The rumble of Kiaan's motorbike faded as he turned into a quiet street dotted with modest homes. Streetlights flickered to life as dusk painted the sky with muted amber hues. He pulled into the narrow driveway of a two-story house — not lavish, but decent. It held the memory of better days… and the ghosts that haunted every corner.
As he removed his helmet, his sharp eyes scanned the empty street — habit, not fear. He walked toward the front door, boots clicking against the worn concrete. The air was still, yet heavy with unsaid words and unresolved memories.
He stepped in and closed the door gently behind him, as if entering someone else's world.
No one said welcome home.
No warm voices.
Only the distant clink of utensils from the kitchen, and the faint buzz of the TV in the living room.
He barely took a few steps toward the staircase when a voice snapped from the hallway.
> "Bhai!"
Shaurya, now 15, lanky and sharp-tongued, stepped out from the side room, holding a half-zipped schoolbag and a phone. His eyes didn't hide the irritation.
> "I need money."
Kiaan blinked. "Again?"
> "Yes, again. Don't act like it's such a big deal," Shaurya muttered, avoiding his gaze.
Kiaan exhaled, trying to remain calm.
> "Shaurya, I gave you money just last week. What are you doing with it?"
Shaurya scoffed. "Wow. Now I have to report everything to you?"
Before Kiaan could answer, footsteps echoed from the kitchen — faster, sharper.
Nandita Verma, his stepmother, appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes were already narrowed, as if waiting for him to say the wrong thing.
> "What's going on?"
Kiaan tried to keep his voice even.
> "He's asking for money again. I'm just asking why."
Shaurya immediately turned to her.
> "See? He acts like he owns everything. It's Dad's house. Not his."
Kiaan's jaw clenched slightly, but he held back.
Nandita stepped closer, folding her arms.
> "If he needs money, give it to him. Do you want him to go beg on the streets?"
Kiaan's tone lowered, but firm.
> "That's not what I meant. I just want to know where it's going."
Shaurya barked a dry laugh.
> "You only care about your precious rules. You don't care about this family."
Kiaan stepped back. Outside, in the field, he'd yell orders. Inside, he became a stranger in his own home.
> "I work. I try to make sure everything runs smoothly. And every time I ask something, I'm treated like I'm the villain here."
Nandita's eyes sharpened.
> "Don't forget, Kiaan. You were the one with your father that night. He told you both not to leave the house. But you left. You were the elder brother. You should've stopped Shaurya. Maybe then…"
She trailed off, but the accusation hung like a dagger in the air.
Kiaan took a step back, the words slicing through him even after all these years. His lips parted, but there was nothing he could say that would change their minds.
Outside the house, he was Agent Kiaan Verma — sharp, respected, feared.
Inside these four walls, he was just the mistake who couldn't protect his father.
> "I'm not saying no," he finally whispered, reaching into his pocket. "I'm just tired of being questioned like I'm the enemy."
He placed the money on the table and turned toward the stairs.
Shaurya muttered behind him,
> "You think flashing some cash makes you right? You'll never be Dad."
Kiaan froze midway up the steps. For a second, he looked back — not with anger, but with something worse.
Disappointment.
Wounded silence.
> "I know I'm not him," he said softly. "But at least I'm trying to keep what's left of this house standing."
And with that, he disappeared into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.
In the hallway, Nandita stood with a hard expression.
Shaurya looked down at the cash.
Neither of them noticed the way Kiaan's room light didn't turn on for a while.
He just sat on his bed, back against the door, staring into darkness.
> "Dad, what did I do wrong?"
He whispered to no one.