The car moved steadily like a blade cutting through the heat and traffic.

  It was a Mercedes-Maybach S Class, that slid past the roads, its polished body reflecting distorted images of honking cars and impatient faces.

  Inside the car, the air felt sealed off— quiet, isolated, detached.

  The only noise was the radio crackling endlessly, buzzing with static and desperately trying to catch a signal.

  The sound filled the interior, monotonous and lifeless, as if the sound itself didn't want to cooperate.

  The driver sat in the front, straight backed and emotionless, dressed in a crisp, ironed suit.

  His eyes were locked on the road, focused forward, trained not to ask any questions.

  In the back sat another passenger.

  He was in the middle of pulling on his shirt, carefully tucking it in while seated.

  For a brief moment— just before the fabric fell into place— his bare torso was visible.

  Thick, white bandages wrapped around his abdomen, tight around the skin that was still healing.

  Those bandages told a story of the person who endured all of it— being treated in haste, rising from the operation bed, watching old cartoons with blank eyes, chewing on medicines, only to be handed a suit and told to leave immediately.

  Once the shirt was fully on, he adjusted himself amidst the static of the radio.

  He straightened his collar.

  He fixed his tie with precision.

  He slipped on his blazer quietly.

  Each moment was controlled, almost detached.

  The interior of the car felt heavy and unnatural.

  And just then, the car came to an instant halt.

  The driver stepped out, walked around and opened the back door like he was trained to do so.

  As the person stepped out, the static buzz was instantly replaced by the real world— blaring horns, shouting voices, engines roaring, people moving.

  All that noise hit at once, overwhelming and intermixed, announcing how the real world didn't actually care.

  The heat was brutal— the sun burned down on everyone without any mercy.

  And yet, the person was somehow untouched by all of it.

  Because a massive shadow of a building swallowed him completely.

  Before him, stood the towering building, rising above the place with an almost oppressive presence.

  It's glass and steel reflected light coldly, metallic letters gleamed sharply, unmistakable and commanding.

  B L C.

  Behind him, the driver was already on a call.

  "Yes sir," he said quietly, "He's in Delhi. We're right outside the main BLC building."

  As the seconds passed, the clouds shifted.

  The sunlight grew harsher, brighter, finally cutting through the building's shadow.

  Slowly the man's face escaped the shadows, lit by the sun.

  It was Tarun Singh.

  The face was familiar— but only by structure.

  The expressions were unrecognisable.

  The jolly, energetic, endlessly lively boy who once laughed without restraint was gone.

  In his place, stood someone hollow. His eyes were dull, drained of warmth, carrying no trace of hope. It was as if the life inside him had shut down, leaving only what was necessary to move.

  The driver stepped forward and gently patted Tarun's back— a quiet reminder that he cannot step back.

  And Tarun didn't hesitate either.

  Without reluctance, without pause, he stepped forward. His posture was straight, his walk steady and confident, every step firm.

  As he reached the entrance of the building, the glass doors— guarded by two silent men— slid open on their own.

  Just like that, Tarun crossed the threshold.

  With every step inside, the light behind him faded. The shadow of the building wrapped him completely, swallowing his figure as he went deep within.

  He walked away from the sun.

  And into the darkness inside.

  ——————————————

  It was almost time for school to end.

  The corridors outside Principal Mehra’s cabin had begun to empty, footsteps fading, voices dissolving into distant echoes.

  Inside, however, the air was thick and unmoving.

  Yug, Rishabh, Kritika, and Vivek stood in a straight line before the principal’s desk, the weight of the room pressing down on them.

  It was the same Friday—the day they had crossed a line.

  The day they had breached the CCTV room through deceit.

  Principal Mehra sat still, hands folded, his gaze slow and deliberate as it moved from one face to another.

  There was disappointment in his eyes, but something sharper beneath it—betrayal. It lingered longest on Rishabh and Kritika. From them, especially, he had expected better.

  “I didn’t expect this from you,” he said at last.

  His voice was colder than they had ever heard it.

  Flat. Controlled. Unforgiving.

  Yug opened his mouth instinctively, but before a word could escape, the principal’s eyes snapped toward him.

  “I haven't asked you to speak yet, Yug Verma.”

  Yug froze, his jaw tightening shut.

  Principal Mehra continued, each word measured, each accusation precise. “You breached the CCTV room. You falsified documents. You interfered with matters you were never permitted to touch.”

  Kritika’s lips parted, her voice trembling despite herself. “We… had to do it, sir.”

  The principal looked straight at her.

  No anger. No softness.

  “Enough.”

  The single word shut her down completely.

  Rishabh stood stiff, swallowing hard.

  He knew better than to speak now—knew that moments like these demanded silence, not explanations.

  Vivek, on the other hand, looked utterly terrified. His hands trembled slightly at his sides.

  He had never been dragged into something like this before. Never this serious.

  “This is a school,” Principal Mehra said firmly. “And you are just students. Nothing more.”

  There was a pause.

  Then came the verdict.

  “So, keeping your arrogance in mind,” he said, his tone final, “I declare your suspension. For one week.”

  The words hit them all at once.

  Shock flickered across four faces—wide eyes, stiff backs, shallow breaths.

  A week. It wasn’t permanent, but it was enough to change everything.

  “Your parents will be informed on Monday,” the principal added calmly, “keeping in mind the upcoming weekend.”

  That was it.

  They were dismissed.

  The four of them walked out of the cabin in silence, the door closing softly behind them. Only when they reached the corridor did the tension finally crack.

  “I knew something like this would happen,” Vivek snapped first, his voice edged with anger and fear. “I knew it.”

  Kritika exhaled sharply. “I think… there must’ve been a better way.”

  Yug didn’t respond.

  He kept walking, eyes fixed ahead, his thoughts spiraling far beyond the school walls.

  “I shouldn’t have done this with you guys,” Vivek muttered bitterly.

  Rishabh stopped and turned to him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think of a better way.”

  Kritika hesitated, then spoke. “Now that we know where Tarun is, at BLC, I don’t think he’s reachable.”

  “No,” Rishabh said immediately. “We can’t give up like this. I think… the one-week suspension might actually help us. There’ll be no one to stop us.”

  Vivek stared at him in disbelief. “Have you lost it?!” he hissed. “We stand no chance against BLC. Let’s just… give up.”

  Kritika nodded reluctantly. “I think Vivek’s right. We should inform higher authorities. Give them all the proof. I don’t want to get into messed-up trouble…”

  Her voice dropped. “…Again.”

  That was when Yug stopped.

  “No.”

  The word was sharp enough to cut through everything.

  All eyes turned toward him—some doubtful, some wary, some desperate.

  “We’ll stop when we find Tarun,” Yug said firmly.

  Suspicion mixed with something else—belief, maybe, or fear of how certain he sounded.

  “We can’t just give up on him,” Yug continued. “Did he ever give up on us?”

  No one answered.

  Because they remembered.

  Tarun shielding Rishabh.

  Tarun taking hits for Kritika.

  Tarun diving into the darkest corners of a tuition center for Vivek.

  Tarun—who walked into their lives and turned them into something brighter, something stronger, someone who laughed, who made them laugh, no matter how bad things were.

  “He protected all of us,” Yug said quietly. “No matter how much he had to… bleed. And now we’re thinking of giving up?”

  His voice hardened. “He did it willingly. And if he’s forced to stay there, then there’s a really… really bad reason behind it.”

  Something shifted.

  “He’s bleeding for us,” Yug went on. “And if we walk away now, we’re just letting it happen. In his words, we’re losers who let others bleed for us selfishly.”

  He stepped forward and extended his hand.

  “So tell me,” he said, eyes burning, “who doesn’t want to be one?”

  For a moment, no one moved.

  Then Rishabh placed his hand over Yug’s.

  Kritika followed.

  Finally—after a long hesitation—Vivek added his.

  All eyes turned to Rishabh.

  He read the fear on their faces.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  The resolve. The uncertainty.

  “There’s no proper way,” he admitted. “But we take this weekend to prepare. And before our parents find out…”

  He took a breath.

  “…we leave.”

  “Leave?” Kritika asked.

  Rishabh nodded. “For Delhi.”

  Silence followed.

  They were scared. Reluctant.

  Completely out of their depth.

  But their goal was the same now.

  One last effort.

  One final fight.

  To bring Tarun back.

  ——————————————

  The room was already sinking into darkness.

  One by one, students picked up their bags and filtered out, chairs scraping softly against the floor, their voices fading as dispersal finally arrived.

  The dim tube lights flickered weakly, casting long, uneven shadows that clung to the corners of the room like something alive.

  Manav Prakash was also one of them.

  He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed toward the exit.

  Just before stepping out, he paused and glanced back into the shadows.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  For a moment, there was nothing.

  Then a low voice answered from somewhere unseen.

  “I’ll be late. Tired.”

  Manav nodded without questioning it and stepped out. As he did, someone brushed past his shoulder, moving into the room instead of leaving it.

  Manav froze.

  He turned.

  Yug Verma.

  Manav stood there, confused, watching as Yug moved forward without acknowledging him. Something about Yug’s posture made Manav stop walking.

  He stayed near the doorway, silent, instinctively knowing he was about to witness something he wasn’t meant to.

  Yug moved to the center of the room, his footsteps echoing slightly in the hollow space. He stopped, lifted his head, and spoke with a voice that cut through the darkness.

  “Vijay. I need your help.”

  The room remained silent.

  A hand slowly emerged from the shadows, fingers relaxed, movements unhurried—like the room belonged to him.

  “Oi,” the voice said calmly. “Light it.”

  A student who was about to leave hesitated, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a lighter.

  He flicked it open and leaned forward, lighting the cigarette resting between unseen lips.

  The flame flared.

  For a second, the light only revealed smoke—then sharp cheekbones, a tilted grin, and eyes that didn’t blink.

  Vijay Chauhan.

  The fire reflected in his eyes as he leaned forward, cigarette between his lips. The lighter trembled slightly in the student’s hand.

  The lighter snapped shut, plunging the room back into darkness except for the faint red glow of the cigarette.

  He walked slowly, deliberately, until he stood inches away from Yug.

  And with it, Vijay’s face fully emerged—half lit, half swallowed by shadow, like the darkness itself was choosing to keep him.

  Smoke curled lazily around his face, drifting upward like a crown.

  Vijay took a drag, then smirked.

  “You need help?” he asked, amusement dripping from every word. “And you think I’ll help you?”

  Yug didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch, even as smoke was blown deliberately into his face.

  “You’re the best person to ask,” Yug said calmly.

  Vijay’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion—and interest—passing through them. He tilted his head slightly.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s about your father,” Yug continued. “Vikrant—”

  Vijay’s expression snapped instantly, anger flashing across his face.

  Yug corrected himself without missing a beat. “—Vikrant sir’s company. BLC.”

  Vijay inhaled sharply.

  For the first time, his confidence seemed to waver.

  Yug pressed on. “We need to get inside. And there’s no one who knows that place better than you. The son of the owner.”

  Vijay scoffed, straightening up. “I don’t interfere in my father’s work,” he said coldly. “Especially not if you profit from it.”

  “A temporary alliance,” Yug replied. “That’s all I ask for. You and me.”

  He extended his hand.

  Vijay stared at it for a second.

  Then, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled smoke straight into Yug’s face.

  Yug coughed—but didn’t move.

  “And in return—” Yug started.

  But Vijay burst into laughter.

  It wasn’t normal laughter. It was loud, sharp, mocking—echoing off the walls as if the room itself was laughing with him.

  He bent forward, clutching his stomach, laughing harder with every second.

  “You’re still going on!” he shouted between breaths. “God, you’re hilarious!”

  Yug clenched his jaw. He knew it.

  This wasn’t going to work—not like this.

  After a long moment, he spoke again.

  His voice was lower now. Strained.

  “Vijay… just for once. Please.”

  Vijay stopped laughing.

  He studied Yug, eyes searching his face, sensing the desperation beneath the calm.

  Then, without warning, he laughed even harder than before.

  He straightened up and wiped imaginary tears from his eyes. “You really need my help,” he said, still grinning. “Fine. I agree.”

  Yug’s eyes lit up for a fraction of a second. “But?”

  Vijay smirked.

  “Oh, you know me really well, loser. But…”

  Yug braced himself.

  “So beg,” Vijay said softly.

  A pause.

  “Cry.”

  Another beat of silence.

  “Bark. Like a dog.”

  Yug stood frozen.

  Memories crashed into him—years of humiliation, laughter, being pushed down, being made small.

  Vijay watched him closely, enjoying every second of it.

  “If you can’t,” Vijay added casually, “then go f*ck yourself.”

  Something broke.

  Without another word, Yug turned around and walked out.

  He passed Manav again, who had seen everything, eyes wide and unsettled.

  Yug still didn’t look at him.

  “I’ll have to talk to him now,” Yug muttered under his breath.

  Behind him, Vijay remained standing in the dim light, cigarette glowing between his fingers, smirk still on his face—but his eyes carried a hint of hesitation.

  As if even he knew— BLC wasn’t a place anyone walked out of without bleeding.

  ——————————————

  The zipper slid open slowly.

  Tarun’s gym bag lay on the counter, worn and familiar, its fabric creased from years of use. It was turned upside down, and instead of dumbbells, gloves, or wraps—

  Jewellery spilled out.

  Gold clinked softly as it hit the glass surface, the sound sharp and wrong in the quiet shop. Chains tangled. Bangles rolled and settled. Pendants caught the light.

  The shop was small, crowded with reflected glimmers of gold and the murmur of the street outside. Ceiling fans hummed lazily, pushing warm air around.

  But, actually—

  The one standing there wasn’t Tarun.

  It was Vivek.

  He swallowed and straightened himself, forcing words out of a dry throat.

  “Umm… I’m Vivek,” he said. “Vivek Kaushal. Priya Kaushal’s son.”

  The shop owner looked up from the counter.

  For a moment, he studied Vivek’s face— then recognition bloomed. His expression softened.

  “Oh,” he said warmly. “You’re her son. Priya… such a sweet lady.”

  He smiled faintly. “She’s been here quite a few times. Keeping jewellery for loan.”

  Vivek nodded.

  His eyes dropped to the counter.

  He knew that already.

  He knew how often his mother had walked into places like this, quietly selling pieces of herself to keep the house running.

  And knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

  “Yeah,” Vivek said softly. “Her.”

  He hesitated, then pointed at the jewellery laid bare between them.

  “I’m here… for the same.”

  His voice cracked, but he forced it steady.

  “I want the most money I can get from this. Please.”

  The shop owner adjusted his glasses and gave a reassuring nod.

  “Of course, young man.”

  He began his work.

  Piece by piece, memory by memory.

  Vivek’s mother’s earrings—simple, familiar.

  Her thin gold chain.

  Two gold coins she had always kept hidden away.

  Yug’s mother’s bent bangles, dulled by years of wear.

  A small pendant.

  A pair of anklets, scratched but intact.

  Rishabh’s father’s two rings.

  Two chains.

  His mother’s necklace, heavier than the rest.

  Kritika’s mother’s jewellery stood out—

  A heavy necklace. A bracelet.

  A pair of bangles that looked untouched, preserved.

  The owner lifted each item carefully, weighing them, examining purity through a magnifying glass. Numbers were punched into a calculator. Metal tapped softly against glass.

  Vivek stood frozen.

  The noise of the street faded.

  The fans disappeared.

  The shop shrank.

  His thoughts screamed instead.

  "Is this really necessary?"

  "Will we come back for this?"

  "Will Tarun come back to us?"

  Just at that moment, a hand landed gently on his shoulder.

  Vivek flinched.

  The shop owner looked at him kindly.

  “After everything,” the man said, “you’ll get 5.2 lakhs.”

  The words hit like a punch.

  Vivek’s lips parted. “Sir… please,” he said quickly. “This isn’t enough. Please— give me the maximum you can.”

  The man sighed, removing his glasses.

  “I wish I could,” he said honestly. “But even if I stretch it… I can’t go much higher.”

  Vivek’s chest tightened.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached into his pocket.

  He took out one last thing.

  A wedding chain.

  His mother’s.

  The shop owner frowned, confused. “Why are you doing this?” he asked gently. “And where is your mother?”

  Vivek’s fingers tightened around the chain.

  “She…” he hesitated. “She sent me.”

  A pause.

  “She doesn’t really wear this since…”

  His voice dropped.

  “…my old man left.”

  He forced himself to look up.

  “It’s urgent,” he said. “I need it. We need it.”

  The shop owner stared at the chain for a long moment.

  Then he nodded slowly.

  After recalculations, after stretching every possible limit, the final number appeared.

  “7.3 lakhs,” the man said.

  Vivek stared at him.

  He didn’t smile.

  He just nodded.

  “Cash,” he said. “Put it in the same bag.”

  The owner did exactly that.

  Bundles of notes filled Tarun’s gym bag—money replacing memories, weight replacing meaning.

  Before handing it over, the man paused.

  “Can I trust you?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Vivek replied instantly.

  The owner studied him again.

  Then asked one final question.

  “Are you sure about what you’re doing?”

  This time, Vivek didn’t answer.

  His hands hovered mid-air.

  His throat closed.

  And then—

  Tarun’s smiling face flashed in his mind.

  The way he stood in front of them.

  The way he took hits meant for others.

  The way he never asked for anything in return.

  Vivek’s jaw set.

  “Really sure,” he said.

  And he grabbed the bag.

  ——————————————

  Rishabh sat alone in the basement.

  The chair creaked faintly beneath his weight as he leaned forward, a pen resting between his teeth.

  His gaze was locked ahead—unblinking, calculating—moving from one corner to another, slow and deliberate, as if measuring invisible distances.

  What he was staring at wasn’t a wall.

  It was a door.

  The heavy, reinforced door that led to the second basement.

  But that was not the thing he actually looked at.

  Above it, taped crudely yet carefully, hung a map.

  The map of the main BLC building.

  It wasn’t clean.

  It wasn’t neat.

  Red and blue marker lines cut across it violently. Crosses marked dead ends.

  Circles highlighted points of interest.

  Arrows overlapped arrows, corrections layered over corrections—evidence of hours spent tearing the place apart on paper.

  Rishabh pulled the pen from his mouth and bent over the notepad on the table.

  With a sharp stroke, he crossed out the words:

  “Second Gate Entry.”

  The ink bled through the page.

  His face reflected the weight of it—dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

  He leaned back in the chair, letting it tilt.

  And that’s when he saw Vivek.

  Upside down at first—Vivek standing at the entrance, framed by dim light, holding a heavy gym bag.

  Rishabh straightened, turning fully.

  The moment Vivek stepped inside, the words spilled out of him.

  “Is this really the best way…?”

  Rishabh sighed.

  Not annoyed. Just tired.

  Instead of answering, he spoke slowly, almost mechanically.

  “I’ve been analysing this map for a day,” he said. “Every route. Every exit. Every security layer.”

  He tapped the map with the pen.

  “And the only way I’ve found to enter the place without getting caught… is the main entry.”

  Vivek frowned, confused.

  He placed the gym bag on the table.

  It landed with a heavy thud.

  “What exactly is your plan?” he asked.

  Rishabh didn’t look at him immediately.

  “BLC,” he said, “is a bodyguard agency. They provide elite-level protection to the most powerful people in the country.”

  Vivek waved a hand dismissively. “Politicians, actors, blah blah blah. You already told me this.”

  Rishabh finally set the pen down.

  “That’s exactly why it works.”

  Vivek blinked. “With the money?”

  “No,” Rishabh replied calmly. “The money comes after we’re inside.”

  Vivek’s brow furrowed deeper.

  “We’ll hire Tarun,” Rishabh continued. “Officially. As clients.”

  Vivek exhaled sharply. “7.3 lakhs won’t be enough…”

  Rishabh’s jaw tightened— even he knew the chances got even slimmer with less money.

  “Fine…” he said. “Then we get him for the minimum time possible.”

  A pause.

  “Then I’ll convince him.”

  Another pause.

  “We all will.”

  Vivek leaned against the table.

  “Will he even listen?”

  Rishabh hesitated.

  “I… hope he does.”

  Silence followed.

  Then Vivek asked the question they were both avoiding.

  “And what if,” he said quietly, “what if he doesn’t?”

  Rishabh tried to smirk.

  But it didn’t fully form.

  “I have—”

  Vivek cut him off with a tired shake of his head. “You have a plan B. I know, I know. You always do.”

  But then his expression changed.

  A thought struck him.

  He looked up. “But how do we even get there?”

  A beat.

  “Delhi?”

  This time, Rishabh smirked properly.

  The kind that meant trouble.

  “I always have it,” he said.

  He looked back at the map.

  “A plan.”

  ——————————————

  Kritika sat on a cold metal waiting chair at the railway station, her back straight, her knees pressed together, her hands locked tightly around a thick folder resting on her lap.

  Her hair was tied into a neat bun— too neat for a Sunday morning— and the stiffness in her posture made her stand out among the scattered crowd around her.

  Families murmured. Porters shouted.

  The air smelled of dust, tea, and impatience.

  She barely heard any of it.

  Her fingers dug into the folder as if letting go would make everything fall apart.

  Her eyes lifted slowly to the large digital clock mounted above the counters.

  10:02 AM.

  The seconds blinked forward.

  10:03 AM.

  A sharp mechanical click echoed, and at once the electronic board above the counters flickered to life.

  "EMERGENCY QUOTA OPENS"

  The stillness shattered.

  People surged forward in a sudden wave—voices rising, chairs scraping, footsteps colliding.

  Kritika moved instantly, standing up before most of them, slipping through the chaos with quiet urgency.

  She reached the counter first, breath steady but shallow, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  Under her breath, almost annoyed, she muttered,

  “I thought they’d be late on a Sunday…”

  She slid the folder across the counter without hesitation.

  “We have an event in Delhi,” she said quickly, her voice calm but sharp.

  “The teacher booked the tickets for the wrong date. We need the earliest possible tickets. To Delhi.”

  The cashier opened the folder.

  One by one, the files were revealed.

  The first—official school permission, neatly stamped and signed.

  The second—Yug Verma.

  The third—Rishabh Tiwari.

  The fourth—Kritika Tyagi.

  The fifth—Vivek Kaushal.

  Then the cashier paused.

  He lifted the sixth file.

  His eyes lingered there a second longer than the others.

  Kritika didn’t blink.

  After a moment, he closed the folder and looked up.

  “The earliest,” he said slowly, “I have it for tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” Kritika replied instantly. “Just be fast.”

  She pushed the cash forward before he could ask.

  The cashier turned, typing rapidly, the printer beside him coughing to life.

  The station announcement crackled overhead, but his voice cut through cleanly as he placed the tickets on the counter.

  “Five tickets. Delhi. Monday. 8:15 AM.”

  Kritika took them.

  Only then did she exhale.

  She stepped away from the counter, the folder tucked under her arm, and walked toward the exit without looking back.

  As she moved, she loosened her bun, letting her hair fall free over her shoulders—an unconscious release of tension.

  Near the exit, she stopped.

  Without slowing, she dropped the entire folder into a dustbin.

  Paper, permissions, names—gone.

  Every bit of it was a lie.

  Kritika smiled.

  It wasn’t a smile of triumph.

  It was sharp. Nervous. Clever.

  And very, very committed.

  ——————————————

  Yug sat cross-legged on his bed, the dim light of the evening falling through the half-open window, his bag lay open on the floor, neatly arranged with clothes, documents, and supplies for the journey.

  The soft creak of the door made him look up. His mother, Asha Verma, stepped in quietly.

  “So… you’re leaving tomorrow,” she said, her voice gentle but threaded with unease.

  ——————————————

  Rishabh stood just outside the slightly ajar door of his parents’ room.

  Smita and Rakesh Tiwari, his parents, were inside, busy with papers, yet their attention immediately shifted to him.

  He took a breath and said, “Yes… tomorrow. For the project I told you about.”

  His words were casual, but his fingers twitched slightly around the straps of his bag.

  ——————————————

  Kritika sat stiffly on the couch in the living room, clutching her folder to her chest.

  Her parents, Sanjay and Meera Tyagi, sat opposite, watching her carefully.

  Sanjay broke the silence, “How long are you going to be there?”

  The question hung in the air, soft yet loaded.

  She opened her mouth to speak, then paused, thinking how little she could reveal without causing panic.

  ——————————————

  Vivek leaned against the kitchen counter, the morning sun slanting in through the window.

  His mother, Priya Kaushal, stirred a pot on the stove. The faint scent of boiling vegetables and spices filled the air.

  Vivek said, almost casually, “I don’t know… but don’t worry, Ma. Teachers are there.”

  Priya’s hands paused on the spatula. “But—”

  ——————————————

  "…is your friend coming, Tarun?”

  Rishabh’s mother, Smita, tilted her head slightly, eyes curious and worried.

  Rishabh forced a confident tone, “Oh… he’s coming too. In fact… he might have reached there already.”

  His chest tightened as his hands betrayed him, shaking ever so slightly, betraying the calm he tried to project.

  ——————————————

  Kritika's fingers nervously tapped the folder against her lap.

  Her father, Sanjay, noticed and smiled softly, “Fine… have fun.” A simple phrase, yet it carried an unspoken reassurance.

  Kritika’s shoulders sagged slightly, tension releasing just enough to let a faint smile emerge.

  ——————————————

  Priya placed a hand gently on Vivek’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself.”

  The pressure of the unknown waiting for them in Delhi, made Vivek’s confident smile falter for a split second.

  Behind him, the pressure cooker whistled sharply, snapping him back to the mundane world for a brief moment, yet the tension lingered in his chest.

  ——————————————

  Rakesh looked directly at Rishabh, eyes steady, voice firm yet warm. “Make us proud, son.”

  A heavy weight of expectation and love rested on those words.

  Rishabh swallowed, nodding, feeling the gravity of responsibility pressing against his chest.

  ——————————————

  Asha stepped closer to Yug with quiet confidence. She placed the tickets for Delhi into his hands, feeling the rough edges of the paper, the small creases.

  “I know you’ll do it,” she said softly. Her palm covered his shaking hand, a gentle pressure that rooted him, steadying him in the whirlwind of anticipation and fear.

  Yug looked up at her, a mixture of resolve and lingering doubt in his eyes.

  ——————————————

  The morning sunlight hit the platform in streaks, cutting through the light mist and dust that hung over the rails.

  Yug’s eyes scanned the crowd of five—himself, Rishabh, Kritika, Vivek, and a few hurried passengers brushing past them. The scent of steam, metal, and dust filled the air.

  A faint rumble echoed through the station as the train approached.

  He glanced up at the clock above them.

  8:02 AM.

  The seconds ticked slowly, heavy with anticipation.

  His gaze shifted back to the group, steadying himself as he exhaled. “I know we’ll do it,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge of certainty.

  “Now… where are your tickets?”

  Without a word, Rishabh, Kritika, and Vivek each brought out their tickets, hands shaking slightly as they held them up for Yug to see.

  He nodded, satisfaction flickering across his face, yet the tension in his shoulders didn’t leave.

  The loudspeaker crackled to life, a metallic voice slicing through the morning air.

  “Attention please. Train number—12419, Gomti Express—has arrived on Platform Number 5.”

  A hush fell over the group for a moment. Around them, passengers hurried to and fro, but for the four of them, time seemed to slow.

  Every sound—the clatter of shoes on the platform, the distant whistle of the train, the shuffling of luggage—felt amplified.

  ——————————————

  Smita Tiwari's hand trembling slightly as she lifted the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  Her voice was tight, eyes wide with worry as she scanned the familiar station sounds around her.

  Cut to Sanjay Tyagi, standing in his living room, phone pressed to his ear.

  “Yes… I’m Kritika Tyagi’s father.”

  His brow furrowed, his grip tightening on the receiver.

  Priya Kaushal was in the kitchen, chaos frozen around her.

  Her hand paused mid-motion, a pot simmering on the stove as she whispered,

  “What?! He’s suspended?”

  Shock and disbelief twisted her features.

  Asha Verma stood by the window, the morning light glinting off the glass.

  She brought a hand to her forehead, coughing lightly, disbelief and fear warring in her eyes.

  “One week… What are you doing, son?”

  ——————————————

  The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels on the tracks began even before the compartment doors closed fully, a low, insistent pulse vibrating through the floor.

  Outside, the station blurred past, the last traces of the platform lights stretching into streaks of color as the train picked up speed.

  Inside, the four friends sat in tense silence, bags pressed close, the inevitability of what they had done settling like a stone in their chests.

  There was no turning back.— Delhi, BLC, Tarun.

  Rishabh unfolded the carefully folded map of the BLC building, spreading it across the small table.

  The inked lines, crosses, and marks gleamed faintly under the compartment light, a maze of planning and calculation.

  He looked at the group, voice taut, measured. “So… I hope you all know the plan.”

  Kritika leaned forward, eyes sharp.

  “We get in, ask to hire Tarun, and convince him to come back with us.”

  Vivek placed the bulging gym bag on the floor, straightening it, the weight of the cash inside tangible.

  “And here’s the money we’ll use.”

  Yug’s lips parted, hesitation flickering in his eyes. “And if that doesn’t work…” His voice faltered, as if the words carried too much weight.

  He looked around the compartment, and then at Rishabh.

  Rishabh’s gaze softened, the tension in his jaw easing slightly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t…”

  Before anyone could respond, the train’s pace picked up, the rhythmic clatter now louder, vibrating through their bones, a warning that time was no longer theirs to control.

  Vivek and Kritika exchanged quick glances, unspoken questions passing between them. None had answers.

  Yug finally spoke, voice low but resolute: “He had agreed. I went to him… right after Vijay. He even got tickets.”

  Vivek frowned, about to ask, “Who—”

  Rishabh slammed a hand against his forehead, cutting him off. “Oh sh*t.”

  Yug exhaled sharply, tension coiling around his shoulders. “Without him… there’s no plan B.”

  Rishabh lifted his head, eyes blazing now, voice rising with controlled fury. “He was the plan B, damn it!”

  Kritika’s brow furrowed, confusion clear. “What do you mean!?”

  Before they could process, a voice pierced the compartment, sharp and irritated. “Be careful, you brat!”

  A second voice followed, young, vibrant, alive. “Sorry, uncle! It’s been ages since I’ve been on a train. Not a thing changed.”

  The old man muttered about a guitar in his way, shuffling to make space.

  And that made Rishabh and Yug’s expressions shift simultaneously, small, knowing smiles breaking through the tension.

  They knew.

  Kritika and Vivek turned just in time to see him step forward, and the compartment seemed to hold its breath.

  He moved with casual confidence, a small suitcase in one hand, a guitar loosely slung across his back.

  His clothing was practical yet stylish— a tight white vest beneath a brown trenchcoat, loose black trousers swaying slightly.

  A glint of metal caught the light—a badge on the trenchcoat reading, “Midnight Jam!”

  Time slowed. Their eyes met his.

  Their plan B had arrived.

  Alive. Whole. Ready.

  Yug let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Rishabh’s smile widened.

  Kritika and Vivek froze, realization dawning on her but confusion eating him up.

  Farhan Qureshi.

  He set the suitcase down, adjusted his guitar strap, and grinned, eyes twinkling. “Well… looks like I’m part of the party.”

  The train continued to pick up speed, the cityscape outside a blur, yet inside the compartment, hope and energy surged.

  The plan B was aboard. And with him, the second flicker of possibility came in too.