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Suddenly, the world around me began to blur. The shouting, the running, the chaos—it all became distant as darkness crawled in. I don’t know how long I drifted in that void between life and death, where time lost all meaning, and only fragments of consciousness remained—the antiseptic smell of hospital rooms, the steady beep of monitors, and Dad’s voice, rough with emotion, demanding the doctors save me at any cost.

For the first time, I felt his love, raw and unguarded, breaking through the political mask he always wore. Hours bled into days, days into weeks, until that dream—that nightmare—jolted me back to reality.

In the realm of my unconscious state, I saw it again: the shooter, his finger hovering over the trigger, aiming at my father. The moment the gunshot was fired, I jolted awake, my body practically springing off the hospital bed, drenched in sweat. An unbearable pain seared through me.

I sat up, pulling at the wires and needles hooked to my body, ignoring the nurse who frantically tried to stop me. My only thought was to protect Dad. That was where I belonged—by his side, shielding him from harm.

“I need to go!” I tried to shout. “He’s in danger!”

The medical team rushed in, trying to hold me down, but I fought against them with everything I had. I wanted to scream the truth—to make them understand that I needed to protect my father—but the words got stuck in my throat. How could I openly tell them? How could I admit to the world that I wasn’t just fighting to save the Deputy CM of the state—I was fighting to save my own father? The pain of that reality cut deeper than any bullet wound.

And then he appeared in the doorway—Dad—his face etched with worry and relief. He crossed the room in three quick strides and gripped my shoulders.

“I’m fine, Vishnu,” he said firmly. “I’m right here. Nothing’s happened to me. Now stop fighting the doctors and let them treat you. Please.”

There was something in his voice, in the strength of his grip, that made me stop fighting. He was safe, and that was all that mattered to me. As the sedative took hold and my consciousness began to fade, I fixed my eyes on his face, making a silent vow. Whoever had tried to kill my father had just started a war they couldn’t win. I would find them, and when I did, they would understand the true meaning of consequences. Their final countdown had just begun.

Two days later, though still confined to my hospital bed, my mind was sharp and focused, already back in charge. My men moved in and out of my room, receiving orders as I tightened security around the Walia Mansion and strengthened Dad’s protection detail. Every weakness was scrutinised, every vulnerability reinforced. Dad insisted I rest, but how could I? There would be no peace for me until I knew who had tried to kill him, until I made sure they could never try to harm him ever again.

The media was already buzzing with speculation. Headlines splashed across every news channel, questioning who could be behind the gunshot attempt on Dad. Every journalist and political analyst had their theories: rival politicians, disgruntled business tycoons, even old vendettas from Dad’s past.

But I knew better. Their speculations wouldn’t lead to the real enemy. Whoever had done this had planned meticulously, covering their tracks well enough to avoid casual scrutiny.

So, instead of relying on the so-called media, I trusted my own instincts. I needed answers, real answers, and I needed them fast.

I called on every source I had. My entire team was mobilised, tasked with digging into every possible lead. Nothing was too small or insignificant. I didn’t just want a suspect—I wanted the truth.

And then, a week later, when I finally walked out of the hospital, my team had a name: Qureshi. It wasn’t just a lead—it was the beginning of a hunt, and I was the predator now.

Qureshi. Just hearing the name fuelled the fire in my veins. He wasn’t a stranger to me. A key figure in the NEP party, Qureshi was a man with ambition as large as his ego and morals as shallow as a puddle. Like Dad, Qureshi had aspired to become the Deputy CM. But while Dad earned his position through sheer determination and support from the majority, Qureshi’s path was riddled with corruption. Dad had discreetly uncovered enough evidence to bury him alive in the political arena—proof of bribes, embezzlement, and underhanded deals spanning across years.

But Dad never intended to use that evidence unless provoked. He kept it as his trump card, his insurance against someone as conniving as Qureshi. But as fate would have it, Dad didn’t even need it. He won the Deputy CM position fair and square, through full majority support. The party chose him unanimously, but for Qureshi, losing that position wasn’t just a political defeat—it was a blow to his pride, an intolerable humiliation.

He wanted revenge. But more than that, he wanted to ensure his secrets stayed buried. Killing Dad was his way of silencing that sword hanging over his head forever. So, he hired a sniper, paid him in crores, and orchestrated the attack during that political event. The plan was simple—take Dad out during the rally. No witnesses, no questions. And with Dad gone, Qureshi could manipulate the party into granting him the position he believed he deserved and was rightfully his. It was supposed to be clean, quick, and foolproof.

But he hadn’t counted on me—the unacknowledged, illegitimate son who had sacrificed everything, even his life, to protect his father.

“You want to bury my dad’s dreams, Qureshi,” I said, staring at the file Dad had given me. It was packed with evidence of Qureshi’s years of corruption. Dad handed it over to me the moment I told him Qureshi was behind the shooting. “But you forgot one thing—you don’t mess with a Walia and walk away unscathed.”

I wanted revenge, but Dad made me promise not to do anything unlawful. Even though he felt the same anger as I did, he refused to stoop to Qureshi’s level.

“We’ll let the law take care of it,” he had said firmly. “We have the evidence. We’ll give it to the right people, and they’ll deal with him. You’ve already sacrificed enough for me, Vishnu. I won’t let you lose yourself in this.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off, his voice hardening.

“I’ve watched you bleed, risking away your life just to protect me. I can’t see you like that again. I won’t let it happen.”

Those words stopped me cold.

Dad wasn’t just speaking as the Deputy CM now, a man who had always preached the importance of law and order. He was speaking as a father. A father who had almost lost his son to a bullet meant for him.

“You’re my strength,” he continued. “And the last thing I want is for that strength to turn into recklessness. Promise me, Vishnu. Promise me you’ll let the law do its job.”

I looked into his eyes and saw not just the man I respected, but the father who had taught me everything I knew about integrity, about doing what was right, even when it was hard. That day, I could see the love he had kept hidden from me, a love deeper than duty or gratitude. It was the love of a father afraid of losing his son. And that love became my anchor, pulling me back from the edge. I promised him then—no matter how much I wanted revenge, I would not take the law into my own hands.

The police couldn’t track down the sniper. Qureshi had made sure of that, paying the man extra to flee to Malaysia. But I wasn’t the kind of son who would sit idly and let a man like Qureshi get away with it. I was wounded and scarred, but not broken. If he thought distance would protect his hired gun, he didn’t know me at all. I’d faced death head-on to save my father, so crossing borders to hunt down his killers would be child’s play for me.

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