The screen opened on the Delhi skylines.

  Not the noisy, chaotic Delhi people expected— but a curated version of it.

  Glass towers cut through the morning haze, their edges catching sunlight with surgical precision.

  Roads flowed smoothly, vehicles gliding like clockwork parts in a perfect system.

  People moved with purpose, unaware, unafraid.

  The music was soft.

  Almost sacred.

  Like a promise.

  The camera drifted forward— slow, deliberate— descending into the heart of the city before coming to a stop in front of a single structure.

  It was taller than the rest— cleaner, colder.

  A voice entered.

  Reassuring in a way that felt practiced.

  “In a world that grows more dangerous every day…”

  CUT

  A black luxury sedan pulled to a halt.

  The door opened.

  A businessman stepped out, his tailored suit flawless, expression unreadable.

  As his shoes touched the pavement, the camera widened just enough to reveal them—

  Men in black suits.

  Earpieces in place.

  Posture perfect.

  They didn’t scan the crowd.

  They already knew where every threat would come from.

  CUT

  A politician, mid-wave, smiled behind bulletproof glass as the vehicle inched forward.

  Outside, the crowd cheered.

  Inside the frame— again— the men in black.

  Still.

  Unblinking.

  Unquestioning.

  “…security is not a luxury.”

  CUT

  The camera rose.

  Higher.

  Even higher.

  It passed through the outer shell of the building, gliding past floor after floor— each one more restricted than the last— until it reached the very top.

  A logo crowned the structure.

  Cold. Metallic.

  BLC— BlackLine Command

  CUT

  The rhythm shifted.

  The calm broke.

  Now the footage felt real.

  Unfiltered.

  Not shot— but recorded.

  A man lunged with a knife.

  A guard moved once.

  The blade was redirected, twisted away, clattering harmlessly to the ground.

  Three attackers rushed another guard.

  Five seconds— that was all it took.

  They were on the floor before the camera could fully process the motion.

  A crowd erupted.

  A gunshot cracked through the air—

  but the politician was already moving, shoved out of frame as the bullet shattered glass where he had been standing.

  “It is a responsibility.”

  CUT

  Training halls.

  Vast. Industrial.

  Boots struck concrete in perfect unison.

  Bodies hit mats with bone-deep impact.

  Sweat dripped.

  Breath burned.

  A bronze ‘B’ badge hung from a suit on a locker door—untouched. Waiting.

  A silver ‘A’ badge swung violently as its wearer delivered a strike with full force.

  A golden ‘Z’ badge was placed at the center of a steel table.

  Reverently.

  “At BlackLine Command, we don’t just protect lives.”

  “We become the wall between chaos… and order.”

  CUT

  A handshake passed between powerful men.

  A contract slid across a polished table.

  Signatures were exchanged without hesitation.

  A briefcase clicked shut.

  “We don’t react to danger.”

  “We eliminate the possibility of it.”

  CUT

  The room changed— quiet, controlled.

  A man stepped into the frame.

  Vikrant Chauhan.

  Impeccably groomed.

  Grey suit.

  Calm eyes that had seen far too much to ever be surprised again.

  Sunlight poured in from the window behind him— but it only made the scar across his right eye stand out more.

  A reminder for him.

  He adjusted his cufflinks slowly, deliberately, then looked straight into the camera.

  His eyes conveyed certainty— and relief.

  He spoke, his tone soft yet sharp.

  “Because when you trust BlackLine Command…”

  A smile formed— almost perfect in appearance.

  Then, something tightened beneath it.

  The smile sharpened.

  The music cut.

  CUT

  Black.

  The logo emerged.

  BLC— large, immovable.

  Through its center, smaller text slid into place:

  BLACKLINE COMMAND

  In the silence, Vikrant’s voice lingered.

  “…we ought to protect you.”

  ——————————————

  The elevator didn’t feel small until they moved.

  Not rushed.

  Not angry.

  Just precise.

  Farhan barely had time to register the shift in air before the first blow landed.

  A fist slammed into his ribs from the left, another struck his jaw from the right—

  at the exact same moment.

  His head snapped sideways.

  Before the pain could bloom, a knee rose into his stomach.

  Then another— mirrored, synchronized— driving the air out of him in a sharp, humiliating gasp.

  He staggered.

  They didn’t let him fall.

  The twins moved like reflections in broken glass.

  When the man on Farhan’s left threw a right hook, the one on his right mirrored it perfectly— left hook, same arc, same timing.

  Impact overlapped impact.

  Pain stacked before it could register.

  Elbows cracked into his forearms followed immediately by punches slipping through the gaps, landing on muscle, jaw, throat.

  His vision stuttered.

  The elevator hummed softly behind it all, indifferent, mechanical— its digital floor indicator ticking upward as if nothing unusual was happening.

  Punch.

  Knee.

  Punch.

  The rhythm was relentless.

  Not fast in the way street fights were fast— but totally unavoidable.

  His body couldn’t track them.

  Couldn’t decide which direction the danger was coming from because it was coming from everywhere at once.

  His muscles began to betray him first.

  The tension drained out, replaced by a heavy, useless warmth.

  The blows didn’t stop— but the sharp edges of pain dulled, smearing into a distant, ringing pressure.

  His body relaxed.

  Not because it wanted to.

  Because it had no choice.

  Somewhere above them, a siren screamed to life.

  A harsh, piercing wail tore through the building— followed by red light flooding the elevator cabin.

  The twins didn’t even glance up.

  Their expressions never changed.

  They kept moving, fists rising and falling with the same emotionless precision, like machines that hadn’t been programmed to stop yet.

  Farhan barely felt the last hit.

  His thoughts drifted instead— slipping sideways, backward—

  The train.

  The hum of tracks beneath metal.

  Rishabh’s voice, sharp and urgent, layered over static.

  A half-formed thought surfaced through the fog.

  "I knew it…

  Rishabh told…"

  And Farhan, standing between two perfectly synchronized shadows, finally stopped fighting— not out of fear, but because his body had already surrendered where his mind hadn’t yet caught up.

  ——————————————

  The train moved exactly the way it was supposed to.

  Steel on track.

  A steady rhythm.

  Predictable.

  That’s what made it worse.

  Outside the window, darkness rushed past in long, blurred streaks— stations swallowed whole before Farhan could register everything.

  Farhan sat still, shoulders stiff, eyes unfocused.

  He wasn’t on the train anymore.

  He was stuck inside Rishabh’s voice.

  Rishabh stood near the table, the glow of a phone lighting his face from below.

  On the screen, Sahil’s bot interface blinked— lines of data scrolling, alive, thinking.

  “But—” Rishabh started, rubbing his thumb against the phone’s edge, already knowing where this was going.

  Farhan swallowed hard.

  “—It’s BLC. I know.”

  His voice came out tighter than he wanted. “You’ve said it like a hundred times.”

  Rishabh didn’t smile. Didn’t snap back.

  He handed the phone to Vivek without looking at him.

  “Good,” Rishabh said finally. “Then you’ll also understand this.”

  Vivek caught the phone, instinctively stepping back, eyes darting between the two of them like he was watching something fragile crack.

  Rishabh continued, calm but heavy.

  “Even if I slip your name into the system. Clean entry, proper credentials—”

  He paused. Just long enough.

  “—they’ll find it. Maybe not immediately. But soon enough.”

  The words landed slower than the train’s speed suggested.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Farhan’s eyes widened.

  Not in panic— in realization.

  The compartment felt smaller.

  For a few seconds, no one spoke.

  The train roared louder, as if trying to drown out the thought forming in Farhan’s head.

  Then he said it.

  “Then…”

  Another swallow.

  “…it is what I think it is.”

  Rishabh looked at him.

  Really looked this time.

  And then— slowly, reluctantly— he nodded.

  “Yes.”

  The word carried weight.

  Not fear. Not excitement. Just truth.

  “It’s a suicide mission.”

  Outside, the city lights kept streaking past like nothing had changed.

  Inside the compartment, Farhan leaned back into his seat, eyes fixed on the dark window.

  No one tried to comfort him.

  Because comfort would’ve been a lie.

  ——————————————

  The blows rained down relentlessly, a blur of fists and fury.

  Farhan’s head snapped from side to side, vision flickering, as if the world had turned into slow-motion chaos.

  Every nerve screamed, ribs ached, jaw throbbed, and yet… somehow, the pain didn’t stick.

  It was like someone had flipped a switch inside him— numbness spread through his veins, icy and electric.

  His heart pounded a feral rhythm, lungs gasping, adrenaline snapping through him like a hurricane.

  The man on the right moved like a phantom. Lean, merciless, eyes glinting with predatory amusement, he struck with impossible speed.

  Fist after fist, precise, unrelenting, aimed to stagger, spin, and break. In the midst of his assault, he paused for a heartbeat, raising a hand to slick back his hair— a flippant, mocking flourish, a silent announcement of his speed.

  Farhan’s heart leapt.

  The arrogance, the precision, the sheer control—it was a challenge carved in motion.

  Time slowed.

  Every strike, every impact, every minuscule detail crystallized.

  Pain signals dulled, blocked by the storm of adrenaline.

  His muscles coiled, ready to snap, ready to strike back.

  He found his anchor.

  Foot planted into the cold, unforgiving floor, he rooted himself like a tree in a storm.

  Rotation, torque, release— his fist shot out, striking the man on the left with controlled, explosive force, while the blow from the right slammed into the back of his head.

  The impact should have shattered him— but instead, clarity cut through the chaos like a blade.

  The dance of violence escalated.

  Blows collided, fists and counters moving in a tense, dangerous ballet.

  The world narrowed.

  For a heartbeat, suspended in the electric calm within the storm, names flared before him— etched into memory like carved stone.

  The man on the right, slick hair glinting under the harsh light, movements impossibly precise, was Uday Rathore.

  The man on the left, calculating, cruel, yet vulnerable in his arrogance, was Pratap Rathore.

  For a single, suspended second, everything else fell away— the punches, the chaos, the world itself.

  All that remained was the cold, undeniable recognition of who stood before him, and the silent, burning knowledge that the fight was no longer blind.

  But that didn't last for too long.

  The next moment, Uday’s fist whipped through the air like a coiled snake, aimed straight for Farhan’s head.

  He barely tilted back in time— the punch missed him by inches, colliding with the elevator door instead.

  The metal shivered under the impact, leaving a jagged imprint as if the blow itself had branded it.

  Pratap lunged from the other side, his fists swinging like hammers of a pendulum.

  Farhan staggered backward, but instinct kicked in.

  He ducked low, letting the brothers collide with each other in a brutal clash of forces.

  Skin and flesh groaned under the chaos, echoes bouncing off the steel walls, amplifying every strike.

  Pratap’s leg slid forward, catching Farhan’s foot. His body pitched forward, a moment of imbalance— but his instincts were faster than his fall.

  Grasping for support, he clutched Uday’s arm, yanking him down with him.

  The world became a spinning tangle of limbs, sweat, and adrenaline as both men crashed onto the floor in a thundering heap.

  Then Uday’s weight shifted, almost instantly.

  One hand shot up, wrapping around Farhan’s throat, crushing the air from his lungs.

  The elevator walls seemed to shrink around them.

  Struggling, gasping, Farhan’s eyes caught something— a detail his mind might have missed if not for the urgency of survival.

  One of Uday’s hands had four fingers instead of five.

  There was something off, something unnerving, but the thought barely had time to form.

  Above him, Pratap loomed, hammer in hand, out of the harness, muscles coiled to deliver a skull-cracking strike.

  Every second stretched into eternity— the metallic scent of the elevator, the thump of heartbeats, the groan of bodies colliding, all amplified in Farhan’s heightened senses.

  He barely had time to register the next movement before the piercing wail of a siren cut through the chaos.

  The elevator door slid open with a mechanical hiss.

  Every head turned, frozen mid-motion— Farhan and Uday on the floor, Uday choking, Pratap paused mid-swing, hammer suspended like a statue in air.

  Inside stepped an old woman.

  Her gait was deliberate but slow, each step making the metallic floor echo.

  She paused only for a heartbeat, noticing the jagged imprint on the door, but her expression betrayed no fear, no shock.

  As if she were accustomed to such violence as part of the building’s daily routine, she tilted her head and said, in a calm, almost casual tone.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen…”

  The lift lurched downward.

  Each second stretched like an hour.

  A bead of sweat trickled down Farhan’s temple, cold against the heat of the fight, and yet none of them dared to move.

  The world held its breath— three bodies frozen in violent tension, one woman utterly unshaken.

  Finally, the elevator shuddered to the first floor. The siren cut off abruptly.

  The doors began to slide open.

  The woman stepped out, deliberate and unhurried, leaving the three men suspended in time.

  Farhan’s sweat drop slid down, tracing a hot line along his cheek.

  The doors began to close.

  The fight had paused, but the tension lingered— sharp, electric, unbroken, as if the next second could reignite it with lethal force.

  That’s when the action erupted.

  Farhan’s instincts ignited, every ounce of strength, speed, and desperation surging at once.

  He drove the back of his head straight into Uday’s nose.

  A sharp crack echoed through the tight metal walls, and Uday’s grip loosened for just a heartbeat.

  But Pratap’s strength didn’t falter, his speed unbroken, relentless as ever.

  Farhan slipped slightly from Uday’s weakened hold, but the hammer came down— its trajectory aimed for his skull.

  The metallic clang of metal meeting bone rang out, but luck— or fate— intervened.

  The hammer struck Uday’s ribs instead, snapping a floating rib with a gruesome pop, the impact missing Farhan’s head by mere millimeters.

  Pain and shock surged through the air like static electricity.

  Instinctively, Farhan’s leg lashed out, swinging toward Pratap’s groin in a desperate counterstrike.

  Uday reacted with uncanny precision, snapping his legs around Farhan to twist him aside, saving Pratap while shoving him backward.

  The force sent Farhan’s head smashing against the elevator wall.

  The pain exploded through his skull, reverberating down his spine.

  There was barely space in the elevator for his body to absorb the blows, every movement cramped, every shift a jolt of agony.

  Groaning, gasping, Farhan dragged himself back along the steel floor, fingers scraping for purchase, muscles trembling under exhaustion and adrenaline.

  He lifted his head, eyes locking onto Uday standing over him, victorious and poised for the next strike.

  But Pratap advanced.

  A single, measured half-step— small, deliberate—.but enough to dominate the cramped space. He knelt, wrapping his massive hands around Farhan’s neck, lifting him effortlessly against the elevator door.

  Farhan’s legs kicked and thrashed, aiming for Pratap’s groin, but the grip was unyielding.

  He couldn’t lift his leg, couldn’t break free.

  Every breath was stolen, every second a battle against suffocation.

  Grunts tore from his chest, raw and desperate.

  And above him, Uday’s hands moved with deadly intent, detaching the hammer from his harness.

  The cold glint of steel caught the light, an unspoken threat hanging in the metallic air.

  In that moment, lying trapped and crushed between two of the most dangerous men he had ever faced, Farhan’s mind raced with a terrifying thought.

  "I don’t know if I’ll make it out of this elevator alive."

  The elevator was no longer a box of metal— it was a pressure cooker of pain, violence, and survival, every second stretching like eternity.

  ——————————————

  The A-Class guard with the golden tooth stood at the gate, rigid, muscles coiled like springs.

  The siren tore through the morning air, shrill, metallic, echoing against the walls of the compound.

  For a heartbeat, the guard froze, then surged forward, boots striking the asphalt with a thundering rhythm.

  A smirk flickered across his face, faint, almost imperceptible— but enough to show that he knew the rules, that he knew the game.

  Inside the control room, lights blinked, monitors hummed, and a computer displayed one simple line of text.

  'New Entry: Azeem Ansari, A-Class.'

  Azeem’s 3D model materialized on the screen, generated with precise algorithmic detail.

  Every contour of his face, the glint of gold on his tooth, even the slight twist of his wrist as he moved, appeared in sharp digital clarity.

  His entry had been noted, cataloged— tracked before his boots even touched the marble of the lobby.

  And the very next moment, from the shadows of a corridor, four figures emerged, moving like stealthy ghosts during the day.

  Yug, Rishabh, Kritika, and Vivek slid across the floor with quiet, measured steps.

  Every movement was deliberate, each glance precise— CCTVs glimmered, mechanical eyes watching, analyzing.

  They were acutely aware of every angle, every lens, every potential threat.

  Rishabh’s gaze fell on the prize— the BLC Sudan, black and gleaming under the afternoon light, parked near the main gate.

  His lips barely moved, a whisper only they could hear.

  "Thank God it’s still here…”

  A quick hand gesture signaled the others, sharp and urgent.

  Yug’s fingers closed around the bag, thick wires snaking inside, but it slipped from his grasp.

  Kritika was ready— she caught it in a fluid, practiced motion.

  Rishabh opened the bonnet of the car, revealing the battery like a small, pulsing heart.

  Vivek crouched near the main gate, hands moving over a socket board, fingers nimbly connecting wires, each motion precise and almost surgical.

  Yug took the wires from the bag, attaching one end to the battery with meticulous care.

  Kritika’s hands gripped a hammer from inside the bag, hesitating.

  The metal felt cold and heavy, but Rishabh’s voice cut through her doubt like a blade.

  “You have to. There’s no other way.”

  She drew a deep breath, muscles tensing.

  The hammer swung down.

  Glass exploded into jagged fragments, scattering like crystals across the hood of the car.

  The door yawned open.

  Rishabh clambered into the driver’s seat, Yug spun the thick wires and threw them toward Vivek.

  Sparks hissed across the floor as the cables landed, slack pooling beside the socket.

  CCTVs clicked and hummed, capturing every detail of their movements.

  Vivek’s eyes lingered too long on one monitor, almost frozen— but a sharp knock from Yug against the side of the car snapped him back into action.

  He connected the wires at the socket, completing the circuit with careful precision.

  Inside the car, Rishabh and Kritika’s hands shook, fingers trembling as they worked. Improvised tools clutched tightly, wires manipulated with surgical accuracy.

  Every movement was tense, every second stretched like rubber.

  Rishabh rifled through the glovebox, hoping for tools, but instead found a massive stack of cash.

  His eyes lingered a moment too long, temptation flashing across his expression, before he forced his focus back on the task.

  Outside, Yug held the main door steady, making sure it didn’t jam or slam shut.

  His body coiled with tension, every muscle ready, every sense alert.

  A new entry flashed on the monitor.

  'New Entry: …'

  It was incomplete, glitching.

  Then the car roared to life.

  Sparks arced violently at the socket, tiny explosions hissing through the metallic air.

  The computer attempted to 3D-scan Yug from his feet upward, but something went wrong.

  The display flickered, glitching violently.

  Red warnings blinked in sharp, urgent bursts.

  'Anomaly Detected.

  Fail Safe Engaged.

  Manual Review Required.'

  Chaos erupted inside the control room. Operators shouted, hands flying across keyboards.

  Alarms blared. The orderly rhythm of surveillance broke down into noise, panic, confusion.

  But one figure remained calm, a dark silhouette against the flickering light of the monitors.

  Even in the dim glow, his sunglasses caught every reflection, hiding the sharp focus of his eyes.

  Pranav Gogoi. A-Class.

  His nameplate glinted under the harsh artificial light. The operators froze, sensing the authority in his posture, the quiet command in the tilt of his head.

  He was the same person who met the group, while being on a bike.

  He leaned forward slowly, deliberately, picking up his walkie-talkie.

  The glow of the screen traced his features— composed, intrigued, analyzing every anomaly as if it were a puzzle.

  Back at the entrance, Yug stood stagnant near the main door, which had failed to close yet refused to fully open.

  The siren cut off abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

  Outside, the world seemed paused, tense.

  Rishabh’s hands moved faster, Kritika’s eyes sharp, Yug’s body taut, ready to intervene at any second. Vivek’s fingers danced over the socket board, completing circuits with careful calculation.

  The moment stretched.

  Every second felt like an hour.

  Sparks crackled, wires hissed, and the monitors in the control room glitched violently, reflecting the chaos outside.

  Yet Pranav, calm as ever, leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing, intrigue etched across his face. The game had begun— but he wasn’t panicked.

  Not yet.

  ——————————————

  The elevator groaned as it was still, metal cables whining under the weight of violence.

  Every vibration traveled through the tiny cabin like a pulse, shaking lights and rattling Farhan’s teeth in his skull.

  The air was thick, hot, reeking of sweat and blood, electric with tension.

  Pratap’s grip on Farhan’s neck was a vice, unrelenting, crushing.

  Uday loomed above, hammer poised like a predator ready to strike, the shadows stretching his figure into something monstrous.

  Uday's voice broke the suffocating silence, sharp and calculated.

  “Should we take him to the room?”

  “Yeah,” Pratap answered, voice low, almost amused.

  Uday stretched his hand forward, almost lazily and clicked on the button— the button that would lead the elevator to the 21st floor.

  The lift shuddered violently, a small tremor enough to shift the dynamics of the fight. Farhan felt it immediately— a crack in their precision, a momentary weakness.

  The tiniest opening, just enough.

  His chest burned, lungs straining, but survival instinct surged like wildfire.

  He lashed out with both knees, driving them into Pratap’s groin.

  The first strike landed, met with silence.

  The second coincided with the lift’s tremor, sending Pratap staggering slightly.

  Farhan’s heart thundered— pain, fear, and desperation fused into pure determination.

  The vice on his throat loosened just enough for him to gasp, swallow, and fight.

  The fight reignited, raw and chaotic.

  Farhan shoved into Pratap’s chest, shoulders ramming with all the force he could muster, using the lift’s third tremor as leverage.

  Pratap caught him by the collar and shoved, but Farhan’s teeth met flesh.

  His instincts took over, and his grip didn't loosen so easily.

  He bit Pratap’s ear with a savage snap, a spray of hot, metallic blood filling the confined space. Pratap’s subtle howl cut through the metallic walls.

  Uday’s hands grabbed him mid-motion, pulling him back, hammer raised— but Farhan had made his mark.

  Pain exploded in Farhan’s back as Uday struck with the hammer.

  His breath burst from him in a choking, guttural scream, but he stayed upright, blood dripping from his nose and mouth.

  Pratap’s kick sent him crashing to the floor, but instinct carried him forward— his elbow smacked Uday in the face, splitting the lips, and he saw red bloom in the elevator lights.

  Every movement was a war against physics itself— every shove, every twist, every strike.

  Farhan redirected Uday’s hammer blow into his broken left hand— bones shattered with sickening cracks, sending waves of agony up his arm, but he remained in motion, lashes of his legs throwing both brothers off balance.

  Farhan clung to Pratap like a desperate animal, climbing, twisting, wrapping himself around his attacker to shield his face, to block, to survive.

  The two brothers staggered under his weight, crashing against him like waves.

  Uday yanked him backward, but Farhan’s legs wrapped around his neck, connecting his body to both brothers.

  The chaos became a dance of teeth and flesh— Pratap biting into Farhan’s bicep, Uday sinking teeth into his thigh.

  Pain tore through him like fire, but surrender was a foreign concept.

  The elevator shuddered again, lights flickering violently.

  Farhan’s body trembled, muscles screaming, blood mixing with sweat, vision swimming in red and black.

  His left palm hit the steel floor— shattered bones screamed their protest.

  He coughed, choked on blood, vision blurring— but he couldn’t give in.

  Uday wiped his teeth, disgusted at the taste of flesh.

  Pratap spat, red droplets spraying across the walls.

  Summoning the last reserves of strength, Farhan swung his broken left palm, connecting just enough with Pratap’s jaw to turn his head.

  But Uday’s hammer descended with crushing precision, smashing Farhan’s face into the floor, forcing him onto his stomach, back arching painfully.

  Pratap planted a boot onto that spot, wrenching his left arm upward.

  Shoulder popped with an audible, cruel sound. Pain became absolute, total.

  Uday knelt, hammer raining blows rhythmically on the shattered arm.

  Farhan screamed, raw, choking, coughing blood, bile spilling with every movement.

  Pratap twisted, yanked, muscles straining with calculated cruelty.

  Bones fractured, splintered, dislocated.

  Agony became his only companion.

  And yet, in the haze of torment, memories surged— Ronak laughing on some carefree evening, Anaya’s fierce, unwavering eyes, Jay’s steady support, Harinarayan’s calm presence.

  Each memory a faint, fleeting light amid the darkness of pain.

  Every flash of recollection fed his resolve, whispered, don’t give up.

  The elevator creaked and shuddered as it climbed.

  Lights flickered violently, cables strained, the metal cabin vibrating under the intensity of their clash.

  Uday rose finally, knee pressing down on Farhan’s mangled left hand, hammer raised one last time.

  The rhythm paused— a single, terrible heartbeat.

  Then, the 21st floor arrived.

  Doors hissed, metal grinding, but Farhan’s body didn’t respond.

  Limbs collapsed, twisted.

  Breath shallow, eyes blurred, consciousness slipping like sand through his fingers.

  The elevator doors began to open, but the fight inside Farhan had already ended.

  Blood pooled beneath him.

  Pain had rewritten his body’s limits.

  Bones shattered.

  Flesh had been bitten, torn, burned by blows and strikes.

  And yet, somewhere beneath the devastation, somewhere inside that broken, battered body, a spark lingered— a refusal to fully surrender.

  But even that spark was too small, fading under the unrelenting, merciless assault.

  Farhan Qureshi, warrior, survivor, and friend to those who were family, finally went silent.

  Eyes closed.

  The battle lost, the mission failed, the pain absolute.

  He had fought like a storm, but the storm had passed, leaving only the wreckage of man and metal in its wake.

  And in that stillness, a cruel truth echoed— sometimes courage isn’t enough.

  ——————————————

  Yug lingered at the doorway, eyes fixed on the three moving towards him.

  Rishabh gripped the heavy bag, the bulk of cash inside pressing against his hands like a fragile lifeline.

  The four of them moved as one, careful, deliberate, every step measured— but beneath the control, a pulse of hope kept them moving forward.

  The first floor of BLC was quiet, almost eerily so. People lounged on plush sofas, scattered like jewels across the marble expanse, each one a study in wealth— tailored suits, shining shoes, briefcases clutched as if containing the very air they breathed.

  Every glance the group stole in their direction reminded them, silently but brutally, that they were intruders, children wandering into a lion’s den.

  With every step, hope faltered.

  The grandeur of the place, the polished floors, the digital screens flashing BLC advertisements, all whispered, you don’t belong here.

  Yet, they pressed on.

  Guards were stationed at every corner, their posture rigid, eyes sharp and unblinking.

  The digital hum of security cameras, small and numerous, tracked every movement.

  Yug’s heart thumped in his chest like a warning drum.

  Every second matters.

  Finally, they reached the reception desk.

  A woman sat behind it, immaculate, serene, and utterly indifferent.

  Her gaze swept over them— not curiosity, not fear, not malice— but nothing at all.

  Nothing that suggested the four were more than shadows.

  Vivek set the bag down with a loud thud, the sound echoing across the silent hall.

  The woman raised her brow, just slightly, curiosity flickering across her face.

  Kritika leaned forward, voice steady despite the tightness in her chest.

  “We need to appoint a bodyguard. Here’s all the cash.”

  The receptionist picked up the bag, flipping it open, checking contents with careful scrutiny. Yug, almost whispering, added,

  “Exactly… 7.3 lakhs.”

  A small, almost inaudible chuckle slipped past the woman’s lips— but she caught it immediately, covering it with a cough.

  The group exchanged glances— the laughter, restrained though it was, hammered home the gulf between them and this empire.

  For the first time, they felt the weight of reality pressing down.

  Rishabh, refusing to surrender, placed the stack of cash he had found in the dashboard drawer of the abandoned car on the counter.

  The woman ignored it for a moment, as if assessing whether the desperation in his eyes matched the attempt.

  It did.

  “This should work,” Rishabh murmured, almost to himself.

  The woman finally glanced at the money.

  She pushed it aside with a flick, her laughter now open, almost amused.

  “Aww… this is cute. But I’ve seen worse than bribery.”

  The four froze, absorbing the truth: their carefully laid plan, their desperate measures, were trivial here.

  BLC was not just big— it was a leviathan.

  And they were ants scrambling across its surface.

  Yet, even in the oppressive weight of failure, a crack opened.

  The woman, sensing the urgency in their eyes, the raw, desperate hope of the four children who had no right to be here, softened just slightly.

  “Fine,” she said, voice low. “I’ll assign a standard one for you. You can call it… D-Class, if that works.”

  Yug’s eyes lit up immediately— but only briefly. “We need someone else. Someone specific.”

  The woman’s eyes rolled, a gesture that would have been arrogant if it weren’t tinged with amusement. “And who might that be?”

  “Tarun Singh,” Yug said, firm, unflinching.

  The woman scanned her list. Tarun Singh’s name gleamed, A-Class, untouchable by their paltry fortune.

  And then she laughed— full, warm, mocking.

  “It’s out of your budget, little ones. Maybe… if you had a hundred times what you have.”

  Kritika swallowed, her hands tightening on the counter, before she finally offered their last desperate plea.

  “I know this isn’t enough. But we need Tarun, even if it’s just for a second.”

  The woman’s eyes softened, though the hint of amusement lingered.

  She leaned back slightly, considering them.

  Time stretched, heavy, each heartbeat echoing like a drum in the quiet hall.

  “So… you’ll be able to have him for…”

  Vivek’s stomach churned as thoughts raced through his mind.

  "Will it even be enough?

  Will Tarun agree?

  Is two minutes enough to change anything?

  Will we lose him forever if we fail?"

  “1 minute and 55 seconds,” the woman continued, voice deliberate, cold in its precision. “Let’s round it to 2 minutes. Not a second more.”

  A spark of hope flickered. Yug’s voice cut through the doubt, steady, unyielding.

  “That will be enough for us.”

  Rishabh’s fist tightened, mind racing with contingency plans.

  The woman’s voice finally pulled them back to the present.

  “Fill in the legalities. Third floor.”

  The four moved towards the lift she indicated. Each step was cautious, deliberate.

  Kritika’s fingers hovered over the button to bring the lift down from the 21st floor.

  The elevator lights reflected on their faces, showing determination, fear, hope, and the faintest tremor of doubt.

  BLC loomed above them, an empire built on money, power, and untouchable influence.

  But all four of them turned around, not patient enough to wait for the lift to arrive.

  The opted for the staircase, every step they take upward giving them and shattering their hopes at the same time.

  Their mission was tiny against this behemoth— but for the first time in the building, a fragile hope sparked in the group’s hearts.

  And yet, each of them knew, with a cold certainty— surviving BLC was one thing. Succeeding? That was another world entirely.

  ——————————————

  The second elevator's doors opened on the 35th floor, revealing a hallway bathed in muted light.

  Arjun Sethi walked in with the kind of calm that made every sound— the click of his boots, the hum of the air-conditioning— echo with weight.

  The suite ahead was quiet, almost too quiet. Plush furniture, dim lights, and soft shadows created a space that felt both inviting and dangerous.

  Inside, two women were lying on the bed, clothes already abandoning their bodies.

  The blankets covered their bare bodies, only subtly revealing them.

  Their posture was deliberate, inviting, a silent test of his reaction.

  One’s eyes flicked toward him, voice soft, measured.

  “You’re late, honey.”

  Arjun’s lips curved into a slow, almost imperceptible smile.

  “You’re early.”

  There was no arrogance in his tone, only controlled presence.

  The women leaned forward slightly, gestures fluid and practiced— but their movements didn’t unsettle him.

  The crawled forward, like predators ready to devour their prey alive.

  He simply watched, assessing, commanding the room with his gaze alone.

  One of them knelt down on both of her knees, unzipping his pants slowly and carefully.

  The other didn't waste a moment— she kissed him intimately, tongues meeting, as she removed his shirt.

  A faint static interrupted the room’s stillness.

  A walkie-talkie buzzed insistently.

  One of the women, the one on her knees, handed it to him without a word.

  Arjun took it, holding it casually.

  As soon as he turned it on, Kabir’s voice came through, calm but urgent.

  “They’re already here. Tarun’s friends.”

  Arjun's shirt dropped down, leaving his body as the women still acted passionate.

  His hand traced down the woman's body, his fingers reaching the lower half below the waist.

  The woman moaned, and it only got louder.

  A low, quiet laugh escaped Arjun, almost lost in the hum of the suite.

  “Any chance Tarun would go with them?”

  “No,” Kabir replied firmly.

  Arjun’s eyes swept the room, absorbing every detail— the shadows, the subtle movements of the women, the tension in the space.

  The woman, still kissing him, reached for his eyepatch, slow, careful, testing boundaries— but his voice stopped her.

  “Don’t.”

  The room’s energy shifted subtly.

  The women realized instantly— this was no game. Every motion, every breath, was being measured.

  “Would anyone notice… if something happened to them?” he asked, voice low, almost intimate, yet cold.

  “No. We’ll take care of it,” Kabir replied.

  Arjun’s lips twitched, a quiet, controlled smile. “Then you know what to do.”

  The woman on her knees moved upwards, her hands tracing upward through Arjun's abdomen.

  But all it took was one hand of Arjun— he firmly pushed her back down, and all that was heard was the woman swallowing and moaning in a muffled tone.

  Kabir’s voice, low and precise, broke the silence.

  “After their time with Tarun is over, they won’t make it out of here.”

  “Obviously, brother,” Arjun said, calm, measured. His words were casual, but the weight behind them was unmistakable— a quiet warning that left the room charged and still.

  Now, he pushed the women aside, not being gentle with them in any aspect, as the two fell back on the bed.

  He zipped his pants slowly, every movement deliberate, drawing the air with him, claiming it, bending it to his presence.

  The women’s earlier confidence dissipated— it was clear now who held the power in the room.

  Finally, the walkie-talkie went silent.

  Arjun’s gaze lingered on the women for a moment as he picked up his jacket, quiet and commanding.

  Then he moved toward the door, boots clicking softly against the floor.

  He paused at the threshold, voice low, carrying both promise and threat.

  “I want to see how loyal that brat is.”

  One of the women, slowly, asked Arjun, still panting and aroused.

  "When will you come back?"

  There wasn't any answer.

  The door closed behind him with a muted thud.

  The sound reverberated through the suite, a soft, final punctuation that left the room suspended in stillness.

  Shadows shifted in the dim light, but nothing moved.

  Arjun’s presence lingered, a quiet, dangerous weight, leaving the women aware of their place and his absolute control.

  ——————————————

  The four— Rishabh, Yug, Kritika, and Vivek— sat tensely at the table, pens hovering over the agreement papers.

  Rishabh exhaled and pressed his signature onto the paper.

  One signed line, one simple act, and yet it felt like a declaration of survival.

  Then—

  Footsteps echoed far down the hall.

  The four held their breath.

  Each tick of the distant sound seemed to stretch into an eternity.

  And then, finally, he appeared.

  Tarun Singh.

  But it wasn’t the Tarun they remembered.

  The charm, the easy warmth, the grin that made even the hardest moments lighter— everything was gone.

  What strode toward them was a perfect silhouette of him, his posture, his gait, his build— but the spark that had always made him Tarun was gone.

  The four jumped to their feet, hearts pounding, tears threatening to spill.

  Relief, disbelief, hope— all collided at once. Their friend was here, after nearly a month of searching, waiting, fearing.

  Tarun’s hand brushed over his A-Class badge, adjusting it with mechanical precision.

  His voice rang out, formal, clipped, the warmth stripped away.

  “Good afternoon. I will be your guard, Tarun Singh, for… two minutes.”

  Rishabh’s pen slipped from his fingers.

  His analytical mind, the one that always calculated, always assessed, gave way completely.

  His voice trembled as emotion poured forth.

  “T—Tarun… you’re here…”

  Tarun’s expression remained unreadable.

  “What do you want me to do for you, sir?”

  Yug’s throat tightened, voice catching on words he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

  “Hey… Tarun… brother… what… what do you—”

  Tarun cut him off instantly, almost like a blade.

  “Do I know you from before, sir?”

  The words hit them like ice.

  Confusion, fear, and disbelief pooled in their chests.

  Vivek’s stomach churned, realization dawning. Tarun wasn’t here— not really.

  “Stop— stop acting. We have to get out of here!”

  Tarun’s calm didn’t waver.

  “Sir, please don’t shout. There are others present.”

  Kritika’s voice broke, small and fragile, the weight of desperation in every word.

  Tears streamed freely down her cheeks.

  “Tarun… don’t tell me… You know us… we’re friends…”

  Tarun’s head tilted ever so slightly, subtle, almost imperceptible, yet firm.

  Not warmth. Only quiet denial.

  “I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about, ma’am.”

  Yug’s fear surged into raw, desperate energy.

  He stepped forward, hands trembling, voice ragged.

  “Tarun, please… we’re friends. We study at Silver Oak Academy… I’m Yug… the one who first let others bleed… for my needs.”

  He rattled off details only Tarun could recognize— shared moments, inside jokes, small talks— but every attempt was cut short.

  Tarun’s repeated, formal denials, his ears buzzing.

  “No, sir. Stop. Sir. Stop.”

  And yet, Yug refused to give in. “…and you’re coming home with us!”

  Tarun’s voice cracked then— not with emotion, but with the pressure of discipline.

  Higher, sharper.

  “Sir! I cannot act personal with people… who are my clients.”

  Dreams of reunion bled away in an instant.

  Tarun stepped forward, extending his hand— but not in friendship.

  Professional. Transactional.

  This wasn’t the Tarun they had imagined, dreamed about, prayed to see.

  And then, softly, quietly, almost under his breath— but sharp enough to cut through the haze— he said.

  “Your time has started.”

  ——————————————

  03:18:00 PM