“Kill all of your friends. Right now.”
Those were the last words that came through the walkie talkie.
The static hissed for half a second after Arjun disconnected, and then the room fell into a silence so heavy it felt artificial, as if the air itself had been switched off.
Tarun didn’t react.
No tightening of the jaw.
No shift in posture.
No visible hesitation.
He simply lowered his hand and placed the walkie talkie on the table with care, aligning it neatly, as if it were nothing more than an object that had finished serving its purpose.
The sound of plastic touching wood echoed louder than it should have.
The four of them— Yug, Rishabh, Kritika, and Vivek— stood frozen, staring at him.
Not because they understood what had just happened, but because they didn’t.
Something in Tarun had gone still in a way that wasn’t calm.
It was vacant. Empty.
Tarun turned.
His eyes found Yug first.
Yug had just wiped the tears from his face, his breathing still uneven, chest rising and falling too fast.
His eyes were red, but hopeful— still holding onto the belief that words could reach Tarun, that the person standing in front of them was still their Tarun.
Tarun looked at him without expression.
And then he moved.
There was no warning.
In a single step, he closed the distance between them and drove his fist straight into Yug’s gut.
The impact was blunt and brutal.
The air was forced out of Yug’s lungs in a sharp, silent gasp as his body folded inward.
His feet left the ground for a split second before he crashed down, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that rattled through the room.
“Yug!” Kritika screamed.
The sudden violence shattered the paralysis. Panic erupted instantly.
“What— what are you doing?!” Kritika cried, her voice breaking as she rushed forward.
Tarun turned his head slightly, speaking without urgency, without emotion— his voice steady, almost gentle.
“I’ll make it less painful.”
Rishabh barely had time to process the words.
In the blink of an eye, Tarun was behind him.
Two fingers struck a precise point on Rishabh’s neck. The effect was immediate.
Rishabh’s body stiffened, his breath catching as his limbs refused to respond.
He remained upright for a second, eyes wide with shock, before slumping slightly, frozen in place— conscious, but trapped inside his own body.
“Rishabh!” Kritika shouted, her hands hovering helplessly.
Vivek moved without thinking.
He grabbed the first thing within reach— a pen— and hurled it at Tarun.
Then another object. A paperweight.
The walkie talkie itself came next.
Tarun didn’t even turn fully.
His right hand, held casually behind his back, came forward in smooth, minimal movements. His palm flicked once, twice— deflecting each object effortlessly, sending them clattering harmlessly to the floor.
Vivek rushed him.
There was no technique, no plan— just desperation.
He swung wildly, every ounce of strength poured into each punch.
Tarun stood his ground.
Every attack was neutralized the same way.
A shift of weight. A redirect. A deflection.
His movements were identical to how he’d handled the thrown objects— precise, economical, emotionless.
And then it was over.
Tarun stepped in close, his grip snapping shut around Vivek with crushing sharpness.
In one fluid motion, he lifted and slammed him into the floor.
The impact knocked the breath out of Vivek.
He lay there groaning, clutching his back, trying to force his lungs to work again.
Kritika spun around, scanning the room wildly.
No one.
No guards. No staff. No help.
When she turned back—
Tarun was already charging at her.
Her heart seized.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact.
But it never came.
Instead, there was a dull, solid sound— forearms meeting force.
She opened her eyes.
Yug was in front of her.
His arms were raised, crossed like a shield, taking the full force of Tarun’s kick.
His legs trembled as he absorbed the blow, teeth clenched in pain, but he didn’t fall.
“There’s still time, man…” Yug said, his voice strained but desperate. “There’s still time.”
Tarun didn't even look at him.
“It was already too late long ago.”
Vivek forced himself up, pain screaming through his back.
He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Tarun from behind, locking them tight.
“Get out!” he shouted at the others.
They began dragging Rishabh backward, boots scraping against the floor.
For a moment, it almost looked like it was working.
Then Tarun noticed Vivek.
Not with panic. Not with urgency.
With indifference.
He snapped his head back violently.
The back of his skull collided with Vivek’s face. Vivek cried out as his grip loosened, stumbling away, disoriented.
Yug staggered toward the lift.
Rishabh’s paralysis wore off just in time for him to regain control of his body.
He rushed after Yug and Kritika as Yug slammed his thumb against the lift button.
Nothing.
He pressed it again.
Still nothing.
Again. And again.
The doors didn’t budge.
The building lockdown.
Tarun walked toward them.
Not fast.
Not rushed.
Just walking.
“Vivek, your right!” Rishabh shouted.
Vivek turned, his face flushed, eyes frantic— then saw it.
The fire exit.
And they ran.
The emergency staircase door slammed open as they rushed inside.
Rishabh lagged behind, his body slower, weaker— but he used that moment.
He turned.
And grabbed Tarun.
He wrapped his arms around Tarun’s torso from the front, planting his feet, forcing himself to hold on.
“Go!” he yelled.
Tarun looked down at him.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Not with anger.
With something close to pity.
Rishabh strained with everything he had— but Tarun walked forward anyway, dragging him effortlessly.
A sudden knee strike landed low at his groin.
Rishabh gasped as the strength left his legs.
An elbow followed, sharp and precise, snapping his head back.
Rishabh crashed into the staircase.
Yug yanked him up, and the four of them began running upward.
Tarun entered the staircase behind them and shut the door— clean and deliberate.
Metal chains clanged as he locked it from the inside.
Then—
He vaulted the railing.
The drop was immediate.
He landed below them, boots hitting concrete with a heavy thud, already rising.
Before anyone could react, Tarun was in front of Yug.
His hand clamped against Yug’s temple, fingers digging in as he yanked his head downward—
Straight into his knee.
Yug’s body shook violently.
Tarun caught him by the collar before he could collapse and hurled him upward.
Yug crashed into Kritika, his weight knocking the breath out of her, and both of them hit the stairs hard, bodies tangling as they slid a step lower.
“Head up… now!” Rishabh shouted, his voice sharp, cutting through the chaos.
Yug gritted his teeth, forcing himself up, grabbing Kritika by the arm and pulling her to her feet.
There was no time to check for injuries.
No time to think.
All four of them moved again, legs burning as they pushed upward, boots slamming against concrete steps in uneven rhythm.
Behind them, Tarun walked.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just… walking.
His footsteps were calm. Measured. Almost lazy. He watched them scramble, stumble, breathe hard— his face blank, unreadable, as if this wasn’t a chase at all, but an observation.
They reached a floor and lunged for the gate.
Tarun was already there.
He stepped into their path, effortless, blocking the entrance.
No words. No warning. Just presence.
They recoiled instantly, fear jerking them backward, and turned to run higher.
By the sixth floor, their legs began to protest.
A dull, spreading burn crept up their calves, every step heavier than the last.
Sweat stung their eyes.
When they reached for the gate again— hope flaring for half a second— Tarun moved.
Rishabh didn’t even see it coming.
Tarun grabbed him and slammed his head against the wall, the crack sharp and violent.
Rishabh cried out, collapsing forward, barely kept upright by Yug and Vivek as they dragged him away, forced once again to move up.
Higher.
By the fourteenth floor, exhaustion had settled deep into their bones.
Their breathing was ragged, lungs on fire.
When they reached the gate, hands shaking as they pushed it open, Tarun struck again.
He grabbed Kritika by her hair, yanking her back with brutal precision, while his other hand closed around Vivek’s throat, lifting him just enough to steal the air from his lungs.
He threw them aside like obstacles, and the four of them staggered away, terror overriding pain as they climbed even further.
Up.
Up.
Up.
Finally— the twenty-first floor.
Their feet felt dead beneath them.
Every step was agony now, muscles trembling, strength scraped raw.
When they reached the gate this time, they braced themselves.
But Tarun didn’t stop them.
He didn’t rush ahead.
He didn’t block the way.
He simply walked behind them, still at the same normal pace, not a trace of exhaustion on his face, as if the climb had never touched him.
The gate swung open.
The four of them stepped inside.
And froze.
Their eyes widened as one.
What lay before them wasn’t a normal floor.
The light was dim, swallowed by black shutters sealing the windows shut.
The air was cold. Sterile. Wrong.
It was a laboratory— but not one meant to heal.
Monitors lined the walls, screens alive with numbers: pulse rates, heartbeats, vitals scrolling endlessly.
There weren’t patients.
They were victims.
The first thing they noticed was the sound.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
Not even the hum of machinery.
It was the flat, uninterrupted tone coming from one of the monitors.
A single, endless line.
A heartbeat that no longer existed.
They stood frozen just inside the threshold of the room, the door heavy behind them, the air colder than the rest of the building— as if the place itself had been sealed off from time.
The lights overhead were dim, surgical, throwing long shadows that clung to the walls and refused to move.
Their eyes followed the monitor instinctively, and then— reluctantly— they followed the wire.
A man lay motionless beneath it.
There was no need for anyone to say it out loud. The machine already had.
The line told them everything. Whoever he was, whatever he had endured, it was over now.
The stillness around him felt final, irreversible, like a sentence that had already been carried out.
His skin showed seemingly ages of pain— it had been brutally peeled off his body.
Blood trickled down from the skin and flowed from the body, like it was never ending.
Someone inhaled sharply.
Then came another sound.
A sudden crackle.
Electric.
They flinched as one.
Their heads turned toward the source, and what they saw made them stop looking almost immediately.
A man was strapped to a chair, his body restrained so tightly that even the smallest movement seemed impossible, his mouth stitched shut.
His head jerked slightly as a jolt ran through him— not enough to end things, only enough to remind him that he was still here, still conscious, still trapped inside whatever nightmare this room had been built to sustain.
The shocks came in intervals.
Measured. Deliberate.
This was not chaos.
This was design.
Their eyes drifted further into the room and landed on a massive glass water chamber built into the wall.
The water inside moved unnaturally, churning despite the stillness around it.
Then a figure became visible within— a man, submerged, his movements frantic and desperate.
Piranhas circled him beneath the surface, fast and relentless.
The chamber showed no signs of the man's struggle— the man was dead, half of the flesh eaten up, only leaving bones.
Kritika turned away instantly, gagging as she clutched her mouth.
Yug’s eyes stayed fixed, but they visibly shook, his breathing uneven as the reality sank in.
Rishabh shut his eyes hard, not out of fear, but refusal— as if keeping them open would etch the image forever.
None of them could hold their gaze there for long.
Their minds refused it, pushing them forward, away, anywhere else.
That was when they saw him.
Hanging upside down.
Chains bit into the ceiling, holding a familiar figure suspended just above the floor.
He was barely clothed, his body slack from exhaustion rather than unconsciousness.
One of his arms hung at an unnatural angle, swollen and darkened, as though it had endured more than it had ever been meant to.
His eyes flickered open as they stepped closer.
“…You guys…?”
The voice was weak, almost uncertain, like he wasn’t sure whether they were real or something his mind had created to survive this place.
“Farhan,” Yug breathed.
It was him.
Farhan Qureshi.
Alive.
Relief surged forward— sharp, overwhelming— but it didn’t last.
Because Vivek wasn’t looking at Farhan.
He hadn’t moved since they had entered.
His body was rigid, his breathing shallow, his eyes locked on something else entirely.
The others followed his gaze, and the moment they did, the room seemed to shrink.
Another figure hung nearby.
Also upside down.
But not by chains.
Barbed wire coiled around his body, pressed tight enough to hold him in place, cruel enough to ensure he could never forget it was there.
His wounds hadn’t been treated— only left alone, time forced to do what little it could.
A thick tube was fixed at his mouth, holding his jaw open, the strong acid visible even from a distance.
He was conscious.
Very consciously still.
He didn’t move.
Not because he couldn’t—.but because he knew better. One wrong motion, one instinctive flinch, and whatever was inside that tube would do the rest.
The acid would pour into his body, and burn him from inside— every organ and bone decaying and him feeling all of the pain, but not being able to do anything but waiting to die— and he didn't want that.
Vivek’s breath stuttered.
The name didn’t need to be spoken.
He was the one who controlled EdBridge Tutorials— and the one who almost destroyed Vivek's life.
Sahil Malhotra.
The past hit Vivek all at once.
Not memories— sensations.
Fear, helplessness, rage.
His vision tunneled, the room blurring at the edges as if reality itself were slipping out of focus.
He didn’t hear Farhan.
He didn’t hear the others calling his name.
He was somewhere else.
They snapped him back just in time.
Sahil tried to shift, tried to make a sound around the tube, his eyes pleading.
The instinct to help him was there— raw, immediate— but before anyone could act on it, footsteps echoed behind them.
Slow.
Unhurried.
The door closed.
Tarun Singh stepped into the room.
He reached for the chains on the door, fingers curling around the metal— and then he stopped.
The chains fell from his hand, clattering softly against the floor.
For a brief, terrible second, no one moved.
Farhan swallowed, his throat clearly struggling to work.
“So… you’ve found Tarun—”
He didn’t finish.
Tarun lunged.
Yug reacted instantly, stepping forward without hesitation, positioning himself between Tarun and the others.
He braced, ready to absorb the impact—
But it never came.
Instead, Tarun was thrown backward.
Not struck.
Not pushed.
Thrown.
He crashed into the wall hard enough to rattle the trays beside him.
Metal clinked sharply as syringes and vials scattered across the floor. He didn’t get up.
He didn’t even seem to try.
Instead, he drove his shoulder back into the wall again.
And again.
The sound was sickening— not loud, just wrong. The kind of sound that told you something had gone past its limit.
Then came the crack.
Tarun exhaled sharply as his shoulder gave way, his body finally going still.
For a moment, it looked like pain might register on his face.
It didn’t.
With his other hand, he calmly reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt.
The five of them stared, unable to process what they were seeing.
The device crackled to life.
“You did it so fast, Tar—”
Tarun cut him off, his voice suddenly uneven, his breath deliberately unsteady.
“Sir… they’re stronger than I thought.”
He paused, as if catching his breath.
“They… dislocated my shoulder. Old wounds have reopened. I need to retreat for a while.”
Silence.
“What?” Arjun finally said.
“I’ll finish it,” Tarun replied. “After I’m treated.”
Another pause.
Tarun’s expression was blank, steady— completely at odds with the performance he was selling.
The others didn’t blink.
Then the walkie-talkie crackled again.
“Fine,” Arjun said. “But I want their bodies after that.”
The line went dead.
Tarun got to his feet.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No sign of injury slowing him down.
He walked toward the exit, past the fallen equipment, past the room full of suffering, as if none of it mattered anymore.
At the door, he stopped.
Turned.
Looked at them one last time.
His eyes were empty.
Not cold. Not angry.
Empty.
Then he was gone.
The room felt hollow in his absence.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Until Farhan’s voice broke the silence.
“…Guys?” he whispered.
“Can you free me now…?”
Reality snapped back into place.
Kritika jolted, shaking her head as if waking from a trance.
“Oh— oh yes,” she said quickly, stepping forward. “We’re here.”
All four of them moved toward Farhan at once.
Hands reached out.
Chains rattled.
For the first time since entering the room, something shifted.
Hope—but no one knew how long it would last.
——————————————
The shooting range sat far from the rest of the compound, deliberately isolated— quiet, open, disciplined.
The kind of place where sound was controlled and purpose was clean.
Targets stood in neat rows beneath the afternoon light, circular marks waiting patiently to be ruined.
The air smelled faintly of dust, metal, and something sharper— anticipation, perhaps.
Arjun Sethi calmly clipped the walkie-talkie back onto his belt.
A bow was extended toward him, polished, familiar. Arjun accepted it without looking at the hand first. He didn’t need to.
Only a few people handed him his weapon like that— no hesitation, no reverence, no fear.
Uday Rathore.
Pratap sat a short distance away, relaxed on a bench just outside the marked practice zone, arms resting loosely, eyes scanning the field like he was watching something mildly entertaining.
Uday joined him as Arjun reached into his quiver, fingers brushing past arrows before selecting one with casual certainty.
“Tarun retreated, right?” Uday asked.
Arjun didn’t respond.
He stepped forward, planted his feet, and lifted the bow.
The motion was smooth, unhurried—.almost lazy. He pulled the string back and released in the same breath.
The arrow flew.
Clean. Silent. Perfect.
It struck the center of the target with a dull, satisfying thud.
Bullseye.
Pratap tilted his head slightly. “Reason?”
Arjun drew another arrow, his expression unchanged.
“Reported injury,” he said, as if reading a weather update.
“Claims the targets overpowered him.”
He nocked the arrow, rolled his shoulder once, loosening it— not because he needed to, but because it felt good.
The string tightened again.
“Do you believe it?” Pratap asked.
Arjun didn’t answer.
He released.
The second arrow tore through the first, splitting it clean down the shaft before burying itself into the exact same point.
The wood cracked sharply, fragments dropping uselessly to the ground.
Another bullseye.
Arjun exhaled softly, amused.
He walked forward, boots crunching lightly against the gravel, and pulled the broken arrow from the target.
He examined it briefly, and threw it away like tearing the arrow apart was nothing special.
“Emotions aren’t what keep you going,” he said casually. “Emotions hold you back.”
Uday stood up. “And we don’t hold back, sir.”
Arjun turned, smiling— wide, genuine, almost friendly. “I know that,” he said warmly.
“That’s why you should go now.”
“All five of them?” Uday asked, already knowing the answer.
Arjun laughed. Not sharp. Not cruel.
Just… normal.
“Oh, yes. All five,” he said lightly. “Don’t give them a chance.”
Pratap rose beside his brother.
“We won’t disappoint you.”
“I’m counting on that,” Arjun replied, selecting another arrow.
He spun it once between his fingers, relaxed, comfortable in his space.
The brothers turned and walked off, fastening their harnesses as they went.
The dull metallic clink of hammers locking into place echoed briefly before fading into the distance.
Arjun raised his bow again.
As they disappeared from view, he lifted his hand in a casual wave, eyes still on the target. “Oh— and don’t forget to inform Vikrant sir too, guys!”
The arrow left the string immediately after.
Dead center.
Arjun lowered the bow, smiling to himself, already preparing the next shot— because to him, this was just another good day.
——————————————
The car didn’t rush to Noida.
It glided through the road like it belonged there, tires whispering against asphalt, streetlights slipping past in measured intervals.
The city outside felt distant, muted, like the world had politely agreed not to interfere.
Azeem sat straight behind the wheel, shoulders squared, both hands placed perfectly at ten and two.
He drove like a man who knew every rule and followed all of them.
His eyes lifted every few seconds to the rear-view mirror mounted above, not lingering— never lingering— but always checking.
Vikrant sat behind him, relaxed in a way that felt deliberate.
One leg crossed over the other.
One arm resting casually on the door.
His phone was held loosely to his ear, fingers unmoving, as if even gripping it would be unnecessary effort.
His face held no tension— only mild interest, like a man listening to background music.
“Define disturbance,” Vikrant said.
His voice was calm.
Not soft. Not threatening.
On the other end of the call, the Rathore brothers hesitated just a fraction too long.
“One of our assets hesitated,” the voice said carefully.
Vikrant’s gaze drifted to the window, watching the reflection of passing lights smear across the glass.
“Did it cost us anything?” he asked.
Azeem felt the pause in that question.
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, almost imperceptibly.
“No, sir.”
The car continued forward.
Steady. Obedient.
Vikrant inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
“Then it’s not a disturbance.”
The words dropped like a verdict.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Vikrant’s eyes lifted— meeting Azeem’s in the mirror.
Not accusing. Not searching.
Just aware.
“When was the date of our weapon exchange?” Vikrant asked suddenly.
The answer came back distorted, partially swallowed by static or distance.
“Fine,” Vikrant said. “Do your work. I’m closing a loose end.”
The call ended.
The click echoed louder than it should have inside the car.
For a moment, nothing else existed except the engine’s hum and the rhythm of tires against the road.
Vikrant slipped his phone into his pocket and finally leaned back, adjusting himself as if settling in for something personal.
“So,” he said, almost casually, “you didn’t tell me how your meeting with Tarun was.”
Azeem didn’t turn his head. “He was stressed, sir. Being promoted to A-Class so early, it weighed on him.”
“I know this,” Vikrant interrupted smoothly.
That was the problem.
Silence returned—nthicker now. Heavier.
Azeem swallowed, eyes fixed forward.
After a beat, he spoke again. “There was nothing else, sir. I simply guided him. Helped him understand how to handle the group assigned to him.”
“Oh,” Vikrant said, smiling faintly. “Interesting.”
He placed his hands together and cracked his knuckles, one by one, unhurried—an oddly normal sound in a suddenly hostile space.
“Azeem,” Vikrant continued, tone almost friendly, “do you remember…?”
Azeem’s chest tightened. “Remember… what, sir?”
Vikrant rolled up the sleeves of his suit with care, fabric sliding neatly up his forearms. When he looked up again, the softness was gone. Not replaced by anger—by clarity.
“Every badge records audio,” he said. “Yours does too.”
The car lurched forward for half a second as Azeem’s foot pressed too hard on the accelerator.
Too fast.
He corrected it immediately.
But it was too obvious.
“I don’t recall this change, sir,” Azeem said, voice steady but thinner now.
“It’s recent,” Vikrant replied. “And I have direct access.”
Azeem’s throat moved. Once.
His reflection in the mirror looked smaller.
“So I know,” Vikrant continued gently, “what you and Tarun actually talked about.”
“Sir—”
“Mmm?” Vikrant hummed.
“It’s not what you—”
“You have one correct decision left, Azeem.”
The words weren’t loud.
They weren’t rushed.
They were final.
A beat passed.
“Stop the car.”
The road ahead stretched long and empty, headlights cutting a narrow path through darkness.
Azeem understood then.
There would be no convincing.
No bargaining. No rewriting of facts.
Words had expired.
His jaw tightened.
His foot went down.
Hard.
The engine roared as the speed climbed, streetlights blurring into streaks of white and gold.
The city rushed back into existence, suddenly loud, suddenly fast.
Behind him, Vikrant’s faint smile disappeared.
“I said, stop the car,” he said again— sharper now.
Azeem didn’t respond.
Vikrant leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto the back of Azeem’s head, voice slicing clean through the engine’s roar.
“STOP THE CAR, MOTHERF*CKER.”
——————————————
03:36:41 PM.
