It was a bright, careless afternoon of 2016, the kind that made even poverty look golden under the sun.

  Heat shimmered above the narrow lanes of the slum, bending the air into restless waves.

  A seven-year-old boy tore through those lanes like he owned them, bare knees flashing, breath sharp with excitement.

  In his hand, he carried a wooden stick— smooth from overuse, chipped at the edges— gripped not like a toy but like a warrior’s weapon.

  His shoes were too big for him, borrowed and battered, flapping against the damp ground with every reckless step, splashing muddy water against tobacco-stained walls and crumbling brick.

  He did not slow down.

  He never slowed down.

  The alleyways bent and twisted, suffocating and narrow, but he knew them like veins in his own palm, darting past hanging laundry, leaping over puddles, brushing shoulders with stray dogs that barked at his blur of movement.

  Then he burst out of the final alley, sunlight striking his face, and a sharp grin cut across it— wild, victorious, certain.

  He was Tarun Singh.

  Ahead of him, a taller boy walked casually, unaware— or pretending to be.

  Tarun didn’t hesitate.

  With all the strength his small frame could summon, he hurled the stick like a javelin.

  It sliced through the heated air, spinning once, twice, before closing the distance in a straight, determined path.

  Inches before impact, the older boy turned on instinct and caught it mid-air, fingers wrapping around the wood with effortless precision.

  He gasped dramatically, eyes widening, and clutched the stick to his chest as though it had pierced straight through him.

  He staggered backward, knees buckling, collapsing to the dusty ground in theatrical agony.

  He lay flat and still, limbs slack, breath hidden.

  Tarun stepped forward from the mouth of the alley, chin lifted, chest puffed with triumph.

  “See? I never lose, brother!” he declared, pride ringing in his voice like a medal earned.

  Silence answered him.

  No exaggerated groan. No teasing comeback. No laughter echoing through the lane.

  The grin on Tarun’s face flickered, then faltered.

  His brother lay motionless, eyes closed, body unnervingly still beneath the glare of the afternoon sun.

  The world did not shift dramatically.

  It simply grew heavier.

  The distant chatter of vendors seemed farther away, the barking dogs quieter, the heat less warm and more suffocating.

  “That’s it… prank’s over,”

  Tarun muttered, forcing a nervous laugh that dissolved almost instantly.

  He walked closer, each step slower than the last, and knelt beside the unmoving figure.

  His small hands reached out, first hesitantly, then urgently, shaking his brother’s shoulder.

  “Brother… get up.”

  His breathing thickened.

  “Brother?”

  His fingers tightened in the fabric of his brother’s shirt, trembling now, the discarded stick lying forgotten.

  “Get up… it’s not funny anymore.”

  The sunlight seemed to drain from the world, colour retreating into dull shades of grey as dread curled around his chest.

  His voice cracked, thin and frightened.

  “Don’t— don’t leave me.”

  Tears gathered and spilled without permission, tracing hot lines down his dusty cheeks.

  “Don’t do the same… as they did.”

  The words lingered in the air like something fragile and forbidden.

  For one unbearable heartbeat the stillness remained absolute, until his brother’s eyelids twitched— just barely.

  ——————————————

  Three years earlier, the old wooden door of their house creaked open with its usual tired complaint.

  The sound dragged across the quiet evening like a warning no one heard in time.

  Tarun's brother stepped in first, and Tarun— barely four— was clinging to his back, still laughing over some forgotten joke about racing shadows down the lane.

  His small hands drummed against his brother's shoulders, his breath warm against his neck, careless and alive.

  For a fleeting second, the house felt like it always had— cramped, dim, but theirs.

  Then the laughter died.

  It didn’t fade.

  It was cut.

  The air inside was wrong— thick, unmoving, as if the room itself had stopped breathing.

  Two shadows stretched unnaturally across the opposite wall, long and swaying, not from wind but from something heavier.

  The steps slowed.

  His heartbeat quickened, thudding against his ribs so violently it almost drowned out the silence.

  In the center of the room, beneath the weak yellow bulb, two chairs lay overturned.

  Above them—

  Two bodies hung from the ceiling.

  Their toes hovered inches above the floor, motionless, unforgiving.

  For a second that felt like eternity, Tarun's brother did not move.

  He did not blink.

  His mind refused to name what his eyes already understood.

  Father. Mother.

  Tarun shifted on his back, still smiling faintly, trying to peek around his brother’s shoulder.

  Tarun's brother reacted then— not as a child, but as something forced to become older in an instant.

  His hand shot up, firm and trembling, covering Tarun’s eyes before the boy could fully see.

  He pressed the small face with his palm, holding him there, as if darkness could erase reality.

  But some images burn through even closed eyelids.

  In that dim room, beneath those swaying shadows, childhood ended without permission.

  Tarun stopped being four.

  His brother stopped being nine.

  And in the suffocating silence that followed, they both understood something no child should ever have to learn— there would be no one left to fix their mistakes.

  Ever.

  ——————————————

  Back in 2016, the world rushed back in a single violent breath.

  Tarun's brother body jerked upright, his chest heaving once before he pulled Tarun into a tight embrace.

  Tarun's fists were still trembling, still clutching at his brother’s shirt as if the fabric itself could disappear.

  His brother wrapped both arms around him without hesitation, pressing Tarun’s head against his collarbone, shielding him from the cruel joke he himself had just played.

  “Stop crying now, my lion…”

  He whispered, his voice steady, warm— so steady it almost sounded unreal against Tarun’s ragged sobs.

  He leaned back slightly, just enough to see Tarun’s face.

  His fingers rose carefully, brushing away the tears that clung stubbornly to swollen eyes.

  He chuckled, soft and teasing, the kind of laugh that made everything feel lighter than it was.

  “You think it’s that easy…?” he murmured.

  “Aman Singh can’t go down so easily.”

  Aman Singh.

  Twelve years old.

  Barefoot.

  Ankles scratched raw and bleeding from running through broken lanes.

  The white shirt he wore had surrendered long ago to dust and sweat, now a tired shade of yellow with sleeves frayed at the edges.

  Despite the hunger, the bruises— the exhaustion that had no business belonging to a child— he smiled like the sun had chosen him.

  It was the kind of smile that lied beautifully.

  Tarun stared at him through blurred vision, breathing uneven, still shaken by the thought of losing him even for a moment.

  “I’m not like those two,” he said quietly, ruffling Tarun's hair gently

  “I’ll never, ever leave you.”

  The promise hung between them like something sacred.

  Tarun’s sobs began to fade into shaky breaths. He sniffed, eyes still red, cheeks damp.

  When he looked up again, Aman was standing tall in front of him, offering his hand— palm open, fingers slightly curled.

  For a second, it seemed Tarun would take it.

  But instead, the younger boy pushed the hand aside.

  He rose on his own.

  Aman blinked, surprised but not hurt.

  Tarun wiped his face roughly with his sleeve and turned away, shoulders squared in stubborn pride, small legs moving faster than they needed to.

  “Oi!” Aman called after him, half-laughing.

  “Go straight home!”

  Tarun didn’t slow.

  Didn’t turn.

  Didn’t answer.

  Aman placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head with a smirk that masked a flicker of worry.

  “I’m going to work!” he shouted, voice echoing faintly down the narrow stretch.

  “I’ll try to return early this time!”

  The sun cast long shadows across the cracked road as Tarun walked farther, shrinking against the light, his outline growing smaller with every step.

  Aman stood there longer than necessary, watching until the boy became little more than a silhouette swallowed by heat and distance.

  For a moment, the smirk faded.

  For a moment, he looked tired.

  Then—

  From somewhere ahead, carried by dry wind and wounded pride, came Tarun’s voice.

  Hoarse. Unsteady. But loud enough.

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

  “You’re the worst, Aman!”

  The words hit the air like a thrown stone.

  Aman stared in the direction the voice had come from… and then laughed.

  Not mockery.

  Not offense.

  Just relief.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and muttered to himself, “Yeah, yeah. The worst.”

  But as he turned toward the construction site in the distance— toward dust, debt, and men who didn’t smile back— the echo of that childish insult lingered in his chest far longer than it should have.

  Because being called the worst meant that Tarun cared.

  And for Aman Singh, that was enough.

  ——————————————

  The sun showed no mercy that afternoon.

  It hung low and white in the sky, bleaching colour out of everything it touched.

  The construction site shimmered beneath it like a furnace— cement dust rising in pale clouds, iron rods burning to the touch.

  Hammers clanged against stone.

  Machines coughed and roared.

  Men shouted over one another in exhaustion.

  And moving through all of it was Aman Singh.

  A stack of bricks rested on a folded cloth over his head, his thin neck steady beneath the weight.

  Each step he took was careful, deliberate, almost graceful despite the uneven ground.

  His shirt clung to his back, soaked completely, the fabric now stained the colour of labour.

  His bare ankles were scratched raw from days of scraping against bamboo and broken concrete.

  His stomach growled.

  He ignored it.

  The night before, he had slid the last full plate of food across the floor toward Tarun without a word.

  He had kept half for himself.

  Even that had tasted like guilt.

  He walked to the bamboo scaffolding with the bricks balanced high, placing them down one by one with quiet precision.

  Then he did it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Other labourers paused.

  Some bent over with hands on knees, dragging air into their lungs.

  Others wiped sweat from their brows and muttered curses under their breath.

  A few sat in thin patches of shade, letting the shadow give them stolen minutes of relief.

  Aman did not stop.

  Someone called out to him once, half annoyed, half concerned.

  “Oi, boy. Take a break. The building won’t run away.”

  Aman flashed them that strange, bright smile of his— too warm for a place like this.

  “If I work fast,” he said cheerfully, adjusting the cloth on his head, “I go home fast.”

  The men watched him for a moment longer. Some shook their heads.

  Some looked away.

  There was something unsettling about a child smiling like that under a sky trying to crush him.

  By the time the sun began to sink, turning the horizon a deep burning orange, the site was quieter.

  Work slowed.

  The day exhaled.

  Wages were being handed out near the gate— notes counted quickly, names called without care.

  Men stepped forward, palms open, taking their pay like water in a desert.

  Aman approached when his turn came.

  He wiped his dusty hands against his shirt before extending them politely.

  The supervisor glanced at him once.

  Then looked away.

  Aman didn’t move.

  He waited.

  The money pile thinned.

  The crowd dispersed.

  The supervisor gathered the remaining notes and walked off without another glance.

  Aman’s hand slowly lowered.

  For a second, the smile faded.

  Then he inhaled quietly, wiped his palms again, and turned toward the small head office at the edge of the site— a shack made of tin sheets and ego.

  On his way, he greeted everyone he passed.

  “Bye, uncle!”

  “See you tomorrow, brother!”

  Most of them avoided his eyes.

  A few nodded awkwardly.

  No one quite knew how to respond to that kind of resilience.

  He pushed open the office door.

  Inside, the air was cooler.

  A small fan creaked overhead, moving lazily.

  The contractor sat behind a metal desk, leaning back in his chair, chewing loudly.

  The room smelled faintly of tobacco and something sour.

  The man’s eyes travelled over Aman slowly, not as one looks at a person— but as one inspects damage on a wall.

  “Be quick.”

  Aman stepped forward, clasping his hands together in front of him, fingers interlocked so tightly the knuckles turned pale.

  “Sir… it’s the end of the month. January,” he said carefully, swallowing.

  “It would be good if I could receive wages…”

  The chair legs scraped sharply against the concrete floor instantly.

  The contractor stood.

  He did not raise his voice.

  He did not rush.

  He walked toward Aman in slow, deliberate steps, stopping so close that Aman could smell the stale chew on his breath.

  “You know,” the man said quietly, almost conversationally, “how much debt your father left behind?”

  Aman’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

  The slap came without warning.

  A sharp crack echoed inside the tin walls. Aman’s head snapped to the side.

  For a moment, the fan above seemed louder than everything else.

  “That b*tch didn’t have the guts to raise children,” the contractor continued coldly.

  “And now you’re here.”

  Another slap.

  Harder.

  Aman blinked rapidly, forcing the sting back down his throat.

  Tears gathered but did not fall.

  He refused them.

  “Fifty thousand rupees,” the contractor said, grabbing Aman by the collar and pulling him upward so their eyes met.

  “That’s what that coward owed. Do you remember when that gets paid?”

  Aman’s voice came out small.

  “Next week…”

  Fingers tangled into his hair and yanked his head back.

  “Louder!”

  “Next week,” he repeated, the words breaking on the edges.

  The contractor shoved him away.

  Aman stumbled but stayed on his feet.

  The man scoffed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled notes.

  He flung them at Aman’s face with careless precision.

  The money struck his cheek and fluttered downward in slow, humiliating silence.

  Aman stared at the notes as they fell.

  Then he knelt. Carefully.

  As if they were sacred offerings.

  His fingers trembled while picking each one up.

  He smoothed the creases gently, stacking them together with reverence.

  The contractor spat his chewed gum.

  It landed near Aman’s knee.

  “Be early tomorrow,” he said with a smirk.

  “You’ve got more work.”

  Aman gathered the last note.

  For a second, his vision blurred.

  A tear slipped free despite him.

  It fell onto the paper.

  He quickly wiped his face with his sleeve before standing.

  He bowed slightly.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  And then he walked out.

  The moment the tin door closed behind him, the site noise swallowed the echo of that room.

  The sun had nearly disappeared now.

  Aman paused.

  He inhaled deeply.

  And slowly— deliberately— he smiled again.

  Because Tarun was waiting at home.

  And Tarun should not see him cry.

  ——————————————

  The door creaked open like it was tired of surviving.

  Cold night air slipped into the small house before Aman did.

  Inside, a single candle trembled on the cracked floor, its flame bending and straightening as if it struggled to stand upright.

  Tarun sat beside it, knees pulled to his chest, eyes fixed on the melting wax as though he were studying how something slowly disappears.

  “You really don’t need the candle to dry your tears,” Aman said lightly from the doorway.

  He stepped in, pushing the door shut with his heel.

  His hands were hidden behind his back, his shoulders squared with theatrical confidence.

  Tarun turned his head just slightly, not enough to show interest, but enough to prove he had heard.

  “Don’t you dare think I robbed a bank,”

  Aman added, narrowing his eyes dramatically.

  Tarun didn’t answer.

  His gaze drifted to the hands still concealed.

  Aman sighed loudly.

  “God, the trust in this house is unbelievable.” Then he swung his arms forward with flair. “Surprise!”

  A pizza box appeared like treasure pulled from thin air.

  Tarun blinked.

  “Don’t tell me,” he muttered flatly, “it’s the same pineapple pizza.”

  Aman placed a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded.

  “You hurt me.”

  He knelt and opened the box.

  Steam rose into the dim room, carrying with it the scent of melted cheese and sweetness that didn’t belong in a house that smelled of damp walls and tiredness.

  The golden slices gleamed in the candlelight.

  “This,” Aman declared proudly, “is the perfect blend of salt and sweet. Just like life.”

  Tarun tried to look disgusted, but his stomach betrayed him with a quiet growl.

  His eyes lingered a second too long.

  Aman caught it instantly.

  “See? Even—” He coughed, briefly turning his head away, clearing his throat.

  “—even you can’t resist this delicacy.”

  Tarun frowned, noticing it.

  “You’re tired, aren’t you?”

  Aman waved it off with exaggerated confidence and pushed the box closer.

  “I’m just more handsome than before.”

  That did it.

  Tarun let out a small chuckle that quickly broke into laughter.

  “You? Handsome?”

  “Hey,” Aman shot back, pointing at him accusingly, “mind your tongue. I age like fine wine.”

  “You age like expired milk,” Tarun replied without mercy.

  Aman gasped dramatically.

  “What did you just say? I bring happiness to this house… and this is how I’m repaid?”

  “You bring chaos.”

  “I also bring pizza.”

  Tarun laughed then— properly laughed— the kind that forced him to lean forward and forget, even if just for a moment, that the world outside was cruel.

  He picked up a slice, the cheese stretching stubbornly between the box and his hands.

  Aman watched him with quiet satisfaction, the smile on his face softening.

  For a flicker of a second, his expression dimmed— exhaustion creeping in, shoulders drooping, eyes losing their shine.

  “Eat it before I change my mind,” he muttered, lowering his gaze.

  Tarun paused. “Hey…”

  “Just— just eat,” Aman said quickly, voice not as steady as before.

  Silence lingered between them, fragile.

  Then Tarun mumbled, almost embarrassed,

  “…don’t be sad. You’re really… handsome.”

  Aman looked up instantly, his entire face lighting up like someone had replaced the candle with the sun.

  “Look! Even you said it now!”

  His

  laughter burst out, loud and triumphant, echoing against the bare walls.

  Tarun’s eyes widened in realization.

  “You trapped me!”

  Aman only laughed harder.

  And soon, Tarun joined him— mouth full, shoulders shaking, crumbs falling onto the floor they both pretended not to notice.

  In that broken house, beneath a ceiling that had seen too much grief, the candle was no longer the brightest thing in the room.

  It was the sound of two brothers laughing like they still had moments forever.

  ——————————————

  The laughter from the pizza night felt like it belonged to another lifetime.

  Now there was only the restless tapping of Aman's foot against polished marble.

  Three hours.

  Three hours in a room that did not belong to boys like him.

  The walls were lined with framed newspaper clippings, yellowed at the edges but preserved with deliberate care.

  One headline dominated the center wall:

  “End Of An Era — Company Immediately Closed After The 26/11 Fallout.”

  Below it sat a glass table with a neatly stacked magazine from 2009.

  The cover read: “The Vanished Tycoon.”

  Aman didn’t need to read the name printed beneath the title.

  He already knew it.

  On the television mounted high above, a news anchor spoke in a steady corporate tone about economic restructuring, dormant firms reopening under new regulations, and whispered speculation about a powerful comeback.

  The scrolling text at the bottom confirmed it:

  "Sources confirm BLC will completely lay groundwork by mid-2017."

  BLC.

  Aman swallowed.

  This wasn’t the official corporate office everyone knew about.

  This place was quieter. Cleaner. Hidden.

  The kind of place where real decisions were made without paperwork.

  The door across the room creaked open.

  A guard stepped out, suit crisp, gun resting casually in his gloved hand as though it were an accessory rather than a weapon.

  His gaze landed on Aman.

  “Inside.”

  Aman stood so fast his chair scraped the floor.

  As he walked forward, something in his chest tightened.

  Every instinct told him to turn around.

  But instinct didn’t pay debts.

  Instinct didn’t protect Tarun.

  He stepped in.

  A body flew past him the next moment.

  Not metaphorically.

  A grown man was hurled across the room, crashing against a wall before sliding to the floor with a broken groan.

  Aman flinched, instinctively ducking his head.

  When he dared to look up, he understood.

  A pile of men lay scattered like discarded furniture, blood marking their faces, their clothes, their dignity.

  And seated atop them— not slouched, not panting, not even mildly disturbed— was one man.

  He sat on them as if they were nothing more than a cushioned throne.

  Rings gleamed on his fingers as he adjusted them calmly, almost thoughtfully.

  His expression held neither anger nor satisfaction.

  Just control.

  “Apologies,” he murmured, glancing down at the men beneath him as if mildly inconvenienced. “Some people never learn.”

  The air itself seemed to bend around him.

  Vikrant Chauhan.

  Power did not shout in his presence.

  It simply existed.

  Guards lined the walls in disciplined silence.

  And standing slightly apart from the rest was another figure— a young man in a faded prison uniform, long hair brushing his shoulders, his right eye hidden beneath a bandage.

  He watched everything without speaking.

  Arjun Sethi.

  Aman forced himself forward despite the tremor in his legs and dropped to his knees.

  “Sir… I only need ?50,000,” he said, clasping his hands together so tightly his knuckles whitened. “I’ll repay every rupee. It will change my brother’s life. I swear—.”

  “No.”

  The word was not loud.

  It did not need to be.

  Aman looked up, stunned.

  Vikrant’s gaze shifted to him fully now, sharp and assessing, like a man examining an investment that had already failed.

  “I cannot risk my empire for sentiment,” Vikrant said evenly.

  “Every transaction I make is watched. BLC had collapsed right after 26/11, after all.”

  “Empire…?” Aman echoed faintly.

  Vikrant exhaled through his nose, as though explaining something obvious to a child.

  “You want to be considered special.”

  He stood, stepping down from the human throne without effort.

  The men beneath him groaned weakly.

  “You are not.”

  The words struck harder than any slap Aman had endured before.

  Silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Aman felt tears gather but wiped them away before they could fall.

  Crying there would not move mountains.

  It would only prove weakness.

  He lowered his head again, pressing his forehead nearly to the polished floor.

  The room waited.

  And so did the empire.

  “If not the money… then grant me another favour,” he whispered, voice trembling but unbroken. “Please—

  ——————————————

  “—please give me another week.”

  Aman’s forehead pressed against the contractor’s shoe, his nose grazing the mud-slick ground as rainwater crept under his cheek.

  One week had passed.

  One week of running, begging, calculating miracles that never came.

  The sky, usually dry and indifferent, had chosen that evening to weep without pause.

  The contractor stood above him, disgust twisting his lips, three men looming behind like shadows that had learned to breathe.

  “No? You need a week?” the contractor mocked.

  Before Aman could answer, before he could lower himself any further, Tarun’s voice floated from behind, small and innocent.

  “Should I turn now?”

  Aman’s heart shattered quietly.

  His voice, somehow, stayed bright.

  “Just a minute!”

  The kick came in no time.

  Aman’s body rolled across the wet ground, stopping inches from Tarun’s bare feet.

  The contractor flicked two fingers lazily, and the three men moved into the house.

  They grabbed Tarun, the boy’s confusion turning to panic as rough hands yanked him away from the only safety he knew.

  Aman sprang up, clutching at their ankles, fingers digging into their trousers, trying to anchor his brother to the earth itself.

  The contractor grinned.

  “We can get your brother sold to Vaidya. He recently lost some slaves.”

  The word cut deeper than any blade.

  Aman was kicked aside again.

  Tarun’s cries grew louder as he was dragged into the rain.

  Two men held him tight while a third shielded the contractor with an umbrella, as if dignity still mattered in this storm.

  Aman lay face-down for a second that felt like a lifetime.

  Then, slowly— deliberately— his hand slid to the sleeve of his left arm.

  He pulled it up.

  Rain streaked down his thin forearm.

  His fingers trembled— not from fear, but from the weight of what came next.

  Tarun was shoved into the car.

  The doors slammed shut, sealing him between men who smelled of cruelty.

  The engine coughed to life.

  Then—

  A stick jammed into the closing door.

  A hand followed.

  A small hand— Aman's hand.

  The man tried to force the door shut.

  Once. Twice. Again.

  The door crushed down on Aman’s fingers, but he did not let go.

  His jaw clenched so hard it trembled— he bit his lip until blood mixed with rain.

  The man finally stepped out, furious.

  “Sir, let’s take this brat too.”

  From inside the car, the contractor raised a casual thumbs up.

  Another man stepped out from the driver’s seat.

  They circled Aman, who now gripped the stick like it was the only truth left in the world.

  The first grabbed Aman by the collar, lifting him slightly.

  Aman swung the stick wildly, but it was ripped from his grasp and tossed aside.

  The man’s grip slid to his neck. Air disappeared. Aman’s eyes flared— and he bit down hard on the man’s palm.

  The grip broke.

  Instantly, Aman dropped low, hooking his fingers around the man’s ankle.

  Both of them crashed onto the wet ground, the man’s head striking with a dull, sickening thud.

  Aman scrambled to rise.

  The second man’s stick cracked against his head.

  He fell.

  Fists rained down— heavy, relentless.

  Mud splashed with each impact.

  Then, with a desperate swipe, he flung a handful of wet earth into the attacker’s eyes.

  The man recoiled, cursing.

  Aman crawled for the stick and began striking blindly, fueled by something far beyond strength— fueled by terror.

  The first man staggered back to his feet and drove a knee into Aman’s side.

  Pain exploded across his ribs.

  Aman collapsed, breath stolen.

  The contractor stepped away toward stacked crates of glass bottles, uninterested for a moment, as if selecting a tool from a shelf.

  Aman lay still.

  Too still.

  The man approached cautiously.

  And Aman surged upward, slamming his foot into the man’s groin.

  The man howled, slipping on the rain-slick ground.

  Aman forced himself upright and pressed the stick down at the man's groin with everything he had, muscles shaking violently.

  Arms locked around him from behind.

  He was lifted up by the third man.

  He bit the arm restraining him, teeth sinking deep until the grip loosened.

  The man struck again, but Aman twisted free and yanked his leg, sending him crashing backward.

  Aman climbed on top of him and began punching— again and again— until something cracked in his palm.

  His hand had been broken by the door.

  Still, he didn’t stop.

  He lowered his head and smashed it forward. Once. Twice. Again.

  Blood ran into his eyes.

  But, he saw something that brought back the humanity in him.

  He stopped only when he saw Tarun standing there, soaked and shaking.

  Aman forced himself up.

  His body swayed, barely held together by will.

  And he smiled.

  “You think I’d lose?” he breathed, chest heaving. “I’m the great Aman Singh—”

  Impact.

  White.

  A sharp, searing pain tore through him.

  His hand drifted to the back of his head.

  When he brought it forward, it was red.

  Another strike.

  His knees buckled.

  The contractor stood behind him, two broken, blood-slick glass bottles in his hands.

  He let them fall carelessly into the mud.

  “Aman?” Tarun’s voice was so small it almost vanished in the rain.

  No answer.

  “Get up. You said… you never lose.”

  Aman swayed, vision fading.

  The world blurred until only Tarun’s wide, terrified eyes remained.

  He collapsed.

  “You’ll never… leave me. Remember your— your promise!”

  Silence.

  Tarun dropped beside him, pressing trembling hands to his brother’s chest, to anything that might still be warm.

  “Someone please help him! He’s bleeding!”

  The rain answered.

  And somewhere above it all, the contractor laughed.

  Not loud.

  Not hysterical.

  Just enough to prove that mercy had never lived there.

  Rain hammered the night. The world was a blur of water and shadows in that night of 2016.

  Tarun, barely seven, knelt beside Aman, a boy just twelve, pale and still.

  His vest hung in tatters, shorts soaked and clinging to him. Hunger had hollowed his cheeks, weakness made his limbs tremble.

  Yet, his hands shook as he pressed against his brother’s chest, desperate for a heartbeat that wasn’t there.

  “Breathe… please… just breathe…” His voice cracked, small sobs breaking through the rain, mingling with the thunder above.

  The ground beneath them was slick, not just with rainwater, but a spreading pool of blood around Aman's head.

  The metallic scent filled the air, sharp and choking. Every drop glimmered like a cruel reminder— life had fled.

  Tarun’s small fingers traced the lifeless face, shaking, pleading, refusing to accept what had happened. The pulse was gone. The warmth, gone.

  From the shadows behind him, a hand gripped the neck of a beer bottle. The glass gleamed under the storm’s sporadic flashes of lightning.

  One of the men had got back on his feet, ready to strike the brothers.

  The fingers wrapped around it, white-knuckled, tight enough to crush.

  Tarun didn’t see it yet— but the cold promise of violence was already there, lingering in the air like a dark storm cloud.

  The water on the floor turned red behind Aman's back, rainwater and blood dissolving into one another until the ground itself looked wounded.

  He lay twisted, breath rattling faintly in his chest, and then— somehow— his lips moved.

  Blood slipped from the corner of his barely opened mouth as he whispered.

  “Run…”

  Tarun shook him violently, his small hands pressing against Aman's chest as if he could force life back inside.

  “Get up! You’ll… run with me!”

  Aman’s trembling fingers dragged toward his pocket. Even that movement looked impossible.

  He pulled out a piece of paper, now soaked and fragile in the rain, and pressed it into Tarun’s shaking hands.

  “I’m… I’m sorry. I couldn’t fulfill… the promise.”

  His voice was breaking apart with every breath.

  “My— my precious legs can’t do overtime.”

  He tried to smile.

  It hurt.

  “I’m sorry… for being a loser,” Aman whispered faintly.

  “You’re not! Just— just come with me, brother! Please!”

  His hand rose weakly to Tarun’s head, patting him the way he always did.

  “Follow the… paper and run.”

  His fingers began to lose strength, slipping, turning cold.

  “Don’t— don’t forget me… and remember…"

  He smiled brightly, like only Tarun mattered— though it was the last time he would see his younger brother.

  "I will always love you.”

  A shadow moved behind them.

  The man had staggered, a bottle gripped tight.

  Aman saw him before Tarun did.

  With the last of whatever strength remained in his shattered body, Aman shoved Tarun aside and hooked his legs around the man, dragging him down.

  They crashed together, the bottle clattering uselessly.

  The contractor lunged towards Tarun— too late.

  Tarun understood.

  He ran.

  Tarun didn’t look back.

  He couldn’t.

  Somewhere behind him, beneath the rain, the thunder and the cruelty fading into the night, the only person who had ever stood between him and the world was lying still.

  Aman had promised he would never leave.

  He stayed behind so Tarun could move forward.

  Each step Tarun took felt like betrayal.

  Each breath felt stolen.

  The paper in his trembling hand crumpled against his palm, but he didn’t dare let it go— it was the last warmth Aman had given him.

  The rain kept falling.

  But there was no hand over his head anymore.

  No voice calling him “my lion.”

  No one to go home to.

  That night, a seven-year-old boy kept running, while the world behind him stopped forever.

  He ran because he was told to.

  He ran because he was just seven.

  He ran because he was afraid.

  Behind him, Aman's breathing thinned into silence.

  He lost his breath so that Tarun could keep his.

  Aman was Tarun's hero, but not of battlefields.

  He fought the quiet wars within himself—against hunger that hollowed him, insults that bruised deep, and exhaustion that never let him rest.

  Yet every day, he chose to smile, to work, to joke, just so his little brother could believe the world wasn’t so cruel.

  But finally, as his heart stopped beating, the wars he was dragged into came to an end.

  Forever.

  And that was the night Tarun Singh lost the only thing precious he had— and began carrying a guilt that would never stop running.

  ——————————————

  03:59:33 PM.