15-09-2025, 04:03 PM
(CHAPTER CONTD)
SOME TIME LATER AT SANJEEVANI HOSPITAL
The air in the ward shifted when Hemant stepped through the door. His shirt was clean, his expression calm, but his eyes betrayed a storm still burning beneath. For one suspended moment he just stood there, staring at Sonarika—alive, dressed, unbroken enough to still be herself. Relief struck through his chest so hard it almost hurt.
She looked up from the bedside, Karan’s small hand still clutched in hers, and when her gaze met his, all the walls she had forced around herself wavered. Without thinking, she rose. Hemant closed the distance and pulled her into his arms. It wasn’t passionate, nor desperate—it was steady, protective, the way it used to be when the world was too much and she sought shelter in him.
Her forehead pressed against his chest; for the first time in what felt like forever, Sonarika let herself breathe. She had missed this—the rough comfort of his embrace, the sense that no matter what storm she endured, Hemant’s arms could still shield her.
After a long silence, she finally asked, voice barely audible,
"Where did you go?"
Hemant’s jaw tightened. He stroked her hair once before pulling back, letting his tone slip into measured explanation.
"I went to the Mehta family. They were bankrolling Dilawar’s operation, using him for their political leverage. I had to make sure that chain was broken"
His eyes flickered, calculating, before continuing.
"And I went to Sanjana. I asked her help in finding you. That’s where I learned Tamanna’s daughter, Shraddha, had also been kidnapped"
Sonarika’s eyes widened.
"Shraddha… is she—?"
"She’s safe" Hemant cut in gently, squeezing her shoulders.
"Cops raided an abandoned factory. They found her with the others. She’s back with Tamanna now"
Sonarika exhaled shakily, tears pricking again—not from grief this time, but from relief.
Hemant’s tone softened.
"There’s more. Word is Dilawar and Rafique got hit hard by a rival gang. Their colony is in ruins. Their empire is gone, and… it’s very likely the brothers are dead. We won’t be bothered by them again"
Karan, still weak in bed, smiled a little seeing his parents. Anjali clasped her sister’s hand tightly, eyes bright with cautious joy. For a brief moment, the hospital room filled with the fragile warmth of a family reunited, freed from a shadow that had hung too long. But even as she smiled, Sonarika’s brow furrowed. A flicker of memory returned—the vision of a towering figure in black armor, an eagle crest glowing on his chest, slaughtering Dilawar’s men like a phantom of vengeance.
Inside the ward, the family clung together, rejoicing in the fragile peace. Outside, in the corridor, Vikram stood watching through the windowpane. His fists clenched at his sides, his face unreadable. He had delivered Sonarika to safety, had been there when she needed someone—but now, looking in, he could see it clearly. He was the outsider, the third wheel orbiting around a broken family that, despite everything, still tried to hold itself together.
Some time later, when the ward grew quiet and Karan finally dozed off with Anjali curled up beside him, Sonarika slipped out into the corridor. The fluorescent lights hummed low. Down the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, Vikram was waiting. His presence was steady, protective, but his eyes carried that storm of unspoken questions. She walked up to him, her steps hesitant, her face softer than before.
"Vicky" she said quietly.
"You should go… back to your place"
Vikram straightened, his brows furrowing.
"Is that what this is?" His voice held both hurt and disbelief.
"You’re pushing me away now that you have your family around you again?"
Sonarika shook her head, clutching her dupatta close.
"No… don’t think that. What you saw in there—it looks like a family, yes. But it’s broken, Vikram. More broken than it seems"
Her voice cracked a little.
"I have to pretend, at least for Karan’s sake. He needs to feel like his parents can still stand together for him"
Vikram stepped closer, his jaw tightening.
"And what about me, Soni? After everything? After what I did to bring you here? Do you expect me to just vanish because you have to ‘pretend’?"
Her eyes glistened, but she held her ground.
"I can’t push you away… not after what you did. Not after you saved me when I thought I was finished"
She touched his arm lightly, her hand trembling.
"But I can’t torture you either. I can’t make you stand by while I ignore you just for my family"
Vikram’s breath came heavy, conflicted.
"Then what do you want from me?"
"I want you to have faith" she whispered.
"Give me time. Let me… sort this out. I promise I’ll come to you, Vikram. When it’s right. When I can breathe again"
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hospital noises. Finally, Vikram exhaled and gave a small nod.
"Alright. I’ll wait. But don’t keep me waiting forever"
Sonarika managed a faint, weary smile.
"The chapter with Dilawar… it’s over. I feel relieved. Free. And you were there to pick me from that darkness"
Vikram studied her for a long moment, then turned and walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing until they faded.
Sonarika lingered, watching him go, her heart tugging in two directions at once. Then she composed herself and returned to the ward, where Hemant sat by Karan’s side. She took her place quietly beside them, her hand slipping over her son’s. For the moment, the family leaned close, forcing smiles, finding laughter to cheer Karan up—pretending wholeness, even while the cracks ran deep beneath the surface.
The quiet of the hospital ward wrapped around them like a fragile veil. Karan slept soundly now, his tiny hand resting over Sonarika’s. Anjali had dozed off in the chair beside him, her face turned to the wall. Hemant sat near the window, his eyes fixed on the distant night sky, the faint reflection of storm clouds lingering long after the chaos had passed.
Sonarika shifted closer, her shoulders slumping under invisible weight.
"He smiled" she whispered, glancing at Karan.
"After everything… he smiled finally"
Hemant looked at her then, and for a rare moment, his lips curved in something that resembled humor.
"Funny thing, though" he said softly, eyes narrowing with a teasing edge.
"You had to send your boyfriend away just so this broken family could share that smile together"
Sonarika froze, her throat tightening. She knew Hemant had always known. The papers were already filed; the truth had long been too heavy to hide. She lowered her gaze, her voice trembling.
"Don’t mock me, Hemant. Please. Not tonight"
Hemant leaned back, folding his arms.
"I’m not mocking. Just… pointing out the irony"
Her eyes filled with tears as she finally faced him.
"And that’s the worst part. Tonight—this family, sitting here—it is worth standing for. For Karan, for Anjali… even for us"
Her lips quivered.
"But the truth doesn’t change. Dilawar’s shadow might be gone for good, but the cracks in us were already here. He wasn’t the problem. I was"
Hemant said nothing, his silence heavy, suffocating.
Sonarika pressed on, her voice breaking.
"It was me who couldn’t see. Me who failed to understand what I had… what each of you meant to me. I broke us, Hemant. Not Dilawar, not anyone else—me"
She wiped her cheeks quickly, afraid of waking Karan.
"I’ll have to increase my therapy. I can’t carry this… not after tonight. The trauma—it’s too much"
Hemant stared at her, his jaw tight, but his eyes unreadable. Sonarika’s mind drifted back. Her lips trembled as she whispered,
"But then… there was her. That mysterious woman who dropped from the ceiling when I was surrounded. She saved me, Hemant. A complete stranger, but she—she fought like something out of a dream. A guardian angel in human skin"
Hemant’s heart clenched, but he forced his voice steady.
"Maybe it was just… a good samaritan who crossed paths at the right time"
Sonarika shook her head firmly.
"No. Whoever it was… she came for me. And then…"
Her eyes softened, almost glowing as she whispered.
"He was there. That man. He moved like fire given form, like he wasn’t even human. Whoever he was… he was there to protect me. To tear through hell for me"
Hemant’s gaze flickered, but he hid the grin tugging at his lips, masking it with a calm, neutral silence. But then her voice shifted, lowering into something warmer, almost yearning.
"And then… there was Vikram. When I saw him… it was the first time in the day I felt truly safe. Like the ground wasn’t shifting beneath me anymore"
Hemant’s chest burned, the words stabbing deeper than any knife ever had. He turned his face away, ignoring it, focusing instead on Karan’s peaceful breathing. Sonarika leaned back in her chair, her mind far away, probably lost in the storm of Vikram’s image , he thought. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. Soon, the ward was quiet again—Karan’s steady breaths, Anjali’s soft snores, Sonarika’s restless sleep. Hemant remained awake a little longer, sitting in the dark, caught between the sting of betrayal and the grim relief that, at least tonight, his family was safe. But in the silence, he clenched his hand, feeling the ghost of the rings still on his finger. The Archangel. The Garuda. And deep within, the warrior that refused to die.
And unbeknownst to Hemant , Sonarika's mind still lingered on that mysterious figure. That warrior who fought the goons like a powerful being. Somewhere , someplace that silhouette was very reminiscent , as if it was a familiar someone. But she simply could not see and find out who it was.
The hospital ward had gone silent, wrapped in that late-night stillness where every sound seemed amplified—the soft hum of machines, the distant footsteps of nurses, the faint rumbles of traffic beyond the glass. Hemant sat there, unmoving, the shadows of the city pressing in on him. His eyes wandered to Karan, asleep on the hospital bed, chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm. That sight anchored him more than anything else ever had. He let out a slow breath. The villa at Silver Beach is almost complete, he thought. Polished floors, new walls, a home designed to radiate happiness and safety. A place where laughter could live again. But he knew the truth. It wasn’t a sanctuary for all of them—it was a haven he was building only for Karan and Anjali.
The cooling period ticked like a silent clock in his head. One year. One year, and then the papers would finalize what had already broken. After that, Karan’s world would split in two. No more home with both parents. No more evenings of them all together. Just the splintered routine of urban families in Mumbai—shared custody, awkward weekends, fractured holidays. Anjali too would drift, caught between her own growing world and the wreckage of theirs.
And Sonarika? She would move on—with Vikram. Hemant clenched his jaw at the thought, but it wasn’t anger that gnawed at him. It was inevitability. He had already seen it in her eyes. She was slowly drifting to Vikram’s arms now, maybe her feelings for him are starting to feel genuine after the development in therapy sensing maybe she sees a future in him . He could not deny her that.
But he still had Karan. That thought steadied him like stone beneath his feet. Whatever he built from here on—whatever wealth, power, or legacy—wouldn’t be for him anymore. It would all be for his son. For the boy who still smiled after the storm. For the child who once drew him as Garud Man, believing his father was a hero. Hemant vowed to make sure that boy would never feel unloved, never feel abandoned, never feel the weight of his parents’ sins.
He leaned back in his chair, his hand brushing over the rings again—the Archangel, the Garuda. Symbols of battles fought and battles yet to come. He thought of Sanjana, his first love, how he had cut himself away from her with his own hands. He thought of Ashnoor, whose death had plunged him into a pit so dark he almost didn’t return. And then Sonarika—the woman who had picked him up, only to eventually drift into another man’s orbit abandoning him.
The cracks in his heart weren’t just from Sonarika—they were fault lines running through his entire life. But somehow, sitting here, watching Karan sleep, he felt those broken pieces holding together. Not healed. Not whole. But strong enough to carry his boy forward. Hemant’s gaze softened as he whispered to himself, barely audible in the dim light:
"The house I built...... it’ll be for you, my son. Always for you"
And with that thought, resolve settled in him. The villa, once a vessel of broken dreams, would become Karan’s fortress. A place where love still lived, no matter how fractured the family around it. Hemant sat there until dawn light crept through the window, never once taking his eyes off Karan—his reason, his anchor, his future.
AN HOUR BEFORE SOMEWHERE IN MUMBAI-PUNE EXPRESSWAY
Under the orange spill of the highway lights, the van idled against the crash barrier on the Mumbai–Pune Expressway. Inside, the three men who’d handled Sonarika’s abduction sat like scavengers, checking their watches and swapping nervous jokes. The city’s lights blurred past on the other side of the glass; none of them noticed the shape that stepped out of the rain until she was standing beside the driver’s window.
She was immaculate — too clean for the damp night — hair pinned back, face an unreadable mask. When the window slid down, the men saluted with the greasy mock-politeness of hired hands. The woman smiled without warmth.
"Well?" she asked.
One of the goons handed her the small bundle of paperwork: confirmation codes, a delivery address, the time stamps. She skimmed it like a woman checking a bill of sale, then produced a thick envelope and passed it back.
"Good work"
She said, placing the cash in his hand with a flat motion. The bills made a muffled sound as they landed.
"This is what I promised. Don’t make it messy in front of me — just disappear from Mumbai. No faces. No loose tongues. You cross me, and whatever freedom you have ends tonight"
They nodded, greedy and scared both, because she did not need to raise her voice for the threat to land. One of them tried for a joke, then swallowed it when she looked at him. They took the money, slid into their van, engine humming, taillights vanishing into the night. The woman watched them go, then turned and walked back to the waiting shadow of a high-backed SUV.
She did not look like a villain the city would fear. But her eyes were winter-steel. As the highway hummed and this surprise rain softened to mist, she allowed herself the smallest, private smile: payment for a job done, loose ends paid, and the next moves already arranged in a mind that liked patterns. She stayed in the car a long time, composing. Outside, the skyline of Mumbai bled into drizzle. In the privacy of the leather interior she rehearsed the long game: keep Sonarika fragile, keep her tethered to immediate comforts and cravings, nudge her toward dependency rather than recovery. Tonight's incidents would make Sonarika vulnerable — raw and searching — and Meghna’s plan was to be that searching hand, to offer what Sonarika would mistake for solace. From there, she would steer her into self-destructive intimacy again, eroding the gains of healing until the woman she despised was undone by appetite and shame, not by courts or guns.
She recalled Sonarika's head injury — a fact she’d used like a map for every pressure point since. That injury, she believed, had always left a fissure; Meghna had spent years learning how to utilise it. Tonight had been the hinge: break the seals, leave the wound open, and wait. She imagined Sonarika drifting toward relief in the arms of the nearest savior, collapsing into dependency, losing the fragile progress therapy might have offered. The thought made her eyes go colder. Now with just a few encouraging words she will send her back to Vikram's arms , making her his slut once again!
When she stepped from the car at last, the rain had stopped. Meghna pulled up her collar and walked toward the city lights like a woman carrying a quiet war. She was not celebrating — not yet — only taking stock. Revenge, she knew, was a long map. Tonight she had bought three more pieces. The chessboard shifted again; this is her game after all. And this game had only one purpose , to shred Sonarika to pieces and have her father witness his daughter's undoing. A family wrecked apart bit by bit.
THE NEXT MORNING
The convoy screamed along the Western Express like a hurt animal, metal and smoke and men with too many sins between them. Dilawar’s eyes were red-slit slits of suspicion as he argued with the remaining goons.
"Who were those men?" he spat.
"Who delivered Sonarika to me?"
A dry wind brought the odor of char to his nostrils—his colony, cinders and ash, a thousand lives erased overnight. He ground his teeth.
"Last night ruined everything"
He muttered, and the words tasted like ash. The men shifted uncomfortably; blame had feathers, and everyone wanted to pluck someone else. A law-enforcement checkpost loomed ahead, lights like teeth.
"Exit now"
Dilawar barked, fingers skimming the pistol at his hip. They veered onto a deviation road that cut through scrub and empty fields—the perfect place to vanish, or to be ambushed.
He was still thinking about betrayals when the lead vehicle erupted in a sheet of orange. The noise ripped the sky open; glass was a thousand white stars. The convoy slammed to a halt, engines coughing. For a moment, the world narrowed to one thing: flame. Shots cracked into the dark like a chorus of broken thunder. Goons swore and fired at shadows, at trees, at nothing.
"Find them!"
Dilawar shouted, voice cutting through panic. They found nothing but emptiness and the smell of cordite. Then a sound from above: a hard, mechanical whine that made the hair on their necks stand up. Heads tilted back. A Bell AH-1 Cobra descended into the clearing, a silhouette with hungry guns. The gunship's cannons sang, and the road became a harvest of bodies. Men fell like bad memories; the few who lived ran and screamed and tried to hide. Dilawar dove into the back of a vehicle and felt metal and blood and the world tilting. He should have run, but he didn't—he wanted to see who delivered ruin to his feet.
A blow to the head took the world. It went black faster than a blink, and when light returned it was narrowed, boxed, the way a man’s life is when someone else holds the frame. He opened his eyes to sky—far away sky—and men forming a ring around him.
Hemant stood at the center like a statue carved from cold iron. He looked nothing like the man Dilawar remembered: no flinching, no stammering, no fear. He was a quiet storm in a coat that fit like a challenge.
"So" Hemant said softly.
"Here you are Dilawar.....no gang....no empire....no brother....all alone!"
Dilawar spat, tasting metal.
"Who the hell are you?"
He snarled, though his voice trembled. The stick of a memory pricked him—Sonarika, the rage in her eyes, the colony a pyre. He tried to assess, to measure a way out like men assess exit wounds. Hemant’s hand rested on the hilt of the Inquisitor, and when he drew it the blade hissed like a promise.
"You killed so many people.....you and your brother” Hemant said, and the words hit like stones.
"But tonight your judgement is here"
Dilawar’s laugh was raw.
"You? A broker of lost loves and small revenge?"
He sneered. He lunged—fast and filthy with desperation. He aimed for Hemant’s ribs, his throat, anywhere to stop the man who had stopped him from taking what he thought was his. Hemant moved like he had anticipated every swing before it left the air. The blade met leather, turned the arc, sent the momentum into the dust.
"You showed me one thing Dilawar" Hemant said between movements.
"You proved that I should've never hidden myself......because my existence is always meant to cut down scum like you!!!"
Dilawar swung again and again, each blow a small confession: I am afraid, I am empty, I am alone. Hemant deflected without flourish, but with precision, each strike a question answered. The ring of men watched in silence, like an audience at a ruin.
"You murdered families, burned homes, took children from their fathers’ arms"
Hemant said, voice tightening.
"You made men into ghosts so you could sleep"
The words landed with a clarity that cut deeper than any blade. Dilawar’s eyes flickered—anger, then pain, then calculation. He tried a feint, a dirty move he’d taught his men to break men’s necks with. Hemant stepped aside and used that momentum to strike his knee. The crunch that followed was the sound of a future collapsing. Dilawar fell; the ground welcomed him like an old accomplice.
Hemant didn’t gloat. He moved like a surgeon, brutal and controlled. A shoulder, a jaw, a knee—small arithmetic of damage until Dilawar was a map of bruises and breath.
"This is the moment Dilawar" Hemant said simply.
"This is the moment you realize , that your hands were too small to fight God!!"
When Hemant stopped, the world seemed to exhale. He raised a hand, and two burly men stepped forward, bringing an old couple wrapped in a thin blanket. Their faces were a map of sorrow carved by time and grief.
"They are Nirmala’s parents" Hemant said.
"The same Nirmala and Shikha , that you and your scumbag of a brother destroyed right in front of Officer Rakesh Mehra"
The couple moved slowly, supported by hands that trembled with rage and grief. They approached Dilawar like a pair of small, terrible judges. They spat words that were bitter and honest, and for a moment the only sound was the scbang of time dragging itself across the field.
"You killed our daughter" the old man croaked, voice raw as old rope.
"What did that little girl do to you or your brother, you didn't just kill a family , you killed our lineage!"
The woman’s hands shook and she slapped Dilawar once, a thin, human impulse that landed louder than any gunshot.
"BURN IN HELL! BURN!" she hissed.
Dilawar tried to swallow, to laugh, to convert the shame into anger. It came out as a wet, animal sound. The sight of those two—broken and human—was a mirror he hadn’t expected. He realized, too late, how small he’d made himself. Then Hemant’s face shifted. Something older woke in him—the Michael King that had been whispered in alleyways from Shanghai to Sao Paulo. There was a hunger in Hemant’s eyes: not for power, but for balance.
"Your brother's judgement was done hours ago" he said.
"Now its time you meet him.......IN HELL!"
He moved so fast Dilawar barely saw the flash: Inquisitor arcing, a clean strike like a line drawn across a life. The blade bit—just enough. Dilawar screamed, a jagged, animal sound that echoed across the empty road. Hemant’s kick followed, a hard hit to the skull that sent Dilawar into the earth. The men held him down as Hemant leaned close and whispered.
"Prepare the boat , its time for his last rites!!!"
Hemant’s voice was not triumphant. It was tired, a man who had carried a ledger and finally closed it. When the convoy’s remains smoked in the distance and the helicopter's echo dwindled, Hemant stood and turned to the old man and the woman: he let the old couple go, watched them walk away into a night that would never bring them back what was lost, but might, at least, carry their names forward. He sheathed the Inquisitor, his hands steady. Dilawar lay a ruin, finally unbelievably small under the stars — a man stripped to the truth of his choices. As his men started to gather up Dilawar in a body bag , he embraced his actions as an awakening for the future.
SOMETIME LATER
The world returned to Dilawar in pieces. A sound first—the low groan of an engine. Then the smell—salt, fish, rust. Finally, the pain—a dull roar spread across every inch of his body. He blinked, and darkness swam into shape. He was lying on damp wooden planks, his shirt glued to his skin with blood. The boat rocked gently under him. When his vision steadied, he saw the name carved into the hull above his head. Heera. A fishing boat.
Every breath felt like a debt he couldn’t pay. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled like snapped ropes. His mouth opened, a wheeze instead of words. And then he saw the shadow. Hemant stood there, steady as stone, silhouetted against the rising horizon. The Inquisitor gleamed faintly in his hand, still carrying the red truth of Dilawar’s men. He looked at Dilawar the way one might look at driftwood—something once useful, now just debris.
"Where…" Dilawar rasped, spitting out blood.
"Where are we?"
Hemant’s voice was calm, but it carried the depth of waves.
"Off the coast of Mumbai. No cops. No witnesses. Only the sea and the truth"
He took a step closer.
"This is where your final chapter is written"
Dilawar’s chest heaved, panic fighting with exhaustion. His mind, always hungry for angles, searched for one now and found only walls. Hemant tilted his head. The silence between them was wide and heavy.
"Any last words?"
With blood frothing at his lips, Dilawar whispered.
"If this is my end.....so be it.....my last wish is the truth.....so tell me......Who are you… really?"
His eyes, clouded with pain, still sought the truth behind the man who had burned his empire to ashes in a single night. Hemant stepped into the light, the sea wind tugging at his coat. His grip tightened on Inquisitor as he raised it, the blade catching the sunrise. His eyes locked on Dilawar’s.
"The name is King...............Michael King!"
The words landed like a death knell. Dilawar’s face twisted—shock, fear, recognition of a legend he had once dismissed as myth. The blade moved in a clean arc, cutting across flesh and bone. Dilawar screamed as his arm separated, the sound ripping through the dawn air. Blood sprayed, painting the deck. Hemant didn’t flinch. He raised a boot and kicked hard, sending Dilawar’s broken body over the side. The splash swallowed the scream, and suddenly the ocean was the only jury left. Dilawar sank, weight pulling him down. His one arm flailed weakly, bubbles rising like unanswered prayers. Blood streamed behind him in red ribbons, staining the sea.
Far beneath, a dark shape stirred. A fin sliced the surface, circling once, twice. The predator had caught the scent. The shark closed in with ruthless elegance. Dilawar’s eyes widened underwater. He tried to swim, tried to rise, but his strength was a ghost. He watched, helpless, as the wide mouth came at him, teeth like white tombstones. The water churned violently. A muffled scream bubbled out before the sea claimed it. The predator’s feast was quick and merciless.
On deck, Hemant stood with Inquisitor at his side, watching the surface froth red, then still. He didn’t move until the ocean quieted, until the water carried only ripples and silence. The men aboard waited for orders. Hemant’s voice was low, steady.
"Take us back to shore"
He turned his back on the horizon, the wind carrying away the last trace of Dilawar. For a moment, Hemant closed his eyes and drew in a long, measured breath. Dilawar’s chapter was over. Mumbai was cleaner for it. But as he gripped the Inquisitor again, he knew—Michael King’s story was reborn again!
(CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)
The air in the ward shifted when Hemant stepped through the door. His shirt was clean, his expression calm, but his eyes betrayed a storm still burning beneath. For one suspended moment he just stood there, staring at Sonarika—alive, dressed, unbroken enough to still be herself. Relief struck through his chest so hard it almost hurt.
She looked up from the bedside, Karan’s small hand still clutched in hers, and when her gaze met his, all the walls she had forced around herself wavered. Without thinking, she rose. Hemant closed the distance and pulled her into his arms. It wasn’t passionate, nor desperate—it was steady, protective, the way it used to be when the world was too much and she sought shelter in him.
Her forehead pressed against his chest; for the first time in what felt like forever, Sonarika let herself breathe. She had missed this—the rough comfort of his embrace, the sense that no matter what storm she endured, Hemant’s arms could still shield her.
After a long silence, she finally asked, voice barely audible,
"Where did you go?"
Hemant’s jaw tightened. He stroked her hair once before pulling back, letting his tone slip into measured explanation.
"I went to the Mehta family. They were bankrolling Dilawar’s operation, using him for their political leverage. I had to make sure that chain was broken"
His eyes flickered, calculating, before continuing.
"And I went to Sanjana. I asked her help in finding you. That’s where I learned Tamanna’s daughter, Shraddha, had also been kidnapped"
Sonarika’s eyes widened.
"Shraddha… is she—?"
"She’s safe" Hemant cut in gently, squeezing her shoulders.
"Cops raided an abandoned factory. They found her with the others. She’s back with Tamanna now"
Sonarika exhaled shakily, tears pricking again—not from grief this time, but from relief.
Hemant’s tone softened.
"There’s more. Word is Dilawar and Rafique got hit hard by a rival gang. Their colony is in ruins. Their empire is gone, and… it’s very likely the brothers are dead. We won’t be bothered by them again"
Karan, still weak in bed, smiled a little seeing his parents. Anjali clasped her sister’s hand tightly, eyes bright with cautious joy. For a brief moment, the hospital room filled with the fragile warmth of a family reunited, freed from a shadow that had hung too long. But even as she smiled, Sonarika’s brow furrowed. A flicker of memory returned—the vision of a towering figure in black armor, an eagle crest glowing on his chest, slaughtering Dilawar’s men like a phantom of vengeance.
Inside the ward, the family clung together, rejoicing in the fragile peace. Outside, in the corridor, Vikram stood watching through the windowpane. His fists clenched at his sides, his face unreadable. He had delivered Sonarika to safety, had been there when she needed someone—but now, looking in, he could see it clearly. He was the outsider, the third wheel orbiting around a broken family that, despite everything, still tried to hold itself together.
Some time later, when the ward grew quiet and Karan finally dozed off with Anjali curled up beside him, Sonarika slipped out into the corridor. The fluorescent lights hummed low. Down the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, Vikram was waiting. His presence was steady, protective, but his eyes carried that storm of unspoken questions. She walked up to him, her steps hesitant, her face softer than before.
"Vicky" she said quietly.
"You should go… back to your place"
Vikram straightened, his brows furrowing.
"Is that what this is?" His voice held both hurt and disbelief.
"You’re pushing me away now that you have your family around you again?"
Sonarika shook her head, clutching her dupatta close.
"No… don’t think that. What you saw in there—it looks like a family, yes. But it’s broken, Vikram. More broken than it seems"
Her voice cracked a little.
"I have to pretend, at least for Karan’s sake. He needs to feel like his parents can still stand together for him"
Vikram stepped closer, his jaw tightening.
"And what about me, Soni? After everything? After what I did to bring you here? Do you expect me to just vanish because you have to ‘pretend’?"
Her eyes glistened, but she held her ground.
"I can’t push you away… not after what you did. Not after you saved me when I thought I was finished"
She touched his arm lightly, her hand trembling.
"But I can’t torture you either. I can’t make you stand by while I ignore you just for my family"
Vikram’s breath came heavy, conflicted.
"Then what do you want from me?"
"I want you to have faith" she whispered.
"Give me time. Let me… sort this out. I promise I’ll come to you, Vikram. When it’s right. When I can breathe again"
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hospital noises. Finally, Vikram exhaled and gave a small nod.
"Alright. I’ll wait. But don’t keep me waiting forever"
Sonarika managed a faint, weary smile.
"The chapter with Dilawar… it’s over. I feel relieved. Free. And you were there to pick me from that darkness"
Vikram studied her for a long moment, then turned and walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing until they faded.
Sonarika lingered, watching him go, her heart tugging in two directions at once. Then she composed herself and returned to the ward, where Hemant sat by Karan’s side. She took her place quietly beside them, her hand slipping over her son’s. For the moment, the family leaned close, forcing smiles, finding laughter to cheer Karan up—pretending wholeness, even while the cracks ran deep beneath the surface.
The quiet of the hospital ward wrapped around them like a fragile veil. Karan slept soundly now, his tiny hand resting over Sonarika’s. Anjali had dozed off in the chair beside him, her face turned to the wall. Hemant sat near the window, his eyes fixed on the distant night sky, the faint reflection of storm clouds lingering long after the chaos had passed.
Sonarika shifted closer, her shoulders slumping under invisible weight.
"He smiled" she whispered, glancing at Karan.
"After everything… he smiled finally"
Hemant looked at her then, and for a rare moment, his lips curved in something that resembled humor.
"Funny thing, though" he said softly, eyes narrowing with a teasing edge.
"You had to send your boyfriend away just so this broken family could share that smile together"
Sonarika froze, her throat tightening. She knew Hemant had always known. The papers were already filed; the truth had long been too heavy to hide. She lowered her gaze, her voice trembling.
"Don’t mock me, Hemant. Please. Not tonight"
Hemant leaned back, folding his arms.
"I’m not mocking. Just… pointing out the irony"
Her eyes filled with tears as she finally faced him.
"And that’s the worst part. Tonight—this family, sitting here—it is worth standing for. For Karan, for Anjali… even for us"
Her lips quivered.
"But the truth doesn’t change. Dilawar’s shadow might be gone for good, but the cracks in us were already here. He wasn’t the problem. I was"
Hemant said nothing, his silence heavy, suffocating.
Sonarika pressed on, her voice breaking.
"It was me who couldn’t see. Me who failed to understand what I had… what each of you meant to me. I broke us, Hemant. Not Dilawar, not anyone else—me"
She wiped her cheeks quickly, afraid of waking Karan.
"I’ll have to increase my therapy. I can’t carry this… not after tonight. The trauma—it’s too much"
Hemant stared at her, his jaw tight, but his eyes unreadable. Sonarika’s mind drifted back. Her lips trembled as she whispered,
"But then… there was her. That mysterious woman who dropped from the ceiling when I was surrounded. She saved me, Hemant. A complete stranger, but she—she fought like something out of a dream. A guardian angel in human skin"
Hemant’s heart clenched, but he forced his voice steady.
"Maybe it was just… a good samaritan who crossed paths at the right time"
Sonarika shook her head firmly.
"No. Whoever it was… she came for me. And then…"
Her eyes softened, almost glowing as she whispered.
"He was there. That man. He moved like fire given form, like he wasn’t even human. Whoever he was… he was there to protect me. To tear through hell for me"
Hemant’s gaze flickered, but he hid the grin tugging at his lips, masking it with a calm, neutral silence. But then her voice shifted, lowering into something warmer, almost yearning.
"And then… there was Vikram. When I saw him… it was the first time in the day I felt truly safe. Like the ground wasn’t shifting beneath me anymore"
Hemant’s chest burned, the words stabbing deeper than any knife ever had. He turned his face away, ignoring it, focusing instead on Karan’s peaceful breathing. Sonarika leaned back in her chair, her mind far away, probably lost in the storm of Vikram’s image , he thought. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. Soon, the ward was quiet again—Karan’s steady breaths, Anjali’s soft snores, Sonarika’s restless sleep. Hemant remained awake a little longer, sitting in the dark, caught between the sting of betrayal and the grim relief that, at least tonight, his family was safe. But in the silence, he clenched his hand, feeling the ghost of the rings still on his finger. The Archangel. The Garuda. And deep within, the warrior that refused to die.
And unbeknownst to Hemant , Sonarika's mind still lingered on that mysterious figure. That warrior who fought the goons like a powerful being. Somewhere , someplace that silhouette was very reminiscent , as if it was a familiar someone. But she simply could not see and find out who it was.
The hospital ward had gone silent, wrapped in that late-night stillness where every sound seemed amplified—the soft hum of machines, the distant footsteps of nurses, the faint rumbles of traffic beyond the glass. Hemant sat there, unmoving, the shadows of the city pressing in on him. His eyes wandered to Karan, asleep on the hospital bed, chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm. That sight anchored him more than anything else ever had. He let out a slow breath. The villa at Silver Beach is almost complete, he thought. Polished floors, new walls, a home designed to radiate happiness and safety. A place where laughter could live again. But he knew the truth. It wasn’t a sanctuary for all of them—it was a haven he was building only for Karan and Anjali.
The cooling period ticked like a silent clock in his head. One year. One year, and then the papers would finalize what had already broken. After that, Karan’s world would split in two. No more home with both parents. No more evenings of them all together. Just the splintered routine of urban families in Mumbai—shared custody, awkward weekends, fractured holidays. Anjali too would drift, caught between her own growing world and the wreckage of theirs.
And Sonarika? She would move on—with Vikram. Hemant clenched his jaw at the thought, but it wasn’t anger that gnawed at him. It was inevitability. He had already seen it in her eyes. She was slowly drifting to Vikram’s arms now, maybe her feelings for him are starting to feel genuine after the development in therapy sensing maybe she sees a future in him . He could not deny her that.
But he still had Karan. That thought steadied him like stone beneath his feet. Whatever he built from here on—whatever wealth, power, or legacy—wouldn’t be for him anymore. It would all be for his son. For the boy who still smiled after the storm. For the child who once drew him as Garud Man, believing his father was a hero. Hemant vowed to make sure that boy would never feel unloved, never feel abandoned, never feel the weight of his parents’ sins.
He leaned back in his chair, his hand brushing over the rings again—the Archangel, the Garuda. Symbols of battles fought and battles yet to come. He thought of Sanjana, his first love, how he had cut himself away from her with his own hands. He thought of Ashnoor, whose death had plunged him into a pit so dark he almost didn’t return. And then Sonarika—the woman who had picked him up, only to eventually drift into another man’s orbit abandoning him.
The cracks in his heart weren’t just from Sonarika—they were fault lines running through his entire life. But somehow, sitting here, watching Karan sleep, he felt those broken pieces holding together. Not healed. Not whole. But strong enough to carry his boy forward. Hemant’s gaze softened as he whispered to himself, barely audible in the dim light:
"The house I built...... it’ll be for you, my son. Always for you"
And with that thought, resolve settled in him. The villa, once a vessel of broken dreams, would become Karan’s fortress. A place where love still lived, no matter how fractured the family around it. Hemant sat there until dawn light crept through the window, never once taking his eyes off Karan—his reason, his anchor, his future.
AN HOUR BEFORE SOMEWHERE IN MUMBAI-PUNE EXPRESSWAY
Under the orange spill of the highway lights, the van idled against the crash barrier on the Mumbai–Pune Expressway. Inside, the three men who’d handled Sonarika’s abduction sat like scavengers, checking their watches and swapping nervous jokes. The city’s lights blurred past on the other side of the glass; none of them noticed the shape that stepped out of the rain until she was standing beside the driver’s window.
She was immaculate — too clean for the damp night — hair pinned back, face an unreadable mask. When the window slid down, the men saluted with the greasy mock-politeness of hired hands. The woman smiled without warmth.
"Well?" she asked.
One of the goons handed her the small bundle of paperwork: confirmation codes, a delivery address, the time stamps. She skimmed it like a woman checking a bill of sale, then produced a thick envelope and passed it back.
"Good work"
She said, placing the cash in his hand with a flat motion. The bills made a muffled sound as they landed.
"This is what I promised. Don’t make it messy in front of me — just disappear from Mumbai. No faces. No loose tongues. You cross me, and whatever freedom you have ends tonight"
They nodded, greedy and scared both, because she did not need to raise her voice for the threat to land. One of them tried for a joke, then swallowed it when she looked at him. They took the money, slid into their van, engine humming, taillights vanishing into the night. The woman watched them go, then turned and walked back to the waiting shadow of a high-backed SUV.
She did not look like a villain the city would fear. But her eyes were winter-steel. As the highway hummed and this surprise rain softened to mist, she allowed herself the smallest, private smile: payment for a job done, loose ends paid, and the next moves already arranged in a mind that liked patterns. She stayed in the car a long time, composing. Outside, the skyline of Mumbai bled into drizzle. In the privacy of the leather interior she rehearsed the long game: keep Sonarika fragile, keep her tethered to immediate comforts and cravings, nudge her toward dependency rather than recovery. Tonight's incidents would make Sonarika vulnerable — raw and searching — and Meghna’s plan was to be that searching hand, to offer what Sonarika would mistake for solace. From there, she would steer her into self-destructive intimacy again, eroding the gains of healing until the woman she despised was undone by appetite and shame, not by courts or guns.
She recalled Sonarika's head injury — a fact she’d used like a map for every pressure point since. That injury, she believed, had always left a fissure; Meghna had spent years learning how to utilise it. Tonight had been the hinge: break the seals, leave the wound open, and wait. She imagined Sonarika drifting toward relief in the arms of the nearest savior, collapsing into dependency, losing the fragile progress therapy might have offered. The thought made her eyes go colder. Now with just a few encouraging words she will send her back to Vikram's arms , making her his slut once again!
When she stepped from the car at last, the rain had stopped. Meghna pulled up her collar and walked toward the city lights like a woman carrying a quiet war. She was not celebrating — not yet — only taking stock. Revenge, she knew, was a long map. Tonight she had bought three more pieces. The chessboard shifted again; this is her game after all. And this game had only one purpose , to shred Sonarika to pieces and have her father witness his daughter's undoing. A family wrecked apart bit by bit.
THE NEXT MORNING
The convoy screamed along the Western Express like a hurt animal, metal and smoke and men with too many sins between them. Dilawar’s eyes were red-slit slits of suspicion as he argued with the remaining goons.
"Who were those men?" he spat.
"Who delivered Sonarika to me?"
A dry wind brought the odor of char to his nostrils—his colony, cinders and ash, a thousand lives erased overnight. He ground his teeth.
"Last night ruined everything"
He muttered, and the words tasted like ash. The men shifted uncomfortably; blame had feathers, and everyone wanted to pluck someone else. A law-enforcement checkpost loomed ahead, lights like teeth.
"Exit now"
Dilawar barked, fingers skimming the pistol at his hip. They veered onto a deviation road that cut through scrub and empty fields—the perfect place to vanish, or to be ambushed.
He was still thinking about betrayals when the lead vehicle erupted in a sheet of orange. The noise ripped the sky open; glass was a thousand white stars. The convoy slammed to a halt, engines coughing. For a moment, the world narrowed to one thing: flame. Shots cracked into the dark like a chorus of broken thunder. Goons swore and fired at shadows, at trees, at nothing.
"Find them!"
Dilawar shouted, voice cutting through panic. They found nothing but emptiness and the smell of cordite. Then a sound from above: a hard, mechanical whine that made the hair on their necks stand up. Heads tilted back. A Bell AH-1 Cobra descended into the clearing, a silhouette with hungry guns. The gunship's cannons sang, and the road became a harvest of bodies. Men fell like bad memories; the few who lived ran and screamed and tried to hide. Dilawar dove into the back of a vehicle and felt metal and blood and the world tilting. He should have run, but he didn't—he wanted to see who delivered ruin to his feet.
A blow to the head took the world. It went black faster than a blink, and when light returned it was narrowed, boxed, the way a man’s life is when someone else holds the frame. He opened his eyes to sky—far away sky—and men forming a ring around him.
Hemant stood at the center like a statue carved from cold iron. He looked nothing like the man Dilawar remembered: no flinching, no stammering, no fear. He was a quiet storm in a coat that fit like a challenge.
"So" Hemant said softly.
"Here you are Dilawar.....no gang....no empire....no brother....all alone!"
Dilawar spat, tasting metal.
"Who the hell are you?"
He snarled, though his voice trembled. The stick of a memory pricked him—Sonarika, the rage in her eyes, the colony a pyre. He tried to assess, to measure a way out like men assess exit wounds. Hemant’s hand rested on the hilt of the Inquisitor, and when he drew it the blade hissed like a promise.
"You killed so many people.....you and your brother” Hemant said, and the words hit like stones.
"But tonight your judgement is here"
Dilawar’s laugh was raw.
"You? A broker of lost loves and small revenge?"
He sneered. He lunged—fast and filthy with desperation. He aimed for Hemant’s ribs, his throat, anywhere to stop the man who had stopped him from taking what he thought was his. Hemant moved like he had anticipated every swing before it left the air. The blade met leather, turned the arc, sent the momentum into the dust.
"You showed me one thing Dilawar" Hemant said between movements.
"You proved that I should've never hidden myself......because my existence is always meant to cut down scum like you!!!"
Dilawar swung again and again, each blow a small confession: I am afraid, I am empty, I am alone. Hemant deflected without flourish, but with precision, each strike a question answered. The ring of men watched in silence, like an audience at a ruin.
"You murdered families, burned homes, took children from their fathers’ arms"
Hemant said, voice tightening.
"You made men into ghosts so you could sleep"
The words landed with a clarity that cut deeper than any blade. Dilawar’s eyes flickered—anger, then pain, then calculation. He tried a feint, a dirty move he’d taught his men to break men’s necks with. Hemant stepped aside and used that momentum to strike his knee. The crunch that followed was the sound of a future collapsing. Dilawar fell; the ground welcomed him like an old accomplice.
Hemant didn’t gloat. He moved like a surgeon, brutal and controlled. A shoulder, a jaw, a knee—small arithmetic of damage until Dilawar was a map of bruises and breath.
"This is the moment Dilawar" Hemant said simply.
"This is the moment you realize , that your hands were too small to fight God!!"
When Hemant stopped, the world seemed to exhale. He raised a hand, and two burly men stepped forward, bringing an old couple wrapped in a thin blanket. Their faces were a map of sorrow carved by time and grief.
"They are Nirmala’s parents" Hemant said.
"The same Nirmala and Shikha , that you and your scumbag of a brother destroyed right in front of Officer Rakesh Mehra"
The couple moved slowly, supported by hands that trembled with rage and grief. They approached Dilawar like a pair of small, terrible judges. They spat words that were bitter and honest, and for a moment the only sound was the scbang of time dragging itself across the field.
"You killed our daughter" the old man croaked, voice raw as old rope.
"What did that little girl do to you or your brother, you didn't just kill a family , you killed our lineage!"
The woman’s hands shook and she slapped Dilawar once, a thin, human impulse that landed louder than any gunshot.
"BURN IN HELL! BURN!" she hissed.
Dilawar tried to swallow, to laugh, to convert the shame into anger. It came out as a wet, animal sound. The sight of those two—broken and human—was a mirror he hadn’t expected. He realized, too late, how small he’d made himself. Then Hemant’s face shifted. Something older woke in him—the Michael King that had been whispered in alleyways from Shanghai to Sao Paulo. There was a hunger in Hemant’s eyes: not for power, but for balance.
"Your brother's judgement was done hours ago" he said.
"Now its time you meet him.......IN HELL!"
He moved so fast Dilawar barely saw the flash: Inquisitor arcing, a clean strike like a line drawn across a life. The blade bit—just enough. Dilawar screamed, a jagged, animal sound that echoed across the empty road. Hemant’s kick followed, a hard hit to the skull that sent Dilawar into the earth. The men held him down as Hemant leaned close and whispered.
"Prepare the boat , its time for his last rites!!!"
Hemant’s voice was not triumphant. It was tired, a man who had carried a ledger and finally closed it. When the convoy’s remains smoked in the distance and the helicopter's echo dwindled, Hemant stood and turned to the old man and the woman: he let the old couple go, watched them walk away into a night that would never bring them back what was lost, but might, at least, carry their names forward. He sheathed the Inquisitor, his hands steady. Dilawar lay a ruin, finally unbelievably small under the stars — a man stripped to the truth of his choices. As his men started to gather up Dilawar in a body bag , he embraced his actions as an awakening for the future.
SOMETIME LATER
The world returned to Dilawar in pieces. A sound first—the low groan of an engine. Then the smell—salt, fish, rust. Finally, the pain—a dull roar spread across every inch of his body. He blinked, and darkness swam into shape. He was lying on damp wooden planks, his shirt glued to his skin with blood. The boat rocked gently under him. When his vision steadied, he saw the name carved into the hull above his head. Heera. A fishing boat.
Every breath felt like a debt he couldn’t pay. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled like snapped ropes. His mouth opened, a wheeze instead of words. And then he saw the shadow. Hemant stood there, steady as stone, silhouetted against the rising horizon. The Inquisitor gleamed faintly in his hand, still carrying the red truth of Dilawar’s men. He looked at Dilawar the way one might look at driftwood—something once useful, now just debris.
"Where…" Dilawar rasped, spitting out blood.
"Where are we?"
Hemant’s voice was calm, but it carried the depth of waves.
"Off the coast of Mumbai. No cops. No witnesses. Only the sea and the truth"
He took a step closer.
"This is where your final chapter is written"
Dilawar’s chest heaved, panic fighting with exhaustion. His mind, always hungry for angles, searched for one now and found only walls. Hemant tilted his head. The silence between them was wide and heavy.
"Any last words?"
With blood frothing at his lips, Dilawar whispered.
"If this is my end.....so be it.....my last wish is the truth.....so tell me......Who are you… really?"
His eyes, clouded with pain, still sought the truth behind the man who had burned his empire to ashes in a single night. Hemant stepped into the light, the sea wind tugging at his coat. His grip tightened on Inquisitor as he raised it, the blade catching the sunrise. His eyes locked on Dilawar’s.
"The name is King...............Michael King!"
The words landed like a death knell. Dilawar’s face twisted—shock, fear, recognition of a legend he had once dismissed as myth. The blade moved in a clean arc, cutting across flesh and bone. Dilawar screamed as his arm separated, the sound ripping through the dawn air. Blood sprayed, painting the deck. Hemant didn’t flinch. He raised a boot and kicked hard, sending Dilawar’s broken body over the side. The splash swallowed the scream, and suddenly the ocean was the only jury left. Dilawar sank, weight pulling him down. His one arm flailed weakly, bubbles rising like unanswered prayers. Blood streamed behind him in red ribbons, staining the sea.
Far beneath, a dark shape stirred. A fin sliced the surface, circling once, twice. The predator had caught the scent. The shark closed in with ruthless elegance. Dilawar’s eyes widened underwater. He tried to swim, tried to rise, but his strength was a ghost. He watched, helpless, as the wide mouth came at him, teeth like white tombstones. The water churned violently. A muffled scream bubbled out before the sea claimed it. The predator’s feast was quick and merciless.
On deck, Hemant stood with Inquisitor at his side, watching the surface froth red, then still. He didn’t move until the ocean quieted, until the water carried only ripples and silence. The men aboard waited for orders. Hemant’s voice was low, steady.
"Take us back to shore"
He turned his back on the horizon, the wind carrying away the last trace of Dilawar. For a moment, Hemant closed his eyes and drew in a long, measured breath. Dilawar’s chapter was over. Mumbai was cleaner for it. But as he gripped the Inquisitor again, he knew—Michael King’s story was reborn again!
(CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)
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