Rathore to OR 3. Stat."

She didn't hesitate.

Clipboard dropped.
Stethoscope grabbed.
And then she ran.

The overhead lights flashed red. Emergency codes bled across the LED panels. Doors opened in sequence.

Inside the OR, a nurse barked, "Five minutes max. We don't have longer."

The anaesthesiologist turned to the lead trauma surgeon.

"We need neuro. Now."

The doors flew open.

And Ishra walked in.

Still masked. Still unknown.

The Raichands wouldn't recognize her.

And she wouldn't recognize the man lying bloody on the table.

Not yet.

All she saw was a patient. A life to save. A beating heart slowing down.

She snapped on gloves, sterile and calm.

"Scalpel. Craniotomy tray. Now."

The room obeyed.

The storm had arrived.

INT. RATHORE MULTI-SPECIALTY HOSPITAL – WAITING HALLWAY OUTSIDE OR3 – NIGHT
Time stands still.

The pale white walls glowed under fluorescent lights, cold and unforgiving.

The air reeked of antiseptic... and fear.

Of blood... and heartbreak.

Of silence so loud, it crushed every breath.

Every Raichand was there.

They weren't just a powerful family now.
They were just a family.
Broken. Waiting. Powerless.

AAMAANI RAICHAND stood at the far end, spine too straight, grief too tight in her chest to allow movement. Her hands were clasped together—bone-white knuckles pressing so hard, it looked like prayer. But her lips didn't move.

Her eyes?
Staring down the hallway like they could bargain with time.
But time wasn't listening.

VEDANT RAICHAND—Akshay's uncle, the iron-willed CEO, the storm in boardrooms—stood like a statue of rage.

He didn't speak.

Didn't blink.

But his eyes... they were lit with fire.
Rage. Blame. Fury.
Guilt.

A single muscle ticked in his jaw—like it was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

RYESHA was crumpled on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, her designer kurti stained with mascara tears and dirt from the hospital tiles. She wasn't crying anymore—her voice had run out.

Now she rocked slightly.

Whispering broken, half-forgotten prayers no one had taught her properly.
God didn't seem to answer anyway.

Her entire body flinched with every sound from the OR.

Beside her, IRANYA sat on the floor too, one arm wrapped tightly around Ryesha, the other clutching her own wrist as if holding herself together.

Iranya's sobs were silent.
But constant.
Tears fell like a quiet monsoon.

INAAYA stood by the far corner, away from the group—fists pressed hard against her lips. She was trying not to cry.

But her shoulders betrayed her.

They trembled.

And trembled.

And finally—broke.

She folded.

Literally.

Sank to her knees on the linoleum floor, her leather boots slipping beneath her, her hands covering her face as a guttural sob escaped her throat. She hadn't cried in years.

Not like this.

"He said he'd be back in ten minutes," she whispered.

No one replied.

She didn't expect them to.

Her brother. Her heart. Her protector. Her chaos. Her laughter.
Bleeding somewhere behind closed doors.
And she couldn't do anything.

AKSHARA RAICHAND—Akshay's mother—was in the worst state of all.

She was on her knees.

Not sitting.
Not standing.
On. Her. Knees.

Her face buried in her palms. Her bangles clinking as her arms shook violently.

She was wailing.
Soft. Loud. Broken. Muffled.
No rhythm. No restraint.

The cry of a mother who didn't know if her child would come back.

Every few seconds she would tear her hands away and look toward the hallway—as if maybe this time, someone would walk out and say he's fine.

They didn't.

And her hands would fly back to her mouth as she sobbed harder.

Her husband, Arhaan Raichand, sat behind her on a chair—his face pale, eyes dead.

He didn't cry.

He didn't move.

He just sat there, elbows on his knees, fingers twitching.

His only son was bleeding inside that operation theatre.
And he couldn't fix it.

He wasn't a father right now.

Just a man, drowning silently in pain.

And then—Shaurya.

Shaurya Raichand.

The eldest.

The protector.

The one who always stood tall for the others.

He stood alone now, by the window, his hands covered in Akshay's blood. Still wet.

His white shirt ruined.
His sleeves torn.
His fists clenched so tightly that his nails had cut into his own skin.

His eyes were red.

Not from tears.

From fire.

"Should've never let him go alone," he whispered.

His voice was low.

No one heard it.

But everyone felt it.

Because it wasn't just guilt.

It was rage.
Boiling. Screaming. Suffocating.
He had failed.

Not as a cousin.

As a brother.

He turned and punched the wall beside him.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Until the skin on his knuckles peeled.

Nobody stopped him.

Even Vedant didn't say a word.

Because if Shaurya hadn't brought Akshay in time...
He would've been dead already.

And that thought?

That possibility?

Was already enough to destroy him.

The only sounds in the corridor now were:

The faint beeping of machines from inside OR 3.

The distant, clinical commands of doctors.

And the muffled, broken crying of women who loved him.

And somewhere beyond those steel doors—a masked woman was fighting to bring him back.

Ishra Rathore.

Not knowing that the boy on her table...

Was the blood of her family's sworn enemies.

Not knowing her fate had already entangled with this BROTHER SOON.

Not knowing her hands held the one boy whose family could break everything.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Outside OR-3, Rathore Multi-Specialty Hospital

1:17 AM.

The corridor had gone too quiet.

Too still.

No updates for hours.

The doctors had taken Akshay straight from emergency triage to surgery, shouting codes, scanning him mid-run, whispering things Shaurya wasn't supposed to hear.

Words like "hemorrhage."
"Skull fracture."
"Blood pressure unstable."

Those words hadn't left Shaurya's ears since.

He stood.

Pacing.

Hands bloodied, brows drawn, heart clawing inside his ribs.

Everyone else had sunk into waiting-room paralysis — staring at walls, whispering half-prayers. But Shaurya couldn't sit. Couldn't rest. His body was running on rage and adrenaline and dread.

And then—

The OR doors opened.

All heads turned.

The lights overhead flickered slightly, casting long shadows across the white floor.

And out stepped a doctor—still masked, gloved hands red-stained, scrubs darkened with sweat and surgical antiseptic.

Slim build. Straight posture. Calm.

Ishra Rathore.

None of them recognized her beneath the mask.

Not even Shaurya, who looked directly at her.

But her voice—

Soft. Clear. Warm.

"He's alive."

The words sliced through the air like thunder in monsoon skies.

Akshara sobbed out loud.

Ryesha fell into Iranya's arms, wailing.

Aamani gripped Vedant's wrist, unable to breathe.

And Inaaya—Inaaya let her head fall against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, lips trembling as she silently cried.

Shaurya didn't react.

Not right away.

His knees locked.

He just stared.

Unmoving.

"He's stable for now," the doctor continued, still masked. "Bullet in the arm was clean. Abdomen was harder, but we controlled the bleeding. Skull impact was dangerous... but we managed. He's in recovery. You can see him, two at a time."

Ryesha was the first to speak, voice breaking:

"Can we—can we please see him?"

Ishra nodded once.

"Yes. Briefly. He's unconscious, but... he'll wake up soon."

That was all they needed.

The sisters ran.

Ryesha. Iranya. Inaaya. They didn't even wait to be escorted—just broke into a run toward the recovery ward.

Aamani and Akshara followed slowly, held up by Arhaan, whose legs seemed to be barely holding him up.

Vedant was last to go, his hand brushing Shaurya's arm for half a second.

But Shaurya didn't move.

He hadn't moved at all.

And then—he did.

He collapsed.

Right there in the hallway.

To his knees.

The sound of bone hitting tile echoed strangely.

His palms hit the floor next. Then his shoulders hunched forward, chest heaving like a man gasping for life underwater.

He didn't cry.

Not loudly.

But his face twisted, and his shoulders trembled, and a choked sound escaped his throat—

Like a sob that had been strangled for hours.

He pressed a bloodied hand over his eyes.

The kind of breakdown men like Shaurya never allowed themselves.

But tonight—he didn't care.

The relief was too much.

The guilt, too sharp.

He should've been the one shot.
He should've gone with him.
He should've protected him.

"Bhaiya..."
That word left Akshay's lips like a child.

And he broke.

He broke like the ocean breaks over rocks.

Until—

A hand touched his shoulder.

Gentle.

Warm.

He looked up through blurry eyes.

The doctor—still masked—Ishra—stood before him.

She didn't speak.

Just knelt beside him quietly, one gloved hand still on his shoulder, the other hovering hesitantly near his hand.

"He's safe," she said softly. "You don't have to carry it all now."

And he nodded. Barely.

Not knowing who she was.

Not knowing that fate had just tangled two more hearts.

He didn't thank her.

He couldn't speak.

But in that moment, something passed between them.

Not attraction.

Not recognition.

Just humanity.

Raw. Quiet. Unnamed.

Two strangers—grieving in the same silence.

And for the first time that night—

Shaurya let himself believe Akshay would live.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

POV: Inaaya Raichand
Rathore Hospital – Recovery Room

The beeping was steady.

Steady, thank God.

That alone was enough to make Inaaya drop to her knees beside the hospital bed, burying her face in the sheet near Akshay's unbandaged hand.

He looked like he had drowned in blood and come back.

Tubed. Hooked to machines. One arm suspended. Abdomen wrapped in thick gauze. Face pale. Lips dry. But—he was alive.

"Bhai..." she whispered, not lifting her face. "We thought we lost you."

Behind her, Iranya stood frozen near the window, arms hugging herself, eyes wide, as if seeing him like this would break him more.
Ryesha was already sobbing, holding the bedrail like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

"He's not supposed to fall," she kept saying softly. "Not him. Not our Akshay bhaiya. He always walks through fire."

Iranya finally moved, kneeling next to Inaaya, brushing Akshay's sweat-matted hair from his forehead. Her lips trembled.

"He'll walk through this too," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

And then—his fingers twitched.

"D-Did you see that?" Inaaya gasped, sitting upright, eyes wide. "He moved! He—he's waking up!"

"Doctor!" Ryesha screamed, bolting out the door, her voice echoing down the corridor.

But they didn't wait.

They didn't move.

They hovered.

Eyes locked on him, as Akshay's lashes fluttered.

Slow. Shaky.

He winced.

The light. The sound. The pain.

His breath hitched, and a sharp groan left his throat.

"Bhaiya—!" Iranya cried.

"Shhh..." Inaaya cupped his bruised jaw gently. "We're here. We're right here."

His eyes cracked open.

Barely.

But enough.

Enough to see them.

The blur of three silhouettes. Familiar voices. Familiar warmth.

"Y-You all..." he rasped, voice weak, mouth dry. "Crying... again? What... what'd I miss?"

Inaaya laughed through her tears. "Almost your funeral, idiot."

He smiled—barely, and painfully.

Then—

"Aamani Maa?"

He said, asking for his aunt, didn't have to ask if she was there.

He just knew she would be.

And sure enough—Aamani Raichand stepped forward from the door.

Her hands were over her mouth. Her face stained with tears.

She hadn't moved earlier.

She'd just watched from the threshold, as if crossing into that room would break her.

But when he called for her—

She broke.

She rushed to him, falling to her knees beside the bed, clutching the same hand Inaaya had been holding.

"Don't you dare do that again," she sobbed, pressing his hand to her cheek. "You hear me? Don't you ever do that to me again—Akshay—my boy—my lion—"

He let out a shallow, tired chuckle.

"I knew... you'd cry the loudest."

"You almost died!" she wailed.

"I'm still prettier than Vedant chachu," he whispered hoarsely. "That's what matters."

They all laughed, even through their tears.

It was broken. Soft. But it was laughter.

And then—

Akshara Raichand stumbled in.

Disheveled. Eyes red. Her dupatta nearly falling off her shoulders.

Her sobbing hadn't stopped once since he went into surgery.

Now she stood frozen, seeing him awake.

"Maa..." he croaked.

She dropped.

Right next to him, clutching his chest.

"Maa's here," she whispered frantically. "Maa's right here, beta, I'm here, you're safe, you're okay, you're—you're—"

He lifted his uninjured arm slowly, painfully, and curled it around her shoulders.

"Shhh," he murmured, pulling her close, kissing the top of her head like he was the one soothing her.

"Main kahaan jaaunga, Maa?"
"Aapke bina toh Rab bhi dar jaaye." (Where would I go, Maa? Even God would be scared without you.)

She cried harder.

He let her.

And held her like it was his only job.

And then—

Two more shadows entered.

Vedant.
And Arhaan.

Both silent. Pale.

Fathers who had been powerless. Men who didn't cry, but looked like they had aged ten years in a night.

Akshay looked at them.

Long.

And proud.

"Chachu," he rasped to Vedant. "I didn't mess up your car too bad."

Vedant's eyes shimmered, and for a moment, his stern mask cracked.

"You could've died. And you're thinking about the car?"

"Someone has to," Akshay whispered with a smirk. "You love that car more than me."

And then—he turned to his father.

"Papa..."

Arhaan took one step closer. Then two.

He didn't touch him.

But his voice cracked.

"You scared me."

"I scare everyone," Akshay whispered, smiling faintly.

"Not like this."

And then—

"I'm sorry, Papa."

Arhaan finally leaned down, pressed a hand over his son's heart, and whispered:

"Just live, beta. Just live."

The Raichands didn't leave the room that night. Not even once.

And for the first time in a long time—despite all their pain and pride—they were whole.

In blood.
In bruises.
In tears.

In love.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

POV: Shaurya Raichand
Recovery Room – Rathore Hospital

He hadn't entered yet.

He had stood outside the glass wall for what felt like forever, staring at the scene inside with a clenched jaw and storm-red eyes. The room was filled with muffled sobs, soft words, and the steady beep of a monitor that had become the heartbeat of the entire Raichand family.

But it was Akshay—the one lying bruised, bandaged, half-alive in that hospital bed—who had carried Shaurya's breath in his lungs all night.

He hadn't wiped the blood off his hands. Couldn't. Wouldn't.

It felt like betrayal.

Shaurya finally stepped in.

The door didn't creak. The room didn't shift. But everyone... felt him.

Inaaya turned first. Then Iranya. Then Ryesha.

Even Akshara and Arhaan looked toward the door with raw, hollow eyes.

But it was Akshay who turned his head—slow, wincing, but unmistakably Akshay.

Their eyes met.

And something shattered inside Shaurya.

He couldn't move.

He just stood there, fists clenched at his sides, the collar of his bloodstained shirt hanging open, eyes rimmed red but not blinking.

He had been screaming inside the entire time.

"I should've driven with you."

The words were rough. Like bark scraping against gravel. But they came.

No one said anything. The family stepped aside, giving him space.

Shaurya walked forward—slowly, like he didn't deserve to be there—and stopped beside the bed.

He couldn't look at the machines.
Couldn't look at the blood.
Couldn't look at the white gauze over his brother's abdomen.

He only looked at him.

"I let you go alone."

Akshay smiled. Weak. Lopsided. But it was there.

"Oh c'mon... Bhaiya," he rasped, "you make it sound like you left me on a battlefield."

"You were ambushed," Shaurya snapped, voice low and hard. "Seven cars. Guns. Machetes. Bullets. You almost died. And I—I—"

His voice broke. For the first time.

His fists curled tighter.

"I was a few kilometres ahead. And I didn't even fucking notice."

"Bhaiya—"

"No," Shaurya cut him off. "Don't. Don't make it easier for me. I deserve this guilt."

Akshay blinked at him. The machines kept beeping, soft and steady.

Then—

"Well, since you're feeling guilty, I'm thinking steak dinner, upgraded car, and maybe a small country in Europe as compensation."

Shaurya looked at him like he couldn't believe he'd just made a joke.

Akshay smirked—barely—but it was him. The same smirk that used to drive him crazy.

"You should've seen me, bhaiya... It was like a Bollywood action sequence. One guy came at me with a machete—bam—dislocated jaw. Another with a rod?—crack—broken ribs. Then bullets—two, might I add. But your boy? Still standing."

"You killed them?" Shaurya asked, voice low.

"Almost all," Akshay nodded faintly. "One ran. Coward. Knocked me with a stick from behind."

He chuckled dryly, then winced.

"I really should've gone to Ryesha's college. Would've been less... dramatic."

Shaurya didn't smile.

His throat worked.

"I saw you on the ground, Akshay. Blood all over the road. Your eyes rolled back. And your phone was still clutched in your hand. You called me before you even hit the ground."

Akshay blinked again, slower now.

"Of course I did. Who else would've driven like a maniac to save me?"

Shaurya exhaled sharply.

"I didn't save you. I got there too late. You saved yourself."

Akshay's gaze softened.

He lifted a hand—barely, trembling—and flicked Shaurya's shoulder weakly.

"Then how about this—we both saved me. Teamwork."

Shaurya's lips twitched. His eyes welled.

"I don't want to lose you, Akshay."

Akshay stared at him for a long second. Then smiled.

"You won't."

"You say that like you weren't half dead two hours ago."

"Well, jokes on them," Akshay whispered, "Raichands don't die easy."

Shaurya let out a half-laugh, half-sob, then grabbed a chair and sat beside him, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

He let the silence hang for a while.

Then:

"I thought of every worst-case scenario on the way to the hospital. I imagined Papa identifying your body. Maa collapsing. Ryesha screaming. I—I couldn't even breathe."

Akshay closed his eyes briefly.

"Bhaiya."

Shaurya looked at him.

"You were there. That's what matters. You picked me up when no one else would've reached in time. You didn't let me die alone."

Shaurya swallowed hard.

Akshay smiled again—soft, loving, tired.

"So stop blaming yourself. I don't need a guilty brother. I need my stubborn-ass, overly dramatic, protective-as-hell bhaiya."

That broke him.

Shaurya reached forward, cupping the side of Akshay's face with one shaking hand, forehead nearly resting against his brother's.

"Idiot," he whispered. "Couldn't even make it through the week without a murder attempt."

Akshay chuckled. "What can I say? I'm built for drama."

Both men sat there. Still. Breathing.

The Raichands stood around them—silent, watching—but no one interrupted.

Because there, in that sterile hospital room, under fluorescent lights and the hum of machines, two brothers broke and healed in the same breath.

Together.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

✨ Author's Note — by your slightly insane writer Ishani ✨

HELLOOO, my lovely chaotic readers 🤍
Are y'all okay?
No?
GOOD 😌

Because SAME.
I wrote this whole chapter with tears in my eyes, an energy drink in one hand, and an unfinished assignment rotting in the background.
But did that stop me? No.
Because Akshay Raichand needed to be protected.
Because Shaurya needed to cry.
And because family drama + near-death experience + mysterious masked angel = PEAK CINEMA.

Let's take a moment...
Akshay, bleeding out but STILL making jokes?? Husband material.
Shaurya, angry-driving like a Formula 1 villain just to save his baby brother?? Father of my future kids.
Ishra, the surgeon who SAVED HIS BROTHER'S LIFE... without even knowing they're soul-tied enemies-to-lovers in the making?? HAH.
The chokehold these fictional people have on me is honestly illegal.

Also, I see you all quietly reading like you're not obsessed 👁
Don't be shy—drop a comment, scream in the reviews, and if you're really down bad? Smash that vote button like Shaurya smashed that hospital door.

And yes.
I have 3 essays due.
No, I haven't started.
But guess what I have done?
Made you cry, scream, and fall for 2 emotionally repressed men and one unconscious boy.

You're welcome. 💋

Now excuse me while I go sob over Shaurya being comforted by Ishra like she didn't just touch the soul of the man she's destined to marry and emotionally destroy.

—

Comment. Vote. Cry with me. Or I'll personally send Aryan Singhania to your door.

With love, rage, and fictional pain,
Ishani (Queen of delaying deadlines in the name of drama) 🫶🔥

𓆩❤︎𓆪