The gates of St. Jude's College swung open to a sea of pristine colorful shirts and the smell of fresh asphalt. For the newcomers, it was the start of a dream. For the rest, it was just another year in the shadow of the St. Jude.
Ayan, Darsh, and Riya moved through the crowded hallways like a single unit of nervous energy.
Ayan adjusted the strap of his bag, his eyes wide as he took in the ivy-covered stone walls. Beside him, Riya was already checking her reflection in her phone, though her excitement was written in the way she couldn't stop tapping her foot. Darsh was the quietest, clutching his schedule as if it were a map through a minefield.
The first-day lectures were a blur of introductions and half-empty notebooks. By noon, the professors had taken pity on the heat and the restless freshmen, releasing them early.
"Canteen?" Riya asked, her voice bright. "I heard they have the best cold coffee..."
"I just need to sit down," Darsh exhaled, finally loosening his tie.
But as they stepped into the bustling, open-air canteen, the atmosphere wasn't what they expected.
There was no upbeat music or typical first-day chatter. Instead, the air was thick with a heavy, electric hum of gossip.
Groups of seniors were huddled over tables, their voices low and urgent.
"Did you see the look on his face?"
A girl at a corner table whispered loud enough for Ayan to hear. "Totally remorseless."
"I heard he didn't even deny it," a guy replied, shaking his head. "I mean, it's Arvay. What did you expect? Once a criminal, always a criminal..."
Ayan slowed his pace, his curiosity piqued. As they sat down with their trays, the name Arvay seemed to bounce off every wall.
It was spoken with a mixture of fear, disgust, and a strange kind of twisted fascination.
"Who are they talking about?"
Ayan asked, leaning in toward a group of sophomores at the next table.
One of the sophomores, a guy with thick glasses, turned around.
"You're new, right? You just missed the biggest scandal in St. Jude's history. Happened yesterday. A guy named Arvay, stole the final exam papers from the high-security server room."
"Stole the exam papers?" Riya gasped.
"Yeah, he's been suspended until the end of the session. The dean only let him take the final exams."
The student explained.
"He's been a thorn in this college. He is a Vardhan, but he's nothing like them. Advik Vardhan, the Chairman's elder son, is a topper, a literal saint. And then there's Arvay. The black sheep..."
"Arvay," Ayan whispered.
He wasn't there, but he was all anyone could talk about.
"And now... who is that?" Darsh asked, gesturing toward the canteen entrance.
Ayan and Riya turned, their eyes following his gaze.
The chaotic crowd of students parted like a retreating tide as Advik Vardhan walked in. A soft smile playing on his lips, eyes that looked like they had never seen a dark day, and an expensive watch that glinted in the sun. He looked like the hero of a story.
The atmosphere in the canteen shifted instantly from frantic gossip to a practiced, hushed reverence.
Advik Vardhan didn't just walk; he drifted, his presence acting as a gravitational pull for every eye in the room.
He took a seat at the central table, the "throne" of St. Jude's, surrounded by a circle of friends who looked like they had been hand-picked for a luxury catalog.
A young waiter, clearly a new hire and visibly shaking under the pressure of the lunch rush, approached the table with a tray of fresh juices.
As he reached to set a glass down in front of Advik, his heel caught on the edge of a chair. The tray tilted, the glass slid, and a vibrant explosion of orange juice splashed directly across Advik's pristine, white designer shirt.
The canteen went deathly silent.
Riya gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Darsh winced, expecting an explosion.
The waiter turned pale, his voice trembling as he fumbled for a napkin. "I...I'm so sorry, sir! Please, I didn't mean to... let me clean that, I'll get a towel..."
Advik didn't flinch. He didn't even stand up. Instead, he reached out and gently caught the waiter's frantic hand, stopping the shaking. A small, patient smile touched his lips.
"It's just a shirt," Advik said, his voice smooth and incredibly kind. "Accidents happen. Don't worry about it. Why don't you take a five-minute break? You look like you've had a long morning."
The waiter blinked, nearly moved to tears by the unexpected mercy. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much."
As the waiter scurried away, the student with the thick glasses, turned back to Ayan, Darsh, and Riya with a triumphant look on his face.
"See that?" the student whispered, leaning in as if delivering a holy truth. "That's why everyone loves him. That's a Vardhan for you."
Ayan looked at the orange stain on Advik's chest, then back at the student. "He seems... really nice."
"Nice? He's a saint," the student scoffed.
"Now, imagine if that had been Arvay. If a waiter had spilled juice on that leather jacket? Arvay would have had the guy by the throat before the glass even hit the floor. He'd have made a scene, insulted the man's family, and probably broken a chair just to prove a point. He's ill-mannered to his core, no respect for anyone 'below' him."
"Does he really get that angry?"
Riya asked, her brow furrowing.
"Worse," the student replied. "He thrives on it. He's arrogant because he thinks he's untouchable, and he's mean because he hates that he'll never be like Advik Vardhan. He's the shadow, and Advik is the light. Yesterday's stunt with the papers? That was just Arvay trying to drag Advik down to his level."
Ayan looked back at Advik. The "Saint" was currently laughing at a joke, his hand resting casually on the table.
"He looked perfect. Too perfect."
Ayan murmured, watching Advik peel off his stained shirt to reveal a clean gym tee underneath, his friends already handing him a fresh drink.
"Maybe he is," Darsh shrugged, seemingly ready to move on.
Ayan nodded slowly, finally tearing his eyes away from the golden glow of the Vardhan table.
"Can we focus on the important stuff? Like the fact that I'm dying of hunger?"
Riya cut in, dramatically clutching her stomach.
Ayan and Darsh both shook their heads at her as they called a waiter over to their table.
____________________________________
He threw on his black leather jacket and swung a leg over the bike. Snapping his helmet into place, he kicked the engine to life. Within seconds, the machine was a blur against the empty pavement.
He pushed the speed into the danger zone, the kind of pace that would make a spectator's blood run cold but behind the visor, he rode with the icy calm of a man who had nothing left to lose.
The wind caught the edges of his jacket, whipping it like a second skin. He didn't care if a tire blew or if the pavement rose up to meet him.
If he died tonight, he reasoned, the world wouldn't stutter. No one's life would grind to a halt, and no eyes would waste a tear on a shadow.
He took the next corner at an impossible angle, the footpeg scraping the asphalt in a shower of sparks.
Suddenly, a pair of headlights cut through the dark. The tires screeched as a car swerved directly into his path.
At the last microsecond, the driver pulled a hard, desperate turn, the metal of the car missing the bike by a fraction of an inch before both vehicles slammed to an abrupt, shuddering halt.
Had the driver been a second slower, the bike would have been a heap of mangled steel tumbling down the road.
"Are You Out Of Your Mind?"
The driver's side door slammed with a violent thud. The man marched toward him, his face flushed with a mix of terror and rage.
Arvay didn't flinch. He slowly pulled off his helmet, the cool night air hitting his face as he ran his fingers through his damp hair.
He looked at the man with those black orbs, unblinking, void of fear, and utterly hollow.
"Maybe," Arvay said, his voice a low, raspy drawl that lacked even a hint of apology.
He stood there, the very picture of the ill-mannered delinquent the world expected him to be, looking as though he were almost disappointed the crash hadn't happened.
Atharv stared at him, staggered. He couldn't wrap his head around it, this boy, barely in his twenties, had been seconds away from a lethal collision, and yet he stood there without a flicker of remorse.
What the hell is wrong with kids today?
Atharv wondered, his blood boiling.
Where are his parents? How do you let a child grow up to be this reckless?
Oblivious to the storm of righteous fury brewing in Atharv, Arvay kicked the stand and reached for his helmet.
He was ready to vanish into the night, but before he could slide the visor down, a hand clamped firmly onto his wrist.
Arvay's eyes narrowed into obsidian slits. He stared at the man's grip, then up his face.
The man was trembling with rage, but Arvay couldn't fathom why. The metal hadn't touched. The car was fine.
So why was this stranger looking at him like he'd just committed a murder?
"Get down," Atharv ordered, his voice vibrating with authority.
"What?" Arvay's voice was flat, confused.
What did this guy want?
Money?
Yeah,
It was always money.
Arvay knew the language of the bribe better than the language of a conversation.
With a dismissive roll of his eyes, Arvay wrenched his hand away. He set his helmet back on the seat and reached into his leather jacket. He pulled out a thick wad of cash, peeled off several crisp, high-denomination notes, and thrust them toward the man's chest.
Atharv's jaw tightened so hard it looked like it might shatter. He stared at the money, at the casual, arrogant way this boy tried to pay for his own recklessness.
He felt a sudden, violent urge to slap the indifference right off the boy's face.
"I said," Atharv repeated through gritted teeth, "Get. Down."
Arvay frowned, his black orbs flashing with a stubborn, avoidant spark.
He didn't budge. He had been ordered around by a master manipulator his whole life; he wasn't about to take commands from a stranger on a dark road.
The two locked eyes, a battle of wills between a man who valued life and a boy who didn't know how to.
Atharv saw the wall of stubbornness standing in front of him, and he realized words wouldn't break it.
In one swift, blurring motion, he reached out, snatched the keys from the bike's ignition, and stepped back.
"You know what? Fine," Atharv said, his voice dangerously calm as he backed toward his car. "Stay here the whole night for all I care. Maybe the cold will clear your head."
The silence of the dead engine hit Arvay harder than a punch.
"What the hell!"
He shouted, the mask of indifference slipping into genuine panic.
He scrambled off the bike, his heavy boots thumping against the asphalt as he chased after the man.
"Give them back! Hey!"
Arvay caught up to Atharv just as he reached the driver-side door, his shadow looming large and jagged in the car's headlights.
"The keys," Arvay spat, "Give them back. Now."
Atharv turned, unimpressed by the posturing.
"Or what? You'll throw more money at me? You think your daddy's wallet can buy back your life once you've smeared yourself across the pavement?"
"You don't know anything about my father," Arvay snapped, his eyes flashing with a sudden, raw heat.
"I know exactly your type," Atharv countered, his voice dripping with disgust.
"Rich, arrogant, and so bored with your own privilege that you play with death like it's a toy. You're not just a danger to yourself; you're a menace to everyone else on this road. You're lucky I'm the one who stopped you and not a coroner."
"I didn't ask you to save me!" Arvay stepped into Atharv's personal space, his chest heaving. "I didn't ask for your lecture, and I didn't ask for your help. Give me the damn keys."
"No," Atharv said, his jaw was set like granite. "You want to act like a child? I'll treat you like one. Walk home. Cool off. Maybe by the time you reach your front gate, you'll realize that being 'ill-mannered' doesn't make you tough, it just makes you pathetic."
"And who the hell are you to treat me like a child?" Arvay hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, jagged low, his eyes blazing with a defiant, obsidian fire. "Just give me the damn keys and get out of my way."
Atharv stared at him, the silence between them thick with tension. He realized then that words were useless. The boy wasn't just being difficult; he was a fortress.
And he had no right to play the mentor here, that was a job for the boy's parents, and it was a job they had clearly, miserably failed.
With a final look of pure, cold disappointment, Atharv shoved the keys hard into Arvay's chest.
He didn't wait for the boy to move. He simply turned on his heel, walked back to his car, and slammed the door with a finality that echoed across the empty road.
He didn't look back as he ignited the engine, leaving Arvay standing alone in the pool of his own shadow, clutching the metal keys like a weapon.
As Atharv drove away, his grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. His mind raced to his own home, to his younger brothers.
The youngest was barely seventeen, and the thought of him ever behaving with such reckless, hollow arrogance made Atharv's stomach churn.
To Atharv, the boy on the road was the ultimate tragedy of the modern world, a youth who clearly had everything at his fingertips, yet valued absolutely nothing.
Arvay looked down at the keys in his palm, then at the taillights of Atharv's car shrinking into red pinpricks in the distance.
He gave a sharp, indifferent shrug, as if shaking off the weight of the man's words. The lecture hadn't stuck; it hadn't even scratched the surface.
He climbed back onto his bike, kicked the engine into a roar, and tore off into the night with the same reckless, bone-chilling speed as before.
Fifteen minutes later, the bike skidded to a halt in front of a modest, unassuming house.
Arvay dismounted, his movements heavy with a sudden, bone-deep fatigue. He navigated the outdoor stairs with the familiarity of a ghost, stopping in front of a weathered door.
He pressed his thumb against the bell and left it there, a continuous, jagged ring that demanded entry.
The door swung open abruptly. Before a word could be said, a hand shot out, gripped Arvay's leather collar, and hauled him inside with a frustrated yank.
"Are you serious, Arvay?" Sidharth hissed, slamming the door shut. "Why do you always forget I'm a bloody tenant here? I swear, one of these days I'm going to get evicted because of your stunts."
Sidharth kept blabbering, his voice a mix of genuine worry and annoyance, but Arvay wasn't listening.
He stumbled toward the couch and practically collapsed into it. He leaned his head back against the worn cushions and closed his eyes, his black orbs finally dimming as he let the silence of the room wash over him.
Sidharth stopped his pacing and looked down at the silent figure on his couch. Arvay's chest rose and fell in a slow, jagged rhythm. To anyone else, he looked like a bored, arrogant boy sleeping off a thrill. But Sidharth knew better.
"You're upset," Sidharth stated, his voice losing its edge and dropping into something quieter, more grounded.
Arvay didn't open his eyes. "I'm tired, Sid. Shut up and let me sleep."
Sidharth crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
"What happened? Did the 'Golden Son' get into trouble again? Did you have to play the punching bag today?"
Arvay's hand tightened into a fist against the couch cushion, but his voice remained flat. "Nothing happened..."
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
"You're a terrible liar," Sidharth sighed.
He walked over to a small kitchenette and started rummaging through a cupboard.
"Fine. Keep your secrets. Just don't bleed on my upholstery if you've gone and gotten yourself into a fight."
He set a glass of water and a plain cold sandwich on the coffee table near Arvay's head.
Arvay still didn't move, but the tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction of a millimeter.
He would never say the words. He would never acknowledge that Sidharth was the only person who saw him as something more than a shadow.
In truth, Arvay wasn't even sure he trusted the man, trust was a luxury he'd traded away years ago, yet, whenever the noise in his head became a deafening roar, he always found himself here, in this cramped, rented flat.
"Eat," Sidharth nudged him, then turned back toward the cabinets, his movements casual and domestic.
Arvay opened his eyes. He tracked Sidharth's silhouette for a moment before grabbing the sandwich. As he munched on it slowly, the silence of the room finally began to settle the adrenaline in his blood.
"Why didn't you go to college?"
He looked up, his voice raspy from the wind and the cold.
Sidharth didn't turn around; he kept busy arranging jars in the overhead cabinets. "Because my friend wasn't there," he replied with a careless shrug.
Arvay's eyes narrowed instantly. He stopped mid-bite, the air in the room turning cold.
"I. Am. Not. Your. Friend."
He stated, his voice hard, firm, and final.
Sidharth let out a long, weary sigh.
He didn't argue. He didn't flinch.
He just kept working, knowing this script by heart.
This was the ritual, Sidharth would offer a hand, and Arvay would try to bite it, terrified of what it would mean to actually hold on.
___________________________________
Atharv pulled the car to a stop in front of the Sehgal Mansion, but he didn't get out immediately. He sat in the darkened interior, his hands still gripped tight around the steering wheel.
The boy, that spoiled brat on the bike, had completely messed with his head.
He loathed that particular breed of arrogance, boys who hid behind their family names while bragging about a lifestyle they hadn't spent a single day earning.
He took a deep, steadying breath before finally stepping out into the cool night air.
As he walked inside, his exhausted feet were already pulling him toward the stairs, craving sleep. But he stopped short when he saw Ayan slumped over the dining table, his head resting on his crossed arms, dozing fitfully.
Atharv's frown softened into something more protective. He crossed the room and reached out, gently running his fingers through Ayan's hair.
Ayan jolted awake instantly, blinking back the fog of sleep. "Bhaiya..." he whispered, his voice thick. "I was waiting for you."
Atharv let out a tired sigh, though his touch remained gentle. "I told you I'd be late, Ayan..."
Ayan gave a small, stubborn shrug, rubbing his eyes. "You know I don't like eating alone."
"Where's Ayush?" Atharv asked. He shed his blazer, draping it over the back of a chair before heading toward the kitchen.
"Dr. Ayush is still buried under a mountain of patients," Ayan replied, leaning back and watching his older brother.
He tracked Atharv as he moved efficiently through the kitchen, picking up the serving dishes and sliding them into the oven to reheat.
The hum of the microwave filled the silence, a domestic, peaceful sound that felt worlds away from the screeching tires and danger zone speeds Atharv had witnessed only an hour before.
_____________________________________
Advik stood on the balcony, slowly sipping his coffee as the first bruised light of dawn began to bleed through the horizon.
The sun was just starting to break through the morning haze, casting long, pale shadows across the Vardhan estate.
The silence was shattered by a familiar, aggressive roar.
Advik's eyes narrowed as he watched the bike tear up the driveway.
He tracked Arvay as he cut the engine, dismounted with a tired grace, and disappeared into the mansion.
The boy hadn't been home all night. It was a classic Arvay move, reckless, silent, and entirely unaccountable.
Advik set his cup down and moved toward the door. He descended the grand staircase just as Arvay stepped into the foyer, the scent of gasoline and the cold night air clinging to his leather jacket.
"Where were you the whole night?" Advik asked.
Arvay's boots came to a halt on the marble floor. He didn't look up immediately. Instead, he slowly raised an eyebrow and stopped directly in front of Advik, bringing them eye-to-eye.
"None. Of. Your. Bloody. Business," Arvay enunciated, each word a cold, sharp stone.
He stepped back, a mocking, razor-thin smile pulling at his lips.
Advik's jaw tightened; that sickeningly calm attitude, the way Arvay looked at him as if he were nothing more than a mild inconvenience, always managed to unnerve him.
"It's been barely a day since you were suspended," Advik snapped, his patience fraying. "The least you could do is behave yourself for the next twenty-four hours."
Arvay stared at him for a long, heavy beat. Then, a dry chuckle escaped his throat, building into a full, dark laugh that echoed through the empty hall.
"Behave?" Arvay repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low-register whisper. "You've spent so long staring at your own reflection in the trophies I bought you with my reputation that you've actually started to believe your own lies, Advik."
Advik didn't flinch. He straightened his shoulders, his expression hardening into something clinical and cold.
He looked at Arvay not as a brother, but as an asset that was underperforming.
"I don't need to lie," Advik said, his voice stripped of any warmth.
"I'm simply stating a fact. Dad has done so much for you. The money he spends on you, the way he tolerates this..." Advik paused, his eyes traveling dismissively from Arvay's boots to his messy hair, "...this attitude of yours."
He took a step closer, the space between them vanishing.
"In return, if you have to step up and take a hit for this family, consider it the interest of a debt you've owed him for years," Advik hissed, his eyes locking onto Arvay's with a cold, piercing intensity.
"A debt you've owed since the day he pulled you out of that jail cell and did it without asking a single question..."
The laughter died in Arvay's throat. He stared at Advik, his black orbs unblinking, the mention of the cell hitting him like a physical blow.
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Arvay asked softly, the silence in the foyer stretching thin. "A debt... and not blood?"
"Yes," Advik countered, closing the remaining distance until their chests nearly touched, using his height to loom over him, to dominate the very air Arvay breathed.
"A bloody debt," Advik hissed. "Because you never did justice to the blood running in your veins. You've done nothing but bring shame to Vardhan's name since the day you were born."
Advik's voice was like ice. To him, the blood tie was irrelevant; it was the cost of that blood that mattered.
Arvay didn't flinch, but his black orbs seemed to darken, absorbing the insult until they were as cold as the marble beneath his feet.
He looked at Advik with a sudden, piercing pity that made Advik's skin crawl.
It was the look of a man who realized that for all the "blood" between them, there was no heart left in the house.
"You're right," Arvay whispered, his voice dangerously calm as he turned to continue up the stairs.
"I am paying the debt. But be careful, Advik. One of these days, the debt is going to be settled in full. And I really wonder... once the 'shame' is gone, what will you have left to hide behind?"
Advik's eyes blazed as he watched his brother's retreating figure.
"Like mother, like son..."
Advik spat the words with pure, concentrated venom. He knew exactly where the nerve was, and he leaned into the strike with surgical precision.
Arvay's steps faltered for a fraction of a second but he caught himself before Advik could harvest the satisfaction of seeing him crumble.
He turned slowly, his eyes so devoid of warmth that a sudden, primal chill raced down Advik's spine, momentarily silencing his arrogance.
"Don't. You. Dare. Drag. Her. Into. This."
Arvay warned. His voice was flat, hollowed out of all emotion, which made it sound far more dangerous than a shout.
"Why?" Advik pushed, stepping into Arvay's personal space to reclaim his dominance. "Because you're too afraid to admit the truth? Your mother brought shame to Vardhan's name, Arvay. Just like you."
"My mother?" Arvay asked. His voice had dropped to a dangerous, low-frequency calm that made the shadows in the foyer seem to deepen.
"Yes, your mother," Advik spat, his lip curling in disgust. "She was only ever your mother. We have no relation to her."
Advik drove his index finger into Arvay's chest, punctuating every word with a jab. "You're her legacy. You're the living, breathing reminder of the stain she left on this house."
Arvay didn't flinch at the finger in his chest. Instead, he leaned in closer, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, an expression that didn't reach his cold, dark eyes.
"But your father," Arvay whispered, his voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp, "he still seems to have a very long memory of her, doesn't he?"
Advik faltered, his hand trembling slightly against Arvay's chest. The smirk hit a nerve he wasn't prepared for.
"Dad broke his ties with her the moment she betrayed him!" Advik hissed, scrambling to regain his footing.
"She belongs to you and you alone. You're the only one left carrying her filth. That's why you're the shame, Arvay. Because every time Dad looks at you, he sees the woman who made a fool of him."
Arvay didn't explode. He didn't close the distance to strike. Instead, he let out a short, dry sound that might have been a laugh if it weren't so bitter.
"If I'm truly that insignificant, why are you standing here, shaking with rage? You aren't angry at me, brother. You're angry that for all your 'pure' blood and 'perfect' upbringing, you're still so insecure that you have to spend your nights lecturing a disgrace like me."
"Don't you ever put yourself on my level!"
Advik roared, his voice echoing off the high marble ceilings.
Arvay stepped back, adjusting his leather jacket with a casual, dismissive shrug and began to climb the stairs, his boots thudding a steady, rhythmic beat that felt like a countdown.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Arvay called out over his shoulder, his voice light and biting. "The view from the gutter is much more honest than the one from your pedestal. Sleep well, Advik. Try not to let the 'shame' keep you up, I'm sure Mr. Vardhan has a gold star waiting for you in the morning."
He vanished into the shadows of the upper landing, leaving Advik standing alone in the center of the foyer.
Advik's chest heaved, his face flushed a dark, humiliated red. He wanted to scream, to break the silence Arvay had left behind, but all he could do was stare at the empty staircase.
That sickening calm never sat well with him; it felt like a deliberate insult, a wall that Arvay built just to make Advik feel like an outsider in his own home.
For as long as Advik could remember, Arvay had been the gravity of the Vardhan family, pulling everyone into his orbit for all the wrong reasons.
Advik was convinced it was all a game, that the boy was nothing more than a high-stakes attention seeker.
To Advik, Arvay's piercing aura and stoic silence weren't signs of depth, but a calculated trap designed to keep the world watching him.
Whether it was the explosive exam scandal or Harsh Vardhan's hatred for the boy and his mother, the result was always the same, Arvay became the talk of the town. Advik, the perfect son, the one who followed every rule, hated it.
He hated that even when Arvay was being a "shame," he was still more interesting than Advik's perfection.
____________________________________
The door to Arvay's room clicked shut, the heavy mahogany acting as a final barrier between him and the suffocating world.
He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need them. He knew this space by touch, the cold air, the scent of dried ink, and the oppressive silence that felt like a living thing.
His leather jacket hit the floor with a dull thud, but he didn't bother to pick it up. Instead, he walked toward the small, antique desk tucked into the shadowed corner of the room.
From the bottom drawer, the one that stayed locked even when he was home, he pulled out a small, silver-framed photograph.
Arvay sat on the edge of the bed, his back slightly hunched. He didn't turn on a lamp; he let the pale, bruised light of the dawn filter through the window, illuminating the woman in the picture.
Avni Vardhan.
She was smiling, her eyes bright and filled with a warmth that the Vardhan mansion hadn't seen since the day she left it.
He looked just like her. The same bone structure, the same quiet intensity. But while her eyes held light, his were the black orbs, voids that swallowed everything around them.
Arvay simply stared.
He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, his touch light, as if he were afraid the memory would shatter under the weight of his reality.
Life had been so effortless then, back when she was alive.
Back then, he didn't have to be a shadow; he was just a boy, resting in the golden light of a love that didn't come with a price tag.
"Do all blood relations work like this, Ma?"
He whispered, his voice so low it was barely a vibration in the stagnant air of the room.
He stared at her frozen smile, searching for the truth that the rest of the house had spent years trying to bury.
"Is it normal that your own brother looks at you and sees nothing but debt? A bill that needs to be settled?"
His vision began to blur, not with the relief of tears, but with the heavy, bone-deep exhaustion of a man who had been holding up a falling sky.
"Is it normal that I have to hide the only picture I have of you?" His grip tightened on the frame. "Because everyone in this family hates the very memory of your face?"
He thought of the cold, sharp daggers in Harsh Vardhan's eyes whenever her name was accidentally breathed.
He had survived that hatred for years, standing as a lightning rod for the venom Mr. Vardhan held for his mother.
To Harsh, Arvay wasn't just an heir; he was the result of a crime, a permanent stain left behind by a woman who had broken the Vardhan code.
Arvay realized then that he wasn't just paying a debt for his own mistakes, he was being billed for a betrayal he hadn't even witnessed.
He despised it, despised that they had turned his mother's existence into a taboo and his existence into her punishment.
"Is this how families function?"
He asked, his voice finally cracking, a jagged sound in the silence.
He waited, as he did every night, for a response that never came.
"Please answer me, Ma. Just once... please answer me."
He leaned back against the headboard, the frame pressed against his chest, right over his heart. He didn't even take off his boots. His body simply surrendered, collapsing into a heavy, dreamless sleep fueled by sheer depletion.
For the world outside that door, he was a menace, a reckless rider, and a disgrace to the Vardhan name.
But in the quiet, bruised light of dawn, clutching a forbidden photograph to his chest, he was just a son waiting for a mother who would never come home.
_____________________________________
Ayush almost collapsed into the leather chair behind his desk, the sound of his own heavy breathing filling the quiet office. Two days. Two whole days of back-to-back surgeries, the smell of antiseptic, and the high-stakes hum of the OT.
He was beyond exhausted; he was "cooked." His eyes burned, demanding a sleep that felt a lifetime away, and a rhythmic, pulsing throb had taken up permanent residence in his temples.
He checked his phone. 6:00 AM. Time to go. He stood up, his joints popping in protest, and grabbed his wallet, keys, and blazer. All he wanted was the cold side of a pillow and twelve hours of silence.
But as he navigated the sterile, white corridors toward the exit, a commotion from the Emergency Department shattered the morning quiet.
"Sir, you're losing a lot of blood," the intern's voice reached Ayush's ears.
Ordinarily, Ayush would have kept walking; chaos was the heartbeat of this hospital. But then, a voice cut through the air, sharp, and piercing.
"Blood is just a liquid, isn't it? Why are you so obsessed with saving it?"
Ayush stopped mid-stride. What did I just hear? He rubbed his face, the grit of exhaustion behind his eyelids making him wonder if he was hallucinating.
Great. The sleep deprivation was finally doing its work.
He started to move again, determined to reach his car, when the same voice snagged his feet like a wire.
"Just patch the damn skin, Doctor, and let me go. I've got places to be."
Patch? Ayush frowned.
Most patients screamed for a "cure" or begged for the pain to stop. No one asked to be "patched" like a piece of worn-out upholstery.
His exhaustion was momentarily forgotten as he turned toward the trauma bay.
Through the swinging double doors, he saw a frantic, disheveled boy in a blue shirt, struggling to keep a bloodied, leather-clad figure from bolting off the stretcher.
The boy's shirt was a shredded ruin, his shoulder a violent map of road rash and deep, jagged lacerations.
Ayush draped his blazer over a nearby chair and began scrubbing his hands at the hallway station, the cold water snapping his brain back into focus.
"I'll take this one," he said, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative frequency.
He stepped into the bay, the intern looking up with a face full of pure relief. "Thank you, Sir. He... he wasn't letting anyone near him. He was just arguing over everything...."
Arvay rolled his eyes at the exaggeration, leaning back against the gurney with a wince he tried to hide but Ayush noticed.
Sidharth, however, didn't look away from the suture kit in Ayush's hands.
He knew the cut was deep enough to require a dozen stitches, but the sight of Arvay's blood was making the room spin.
"It's just a tear in the fabric, Sid. Relax," Arvay muttered, his voice mocking even as his face grew pale.
Ayush pulled up a stool, his gaze sweeping over the injury with professional coldness before meeting Arvay's defiant stare.
"A tear in the fabric? That's an interesting way to describe a Grade 3 laceration. Let's see if your 'fabric' is worth the thread."
As the thread pulled Arvay's skin back together, Ayush glanced up from the wound, expecting to see the boy's jaw clenched or his eyes squeezed shut. Instead, he found the boy staring at the wound with a detached gaze as if he were watching a stranger being repaired.
Perhaps the local anesthesia had taken hold more effectively than expected, but even that didn't explain the boy's unsettling stillness.
There was an eerie calmness to him, a detachment from his own flesh that sat heavy in Ayush's stomach.
Once the final knot was tied and the area cleaned, Ayush stood up, peeling off his gloves with a sharp snap.
"You're lucky the bone isn't shattered," Ayush said, his professional mask slipping into a frown of genuine concern.
"I'm prescribing a week of absolute rest. No riding, no heavy lifting, and you need to come back in forty-eight hours to check for infection. If you don't take this seriously, you'll lose mobility in that arm..."
Arvay didn't wait for the medical advice to finish. He swung his legs over the side of the stretcher, the movement sending a visible jolt of pain through his frame, yet his expression remained an impenetrable mask.
He grabbed his shredded leather jacket, wincing only slightly as he draped it over his good shoulder.
"I've had worse," Arvay shrugged, his tone dismissive. "I don't have time for a week of rest. I have a life to get back to."
Ayush's patience, already paper-thin from forty-eight hours of labor, finally snapped. He stepped into Arvay's path, his stature imposing.
"Listen to me. I just spent fifteen minutes of my morning fixing your recklessness. You aren't leaving this hospital until your vitals are stable and you've signed the discharge papers."
Arvay looked up at him, those dark, black orbs flashing with a sudden, jagged defiance.
"Move, Doctor," Arvay hissed, the 'dangerous calm' returning to his voice.
"You've been paid for the stitches, haven't you? Consider your job done. Don't mistake a medical bill for a leash. I'm not one of your playthings you can keep in a ward just to satisfy your ego."
Ayush recoiled as if slapped. The sheer arrogance, the lack of gratitude, and the spoiled, biting tongue were like a splash of ice water.
"He... he doesn't mean it, Sir!"
Sidharth jumped in, looking like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards.
He grabbed Arvay's good arm, trying to pull him toward the stretcher before more damage could be done.
"He's just... it's a shock. Yeah, he's definitely in shock..."
Sidharth offered the excuse with a frantic, apologetic wave of his hands, his voice trailing off as he saw the look on Ayush's face.
Ayush narrowed his eyes, the sheer ridiculousness of the statement cutting through his fatigue.
He was a surgeon; he had seen shock in every form it took. This wasn't a shock. This was pure, unadulterated arrogance.
Sidharth seemed to realize the blunder the moment it left his mouth, his face flushing a deeper shade of red.
"We will fulfill all the protocols," Sidharth added immediately, his voice dropping into a submissive tone to cover the previous embarrassment. "The papers, the sign... we'll handle everything."
Ayush gave a sharp, clinical nod to the boy in the blue shirt.
"Take care of him," Ayush gestured toward Arvay, who was already standing up, looking completely unbothered by the trail of blood he was leaving on the sterile floor. "And for heaven's sake, try to put some sense into his head."
Arvay didn't offer a thank you or even a glance of acknowledgment. Instead, he simply rolled his eyes.
Ayush chose to ignore the provocation. He was too tired for a power struggle with a child who didn't value his own life.
Without another word, he grabbed his blazer and turned on his heel, heading for the exit.
He had seen many types of patients, the grateful, the terrified, the broken. But he had never met a boy who carried his own blood like it was trash and treated a helping hand like an insult.
Arvay's impression was set in stone in Ayush's mind, that was nothing more than a rich, spoiled brat with a death wish and a mouth that deserved its own surgery.
As Ayush drove home in the early morning light, he decided he never wanted to see those black eyes again. Little did he know, he would be seeing them every day, soon.
___________________________________
__________________________________
Write a comment ...