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I grab my gun, checking the magazine with practiced movements. Zayed thinks he’s writing the perfect revenge story, but he just made his final, fatal mistake.

A cold calm settles over me as I head for the door. I’m coming for my father, and this time… I’m ending this. No more cat-and-mouse games. He has only a few hours left to live. Tonight, either Zayed dies… or I will.

Ayaan falls into step beside me, his own weapon drawn and ready. “We do this smart, Vishnu. He’ll be expecting us.”

“Good,” I say, my tone icy. “Let him expect us. Let him get ready. It won’t change a damn thing. Because this time, he’s not facing his enemy. He’s facing a father who almost lost his child today, and a son who’s watching his father suffer.”

I check my spare magazines, the sight of each bullet fuelling the rage within me. “He wanted to awaken the beast in me? Now, he’ll know what happens when you provoke a beast.”

As we move through the mansion, I catch glimpses of my family—Meher’s worried face, Simran holding Veer tightly, Aksh managing the crisis. They’re all counting on me to end this. But more than anyone, my father needs me.

And this time, I won’t fail him. Zayed doesn’t realise he’s just written his own death warrant. And I’m coming to deliver it.

ZAYED QURESHI

Panvel Farm House of Qureshi

After six years of meticulous planning, the moment has finally arrived. Standing in the kitchen of my Panvel farmhouse, I breathe in the familiar aroma of oolong tea, my father’s favourite. My fortress today is impenetrable. My men—Shasha and his best-trained guards—are stationed at every possible entry, armed with military-grade weapons that his black-market connections provided. These aren’t just any weapons; they come from the same underground dealers who supply to both criminals and the world’s most powerful law enforcement agencies.

The same black-market ties that gave us stealth technology—high-tech software capable of scrambling tracking signals, making our helicopter vanish off the radar after Khopoli. It was all thanks to Shasha’s old connections with middle agents who specialise in smuggling this technology into the wrong hands. He knew exactly where to go and whom to approach. The kind of men who operate in the shadows, dealing in power, destruction, and silence.

This place has been prepped for months, every detail accounted for, every security measure in place.

The tea leaves steep perfectly, just the way Dad liked them. I pour the freshly brewed tea into a porcelain cup and breathe in its familiar aroma, but the scent no longer brings comfort. It reminds me of the last time I made this tea—six years ago, the day everything changed. The day Vishnu Walia stormed into my home and left me fatherless.

A cold rage simmers within me as I carry the cup to the living room. My gaze locks onto Pratap Walia, bound to a chair in the centre of the room, surrounded by my guards. The once untouchable Chief Minister of the state, is now reduced to nothing more than a captive in my home. Despite his exhaustion, his face remains composed, showing no fear, and that only fuels my rage even more. Only occasional struggles against the ropes betray his distress. My men stand around him with their guns drawn, waiting for my command.

“This was my father’s favourite tea,” I say, placing the cup in front of him. His jaw tightens, but he remains silent. “I was making it right here, in this very house, when your son barged in and destroyed everything.”

The memory makes my hands shake with rage. My fists clench, my nails digging into my palms.

Leaning closer to his chair, I whisper, “He never got to drink his favourite tea that day. But you will.” I pause, studying his stoic face. “My father always said I made the best tea. Unfortunately, you won’t have the chance to do the same. Want to know why?”

His eyes lock with mine, unflinching, pushing my anger even further.

I tilt my head and chuckle. “Because the moment you sip it, you’ll be dead.”

A flicker of confusion crosses his face. For the first time, there is a crack in his composure, a hint of worry. My grin widens.

“That’s right, Walia. This tea is poisoned, specially brewed just for my guest of honour.”

He strains against his bindings again, muscles flexing as he tests for any weakness. But I know he won’t find one. Sasha’s work is precise. I sigh, shaking my head as I take a seat opposite him, watching him struggle and enjoying every bit of his growing desperation.

“Before you die, though, I want to see that fear. That primal terror every man feels in his final moments. I want to watch it consume you. The same fear my father never got to see in yours.”

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. And then, Pratap Walia does the unexpected.

He smirks.

“Too bad, you won’t be so lucky to see that fear on my face,” he says in his calm voice. “Want to know why?”

I stiffen, my jaw tightening.

“Because all your plans to see me dead? They’re going to rot in hell with you.”

The defiance in his voice angers me further. I slam my fist on the table, almost rattling the teacup.

“You’re inmyhouse, surrounded bymymen, moments away from death, and you still thinkIwon’t succeed?” I snarl.