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I grip him by the throat and yank him closer so he can see the fire in my eyes. “You lose, Zayed.”

With a final punch, I send him crashing to the floor. He doesn’t get up. I’m still not done. My fist connects with his face, and a sickening crunch follows. Another punch. And another. He growls, spitting blood, but I refuse to stop. I slam my knee into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.

“You think you can just take my dad?!” I bellow, my voice shaking with fury. Another punch lands on his face. “You think you can walk away from this?!” Another blow, and this time, it sends his head snapping back onto the hard, concrete floor.

Zayed laughs—a dark, bloodied chuckle.

“Your father started this,” I snarl, blocking his desperate counter-punch and driving my knee into his stomach. “Your father tried to kill my dad for his political seat. He was a monster willing to do anything to fulfil his ambitions. Even kill innocents.”

His laughter comes to an abrupt halt as I hit him again, harder this time, sending him crashing to the floor.

“You conveniently forget that fact while plotting this baseless revenge against the Walias, didn’t you?” I snap, hitting him again.

“You killed my father,” Zayed yells, refusing to understand or accept the truth—that his revenge against the Walias was indeed baseless.

I grab him by the collar and yank him to his feet.

“Your father might have been a hero to you, but to the rest of the world, he was a monster. And monsters deserve to die.”

The moment I say this, he lunges at me, a hidden knife glinting in his hand. But I’m faster. I spot a fallen gun nearby and dive for it. Without a second’s hesitation, I pull the trigger, the bullet ripping into his leg.

Zayed collapses to the ground with a howl of pain, gripping his thigh as blood oozes out of the wound. He thrashes wildly, trying to reach for something—another weapon, a piece of sharp glass, but I don’t care.

I slam my foot into his ribs, sending him sprawling. He gasps, pain twisting his face, but his eyes still burn with hatred. Blood drips from his mouth, his body trembling from the brutal fight, yet he refuses to give in.

“It’s over.” I stand over him, gun trained on his head. “It’s over, Zayed. Six years of running and plotting—it all ends today, Zayed. You lose.”

A slow, twisted grin stretches across his bloodied lips despite the pain tearing through his body. He exhales shakily, his fingers curling into fists, as if still holding onto the last shred of defiance.

“No, Vishnu,” he growls, gripping a piece of glass in his fist. “This isn’t over yet.”

Before I can react, he drives the shard deep into my leg. A sharp, pain rips through me, my knee buckling as I stagger. My grip on the gun falters, and in that split second, it slips from my grasp—landing right beside him.

Zayed moves fast. In one swift motion, he grabs the gun and points it straight at me.

Ayaan and his men surround us, their weapons drawn on Zayed. His grip on the gun tightens as it stays aimed at me. The air is thick with tension, a moment hanging between life and death.

“Don’t fool yourself, Zayed. Even if you pull that trigger, you won’t make it out of here alive. The moment you fire, my men will turn you into a bullet-riddled corpse. So don’t even try.”

He gasps for breath, his eyes scanning the area with desperation, calculating every possible escape. Then the realisation dawns on him—he is outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched.

Like a cornered animal, he lets out a dark, bitter laugh, the sound eerily familiar. That laugh.

The same wicked laugh I had heard six years ago in this very house. The laugh of a man who had already lost but refused to succumb and accept defeat.

His father’s laugh.

Zayed tilts his head slightly, his lips stretching into a twisted grin.

“When my father never accepted defeat against the Walias, why should I?”

My stomach tightens, a sense of foreboding creeping into my bones. His words… they hold a deeper meaning, a finality that sends a chill down my spine.

Zayed’s gaze locks onto mine. His eyes carry a dangerous resolve, a decision already made.

“It’s not over, Vishnu…” he whispers, his grip tightening around the gun. “No Qureshi will ever beg for mercy from a Walia. That promise will live on… even if it means choosing the same fate as my father’s.”

His expression shifts—no longer furious, no longer desperate. A deadly calm settles over his face.