Page 179

I know that look.

I have seen it before.

My heart slams against my ribs as realisation dawns, but before I can move, before I can stop him—

The gunshot echoes through the room.

Everything slows down.

His body jerks, his eyes roll back, and he crumples to the ground, lifeless. Blood pools beneath him, his fingers still clutching the gun that sealed his fate.

I stand there, frozen as I watch the life drain from his eyes in an instant.

History just repeated itself.

Exactly like his father. Right here—in this same house, in this same way.

Zayed Qureshi, just like his father, chose death over surrender.

As I stand there, breathing hard, watching the blood pool around Zayed’s head, I realise that some cycles of violence can never truly be broken. They just find new ways and new faces to complete themselves.

The scene before me feels like déjà vu—a haunting reminder of what happened six years ago—his father Qureshi lying in this very house, ending his life in the very same way. But this time, something feels different.

Six years ago, I thought Qureshi’s death was the final chapter in this war. But I was wrong. His son rose from the ashes, seeking blood, seeking revenge. And now… now he’s gone too.

But this time, I won’t be so naïve.

I won’t make the same mistake of thinking it’s truly over. Not again.

This time, I will make damn sure there are no loose ends—no shadows lurking in the dark, waiting to strike my family again.

The Walia family will never face this nightmare again.

A gentle hand on my shoulder pulls me back to reality. Dad. I spin around, only to meet the weary yet comforting form of my father. I take in his injuries—cuts, bruises, dried blood on his temple—and an overwhelming sense of guilt crashes over me.

“Get the medic team in here, now!” I shout, my voice cracking with urgency. I grip his arms and search his face anxiously. “Dad, are you okay? How badly are you hurt?”

He manages a weak smile, his face battered but his eyes bright. “I’m okay now, son.”

His hand rises, his rough fingers patting my cheek, his warmth soothing me. His touch is the reassurance I didn’t know I needed. The relief in his eyes speaks volumes—it’s finally over.

But guilt weighs heavily in my heart, and I can’t meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper, hanging my head. “Despite all our security measures, despite all the precautions... you still got hurt today. I failed you.”

“No.” He gently lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him and says softly, “You could never fail me, Vishnu. Coming to Alibaug was my decision. I was stubborn about it, and you… you’ve always honoured my wishes, never denied me anything. That’s why you agreed to take me there.” His eyes shine with pride. “And look at what you did today. Despite all the odds, you saved me, just like you always do.”

“But Dad—”

“Listen to me,” he cuts in, his hands gripping my shoulders. “Not a single day goes by that I’m not proud of you, Vishnu. You are the son every father dreams of, the man every family relies on. You have always protected this family, and today was no different. You have never failed me, son. Not even once.”

His words ground me, and I pull him into a tight hug, careful of his injuries. The familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the unmistakable scent of blood makes my eyes sting with tears. But he’s safe. He’s alive.

We made it.

As I hold him, my thoughts drift to my family. I need to hold my son in my arms, feel his tiny hands on my face, and hear his giggles as he calls me ‘Papa.’ I need to hold Simran in my arms, press my lips to her forehead, and promise her that a day like today—where I was seconds away from losing my father and my son—will never come again. Not as long as I am alive.

“Let’s go home, Dad.”