Farhan’s eyes opened slowly.
Not because he wanted them to—because whatever drug had dragged him under was finally loosening its grip.
His body didn’t follow.
Not even his eyelids felt like they belonged to him.
It took effort.
A stupid amount of effort.
But he forced them apart anyway.
The world was upside down.
Lights hung below him.
The floor sat above his head.
For a few disoriented seconds, his mind tried to correct it— tried to tell him this was wrong, that gravity didn’t work like this.
Then the truth settled in, heavy and unavoidable.
It wasn’t the world that was inverted.
It was him.
Cold metal bit into his ankles— chains.
They creaked faintly as he breathed, each inhale pulling them tighter, each exhale making them answer back with a dull, patient rattle.
His wrists were bound too, stretched just enough that resistance felt pointless.
He was suspended— displayed.
His gaze drifted, slow and unfocused, taking inventory because that was all he could do.
Bare skin.
No clothes except his boxers.
The air was colder than it needed to be, deliberately so. His chest rose unevenly, every breath shallow, cautious, as if his body already knew the cost of drawing too much attention to itself.
Then his eyes landed on his left arm.
And everything inside him sank.
It didn’t look like his arm anymore.
Swollen. Misshapen.
Darkened with deep bruises that bled into one another until the skin looked almost unreal, like it belonged to someone else.
From shoulder to palm, it hung wrong— too still, too heavy, refusing to obey even the smallest command from his brain.
Memory crashed in without warning.
Hands around his throat.
The sharp, numbing impact that stole the strength from his palm.
A brutal pull—too far, too fast to dislocate his shoulder at once.
A knee driving into him when he was already down.
His jaw tightened, but no sound came out.
Pain didn’t explode— it pressed, dense and suffocating, like something sitting on his chest.
His face twisted, not into a scream, not even a grimace— just a hollow, disbelieving stare.
He was alive.
That thought surprised him more than anything else.
He shouldn’t have been.
He tried to move.
Some stubborn, idiotic part of him still hoping for leverage, for a miracle.
The chains answered immediately, swinging him, rotating his body just enough to make his stomach lurch.
And then he saw it.
Someone else.
Another figure, restrained nearby.
Upside down, just like Farhan himself.
Close enough that Farhan hadn’t noticed at first— close enough that the realization felt intentional.
A presence placed where it would be seen, but only after he woke up properly.
After the shock had time to settle.
Curiosity flickered in his eyes.
Then confusion.
Then recognition.
His breathing stuttered.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Like it was closing in on the space between them. Farhan swallowed, his throat dry, scraped raw, every movement burning on the way down.
Finally, he found his voice.
It barely made it past his lips.
A whisper.
Hoarse. Fragile.
Almost afraid to exist.
“You…?”
——————————————
Tarun’s hand stayed extended.
Not trembling.
Not clenched.
Just held out— flat, open, clinical.
A gesture meant to mark the beginning of something official.
No one touched it.
The air around that hand felt heavier than the rest of the room, like gravity itself bent toward it. Four people stood frozen, staring at it as if taking it would mean admitting something none of them were ready to accept.
Seconds dragged.
Tarun didn’t look at any of them.
His gaze remained fixed ahead, jaw set, shoulders squared.
He looked ready for violence— or worse— ready for obedience.
Yug’s breath hitched.
At first it was quiet.
Just a small, broken sound that slipped out of his chest without permission.
His lips parted, trying to form words, but his throat closed around them.
“Tarun…”
His voice collapsed immediately.
Tears flooded his eyes so fast it startled even him. He shook his head over and over, like denial could physically undo what he was seeing.
“No… no, please…”
His knees buckled.
Yug fell forward, landing hard, the sound echoing in the room.
He didn’t even try to catch himself.
His hands shot out and clutched Tarun’s boots, fingers digging in desperately, as if Tarun might disappear if he let go.
“Please,” he cried, openly now, chest convulsing.
“Don’t do this. Please don’t leave us like this.”
His forehead pressed against Tarun’s leg.
His shoulders shook violently, sobs ripping out of him with no dignity left to protect.
Tarun didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull away.
Didn’t even look down.
Behind them, Rishabh staggered backward and dropped onto the couch like his legs had finally given up the lie of strength.
He stared straight ahead, eyes stretched wide, pupils glassy. His hands hovered uselessly in front of him before sliding into his hair, gripping tight.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Kritika reacted on instinct.
She rushed forward, crouching beside Yug, wrapping her arms around him before he could completely break apart.
One hand cradled his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, pulling him away from Tarun’s feet.
“Hey,” she whispered, voice cracking despite her control.
“Hey— look at me. I’ve got you.”
She rocked him slightly, like she was trying to remind his body how to breathe.
Then she looked up.
Her eyes met Tarun’s face.
And something in her shattered.
“We came for you,” she said, quietly at first.
“We crossed cities. We broke ourselves. We didn’t stop— not once.”
Her voice trembled, tears finally spilling over.
“You don’t get to pretend we’re nothing. You don’t get to stand there like this is just another assignment.”
She swallowed hard, forcing herself not to cry too loudly.
“You taught us to fight,” she said.
“You taught us to stand up. Was that all a lie?”
Tarun’s expression didn’t change.
Rishabh finally spoke.
So softly it barely registered.
“Just… come back.”
His voice scraped raw as it grew louder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, staring at the floor.
“I’m sorry for treating you like a joke. For calling you dumb when you were trying harder than any of us.”
He laughed once— short, hollow.
“I thought I was smarter,” he whispered.
“I thought I had it under control.”
His throat tightened.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“I’m sorry, Farhan,” he added, barely audible now.
“I put you in danger. I used you.”
The words crushed him as he said them.
“I failed,” Rishabh said, finally lifting his head. His eyes locked onto Tarun’s.
“I failed you. All of you.”
His voice cracked completely.
“Just… give me one more chance. Please. Don’t let this be the last thing you remember about me.”
For a moment, it felt like Tarun might break, but he didn't even seem bothered.
Then—
Vivek exploded.
He grabbed Rishabh by the collar and yanked him up violently.
“Stop,” he roared.
“Stop blaming yourself!”
Rishabh didn’t resist.
Vivek shoved him back down and spun toward Tarun, fury burning through tears that refused to stop.
“This is on you,” Vivek shouted, stepping forward.
“Everything we lost. Everything we’re losing right now.”
He grabbed Tarun’s collar, pulling him close, their faces inches apart.
Vivek’s breath was hot, uneven, desperate.
“Farhan’s bleeding because of you,” he yelled.
“We’re crying because of you.”
His voice cracked mid-sentence, then hardened again.
“And you’re standing here like you’re above it.”
Tarun finally spoke.
Cold. Even.
“Sir,” he said, “please don’t spit on me. This is a professional workplace.”
The room froze solid.
Vivek’s hand moved on instinct.
SMACK!
The sound rang out sharp and clean.
Tarun’s head turned slightly from the impact. Not violently. Just enough to acknowledge it happened.
And across the room, Arjun Sethi watched.
Detached.
He wiped an arrow clean with methodical precision, eyes half-lidded, as if this entire breakdown was background noise.
A faint smile ghosted his lips.
Tarun slowly turned his head back.
His eyes met Arjun’s.
Something passed between them.
Then— finally— Tarun spoke again.
“But—”
——————————————
The BLC main gate was never meant to keep people out.
It was designed to do the opposite.
Glass, steel, clean lines— everything about it screamed corporate normalcy.
A place where paperwork flowed, not blood.
That illusion worked.
And because it worked, someone else walked in.
A child.
He couldn’t have been more than seven.
Too small for the size of the building.
Too fragile for the weight of what it hid.
His shoes were scuffed, one lace undone, his shirt clinging to him from dried tears.
His eyes were red, swollen, constantly blinking— as if he was afraid that if he stopped looking, the world might take something else away from him.
There were no guards at the gate.
Azeem Ansari had already gone inside.
So the boy walked in.
Each step hesitant.
Like the floor itself might reject him.
“Dad…” he muttered under his breath.
Not loudly. Not as a call.
More like a prayer he wasn’t sure anyone was listening to anymore.
He barely made it past the first security line before a man stepped into his path.
The guard wasn’t aggressive.
He didn’t raise his voice.
But the moment his eyes landed on the child, something in him tightened.
“What are you doing here?” the guard asked, lowering himself slightly, trying not to sound threatening.
The boy looked up.
His lip trembled.
“My father,” he said.
A pause. A swallow.
“He hasn’t been home for a month.”
The words came out like they’d been rehearsed a hundred times.
“He said… he said he got work here.”
The guard froze.
Just for a second.
Long enough to understand exactly what that meant.
Men who didn’t come home.
Phones that stopped ringing.
Families that waited forever.
His jaw clenched.
But the BLC image mattered.
Appearances mattered.
And a single child couldn’t be allowed to crack the illusion.
The guard straightened.
He glanced around once— checking cameras, hallways, routines— then stepped aside.
“You can look,” he said, voice flat, official.
“If you don’t find him, you leave.”
No comfort.
No promise.
No help.
Just procedure.
The boy nodded quickly, like he was afraid the permission might vanish if he hesitated.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
And then he walked past him.
Into the building.
Into the machine.
The glass doors stayed open behind him, as if it wanted him to leave.
——————————————
A knock echoed through the corridor.
Not hurried.
Not hesitant.
Inside the office, the sound felt smaller than it should’ve been.
Vikrant Chauhan stood near the glass wall, his back to the door, looking down at the city stretched beneath him. From this height, everything looked obedient.
Cars moved like disciplined ants.
People like statistics.
Power like a given.
Smoke drifted lazily around him, curling from the cigarette between his fingers.
The ash had grown long— dangerously so— but Vikrant hadn’t bothered to tap it. Things fell only when he allowed them to.
The door creaked open.
Azeem Ansari stepped inside.
The temperature of the room didn’t change— but the air did.
Behind him, the guards shut the door immediately, sealing the office off from the rest of the world.
The sound of it closing felt final, like a verdict quietly passed.
Azeem stopped just short of the desk. Straight-backed. Calm.
Hands clasped behind him.
His expression gave nothing away— no fear, no arrogance. Just readiness.
Vikrant didn’t turn.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
His voice was calm.
The kind that didn’t ask for explanations— only facts.
Azeem answered without raising his voice.
“Sir, you have a meeting scheduled.”
A beat.
Vikrant tilted his head slightly.
“…Now?”
“Yes, sir.”
The ash finally dropped from the cigarette, landing softly in the tray below.
Vikrant watched it fall, then slowly turned around.
“I wasn’t informed,” he said.
Azeem lowered his head— not submissively, but precisely.
Like a soldier acknowledging a missed cue.
“I was meant to inform you earlier,” he replied.
“I was occupied at the main gate.”
That earned him a look.
Vikrant’s eyes sharpened— not with anger, but interest.
“The main gate?” he repeated.
“That’s not your post. Standards handle that.”
Azeem met his gaze.
“Because of the meeting,” he said evenly,
“security protocols were adjusted.”
Silence filled the office.
Vikrant stepped closer, the soles of his shoes making no sound against the floor.
He stopped right in front of Azeem, studying him like a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
“And what,” Vikrant asked,
“is this meeting about?”
Azeem didn’t reply immediately.
He waited— just long enough for the silence to press in.
“It’s today,” he said at last.
“The deal.”
Vikrant’s expression didn’t change.
But something behind his eyes did.
The calculation began.
“…The weapon exchange?” Vikrant asked.
Azeem nodded once.
That was all.
Vikrant turned away, walked back to his desk, and stubbed out the cigarette with deliberate force.
He straightened his coat, already shifting into motion.
“Then we’re already late.”
He moved toward the door.
The guards outside opened it instantly, as if anticipating the moment.
Azeem fell into step beside him, their strides naturally aligning as they moved down the corridor.
For a few seconds, only their footsteps echoed.
Then Vikrant spoke again— casually.
Almost conversational.
“How was your meeting with Tarun?”
The question landed like a blade.
Azeem’s head snapped toward him.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
For the briefest moment, the composure cracked— just a hairline fracture— but enough.
Vikrant noticed.
He always did.
The corridor lights passed over them one by one as they walked, long shadows stretching and collapsing with each step.
Azeem recovered quickly, eyes forward again.
“…Productive,” he said.
Vikrant smiled faintly.
But there was no warmth in it.
——————————————
It was just a day before. Tarun had something more in the meeting with Vikrant.
"You're in charge of training the new recruits," Vikrant said with a smile that didn't match his words. "I'll send you the list shortly."
As they reached the office door, Vikrant placed a firm hand on Tarun’s shoulder.
The touch sent a chill down his spine.
He felt the weight of expectation, authority, and legacy pressing down.
“Train them,” Vikrant said, voice low, almost a growl. “Like I did.”
His hand traced down from the shoulder, a finger now lightly against Tarun’s chest, then he removed it.
Tarun felt the imprint linger.
Tarun stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him, the badge heavy against his chest— both a symbol and a warning.
The guards reached for the door.
Just before it could shut—
Tarun’s hand shot forward.
His palm pressed flat against the metal edge, stopping it mid-motion.
The door groaned softly in protest, suspended between open and closed.
Every eye in the room snapped to him.
Tarun didn’t flinch.
“Another thing,” he said, his voice steady but low.
“I’d like to add something, sir.”
The guards froze, unsure whether to force the door shut or pull back.
Vikrant didn’t react immediately.
He studied Tarun the way one studies a blade— checking its edge, its balance, its intent.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
Tarun swallowed once.
“I’d like to speak to…”
He paused—just a fraction of a second too long.
“…Azeem Ansari.”
The name settled into the room.
Vikrant’s lips curved slightly, amused.
“Oh?” he said. “So you already know some of your colleagues.”
He took a step closer to Tarun, his presence pressing in without effort.
“But tell me,” Vikrant continued, voice calm,
“why him?”
Tarun’s jaw tightened. His fingers flexed once against the door before he forced himself to relax.
“I want to learn,” he said honestly.
Then, after a breath, added—
“It’s… sudden. Being made A Class.”
Silence.
Vikrant’s eyebrow rose slowly.
He didn’t blink.
For a moment too long, he just stared at Tarun— measuring, dissecting, testing whether the hesitation in his voice was humility or weakness.
Tarun held the gaze.
Barely.
Finally, Vikrant spoke.
“Then,” he said coolly,
“he’ll be of great help to you.”
He gestured lazily with two fingers.
“Take your time.”
Tarun exhaled— careful not to make it obvious.
“May I meet him now, sir?”
Vikrant’s eyebrow remained raised.
It never settled back into place.
He turned slightly toward the guards and nodded once.
Permission granted.
The door opened wider.
Tarun stepped back, withdrawing his hand as if it had been burning the metal.
The guards adjusted their stance, and the room resumed breathing again.
As Tarun turned to leave, Vikrant’s voice followed him— quiet, precise.
“Learn well, Tarun Singh.”
——————————————
Tarun finally spoke.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
“But…”
He looked at them, one by one, like he was counting strangers.
“Why are you so desperate?”
A breath.
“What am I to you?”
The question didn’t sound curious.
It sounded distant.
Like the answer no longer mattered.
For a second, no one spoke.
The room felt smaller.
And then the memories came— not as thoughts, but as wounds reopening.
Yug’s vision blurred.
Tarun stepping in front of him.
Vijay’s punch swinging hard.
The impact— raw, loud.
Blood on Tarun’s lip.
Rishabh’s chest tightened painfully.
A birthday for Yug he didn’t know how to plan.
Tarun holding streamers upside down.
Burnt candles.
A pineapple pizza instead of a cake
Kritika felt her fingers curl involuntarily.
A raised hammer.
Cold metal flashing.
Tarun moving before she could think.
Pain tearing through him instead of her.
He hadn’t screamed.
He hadn’t complained.
He’d just said stayed calm.
Vivek swallowed hard.
The old store room.
The quiet afternoon.
Fear he didn’t want to admit.
Tarun already there.
Already helping, almost instantly.
Yug finally moved.
His knees were still on the floor when he spoke.
His voice came out small.
“You’re…”
He swallowed, breath shaking.
“You’re everything we need.”
Tears slid down freely now.
“To live,” he whispered.
“To feel good.”
Tarun didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t soften.
Kritika stepped forward, her composure cracking at the edges.
“But you’re not him anymore,” she said, voice trembling.
“You’ve changed.”
Tarun tilted his head slightly, as if considering an academic point.
“I’ve heard,” he said evenly,
“that change is inevitable.”
Rishabh let out a broken, almost laugh-like breath.
“Then change again,” he said softly.
“Come back.”
Tarun’s lips curved faintly— not a smile.
More like acceptance.
“I prefer it this way,” he replied.
“The old me was a loser.”
The word felt unreal.
Vivek snapped.
“A loser?” he shouted, stepping forward.
“You protected us. You stood up for us when nobody else would.”
Tarun rubbed his face slowly, like he was tired of listening.
That gesture—
That single, dismissive motion shattered Vivek.
He surged forward, voice breaking mid-sentence.
“What makes you think you’re better now?!”
“What do you think you are—”
Kritika grabbed him, holding him back as he shook violently, sobbing despite himself.
They spoke over each other then—pleading, accusing, begging.
Words tangled. Voices broke.
They told him the truth.
That Tarun Singh wasn’t strength or rank or power.
He was innocence.
He was stupidity that cared.
He was laughter when there was nothing funny left.
Tarun listened.
And when they were done—
When there was nothing left to say—
He looked at them with absolute clarity.
“I’d rather be a corporate worker,” he said evenly,
“than stay with crybabies like you.”
Silence swallowed the room.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
And somewhere deep inside them, something finally died.
——————————————
The air outside the BLC building felt colder than it should have.
Vikrant stepped out last.
The glass doors slid shut behind him with a soft, indifferent hiss, sealing the chaos inside as if it never existed.
Outside, everything looked clean.
Orderly. Corporate.
Azeem was already walking ahead, his steps measured, posture perfect. Vikrant followed, hands clasped behind his back.
“Are any others coming?” Vikrant asked casually.
Azeem didn’t turn around.
“No, sir.”
Vikrant slowed by half a step.
“Why?”
Azeem stopped walking.
Just for a second. Then he turned slightly, respectful, controlled.
“There’s an intruder inside,” he said.
“They’re handling him off.”
Vikrant’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
“All of them?” he asked.
Azeem shook his head.
“The others are handling customers.”
Vikrant didn’t respond.
His gaze drifted past Azeem.
Past the guards.
Past the gates.
It landed on a black BLC Sudan parked farther down the driveway.
The bonnet was open.
Thick wires ran from the exposed engine straight toward the main entrance— temporary power routing, crude but effective.
Vikrant stared at it longer than necessary.
Too long.
Azeem noticed.
Without comment, he walked to a waiting Mercedes, opened the rear door, and stepped aside.
Vikrant entered.
The door shut with a muted, expensive thud— sealing authority inside leather and silence.
Azeem walked around to the driver’s seat, sat down, and started the engine.
The car hummed to life smoothly, obediently.
As they began moving, Vikrant spoke again.
“Where’s the meeting?”
“Noida, sir.”
Vikrant leaned back slightly.
“So it’s nearby.”
A pause.
“Let’s be quick.”
The car rolled forward.
Azeem glanced up at the center rear-view mirror.
Vikrant was already looking at him.
Their eyes met— not accidentally, not briefly.
Vikrant finished his thought, his voice calm and deliberate.
“After this…”
“I need to take care of something.”
Azeem swallowed.
“If I may ask, sir… what is it?”
Vikrant didn’t break eye contact.
“I’ve heard,” he said evenly,
“that there are some traitors in BLC.”
The word hung in the car.
Not shouted.
Not emphasized.
Just placed there.
The Mercedes continued down the road, smooth and silent— carrying two men who both understood that this trip wasn’t really about a meeting.
——————————————
The security room was dim, lit almost entirely by screens.
Rows of live CCTV feeds pulsed softly— corridors, elevators, offices, stairwells.
Every corner of BLC breathing in real time.
The faint hum of servers filled the air, steady and indifferent.
Pranav Gogoi sat alone.
One elbow rested on the arm of his chair, fingers lightly tapping the desk— not nervous, not impatient. Just… idle.
His eyes moved across the screens with lazy precision.
One feed caught his attention.
Main exit.
Azeem Ansari walked ahead, crisp and composed.
Vikrant followed, coat perfect, posture unbroken.
Pranav tilted his head slightly, watching the doors slide shut behind them.
He didn’t blink.
Another feed displayed on the screen.
The third floor of the building.
Tarun stood rigid, unmoving.
In front of him—
four people, broken not in body, but in spirit.
Yug on his knees.
Kritika holding him together with trembling hands.
Rishabh slumped, whispering apologies into the air.
Vivek shaking with fury and grief.
Pranav leaned back.
“So that’s where everyone is,” he murmured to no one.
His fingers reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.
He pressed the button.
The room filled with a sharp click.
“Lockdown,” Pranav said, voice calm, almost bored.
“Full building.”
There was a half-second pause on the other end.
Then—
“Confirmed.”
Pranav turned back to his main console.
The central screen lit up with a clean, minimalist interface.
> BLC SECURITY PROTOCOLS
? Perimeter Sealing
? Internal Zone Isolation
? Room Access Denial
? Biometric Access Lock
? Emergency Suppression
He began clicking.
One by one.
Each click echoed softly in the room— not loud, not dramatic.
But with every selection, something irreversible happened.
Gates slammed shut.
Emergency shutters dropped.
Rooms were locked instantly.
Access panels went dead.
Outside, Vikrant’s car crossed the perimeter line.
The system blinked.
> PERIMETER SEALED
Vikrant remained outside.
Inside—
A small CCTV window flickered.
The child.
Standing near a corridor.
Eyes red.
Mouth moving silently.
Pranav glanced at the feed, unimpressed.
He clicked CONFIRM.
> LOCKDOWN COMPLETE
A soft chime followed.
Silence.
The building was sealed.
No one in.
No one out.
Pranav rose slowly from his chair, stretching his shoulders like someone getting up from a long movie.
He adjusted his jacket.
As he walked toward the door, he paused— just for a moment— and looked back at the wall of screens.
Tarun still hadn’t moved.
The four were still begging.
The child was still inside.
Pranav smiled faintly.
Under his breath, as he stepped out of the security room, he whispered—
“Let’s meet the new guests…”
The door closed behind him.
The screens kept watching.
——————————————
The room had stopped feeling like a place.
It was a pause.
A fragile, trembling pause held together by nothing but desperation.
They were still talking— still trying— throwing words at Tarun as if words could physically pull him back.
Each of them was saying something different, but all of it meant the same thing—
"Don’t leave us."
"Don’t become this."
"Please."
Yug’s voice was hoarse now, cracked from crying too much, too fast.
He wasn’t even forming full sentences anymore— just fragments, breathless and shaking.
“—you promised—” “—you said we’d get out—” “—you said you wouldn’t—”
Kritika stood close to him, one hand gripping his shoulder like an anchor, the other clenched into a fist she didn’t realise was bleeding from her nails digging in.
Her eyes never left Tarun’s face, searching— begging— for even a flicker of recognition.
Rishabh sat forward on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if the answer might be written there.
His lips moved silently, rehearsing words he was too afraid to say out loud.
Vivek stood rigid, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
Anger was the only thing keeping him upright now. Anger, and fear pretending to be strength.
And Tarun—
Tarun didn’t move.
He stood a little apart from them, posture straight, shoulders squared.
Not relaxed. Not tense.
Trained.
His face was empty in a way that felt deliberate— like emotion had been locked behind glass. His eyes didn’t wander.
Didn’t soften. Didn’t even blink much.
Only his wrist betrayed him.
The stopwatch glowed faintly against his skin.
Seconds bled away.
No one said anything about it.
No one wanted to acknowledge the countdown hanging between them like a blade.
Yug took a step forward.
“Tarun,” he whispered, voice breaking completely now. “Just… just say something. Please.”
Tarun’s fingers twitched.
Barely noticeable.
But real.
His thumb hovered over the edge of the watch.
And then—
Beep.
The sound was sharp.
Clinical. Unforgiving.
It cut straight through the air, through their voices, through their hope.
Everything stopped.
Kritika sucked in a breath she forgot to release.
Rishabh’s head snapped up.
Vivek swore under his breath.
Yug froze mid-step, his face collapsing as the truth hit him all at once.
From the far end of the room, someone moved.
Leather creaked softly.
Arjun slid the last arrow into his quiver with care, like a craftsman finishing his work.
He checked the alignment, adjusted the strap on his shoulder, and straightened.
No urgency.
Just certainty.
A faint smirk touched his lips.
Tarun looked down at his wrist.
00:00.
He exhaled.
Almost peaceful.
Then he turned around.
His back faced them now.
That single movement felt heavier than any punch.
“That’s my time,” Tarun said evenly, his voice calm enough to be cruel.
A pause.
“Thank you for choosing me.”
The words hit Yug first.
He staggered, like he’d been physically struck.
“No—” he breathed.
Then, all of a sudden, the walkie-talkie on Tarun’s belt crackled to life.
Static filled the silence.
Tarun lifted it to his ear.
Arjun watched from a distance, eyes gleaming, already knowing what would say.
The voice came through smooth and clear.
“Good job being loyal, Tarun.”
Tarun’s jaw tightened.
Just a fraction.
“Now finish the things that stop you from being loyal.”
The room felt colder.
Every one of them understood what was coming— but none of them were ready to hear it.
“Kill all your friends,” Arjun said calmly.
“Right now.”
——————————————
03:20:47 PM.
