Author's POV

In kapoor mansion

As soon as Veer stepped into the hall, a cold voice cut through the silence.

“Yaad aa gaya ke tumhara ek ghar bhi hai?"
(Did you remember that you have a home too?)

It was Virendra Kapoor-his father.

Veer didn’t flinch. His tone was just as icy.

“Mera nahi, aapka ghar hai, Mr. Kapoor. Main sirf apni kuch cheezein lene aaya hoon.”
(Not mine, it's your home, Mr. Kapoor. I've just come to collect a few of my things.)

Virendra’s voice rose, laced with frustration.

“Aakhir problem kya hai tumhari, Veer? Baap hoon main tumhara! Aisa kya galat kar diya maine? Har baap chahta hai ke uska beta usse bada aadmi bane, ameer bane. Main bhi toh wahi chahta tha. Bas ek sarkari naukri ke bajaye  Kapoor empire sambhalne ko hi toh kaha tha, kya galat kiya".
(What exactly is your problem, Veer? I’m your father! What did I do so wrong? Every father wants his son to be more successful, to be richer than him. I wanted the same. I just asked you to take over the Kapoor empire instead of a government job, what was so wrong in that?)

A dry, bitter chuckle escaped Veer’s lips. His eyes, cold as steel, locked onto his father.

“Baap? Aap?”
(Father? You?)
He scoffed, stepping forward.

“Baap aisa hota hai jo apne hi bete ko fail karwane ke liye dusron ko rishwat deta hai? Agar aap jaise hote hain baap… toh mujhe nahi chahiye aisa koi rishta!”
(Is a father someone who bribes others just to make his own son fail? If that’s the kind of father you are… then I want no part of such a relationship!)

“Aapko baap kehna ka itna shauk hai na?”
(You’re so eager to be called a father, aren’t you?)
he spat, walking toward his father.

“Matlab bhi jaante ho uss shabd ka? Mai batata hoon acha baap kya hota hai”
(Do you even know the meaning of that word? Let me tell you what a good father truly is.)
A cold laugh escaped him, 

“Oops… kaise pata hoga mujhe? Acha baap kaisa hota, yeh toh nahi pata… lekin bura baap kaisa hota, woh main bata sakta hoon.”
(Oops… how would I even know? I don’t know what a good father is like… but I can definitely tell you what a bad one is.)

His voice cracked not with weakness, but the pain of buried years.

“Jab ek chhote bache ne apni maa khoyi thi… toh usne har kone mein apne baap ko dhoonda tha. Par aap? Aap toh aaye hi nahi. Kyunki tab aapke liye business zyada zaroori tha.”
(When a little boy lost his mother… he searched for his father in every corner. But you? You never came. Because back then, business was more important to you.)

He stepped closer, jaw clenched.

“Jab usi bete ne apne sapne bataye… bola ‘Papa, mujhe civil services join karni hai,’ toh aapne kya kiya? Uske books jala diye… aur business ke account books samne rakh diye. Zor zabardasti karne lage apna empire dene ke liye.”
(When that same son shared his dreams… said, ‘Papa, I want to join the civil services,’ what did you do? You burned his books… and placed business account books in front of him. You started forcing your empire onto him.)

A pause, then his voice dropped, almost a whisper of fury.

“Woh beta jab apne dum pe exam deta hai… toh aap kya karte ho? Rishwat dete ho. Apne hi bete ko fail karne karne ke liye.”
(When that son appears for the exam on his own merit… what do you do? You bribe others. Just to make your own son fail.)

He stared directly into Virendra’s eyes.

“Bura baap aisa hi hota hai. Bilkul… aapke jaisa.”
(A bad father is exactly like this. Just like you.)

Virendra’s voice turned desperate now. “Tum samajhte kyun nahi? Paisa zaroori hota hai, Veer.”
(Why don’t you understand? Money is important, Veer.)

Veer shook his head slowly.

“Main paisa kama raha hoon. Mehnat se.Izzat se."
(I am earning money. Through hard work. With respect.)

Virendra snorted. “Teen lakh? Chaar lakh? Siya pasand hai na tumhe? Shaadi bhi karoga usse? Uske kapde bhi tumhari salary se mehange hote hain. Tum uska kharcha utha paaoge? Kahin aisa na ho—”
(Three lakhs? Four lakhs? You like Siya, right? Are you going to marry her too? Even her clothes are more expensive than your salary. Will you be able to bear her expenses? Hopefully, it’s not like—)

CRASH!

Veer hurled a vase, one aimed inches from Virendra’s head.

“Tameez se!” he roared. “Agli baar meri Siya ka naam jab bhi lena izzat ke sath lena … warna mujhse bura koi nahi hoga.
(Mind your words, he roared. Next time, whenever you mention my Siya’s name, do it with respect... otherwise, there will be no one worse than me.)

He stormed past his father, stopping only once shoulders tense, eyes forward.

“Mere aur Siya ke beech mein bolne ka haq kisi ko nahi hai.
Aapko toh bilkul bhi nahi. Samjhe, Mr. Kapoor?”
(No one has the right to interfere between me and Siya.
Especially not you. Got it, Mr. Kapoor?)

Without waiting for a reply, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

___________________________________________

After something.

kala darbar torture room.

The air was thick with fear. A woman and a man were tied to chairs, their limbs bound tightly, faces obscured by black masks. Their voices echoed in desperation, but their shouts only fueled the darkness of the room. The faint glow of a single bulb overhead cast eerie shadows on the walls, where weapons hung ominously, and chains dangled from the railing, waiting for their next victim. Everything in this room was designed for one thing-pain.

A door creaked open.

A man stepped in, face hidden behind a black mask, his cold grey eyes the only thing visible. Clad in a black shirt and pants, his presence was pure menace.

Ryan.

Without a word, he strode toward the man and woman lying tied on the floor. His steps were deliberate, calculated.

“Unmask them,” he ordered.

The men obeyed. As soon as their masks were removed, panic set in.

“Who are you? Why are we here?! Why did you kidnap us?” the woman shrieked, her voice trembling with fear.

Ryan said nothing. Instead, he began to pace around them, whistling an eerie, tuneless melody.

He then dragged a metal chair across the floor-a harsh screeching sound echoing off the walls like a warning. Sitting down with calm cruelty, he picked up a metal rod resting nearby and tapped it against the ground. The sharp crack made the woman flinch.

He leaned in, voice calm yet commanding:

“Yahan sirf main sawal puchta hoon. Agli baar tumne bolne ki koshish ki… zubaan kaat dunga. Samjhe?”
(Here, I’m the only one who asks questions. If you try to speak next time… I’ll cut your tongue. Understand?)

Silence fell like a guillotine. The weight of his threat hung in the air.

He tilted his head. “Understood? Or do I need to make you understand?”

“Y-yes... understood,” they both stammered.

He sat back, relaxed. “Who’s in your family?”

“J-just us... and our two kids,” the woman replied quickly.

“Are you sure?” Ryan asked again, his grey eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

They nodded hesitantly. Ryan stood up, dragging the rod with him, the screech against the floor like nails in a coffin.

He knelt beside them, dropped the rod, and placed both hands on their necks, not hard enough to kill, but tight enough for them to feel death brushing past.

They gasped and writhed, choking. He slowly let go. Their breathing became frantic-like wild animals caught in a trap.

Ryan straightened, voice cold as ice.

“Awaaz toh hai tumhare mooh mein... jab sawal poocha jaye toh zubaan se jawab dena. Gardan mat hilaana.”
(You do have a voice… so when you're asked a question, answer with your tongue. Don’t just nod your head.)

They flinched, nodding again,then corrected themselves. “Yes.”

Ryan turned to his men. “Open their hands.”

One of them stepped forward.

“Wait,” Ryan interrupted. “Tie his right hand to her left. Leave the other hands free.”

The captives exchanged confused glances as the man did exactly that.

Ryan took their free hands and positioned them-one on top of the other, flat against the cold floor.

“Spread your fingers.”

Terrified, they obeyed. Then came the knife-gleaming, thin, merciless. Ryan began to move it between their fingers. Slowly at first… then faster. The blade sliced the air, dangerously close.

“Now. Tell me your family members names. One by one.”

“P..Prakash Sharma,” the man gasped.

Ryan hummed, speeding up the motion.

“K..Kusum Sharma,” the woman added, eyes wide in terror.

“Our son-Ankit Sharma, daughter-Priya Sharma,” they said together, voices shaking.

Ryan’s hand didn’t pause. Instead, he let the blade graze their fingers just enough to bleed. They screamed, but he didn’t stop. The sound of the metal slicing air and skin continued.

Then, the woman cracked.

“SAAISHA SHARMA! Our niece... she’s our niece!”

Silence.

The knife stopped mid-air.

Ryan slowly lifted his head, those grey eyes narrowing.

The woman hesitated, fear flickering in her eyes before she spoke. "She... She is his niece, the daughter of his older brother. She... she used to live with us. But she doesn’t anymore. She rents a place somewhere."

Ryan’s gaze sharpened.

Yes,they are Saaisha’s uncle and aunt.

"Why?did you tell her to leave? What was your reason?" Ryan’s voice was cold, dangerous.

"We didn’t tell her to leave," the man said quickly, "She just... didn’t want to stay anymore."

"You didn’t stop her?" Ryan’s voice was now a low growl.

"Kids grow up, make their own decisions. What are we supposed to do? Tell her no?" The man’s voice faltered, as if unsure of his own justification.

Ryan’s gaze was unblinking, his anger simmering. "So, you let her go. Fine. But now tell me, where is she now? What do you know about her?"

The woman’s lips curled into a sneer. "Who knows? She’s probably with some lover. What else could a girl like her do? All girls leave once they have the chance to spread their legs."

Ryan’s patience snapped. With a single motion, he threw the rod aside, the sharp clatter of metal on stone a precursor to the violence that followed. The sound of his hand slapping the woman’s cheek echoed in the room, the force enough to make her head snap to the side.

"Watch your mouth," Ryan growled, his voice venomous. "Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not some soft-hearted fool who won’t raise his hand to a woman when she deserves it. If a woman’s words are as filthy as man, she’ll be treated just as harshly as them."

He turned to his men, his orders firm. "Don’t give them food. No rest, no sleep. Let them remember who they’re dealing with."

"Yes, sir," came the quick reply.

The woman and man thrashed in their restraints, their panic climbing with every passing second.

"What have we done to deserve this?" the man cried out, his voice cracking.

The woman sobbed beside him, "Please... let us go… we didn’t do anything…”

Ryan turned around, He moved like a shadow given purpose, his boots thudding with precision, his stare locked, and in a blink-he was there, in front of them.

Without a single word, he drew his blade and in one clean, merciless motion, sliced across their lips.

“Bhul gaye kya kaha tha? Yahan sawal sirf main poochta hoon.”

His voice was low—lethal.

Blood dripped from their mouths as their screams turned into muffled sobs.

He leaned in, so close they could feel the weight of death in his breath.

“Aaj sirf hooth kaate hain… agli baar zubaan kaat dunga. Sochne ka bhi waqt nahi milega.”
(Today, I’m only cutting lips… next time, I’ll cut off the tongue. You won’t even get time to think.)

The man whimpered. The woman choked on her cry.

Ryan stood tall, wiped the blade clean on the man’s collar, and turned without another glance.

Their screams followed him but he didn’t stop.

He pushed open the steel door and walked into the Kaala Darbar base.

Inside, the other three pillars were already waiting.

Veer. Siya. Shaurya.

Ryan entered silently, his expression unreadable, his aura soaked in blood.

He gave them a single nod.

No words exchanged.

There was no need.

Their silence said it all.

Their war had already begun.

___________________________________________