The room air was thick with the metallic tang of fear and tension. Mr. Sidharth's eyes darted wildly across the room, searching for any escape. Every door, every window, every vent he considered was either blocked, or under the watchful gaze of the team advancing outside.
Mr. Sidharth froze, a cold realization spreading through his chest like ice. There was no escape.
Time slowed. His breaths came sharp and uneven. His pride — the same pride that had made him ruthless, calculating, untouchable — now screamed that capture was worse than death.
His eyes flicked to the gun, and a terrible decision crystallized. He would not be humiliated. He would not give them the satisfaction of taking him alive.
A shaky hand raised the gun to his temple. His pulse thundered in his ears, every heartbeat a deafening drum. For a brief, lingering moment, the room held its breath with him, suspended between life and the irrevocable choice he was about to make.
Then — the shot rang out.
The crack of the gun echoed, sharp and final. The room seemed to shudder with the sound. Mr. Sidharth's body slumped to the floor, a single trickle of blood marking the cold gray carpet. Silence followed, thick and suffocating.
A heartbeat later, Arun and Abhi stepped over the threshold. They moved with careful precision, guns still raised, scanning the room. Their eyes fell on the motionless figure on the floor.
They lowered their gun, letting the weight of the moment settle in the room.
Arun knelt briefly beside Sidharth, checking for any signs of life, though both knew it was futile.
The man who had sown chaos and terror in their lives now lay silent, his final act one of pride-fueled desperation.
The team outside paused at the door, sensing the shift in the room's energy. The threat had ended — abruptly, violently, irrevocably.
Arun straightened, exhaling slowly. "I had to inform Papa," he murmured.
But Abhi said nothing. In his silence, the weight of survival pressed heavier than victory. This was not the end they wanted— only another scar in a war that had taken too much already.
But in the quiet that followed, no one dared move. The room held only the stillness of death, the weight of survival, and the unspoken understanding that victory had come at the edge of a blade.
...
[Half an hour Later]
The room still smelled faintly of gunpowder. The silence was heavy — not empty, but thick with everything that had just happened.
Arun sat in the lone chair near the center, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely clasped. His face was calm, but his eyes carried the weight of minutes that had felt like years.
Across from him, Abhi leaned against the wall, arms folded. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor for a moment, then flicked briefly toward Arun, heavy with unspoken care.
Around them, their men stood in quiet vigilance — weapons lowered, but senses still sharp, as though danger might return with the next breath.
The door opened.
Mr. Singh entered first, his steps firm yet hesitant. Mr. Rawat followed close behind, his face pale with exhaustion.
Behind them came Mr. Raj and Annaya, their expressions tight with worry.
For a moment, no one spoke. Their eyes moved across the room — taking in the overturned chair, the shattered glass on the floor, and then the lifeless, white-covered body of Mr. Sidharth sprawled near the far corner.
Mr. Singh's jaw tightened. He exhaled slowly, the sound heavy in the silence. He couldn't believe how everything had turned out like this. They were brothers — one family. And the thought of his own brother trying to kill his sons left him unable to shed tears for Sidharth.
He shifted his gaze to Arun. "Where's Ayan?" he asked, voice low but edged with strain.
Arun rose to his feet, finally sensing their presence.
"He's safe," he said, steady and sure. "He's with Aarav. They're both on their way here."
The words seemed to ease something in the room. Mr. Singh's shoulders dropped a little. His tense expression softened, though only slightly.
Even the others let out a quiet breath they had been holding for too long.
"They're safe…" Mr. Rawat repeated under his breath, as if trying to convince himself it was real.
There was a hint of warmth among them — faint, fragile, but real. After everything that had happened, the thought of their sons being safe was enough to let them breathe again.
...
The faint echo of hurried footsteps filled the corridor outside. Everyone turned toward the door just as it opened — and two familiar figures stepped inside.
Ayan and Aarav.
For a moment, the room seemed to still. Then, a collective breath of relief broke through the heavy silence.
Abhi was the first to move. He crossed the distance quickly, his eyes scanning his brother from head to toe as though needing proof they were truly unharmed.
Arun was already on his feet. His chair scraped softly against the floor as he stepped forward, eyes locking onto Ayan.
"You're both fine?" Abhi asked, his voice low but tight with the worry he didn't bother to hide.
Aarav nodded, a warm, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. "We're fine," he said softly, his hand hovering briefly over Ayan's.
Arun's gaze lingered on Ayan too — protective, almost brotherly — before drifting toward Abhi. Abhi exhaled; not a sigh, but the slow release of fear.
Their eyes met briefly, sharing a quiet acknowledgment neither had to voice.
Mr. Singh stepped forward, his expression shifting between relief and curiosity. "Where did they take you, Ayan?" he asked, his tone gentler than his eyes.
Ayan straightened, his voice quiet but clear. "To Mr. Mayank's personal office."
Mr. Singh's brows furrowed. "Mayank?" His tone sharpened, disbelief edging through. "He made an alliance with Sidharth?"
Annaya, who had been standing near Mr. Raj, spoke before the misinterpretation could take root.
"No, Uncle," she said softly. "Mr. Mayank was never against us. He's been helping from the beginning — secretly. He passed information to Arun while pretending to work for Mr. Sidharth."
Mr. Singh's expression froze — then slowly, it broke into a stunned exhale. "He… was helping us?"
Arun nodded, his usually composed demeanor softening. "That brochure, Papa — we all thought it was Shubham's, but actually it was Uncle Sidharth's. I suspected him since then. And later, Mayank called to inform me that Uncle Sidharth had come to him, asking for a favour."
A subtle wave of realization rippled through the room. Mr. Singh exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly as the truth settled in.
He turned his gaze to Aarav, the faintest smile breaking through his exhaustion. "Thank you for protecting him," he murmured, pride softening his tone.
Then, as the others turned away — easing, talking softly — Mr. Singh's gaze found Mr. Rawat's across the room.
Neither spoke — not a word, not even a sigh. Just the weight of shared history passing silently between them.
Then, without breaking composure, Mr. Singh turned slightly toward Mr. Raj. His voice, though calm, carried the edge of exhaustion.
"Prepare for Sidharth's cremation."
Mr. Raj bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, sir."
Mr. Rawat drew a slow breath, his chest rising with a mix of weariness and restraint. He didn't look at Mr. Singh again. His lips parted slightly, as if to speak — but the words stayed behind, trapped somewhere between hesitation and heart.
Some silences, after all, were too full to break.