"You," Vihaan’s voice was a dry rasp, a sound scraped raw by years of suppressed fury. He didn’t bother with words, with accusations. He simply raised the gun, the cold steel a promise of retribution.

The scarred man, a mountain of muscle and rage, lunged. He was a brute, a force of raw, unbridled aggression, and he moved with a speed that belied his size. Vihaan sidestepped, the man’s momentum a weapon in itself, and fired. The bullet ripped through the air, a deafening crack in the confined space, and tore into the man’s shoulder. Blood bloomed, a dark, viscous stain spreading across his rough hide, and a bellow of pain echoed through the room.

The other three reacted like cornered rats. One, his face contorted in a snarl, grabbed a heavy wooden chair, swinging it in a brutal, sweeping arc. Another, his eyes gleaming with a feral light, pulled a rusty knife, the blade catching the dim light. The third, a hulking figure with a vacant stare, snatched a crudely fashioned club, a thick, gnarled piece of wood studded with nails.

Vihaan moved with a brutal efficiency born of years of training and a burning need for vengeance. He ducked under the chair, the wood whistling past his ear, and drove his elbow into the gut of the knife-wielding man. The air exploded from the man’s lungs in a wet, choking gasp, and he crumpled to the floor, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Vihaan didn’t pause, didn’t give him a second glance. He spun, catching the club with his forearm, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his bones. He wrenched the club away, the rough wood digging into his skin, and used the momentum to slam it into the temple of the chair-swinging man. The sickening thud of bone against wood filled the room, and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head as he crashed to the floor.

The scarred man, his face a mask of rage and pain, charged again, his eyes burning with murderous intent. He was faster now, fueled by a primal fury, but his rage made him reckless. He threw a wild, telegraphed haymaker, a clumsy attempt to crush Vihaan’s skull. Vihaan blocked it, the force of the blow still sending a tremor through his arm, and countered with a vicious right hook, the impact sending a spray of blood and spittle from the man’s mouth. He staggered back, his eyes glazed with pain and fury.

Vihaan knew he had to end it. He couldn’t afford to let this drag on. He closed the distance, ignoring the throbbing pain in his body, the burning in his lungs. He seized the scarred man’s head, his fingers digging into his hair, and slammed it against the rough stone wall. The sickening crack of bone against stone echoed through the room, a sound that made even Vihaan’s stomach churn. The scarred man’s eyes fluttered, then rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor, a broken, bleeding mass.

Vihaan stood over him, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He raised the gun, his finger tightening on the trigger, the cold steel a promise of finality. But then, he saw her face, a fleeting image superimposed over the scarred man’s bloodied features – the same terror, the same pleading eyes.

He hesitated, his finger trembling on the trigger. He lowered the gun, the click of the hammer a small, sharp sound in the silence. His vengeance was complete, but it had brought him no peace, no solace. He looked around at the carnage he had wrought, the room a slaughterhouse of broken bodies and spilled blood. He felt nothing, just a hollow, bone-deep weariness. He turned and walked away, leaving the four men behind, their fates uncertain. The rain was still falling, a relentless torrent washing away the blood, but not the memories. 

The Next Morning—

  

The phone rang at dawn. His wife jolted awake, her heart pounding as she grabbed it. A nurse’s voice, calm but urgent: *“Your husband was admitted last night. He’s stable, but…”*  

She didn’t wait for the rest.  

At the hospital, she nearly stumbled in her haste, her heels clicking sharply against the sterile floors. When she pushed open the door to his room, her breath caught.  

Vihaan lay propped up in bed, his face pale, a bandage wrapped around his head, and bruises blooming along his arms. Machines beeped softly beside him.  

For a moment, she froze, But then Vihaan turned, his eyes meeting hers, and she broke.  

She rushed to him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, careful not to jostle his injuries. Her voice trembled. “You idiot. You reckless, stubborn idiot.”  

He stiffened at first, surprised, but then relaxed into her embrace, his hand hesitantly brushing her back. “I’m… okay,” he murmured, his voice rough.  

She pulled back, tears streaking her cheeks. “You’re not okay. You could’ve died!”  

He looked away, guilt tightening his features. “I didn’t think… anyone would care.”  

The words hung in the air, raw and honest. She cupped his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I care.I care, Vihaan.”  

To be continued... 😊 😊

For the first time, he didn’t argue