30-01-2026, 07:37 PM
Chapter 13: The Unhooked Blouse & The Calm Before Revenge
Vikram stood near the Scorpio in the hospital ground, blood drying on his shirt, knife tucked in his pocket, breathing steady. The night air was cool, but his mind was calm—unbothered, like a blade that had finally found its edge.
Malar stood a few feet away, staring at him. Her eyes were wide, wet, searching for the boy she once knew. But he wasn’t there.
“Maama… what have you become?”
Vikram didn’t answer. Just looked at her—calm, clear, empty of the old pain. She took a step closer, then another. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
She looked around and saw if anyone was spotting them.. She internally fears Vicky and her father.
She grabbed his hand suddenly, fingers trembling. “Come this side.”
She pulled him toward a nearby motor room—an old storage shed for hospital generators and spare parts. The door was half-open. Inside it was dim, smelled of oil and dust. She shut the door behind them.
Malar turned to him, voice cracking. “What happened to you? I thought you would become a better person… become a big engineer.”
Vikram laughed—low, hollow. “How would I become one when your lover put an FIR on me? It stopped me.”
Malar cried harder, shoulders shaking. “I just wished to marry Vicky… just for money and better lifestyle. I was tempted when you were in college. He showed me the sexual world… but keeping aside my personal things, I always wished you good. Sorry… I know you loved me.”
She picked up his hand again, brought it to her face. “Slap me, Maama. I deserve it. For everything.”
She felt his hand—stronger now, calloused, steady. She enacted the motion, pulling his hand toward her cheek as if guiding the slap. But Vikram didn’t slap. His fingers closed around her neck—not choking, just firm—pushing her back against the wall in one smooth motion.
The collision made her saree pallu slide, slipping off her shoulder, threatening to fall completely. She struggled against his hold, breath catching. “Maama…” she cried softly.
“I deserve whatever I caused to you,” she whispered. “Do whatever you wish… but let out the anger on me.”
She meant pain — a slap, a hit, something to punish her guilt.
Vikram’s eyes darkened. “Not just you. Even your lover Vicky deserves my rage.”
He released her neck. Malar stumbled forward a step to relax the tense muscles, and the remaining pallu dropped fully. Her blouse strained over her breasts, the deep neckline revealing the swell of her cleavage, nipples faintly pressing against the thin fabric.
She quickly tried to cover herself, hands flying to her chest.
Vikram pulled the knife from his pocket. Malar’s eyes widened in panic—she thought he was about to bang her for revenge or worse, kill her. The blade glinted in the dim light.
He brought the knife close to her blouse. With the tip, he slipped it under the first hook—slow, deliberate. The hook snapped open with a soft pop.
Malar closed her eyes, breath ragged.
Vikram leaned in close to her ear, voice low and cold.
“I didn’t forget anything. I saw how he took you. How you both made me run. I cannot bed you and call it as a revenge. When i consider a revenge i t will be unthinkable”
He stepped back. Malar opened her eyes—breasts heaving with heavy breath, pallu down, one hook broken, blouse barely holding. She looked at him—determined, crueler, more dangerous than the soft, sensible Vikram she once knew.
Vikram turned and walked out of the motor room. He looked back once.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Fear, guilt, and something darker flickered in her eyes.
He walked toward the Scorpio.
Then he saw Sekaran’s son .
The 25 year bold boy had just arrived—stepping out of a car, looking rushed. But something was off. Sekaran had said his son was in Mumbai that morning. Mumbai to Trichy was a 2-hour flight at best. How was he here so soon?
Vikram ignored Malar completely. His mind shifted—sharp, focused.
He decided to spy on Sekaran’s son.
Vikram stood near the Scorpio in the hospital ground, blood drying on his shirt, knife tucked in his pocket, breathing steady. The night air was cool, but his mind was calm—unbothered, like a blade that had finally found its edge.
Malar stood a few feet away, staring at him. Her eyes were wide, wet, searching for the boy she once knew. But he wasn’t there.
“Maama… what have you become?”
Vikram didn’t answer. Just looked at her—calm, clear, empty of the old pain. She took a step closer, then another. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
She looked around and saw if anyone was spotting them.. She internally fears Vicky and her father.
She grabbed his hand suddenly, fingers trembling. “Come this side.”
She pulled him toward a nearby motor room—an old storage shed for hospital generators and spare parts. The door was half-open. Inside it was dim, smelled of oil and dust. She shut the door behind them.
Malar turned to him, voice cracking. “What happened to you? I thought you would become a better person… become a big engineer.”
Vikram laughed—low, hollow. “How would I become one when your lover put an FIR on me? It stopped me.”
Malar cried harder, shoulders shaking. “I just wished to marry Vicky… just for money and better lifestyle. I was tempted when you were in college. He showed me the sexual world… but keeping aside my personal things, I always wished you good. Sorry… I know you loved me.”
She picked up his hand again, brought it to her face. “Slap me, Maama. I deserve it. For everything.”
She felt his hand—stronger now, calloused, steady. She enacted the motion, pulling his hand toward her cheek as if guiding the slap. But Vikram didn’t slap. His fingers closed around her neck—not choking, just firm—pushing her back against the wall in one smooth motion.
The collision made her saree pallu slide, slipping off her shoulder, threatening to fall completely. She struggled against his hold, breath catching. “Maama…” she cried softly.
“I deserve whatever I caused to you,” she whispered. “Do whatever you wish… but let out the anger on me.”
She meant pain — a slap, a hit, something to punish her guilt.
Vikram’s eyes darkened. “Not just you. Even your lover Vicky deserves my rage.”
He released her neck. Malar stumbled forward a step to relax the tense muscles, and the remaining pallu dropped fully. Her blouse strained over her breasts, the deep neckline revealing the swell of her cleavage, nipples faintly pressing against the thin fabric.
She quickly tried to cover herself, hands flying to her chest.
Vikram pulled the knife from his pocket. Malar’s eyes widened in panic—she thought he was about to bang her for revenge or worse, kill her. The blade glinted in the dim light.
He brought the knife close to her blouse. With the tip, he slipped it under the first hook—slow, deliberate. The hook snapped open with a soft pop.
Malar closed her eyes, breath ragged.
Vikram leaned in close to her ear, voice low and cold.
“I didn’t forget anything. I saw how he took you. How you both made me run. I cannot bed you and call it as a revenge. When i consider a revenge i t will be unthinkable”
He stepped back. Malar opened her eyes—breasts heaving with heavy breath, pallu down, one hook broken, blouse barely holding. She looked at him—determined, crueler, more dangerous than the soft, sensible Vikram she once knew.
Vikram turned and walked out of the motor room. He looked back once.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Fear, guilt, and something darker flickered in her eyes.
He walked toward the Scorpio.
Then he saw Sekaran’s son .
The 25 year bold boy had just arrived—stepping out of a car, looking rushed. But something was off. Sekaran had said his son was in Mumbai that morning. Mumbai to Trichy was a 2-hour flight at best. How was he here so soon?
Vikram ignored Malar completely. His mind shifted—sharp, focused.
He decided to spy on Sekaran’s son.
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