31-01-2026, 11:07 PM
Chapter 28: The Warehouse & The Bloodied Return
The warehouse stood on the city's edge — rusted iron gates, broken windows, darkness inside. Mohan drove fast, headlights cutting the night. Vikram sat in the passenger seat, bandages visible under his shirt, face set.
Mohan glanced at him. “You sure about this?”
Vikram nodded once. “Keep driving.”
The car accelerated. Mohan hit the gate hard — metal screamed, doors buckled. Vikram didn’t flinch. He was out before the car stopped, moving despite the pain.
Inside, Aadharsh’s men turned — five, armed with knives and pipes. Vikram used everything he learned in the last three years: Sekaran’s training, street fights, cold precision.
He threw the first knife — fast, accurate — it buried in a man’s shoulder. The second followed, pinning another’s sleeve to a crate. The rest rushed him.
Vikram fought with wounds. Every punch he took cracked ribs anew, every kick sent fire through his side. But he didn’t stop. He disarmed one, elbowed another, took a pipe to the arm — sling tore, blood soaked through. He kept moving.
Dramatic. Brutal. He dragged Samuel out — the gay lover, bound, terrified, but alive.
Outside, Bharath’s intel man (spying from a rooftop) saw the fight. He radioed Bharath: “Someone’s here. Fighting them. Taking Samuel.”
Bharath arrived minutes later — bike skidding to a stop. He saw Vikram — the same man he once found beaten in a security officer station — now bloodied, limping, dragging Samuel to Mohan’s car.
Bharath watched, surprised.
Mohan put Samuel in the backseat. Vikram climbed in, breathing hard, blood dripping from his arm. They drove — 20 minutes of tense silence, Mohan pushing the car hard.
Back at the private hospital, nurses rushed out. Vikram stepped out — shirt soaked red, sling hanging useless, face pale but eyes clear.
“Don’t call Mirnaa,” he said quietly. “Just hide this. She will worry.”
The sisters agreed — they helped him inside, cleaned him up, re-bandaged, no questions.
Bharath called Swathi’s father.
“The rescue is done,” he said. “By the driver. The same one from before. He fought them alone — wounded — and took Samuel. He doesn’t seem to be a simple driver.”
Swathi’s father exhaled. “It doesn’t matter. He saved my daughter twice. I will pay him good.”
Swathi learned about everything.
But before thanking Vikram, she and Krish moved fast. They grabbed Samuel from Mohan, took him to safety. With Samuel’s testimony — the gay lover — they legally stopped the old marriage and began a new life with Krish.
Swathi looked at Krish. “Vikram did this. For us. Again.”
Krish nodded. “We owe him more than money.”
The warehouse stood on the city's edge — rusted iron gates, broken windows, darkness inside. Mohan drove fast, headlights cutting the night. Vikram sat in the passenger seat, bandages visible under his shirt, face set.
Mohan glanced at him. “You sure about this?”
Vikram nodded once. “Keep driving.”
The car accelerated. Mohan hit the gate hard — metal screamed, doors buckled. Vikram didn’t flinch. He was out before the car stopped, moving despite the pain.
Inside, Aadharsh’s men turned — five, armed with knives and pipes. Vikram used everything he learned in the last three years: Sekaran’s training, street fights, cold precision.
He threw the first knife — fast, accurate — it buried in a man’s shoulder. The second followed, pinning another’s sleeve to a crate. The rest rushed him.
Vikram fought with wounds. Every punch he took cracked ribs anew, every kick sent fire through his side. But he didn’t stop. He disarmed one, elbowed another, took a pipe to the arm — sling tore, blood soaked through. He kept moving.
Dramatic. Brutal. He dragged Samuel out — the gay lover, bound, terrified, but alive.
Outside, Bharath’s intel man (spying from a rooftop) saw the fight. He radioed Bharath: “Someone’s here. Fighting them. Taking Samuel.”
Bharath arrived minutes later — bike skidding to a stop. He saw Vikram — the same man he once found beaten in a security officer station — now bloodied, limping, dragging Samuel to Mohan’s car.
Bharath watched, surprised.
Mohan put Samuel in the backseat. Vikram climbed in, breathing hard, blood dripping from his arm. They drove — 20 minutes of tense silence, Mohan pushing the car hard.
Back at the private hospital, nurses rushed out. Vikram stepped out — shirt soaked red, sling hanging useless, face pale but eyes clear.
“Don’t call Mirnaa,” he said quietly. “Just hide this. She will worry.”
The sisters agreed — they helped him inside, cleaned him up, re-bandaged, no questions.
Bharath called Swathi’s father.
“The rescue is done,” he said. “By the driver. The same one from before. He fought them alone — wounded — and took Samuel. He doesn’t seem to be a simple driver.”
Swathi’s father exhaled. “It doesn’t matter. He saved my daughter twice. I will pay him good.”
Swathi learned about everything.
But before thanking Vikram, she and Krish moved fast. They grabbed Samuel from Mohan, took him to safety. With Samuel’s testimony — the gay lover — they legally stopped the old marriage and began a new life with Krish.
Swathi looked at Krish. “Vikram did this. For us. Again.”
Krish nodded. “We owe him more than money.”
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