The city never really sleeps. It just pretends to. Even before dawn, I could hear the faint hum of engines, the rhythmic whisper of wind brushing against glass, and the distant pulse of life that refused to fade. I stood before the window, a half-drunk cup of coffee in hand, staring at the skyline that glittered with false promises. I’d built half of those towers — my signature engraved in steel and ambition — yet somehow, they felt hollow.
The clock struck six. I didn’t need to check it. My body moved by habit. Precision wasn’t a trait I practiced; it was who I was.
By the time I reached my company, the place was already alive. Employees hurried past, clutching files and coffees, whispering greetings that didn’t quite reach their eyes. My arrival always did that — tightened shoulders, quickened steps, nervous glances. Not out of fear… out of respect mixed with uncertainty.
Raghav, my partner and oldest friend, was waiting at the lobby elevator. His suit was perfect, his smile casual — the kind of ease that came only from someone who’d stood beside me long enough to understand the way I operated.
“Morning, Avyan,” he greeted, falling into step beside me. “Investors are here. Big day, huh?”
I adjusted my cufflinks. “Big days are ordinary for us.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Still can’t take a compliment, can you?”
I didn’t answer. Compliments were distractions — things people used to feel safe in your presence.
The elevator doors opened. We walked through the corridor lined with tinted glass walls reflecting sharp silhouettes of ambition. My company — *our* company — had become one of the fastest-growing infrastructure empires in the country. Not inherited. Built. Brick by brick. Choice by choice. Mistake by mistake.
The boardroom was filled with people waiting — investors, analysts, decision-makers. Some smiled when I entered. Some straightened in their chairs. The moment I stepped in, silence fell like a curtain.
“Good morning,” I said, my voice even, calm. “Let’s begin.”
Raghav took his seat beside me. The projector hummed to life. Numbers appeared, charts danced across the wall. I didn’t need notes — everything was already in my head.
“We’re not just expanding,” I began. “We’re redefining what infrastructure means in this country. We don’t chase demand. We create it. And every risk we take—” I paused, letting the weight of silence settle, “—is calculated.”
A man across the table — foreign investor, mid-forties, sharp but cautious — raised his hand. “Mr. Chauhan, your projections are ambitious. How can we trust a plan that doubles output in under a year?”
I leaned back, watching him, my fingers loosely folded. “Because I don’t make promises. I make results. You’re not here because you doubt me. You’re here because you’ve already seen what I can do.”
His lips parted, searching for a retort. I didn’t give him one. My tone wasn’t arrogant — it was a statement of fact.
The next hour unfolded in a rhythm only I could hear. Presentations. Questions. Negotiations. Every response measured, every word intentional. I knew when to hold silence, when to strike. By the end, hesitation had shifted into certainty. Hands extended. Deals signed.
Control restored.
After the meeting, Raghav followed me out with that familiar smirk. “Sometimes I wonder if you even breathe between those power plays.”
“Breathing is optional,” I replied dryly. “Winning isn’t.”
He laughed. “Same old Avyan.”
As we passed the outer hallway, a new intern nearly stumbled into me — files slipping from her hand, panic flashing in her eyes. She was young. Too young for this room.
“I—I’m so sorry, sir,” she stammered, bending quickly to collect the papers.
I knelt to pick one before she could, handing it back. “You’re new.”
“Yes, sir. Today’s my first week.” She smiled nervously. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said, standing.
Her gaze lingered — curious, bold. “It’s just… I’ve never met someone so young who commands a room like that.”
It wasn’t the first time someone tried flattery in place of merit. I met her eyes, unblinking. “Focus on your work, not the man who runs the company. I don’t tolerate distractions.”
Her smile faltered. “Yes, sir.”
As I turned away, Raghav muttered under his breath, “You could’ve been gentler.”
“I don’t recruit people to flatter me,” I said. “They’re here to build something. If they can’t handle one conversation, they won’t survive a project deadline.”
He didn’t argue. He never did when I was right.
Hours passed in a blur of meetings, approvals, calls. By late afternoon, my office was quiet again. The hum of the city below was faint, replaced by the distant echo of thoughts I’d buried too long.
Then my phone buzzed. **Chachu.**
I stared at the screen for a moment before answering. “Hello, Chachu.”
“Beta,” came his warm, familiar voice, “kal tumhara birthday hai. Tum ghar aana. Chhoti si puja rakhi hai. Tumhari Chachi ne khud tayyari ki hai.”
For a moment, I didn’t respond. The mention of *birthday* always brought a pause — a quiet ache somewhere behind the ribs. I wasn’t the kind to celebrate. The last time I did… my parents were still alive.
“Chachu, kaam bahut hai,” I said softly. “Main shaam tak busy hoon.”
“Kaam hamesha rahega, Avyan. Par family—woh baar baar nahi milti,” he said gently. “Aaja, sirf thodi der ke liye.”
I exhaled, eyes on the skyline. “Theek hai. Chhoti si puja kar lo. Main aaoonga.”
He chuckled. “Aur ek baat—apni muskaan bhi le aana.”
A faint smile tugged at my lips. *Muskaan.* The same word my mother used when she first brought me home.
For a moment, my mind drifted—
To a house bathed in marigold garlands.
To Maa 's laughter as she placed a small tilak on my forehead.
To Dad's strong arms lifting me, promising, “From today, you are ours.”
To Arnav, ten years old, looking up at me like I hung the stars.
But behind every beautiful memory was the night of their death — the accident that wasn’t an accident. The trail of blood I’d followed ever since.
I came back from the memory with a quiet inhale. The phone still glowed in my hand.
“Sab theek ho jaayega, Chachu,” I said quietly, before hanging up.
I didn’t notice when the sun had begun to set. The sky outside was painted in amber and bruised violet. I gathered my jacket and left the office without another word.
The drive was silent. My driver didn’t speak, trained long ago to understand I valued silence more than conversation. The city thinned into the outskirts. Roads narrowed, trees rose higher, and by the time the car rolled to a stop before a decaying warehouse hidden deep in the forest, night had fully arrived.
The air smelled of rust and pine.
Two of my men stood at the entrance, straight-backed, waiting. “Sir, we have them,” one said.
“Good.”
Inside, the air was colder, heavy with tension. The warehouse was empty except for three men tied to chairs under a single hanging bulb. Their eyes followed my every move — fear cloaked behind arrogance.
I removed my jacket, handed it to my guard, and walked forward. My voice, when I spoke, was almost gentle.
“So, I said, circling slowly, “you thought moving Victor’s shipment through my routes would go unnoticed?”
One of them spat on the floor. “You think you scare us?”
I smiled faintly. “No,” I said, stepping closer. “I don’t need to. Fear is inefficient. I prefer results.”
He lunged, ropes straining. I hit him once — not hard, just enough. The sound echoed like a punctuation mark. Silence followed.
“Let’ make this simple,” I continued, crouching beside him. “You tell me everything you know about Victor’s new routes, and maybe I’ll let you walk out.”
He sneered. “You won’t.”
“No,” I admitted, my voice soft. “But lies will make it worse.”
He faltered. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The other two shifted uneasily.
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to. The questions came slow, steady, deliberate. When the answers faltered, so did my patience. And by the end, every name, every route, every shipment point had been extracted.
I stood, wiping my hands with a handkerchief. “Burn everything,” I said to my men. “No traces.”
One of the men still alive whispered, trembling, “Who… who are you?”
I paused. “The man you shouldn’t have crossed.”
Gunfire broke the silence. Just one shot. Clean. Precise. Final.
As I walked out, the forest wind carried the faint scent of shadlwood
The sound of the gunshot still echoed in my mind long after it had faded into the night. Death had a strange stillness to it — an almost sacred silence that followed, heavier than the act itself. I’d grown used to that silence. Sometimes, it felt like it followed me home.
The drive back was quiet. Trees blurred into shadows, headlights slicing through the mist. My men spoke in low tones, relaying updates from other operations — the shipment routes, Victor’s movement in Europe, and the names that surfaced tonight. I listened, memorizing every word, every hint of information, like a puzzle waiting to be solved.
Victor. That name alone was a slow burn in my veins. The man who thought he could move pieces on my board without being seen. The man whose reach had once brushed too close to my family. The man I was going to destroy — methodically, completely, and without mercy.
The car stopped at the base of my high-rise apartment. Glass and steel shimmered under moonlight, cold and pristine — a reflection of everything I’d become. I dismissed my driver and walked into the private elevator. The mirrored walls reflected my face: calm, composed, clean — no trace of what I had just done.
That was the rule. Never carry the night into the light.
When the elevator doors slid open, my apartment greeted me in silence. Everything was in its place — leather couch, dark marble floors, faint smell of coffee still lingering from the morning. I removed my jacket and poured a drink, the amber liquid swirling like melted gold in the glass.
For a few minutes, I just stood there, watching the city from my balcony. Jaipur looked deceptively peaceful from this height — its chaos reduced to a painting of lights and motion. From here, you couldn’t see the blood, the lies, or the cracks that ran beneath power. You only saw the illusion.
My phone buzzed again. **Chachi.**
I hesitated before answering. “Hello, Chachi.”
“Avyan beta,” her voice was warm, affectionate — the kind of love that softened even the sharpest edges. “Tum ghar aa rahe ho na kal? Maine sab tayyari kar li hai. Dadi bhi keh rahi thi ke itne saal ho gaye tumne birthday ghar pe nahi banaya.”
I smiled faintly, the expression unfamiliar on my face. “Haan Chachi, aaoonga. Par bas thodi der ke liye. Kaam zyada hai.”
“Kaam zyada…” she huffed playfully. “Tumhara kaam toh kabhi khatam hi nahi hota. Kabhi khud ke liye bhi waqt nikal liya karo. Rajveer bhaiya hote toh tumhe daant dete.”
The mention of my father’s name made something shift quietly inside me. “Haan,” I said softly, staring at the city lights. “Woh hote toh bahut kuch alag hota.”
“Woh tum par garv karte, Avyan,” she said gently. “Bas itna yaad rakhna.”
For a moment, I didn’t speak. The night breeze brushed against my skin, cool and lonely.
“Main yaad rakhta hoon,” I murmured finally.
“Accha suno,” she continued, “kal subah puja hai, phir lunch. Aur haan, apni muskaan le aana.”
I couldn’t help a small laugh. “Sabko meri muskaan hi chahiye.”
“Tumhara chehra bina muskaan ke adhoora lagta hai,” she said, and I could almost see her smiling through the phone.
“Phir kal milte hain, Chachi.”
When the call ended, I stood there for a long time, the city still spread out before me. The wind carried faint sounds of laughter from the street below — lives continuing, oblivious to the shadows that kept them safe.
I took another sip of my drink and let my thoughts wander.
Birthdays were supposed to mean something once. Celebration. Belonging. But to me, they were reminders — of the night that changed everything.
I could still see it when I closed my eyes.
The phone call.
The rain.
The mangled car at the base of the hill.
My father’s wristwatch shattered on the road.
My mother’s scarf tangled in the debris.
And Arnav — my little brother — clinging to me, shaking, whispering, “Bhaiya, Papa uthenge na?”
They said it was an accident. I believed them — for a while. Until I found the first lie. Then another. Then a pattern. By twenty-two, I knew the truth. It wasn’t fate. It was murder.
That knowledge had burned away whatever innocence was left.
The hunt for answers became my life’s compass. Each deal, each contact, each risk — all leading toward one name. Victor.
And someday soon, I’d look him in the eyes before I ended it.
A sudden buzz from my intercom broke the thought. “Sir,” came Raghav’s voice, “update from our contacts — Victor’s next movement might link with someone inside the European trade network. We’ll have the details by morning.”
“Good,” I said, my tone sharp again. “Call the team at six. I want surveillance on every possible lead. No mistakes.”
“Yes, sir.”
I disconnected and set the glass down, fingers tapping lightly against the balcony railing. Below, cars moved like rivers of light. Above, the sky was dark, almost completely — except for the faint crescent of a fading moon.
A near eclipse.
I thought about that word — *eclipse.* A moment when light and darkness intertwine. Not one overpowering the other, but existing together, briefly, perfectly. That’s what life felt like. Every good thing had a shadow, and every dark act carried a reason buried deep enough to justify it.
I wasn’t proud of what I’d become. But pride was a luxury for men who could sleep at night.
Somewhere between exhaustion and stillness, my thoughts wandered back to Arnav. He was fifteen when I promised I’d protect him, and somehow, that promise had turned into a curse. The closer I got to the truth, the further I drifted from him. Our last conversation had ended in silence — a silence that still lingered like an unanswered question.
“Ek din sab samajh jaayega,” I muttered under my breath.
The wind answered with nothing.
The city below gleamed with false calm, and I realized how similar it was to me. Polished. Controlled. Deceptively whole.
Somewhere out there, Victor’s network still breathed. And soon, I’d cut that breath off completely.
But for now… I allowed myself one small crack in the armor.
I tilted my head back, eyes on the sky, watching the thin slice of moon drift behind a cloud. For a heartbeat, the world dimmed — swallowed by shadow. Then, slowly, light began to return.
A perfect metaphor, perhaps, for a man who’d spent his entire life standing between the two.
The phone vibrated once more. This time, it was a message from Raghav.
**Raghav:** *Don’t forget tomorrow. You deserve one peaceful day, my friend.*
Peace. The word almost made me smile. People always said it like it was something you could buy, or borrow. But peace wasn’t for men like me. It was for those who hadn’t seen the things I had, hadn’t done what I’d done.
Still, I typed back:
**Avyan:** *We’ll see.*
I placed the phone down and looked at my reflection in the glass — half in light, half in shadow. The faint city glow outlined my face, but my eyes looked darker, unreadable.
Somewhere deep down, I wondered what my mother would think if she saw me now. Would she still recognize the boy she’d once called her miracle? Or would she see the man shaped by vengeance, strategy, and survival?
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The air smelled of rain and metal. My muscles ached with fatigue, but my mind refused to rest. There was too much left undone. Too many debts to collect.
Behind the calm exterior, the storm still brewed — one I had learned to control but never silence.
And yet, standing there, with the night wrapped around me like armor, I allowed one quiet truth to echo inside:
I wasn’t the hero of this story.
I wasn’t the villain either.
I was the eclipse — the point where both met.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled faintly, promising rain. I smiled — that same haunted smile Chachi always asked for.
“Sab theek ho jaayega,” I whispered to no one. “Bas waqt lagta hai.”
The city below shimmered, unaware of the war quietly being planned above it. Tomorrow would be my birthday — another reminder of survival, of promises, of loss. But tonight, under the weight of the moon and memory, I allowed myself a single moment of stillness.
I turned away from the balcony, shutting the glass door behind me. The echo of my footsteps filled the apartment.
The night was long. But I’d learned to live in the dark.
And in that darkness… I was home.
____
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