"Sir, where is Rudraksh?" Siddharth asked, swinging his legs carefully over the edge of the hospital bed. The sterile sheet crumpled beneath his weight, and his bare feet touched the cool tile floor.

"Beta, you need rest," Aanand stepped forward. His hands instinctively hovered near Siddharth's elbows, as if afraid he might stumble.

With a slow push, Siddharth stood upright. His good hand grazed the fabric of the sling on his injured arm, adjusting it absently. "I'm all good, sir. It's just a minor injury." A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it barely softened the fatigue shadowing his eyes. "Where is he?"

Aanand drew in a steady breath, his chest rising and falling as if weighing the words. "Your little brother is in his psychiatrist's cabin... crying, probably."

A soundless chuckle escaped Siddharth as he reached toward the chair, tugging the white shawl that was draped carelessly over its armrest. He fumbled, trying to spread it across his bare shoulders with his free hand.

Aanand stepped closer. "Here," he murmured, taking the cloth from Siddharth's fingers. With deliberate care, he wrapped the shawl around him, smoothing the edges across his back like one would with a convalescent child. "You still need rest, beta. Rudraksh... leave him to himself. He has developed this habit of learning everything the hard way. And if you keep catching him each time he falls, he will never learn to be responsible."

Siddharth's eyes dropped to the older man's hands, noticing the firmness with which they tucked the shawl into place. His voice softened. "Sir... I know. But we shouldn't forget why Rudraksh is here, in this wellness centre. If we're always too hard on him, he'll only drift further away from us."

He looked up, his gaze steady now. "And, above everything, none of this was Rudraksh's fault. It was Rafiq and his dirty tricks. Whatever Rudraksh did, it was just self-defense. After all, Rafiq wanted to hurt me, directly or indirectly. And he did."

Aanand exhaled, the air escaping his lips with the weight of unspoken worry. He stepped back, clasping his hands behind him, and looked at the young man.

"Siddharth, Rafiq and his whole family have criminal blood in their veins. On top of that, his father is a politician, member of UP's upper house. More than seventy cases are pending on him. Do you really think he'll stay quiet after his son has been beaten up this badly?"

A crooked smile curved Siddharth's mouth, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sir, Rafiq is a runaway criminal. Even if his politician father manages to prove Rudraksh laid a hand on him, the only one who'll end up caged... is Rafiq."

Aanand's jaw tensed. "Siddharth, they are criminals."

Siddharth tilted his chin, his voice calm but edged with quiet steel. "And you, sir, are a High Court judge. And I..." his lips curved into the faintest smirk, "am a barrister."

Aanand's lips pressed into a tight line as he gave a measured nod. "Okay," he murmured. "You go... talk to him. Then we'll move on to work."

Siddharth's chest lifted slightly, and a triumphant smile tugged at his lips as he moved aside, walking out of the room.

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"Rudraksh..." Dr. Tanvi's voice faltered, weary from repeating his name. The fluorescent light above hummed faintly, washing the room in a sterile glow. "Beta, stop crying. Siddharth is fine."

His quiet sniffling broke through again, filling the silence.

Tanvi exhaled slowly, a sigh heavy with both patience and fatigue. She reached out, her fingers brushing the crown of his head with motherly affection. Her chest tightened at the way his body continued to quake beneath her hand.

Rudraksh dragged his knuckles roughly across his eyes, leaving his skin blotched and raw. The tears came faster than he could fight them, blurring his vision once more. His head hung low, as though lifting it would shatter him completely.

The revolver resting in his grip lay heavy against his thigh, yet his fingers clung to it as if it were the only solid thing left in his world.

"Siddharth is your best friend, isn't he?" Tanvi's voice softened into a gentle rhythm, like someone coaxing a child out of a nightmare.

He swallowed, his throat convulsing around unsaid words. "H-he... he's my brother." His lips trembled, his voice breaking apart as he tried to steady it. Another tear slid down, staining his white pyjamas dark.

"M-more than a brother," he whispered, his breath shuddering, his chest caving in and out as though he couldn't draw enough air. "He's the only one... the only one who understands me. Every time I f-fall apart... every time I drown, he-" His voice fractured, a strangled sound lodging itself in his throat. "He doesn't need me to speak. He just... knows."

The revolver trembled now in his lap, his grip faltering with the weakness in his hands. "He's always there..." The last words slipped out in a hollow, almost childlike cry, and his shoulders folded inward, his entire frame collapsing beneath their weight.

Tanvi stayed by his side, her palm moving in slow, careful strokes over his head, like the absent rhythm of a mother coaxing her child into sleep.

She had seen him in many shades today - detached, innocent, fierce, frightening. But this version was different: raw, fragile, stripped of all armour. His cheeks were streaked with tears, his jaw slack, his lips quivering between sobs he tried, and failed to swallow back.

It startled her, this sight of a man unraveling. It was rare to witness a man cry; it always had been. Men were taught to hold back, to remain still, to be stone. Strict, stern, controlled - this was the script society had written for them. Yet here he was, undone before her eyes, sniffling and sobbing like a child robbed of his mother's warmth.

Mother?

The thought pressed into her mind, uninvited. Tanvi's brows furrowed, her gaze tightening as she watched the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his own shirt, as though reaching for an anchor that wasn't there.

He doesn't seem to have a good relationship with his parents.

Knock. Knock.

Dr. Tanvi's eyes flickered at the sound. She tilted her head over her shoulder. "Yes? Who's this?"

"Doctor, Siddharth here."

Before Tanvi's tongue could form a response, Rudraksh sprang to his feet, sprinted across the room, and threw the door open with a loud thud.

"Siddharth!"

He froze on the spot, taking in Siddharth's smiling form, that slowly faded, as though dark clouds had swallowed the sun's brightness.

"Rudraksh?" Siddharth stepped forward, clamping a firm grip around Rudraksh's upper arm with his good hand. "Why are you crying...?" His even voice faltered, thinning into a whisper by the end.

Rudraksh lowered his swollen eyes, red from relentless tears. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, his voice trembling as a raw sob escaped, followed by a hitched breath. "I-I'm sorry..."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Siddharth's lips trembled, torn between smiling and breaking down at the sight of this boy-this same boy who had been showering Rafiq with curses and blows just hours ago.

Unsure, he draped an arm around Rudraksh's shoulders, pulling him into a tight side hug. "Shh... don't cry." His eyes misted, his throat bobbing hard as he fought to restrain himself. "I'll always be there for you, my little brother. Always."

"I am sorry..." Rudraksh lifted his head from Siddharth's shoulder. His tear-stained face, reddened nose, and swollen eyes painted a picture of innocence in shambles.

Siddharth gently wiped away Rudraksh's fresh tears with his thumb. "Come on, let's sit inside, hmm?"

Rudraksh nodded, and the two of them walked back in together.

Dr. Tanvi, sensing the weight of the moment, excused herself and stepped out of her cabin.

As Siddharth coaxed Rudraksh toward the sofa, the younger one's gaze caught on the white shawl draped around the older man's shoulders. "Y-your arm?" He pointed with a blood-stained finger.

Siddharth pressed him gently down onto the sofa by the shoulder, then walked over to the doctor's table, retrieved a box of wet tissues, and returned. Lowering himself beside his best friend, he asked softly, "You didn't clean your face?" His eyes met Rudraksh's before he pulled out a few tissues and began carefully wiping the dried blood from his cheek.

"Anger is stupid," Siddharth continued, glancing briefly at the sobbing boy. "And stupidity gets you killed."

Rudraksh blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes as Siddharth worked.

"You know, you could be jailed on the charge of attempted murder?" Siddharth's focus never wavered as he wiped away the dried blood from Rudraksh's skin. "And... maybe Rafiq's family could now target yours for revenge. Your father, your mother, your brother, your sist-"

"No!" Rudraksh stiffened, his hand clawing onto Siddharth's shoulder. "No!" His eyes widened as he shook his head violently. "I will not let that happen. Never."

Siddharth took out a fresh tissue, smoothing it gently over Rudraksh's cheek, giving it a final clean. He set the box aside on the stand next to the couch. As he turned back, his gaze fell on the black revolver clenched tightly in the boy's hand. Pressing his lips into a faint smile, he carefully pried the cold metal free.

"They are criminals, Rudraksh. They aren't bound by morals or values," Siddharth said in a measured tone, running his thumb thoughtfully along the revolver's edge.

"I will kill them first."

Siddharth's eyes snapped to Rudraksh. He blinked, lips parting, then closed his eyes and gave his head a slow, confused shake. "Rudraksh." He opened his eyes and shifted in his seat. "I'm asking you to go north, and you're heading south."

Rudraksh blinked, then lowered his gaze. His fingers picked at the sofa's stray threads as if it were a nervous habit. "If anyone even thinks of hurting my people, I'll haunt them before they can imagine it," he said in a stubborn, childish tone. His brows furrowed, his lower lip pushed out, and his chest heaved irregularly.

"And you think they'll just sit back and watch you show off your 'skills'?" Siddharth's voice rose, yet remained controlled, like a mother whose patience is wearing thin with her son's antics. "Do you even think about the aftermath of your actions? Tell me—who have you seen lately who wears anger like armour and still talks sense?"

Rudraksh's head remained bowed, though his eyes flickered up, like a cat watching its owner from the corner of the room. "You," he answered quietly.

Siddharth looked at him, unblinking, stern as a father.

"Okay." Siddharth exhaled after a long silence. "Since I'm the one talking sense, you should listen to me, right?" He raised an eyebrow at the stubborn young man whose head still hung low.

"Rudraksh..." Siddharth's controlled voice trailed off. "Head up."

Rudraksh lifted his head slowly, though his eyes didn't meet Siddharth's. Instead, they lingered on his injured arm, hidden beneath the shawl.

Exhaling through his nose, Siddharth pressed his lips tightly before pushing the revolver aside near himself. He then stretched out his good hand, taking Rudraksh's, and spoke gently, "Rudraksh, my brother, anger is not strength. Anyone can scream, hit, or threaten. That's the easiest thing in the world. Real strength is keeping calm when you have every reason to explode."

His eyes darted between Rudraksh's downcast ones, searching for a reaction. When none came, he went on, "Anger makes you a slave. It controls your words, your hands, your choices. But patience... patience makes you the master. The one who rules his anger rules himself, and the one who rules himself can face the whole world."

"How's your arm?" Rudraksh asked, finally meeting Siddharth's weary face.

Siddharth parted his lips, then closed them again. "I got a plaster. It's just a minor injury," he replied flatly.

"How long will it take to heal?" Rudraksh blinked, watching him closely.

"It's the same as your wrist." Siddharth paused, catching the subtle shift in Rudraksh's expression. "Anything else?"

Rudraksh lowered his gaze to the floor. "Are you angry with me?"

"No."

Rudraksh's eyes shot up. "No?" A ghost of a smile trembled on his lips, threatening to surface.

"I'm disappointed." The warmth drained from Siddharth's tone, replaced by a firm sternness that settled in his eyes.

"I'm sorry." Rudraksh's lips barely moved, his eyes still downcast.

"You're not."

"I am..."

"Then why can't I see it in your actions?" Siddharth's brows drew together.

He exhaled deeply, his chest rising as he steadied himself. "We're not your enemies, Rudraksh. I know. I know there is a storm inside you, and it breaks out without your permission. But you need to anchor it, to hold its reins. Otherwise, it will end up hurting you far more than anyone you unleash it on."

A silence settled in place of words, heavy and unbroken.

A soft sigh slipped from Siddharth. "Okay." His voice carried both weariness and resolve as he pushed himself to his feet, standing firm beside the slouched figure of his friend.

"Where're you going?" Rudraksh asked, confusion and hesitation clouding his voice.

"I've got some work." Siddharth placed a reassuring hand on Rudraksh's shoulder, his eyes softening. "Take care. Get a bath. Stay under Dr. Tanvi's watch. Don't wander around." He held Rudraksh's gaze, as if trying to press the weight of his words into him. "And... think about what I said. Hmm?"

With a final pat to his Rudraksh's cheek, Siddharth turned and walked away, leaving him rooted where he stood alone, surrounded by silence, and by the echo of Siddharth's words that refused to leave his mind.

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A white Mercedes with a red siren blaring screeched to a halt in front of the government bungalow. Beside it, two police jeeps pulled up sharply, their sirens echoing in grim rhythm with the Mercedes'.

All three doors of the Mercedes swung open at once. Three men stepped out, each carrying an authority that needed no announcement.

The DCP's khaki uniform was immaculate, the single silver five-star and Ashoka emblem gleaming on his shoulder. He moved with measured confidence, shoulders squared, eyes sweeping over the bungalow in a silent, commanding appraisal.

The ACP followed closely, his uniform mirroring the DCP's but marked with three silver stars on his shoulders. His jaw was clenched, nostrils flaring slightly. Every step he took carried a tension the DCP did not.

Barrister Siddharth Solanki came last – black trousers crisp, white shirt neatly pressed, one arm secured in a sling. His free hand held a thick black leather file at his side. He moved with deliberate caution, sharp eyes noting every detail. A faint crease lined his forehead, betraying the thoughts he kept firmly under control.

The three men halted together.

A short distance away, a group of constables stood at attention alongside SI Pandey – backs straight, eyes fixed forward, hands rigid at their sides.

"Barrister Solanki." The DCP's gaze narrowed, the weight in his eyes sharper than words. "Are you certain this information is accurate?"

Siddharth lifted his chin, shoulders firm, meeting the officer's stare without hesitation. "Sir, I'm a hundred percent sure. Rafiq has taken refuge under the protection of his criminal, politician father."

"Sir." The ACP shifted his weight subtly from one foot to the other. "Justice Aanand Maurya himself has taken out the arrest warrants for both father and the son. I'm certain barrister Solanki is telling the truth."

"Alright." The DCP gave a brief, approving nod, exchanging quick glances with the ACP and Siddharth. He then turned toward the assembled officers and constables. The polished brown baton in his hand twirled lightly between his fingers. "Surround the bungalow," he commanded in a low, controlled voice. "No one escapes."

The constables sprang into action immediately, boots scuffing against the pavement as they split into two groups, moving with brisk, practiced urgency in opposite directions.

"SI Pandey." The DCP's authoritative voice cut through the air again.

"Yes, sir!" Pandey straightened instinctively, chin lifting, back rigid, heels snapping together. His hands curled into loose fists at his sides, eyes sharp and alert.

"Follow us inside."

"Yes, sir."

The DCP and ACP moved ahead, their boots crunching softly against the stone path, posture unyielding, steps perfectly in sync. Siddharth fell into stride beside Pandey, his slinged arm tucked closer to his chest, the file held deliberately in his free hand. Pandey subtly adjusted his pace to match, his gaze flickering briefly toward Siddharth, reading the quiet authority in every precise movement.

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"Sir, sir, sir!" A servant burst into the room, ragged breaths breaking each word.

The politician's eyebrows knit together sharply. "What happened now?!"

"T-There are so many police surrounding the bungalow," the servant gasped, eyes wide, chest heaving. "A-And some senior officers are heading toward the entrance! An advocate with a broken arm is with them!"

Mukhtar's eyes widened in mirrored shock, flickering occasionally to the sting near his temple. He pressed a white handkerchief firmly against the gash, blood soaking through, the fabric clinging to his fingers. His jaw tensed, teeth grinding against the pain.

Murad shifted closer to Mukhtar and muttered, "I told you to shoot him in the chest or the forehead. But you didn't let me."

Mukhtar shot him a glare, sharp despite the pain and blood. "Do you see the condition Rafiq is in now?" His fingers tightened around the handkerchief with every word.

Their murmured exchange froze as the politician's voice sliced through the room.

"How did they know?!"

He stalked toward the window, jaw clenched, eyes flicking rapidly between the approaching figures outside and the two men before him, searching for answers, for betrayal, for any sign of explanation.

"What are you two doing, standing there like statues?!" he bellowed, stepping closer. "Do something!"

Mukhtar and Murad exchanged a glance, hesitation flashing briefly across their faces.

The room seemed to shrink under the politician's rage, each heartbeat echoing in the charged silence.

"Good evening, Ansari sahab."

The politician stiffened, eyes widening as the stern, deep voice reached him. His throat bobbed as he turned around, masking the fatigue on his face with a thin, practiced smile.

"DCP sahab. ACP sahab too? What a surprise. Please, take a seat." He gestured toward the empty chairs near his desk.

The DCP's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Where is your son, Mr. Makbool Ansari?" he asked, his tone firm, edged with quiet amusement, ignoring the politician's forced cordiality.

"Haha..." Makbool let out an awkward laugh, clapping his hands together softly. "Are you mocking my condition, DCP sahab? Rafiq is in prison—you know that." His voice trailed off as he lowered his gaze.

"DCP sir!" SI Pandey entered, further tightening the atmosphere, Barrister Solanki walking confidently beside him. "On the ground floor, in a private solitary clinic—Rafiq is there, in a battered condition."

"Battered condition?" The DCP's eyes narrowed as he tilted his head toward Siddharth.

Siddharth shrugged, lips twitching slightly, mirroring the DCP's furrowed brow.

With a brief nod, the DCP turned back to the politician. "So, Member of Parliament Mr. Makbool Ansari—any comments on this auspicious occasion?"

Makbool's smile hardened into a sharp smirk. He stepped forward, phone already in his hand, fingers gripping it like a lifeline. "Do you know who you're speaking to? I sit in the Assembly. One call—"

"This is the execution of warrants, Mr. Ansari. Your son is wanted for murder, rape, poisoning, and escape from lawful custody. We are here because this house has been used as a hideout." The DCP smiled politely.

Careful not to jostle his cast, Siddharth cleared his throat and read precisely from the document in his hand. "For the record: an arrest memo will be prepared here. Custody is effective from this moment. Rafiq cannot be moved until he is cleared by the doctors. Once cleared, he will be transferred to a government hospital under police escort. And against Mr. Makbool Ansari, charges of harboring and criminal conspiracy will be added."

Makbool laughed harshly. "You lecture me on procedure, boy? With that broken hand?" He jabbed a finger toward Siddharth, then turned to the DCP, eyes flashing. "You are making a mistake, DCP. You will regret this. You are all taking me for granted—"

"Seal the bungalow," the DCP cut in, his tone cold, words clipped. "Two guards inside, two outside. No visitors. No phones without clearance."

Makbool's fingers trembled as he dialed again, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. The call ended abruptly - flat, indifferent, denying him the rescue he expected. His eyes darted toward the officers, then he glanced at Siddharth, fear and disbelief crossing his features for the briefest instant before he shoved the phone back into his pocket.

The ACP spoke deliberately. "Mr. Ansari, threats do not change facts. The law will take its course."

Pandey stepped forward, his movements precise as he snapped the cuffs around Makbool's wrists.

Makbool's face twisted into a storm of fury and disbelief – muscles twitching, lips pulled back in a snarl. He shoved and struggled against the restraints, but the officers held him firmly in place.

As they led him toward the door, he twisted back once, his voice flaring with old, unrestrained authority. "I'm an MP. You are making a mistake. You will pay for this. Mark my words—Makbool Ansari! Sixty-five times I've walked out of jail with respect! And this time too... it will be no different!"

The DCP turned to the ACP. "Call a team and search the bungalow. Take every suspicious person into custody and interrogate them." His gaze swept the room before settling on Siddharth, who stood silent – posture straight, eyes unblinking as they tracked the two men huddled in the corner. "Barrister Solanki?"

Siddharth's eyes lifted to meet the officer's, calm and composed. "Sir?"

"Walk with me."

Siddharth's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he inclined his head and fell into step beside the DCP.

The air between them felt taut, charged with quiet authority and expectation, as the DCP led the way down the corridor.

"Siddharth?" The DCP paused at a turn in the corridor and faced the barrister. "How did Rafiq get injured?"

Siddharth mirrored the motion, blinking once before replying in a steady voice, "Maybe he got hit during his escape." His fingers curled tightly around the file at his side, though his gaze remained firm.

"Hmm..." The DCP nodded slowly, weighing his words. "We saw the CCTV footage of Rafiq taking Justice Maurya's son hostage, but the corridor footage was missing." His eyes held Siddharth's, unblinking. "Why?"

A faint smile flickered across Siddharth's lips before he straightened, refocusing on the DCP. "Sir, those two men from the politician's office, the ones we just saw standing in the corner, were at the wellness centre. One was disguised as a gardener, and the other... I don't remember exactly, but he was there too."

"So..." The officer's eyes narrowed. "You're saying only the corridor footage was deleted?"

Siddharth gave a slight shrug, lips pressed, eyebrows lifting faintly. "If we couldn't find it after all our digging... then yes."

A ghost of a smirk crossed the officer's face before it vanished behind his usual sternness. "What happened to your arm?"

"Sir, as you saw in the footage, I was forcing Rafiq out of the massage chamber, using his own weapon as cover. When we reached the corridor, his men threw smoke bombs, snatched the revolver from me, and attacked in the fog. Fortunately, I took only one hit to my upper arm."

The DCP said nothing. He simply studied Siddharth, a blend of firmness and faint amusement glinting in his eyes.

Siddharth went on, his tone steady. "Sir, we both know Makbool and Rafiq are criminals." His gaze sharpened slightly. "Murder, rape, mafia operations, corruption, rigging, scams—you name it. It's in their blood. And now we have solid proof. Isn't that enough to take them into custody?"

The DCP exhaled deeply, clasping his hands behind his back, his chin held high. "Siddharth, it's the misfortune of our country that the very politicians meant to build the foundation of development are the ones hollowing it out." His lips pressed into a tight line. "And yet, the public keeps voting for them - by fear, or by money. If we really investigated, more than forty-seven percent of these so-called white-collar men would turn out to be black-hearted betrayers. And sadly, even the reins of the law are in their hands."

He exhaled again and placed a firm hand on Siddharth's shoulder. "So, no promises, boy. But we'll do our best to make sure they don't walk free this time."

Siddharth nodded, a faint half-smile touching his lips. "Someone has to start, sir. Why not us?"

The DCP mirrored the expression. "Hmm. I'll have SHO Desai handle them until the hearing."

Siddharth's expression darkened. "Sir, SHO Desai is nothing but a stain on the department. If you don't mind, I'd suggest SI Pandey and his SHO instead. After all, this area falls under their jurisdiction."

The DCP gave a firm, approving nod. "Alright."

They fell back into step, their pace matching once more—until the DCP's footsteps suddenly halted.

Siddharth stopped as well, brows knitting together. "What happened, sir?"

The DCP turned to him with a warm, unexpected smile. "Happy Holi," he said, before continuing down the corridor.

Siddharth remained where he was, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Happy Holi," he whispered, lifting his gaze toward the ceiling. A silent prayer rose within him, thanking the Almighty and wishing for strength, justice, and a little mercy in the days to come.

A/N: And that's where Rafiq's part in the story wraps up.

Up next, we'll get a glimpse of Holi - the festival of colours 🌈

Also, someone not-so-new will be making an appearance with a piece of news that's about to shake things up in the plot(IDK, I'm being dramatic). Stay tuned!