The world inside an operation theatre has its own rhythm.
A rhythm carved out of discipline, precision, and silence that screams louder than noise ever could.

Bright surgical lights hovered above us like artificial suns, bleaching shadows away, leaving no place for hesitation. The air smelled of antiseptic and sterile resolve. Every sound was sharp-the steady beep of monitors, the soft metallic clink of instruments being passed into my palm, the muted instructions exchanged between professionals who trusted each other with lives.

My hands moved on instinct now.
Years of training had burned precision into my muscles, carved calm into my bones.

"Scalpel."

The nurse placed it in my hand without a word.
I worked carefully, methodically, as if the rest of the world had paused outside these walls. And maybe it had. Inside this room, nothing existed except the body on the table and the promise I had made long ago-to fix what could be fixed.

We were almost done.

I leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing behind the surgical mask as I placed the final sutures. My movements were clean, deliberate. Each stitch was a quiet declaration of control, a silent victory over chaos.

That's when the vibration started.

Once.
Twice.

My phone.

The sound cut through the room like a blade.

I didn't look up.

A nurse glanced at the side table, then at me. "Doctor,your phone."

"I know," I said calmly. Too calmly.

Another vibration.
Longer this time. Insistent.

I finished the stitch, tied it off, and straightened my back. "I am done here. Close up and shift the patient to recovery. Monitor vitals closely for the next six hours."

"Yes, Doctor."

I stepped back, peeled off my gloves with a snap, and handed them to the nurse. I didn't rush. I never rushed. Panic had no place here.

But something inside me had already begun to twist.

I walked toward the scrub area, removing my surgical cap, running my fingers through my hair once as water rushed over my hands. Soap. Rinse. Again. The ritual grounded me-usually.

Today, it didn't.

I scrubbed my hands thoroughly, watching the water swirl down the drain, pink-tinted soap vanishing into nothingness. Funny how easily things disappear.

I turned off the tap.

That's when I saw him.

One of my bodyguards-breathing hard, eyes wide, his usual composure fractured. He stood near the corridor entrance, scanning the room until his gaze locked onto mine.

Something cold slid down my spine.

He didn't belong here.
Not like this.

I walked toward him, my shoes echoing faintly against the hospital floor. "What happened?" I asked, already bracing myself.

He stopped in front of me, chest rising and falling too fast. "Sir, Vikram sir called."

The name hit, but not hard enough to explain the sudden pressure behind my ribs.

I nodded once. "And?"

He swallowed. I saw it-the hesitation, the dread of being the messenger. People always feared delivering bad news, as if words themselves could kill.

"He asked me to inform you," the guard continued, voice lower now, "that he is coming to the hospital."

I frowned. "With whom?"

The guard's eyes flickered.

"With....Your Sister."

The world tilted.

"She met with an accident."

For a second-just one-I forgot how to breathe.

Accident.

The word echoed inside my skull, hollow and cruel.

Avanya.

My mind tried to reject it. Tried to twist the sentence into something else. A misunderstanding. A mistake. A bad joke.

Avanya doesn't get into accidents.

She trips.
She laughs.
She holds hands too tightly and trusts too easily.

She doesn't bleed into hospital corridors.

"What?" I heard myself say. The word came out flat, stripped of emotion, like it belonged to someone else.

The guard shifted nervously. "Sir, Vikram sir said they're on the way. He asked you to be ready."

Ready.

For what exactly?

My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

I had held people together with my hands. I had watched lives flicker on monitors and fade despite everything. I had stitched wounds that told stories of violence, stupidity, fate.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn't a patient.

This was the child who had wrapped her arms around my neck and called me scary uncle with a smile.
The child who cried for someone else's pain.
The child who believed adults never left unless they wanted to.

A sharp curse slipped through my teeth before I could stop it.

"Fuck."

The guard looked startled but said nothing.

I turned away from him abruptly, running a hand down my face. My fingers trembled. That never happened.

Think, Rithvik.

I forced my lungs to work, drawing in a slow breath. Control. Control was everything.

"She's conscious?" I asked.

"I don't know, sir. Vikram sir didn't say much. Just that they're coming."

That silence was louder than any confirmation.

I straightened, spine stiff, doctor-mode snapping back into place like armor. Panic wouldn't help her. Fear wouldn't fix anything.

I would.

"Which department?" I asked.

"Emergency," he replied immediately. "They're preparing already."

Good. Someone was thinking ahead.

I nodded sharply. "Inform the ER head. Tell them to alert pediatric trauma protocol. I want imaging ready, and a full assessment the moment she arrives."

"Yes, sir."

"And tell them to keep a private bay open."

He nodded and hurried off.

I stood there for a moment longer, the corridor suddenly too narrow, too bright. Around me, life continued-nurses walked past, doctors discussed cases, stretchers rolled by.

The world hadn't stopped.

But mine had cracked right down the middle.

Avanya.

I pressed my palm against my chest, feeling my heart hammer like it wanted out.

You're a doctor, I told myself harshly.
You've handled worse.

But that was a lie, and I knew it.

Because this time, the patient wasn't a stranger.

This time, it was someone who had unknowingly rebuilt parts of me I didn't realize were broken.

I turned toward the emergency wing, my steps long and purposeful, white coat flaring slightly behind me.

Whatever waited there-blood, tears, chaos-I would face it.

Because that's what I did.

I fixed things.

And if the universe thought it could take her from us so easily-

I clenched my fists.

-it had clearly forgotten who it was dealing with.

I am standing at the hospital doors.

Not inside.
Not outside.
Somewhere in between-where time stretches, thins, and drips like water through broken fingers.

Each second falls heavy, like rain that never stops.
And I am the nest-fragile, exposed-unable to shield myself from the storm that is about to arrive.

The automatic doors slide open and close again and again, people moving past me, stretchers rolling, nurses calling codes, life continuing with a cruelty that feels personal. My eyes don't follow any of it. They are fixed on the road beyond the glass, on the curve where cars slow before entering the hospital compound.

My hands are clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms.
I don't feel the pain.

I have performed surgeries that lasted hours without blinking.
I have watched people beg me to save someone they loved.
I have delivered news that shattered entire families.

And yet, right now, I am useless.

Waiting.

The most dangerous thing a doctor can do.

My mind keeps replaying the word like a siren.

Accident.
Accident.
Accident.

No details. No explanations. Just that single word, sharp enough to cut through years of composure.

Then I see it.

Not just a car.

The car.

Rathore cars do not arrive quietly. Even in stillness, they carry weight. Authority. A presence that bends space around them. The moment it turns into the driveway, my body reacts before my mind does.

I run.

I don't remember deciding to move. My legs just go, carrying me forward like instinct has hijacked control. The doors haven't even fully stopped when I reach the vehicle.

The door opens.

Arnav bhai steps out first.

His face-usually carved from stone-is fractured. Tight jaw. Eyes dark, stormed over. His hands curl into fists as if holding himself together requires effort.

Then Dad.

Vikram Singh Rathore.

He steps out slowly, carefully, as though one wrong movement might break something precious.

And in his arms-

Her.

Avanya.

My world blurs.

Not metaphorically. Literally.
My vision distorts, edges bleeding into each other, like someone smeared water across a painting that was never meant to be touched.

Her eyes are swollen and red, lashes clumped with tears that haven't fully dried. Her nose is running, breath uneven, small hiccupping sobs trapped in her chest. Her lips-those lips that always curve into smiles-are dry, cracked, trembling.

And then-

Blood.

On Dad's white shirt.

The color doesn't scream.
It doesn't splash.
It just exists.

A quiet, unforgiving red against white.

My knees almost give out.

For a moment-a horrifying, paralyzing moment-I am no longer a grown man. I am not a doctor. I am not a Rathore.

I am a child again.

Standing in a hospital corridor that smells exactly like this one.

Bright lights.
Rushed footsteps.
Voices too calm for what they were saying.

This is how Mom left.

The memory doesn't come fully. It never does. It arrives in fragments-sensations instead of scenes. The way my chest felt hollow. The way adults spoke in half-sentences. The way someone held my shoulders while my world quietly collapsed.

My breath stutters.

No.

No, this is not that.

It cannot be that.

I force myself to focus on Avanya's face. She is here. She is breathing. She is crying-and crying means alive.

Alive.

The word anchors me.

Dad's voice reaches me, steady but edged with something I rarely hear.

"Which floor and department, Rithvik?"

That is the only sentence.
The only sound that cuts through the roaring in my ears.

I know the answer. Of course I do. I prepared it. I planned for contingencies like this because that is who I am. I had alerted the emergency team. A private bay. Pediatric protocol.

I gesture. My arm moves, even though my brain feels disconnected from my body.

They follow.

I walk ahead, leading them through doors I've passed through thousands of times. The irony tastes bitter. I have guided strangers to their worst days. Today, I guide my own family.

The hallway feels longer than usual.

Every step echoes too loud.

Avanya's small fingers curl weakly into Dad's shirt. Her face presses into his shoulder, as if the world has become too frightening to look at. That single motion guts me more than the blood ever could.

She is seeking safety.

And for the first time in my life, I am terrified that safety might fail her.

My mind won't stop.

What if she slips away while I'm standing right here?
What if this is the universe repeating itself, cruelly symmetrical?
What if I am meant to lose another woman I love under hospital lights?

(A/n;And in this way our doctor has accepted his love for Avanya)

I shake my head slightly, as if I can physically dislodge the thought.

No.

I refuse.

I have stitched arteries with trembling hands and steadied myself through sheer will. I have stared death in the face and negotiated for time.

I can do this.

I must.

The doors to the prepared area come into view. Staff are already moving, efficient, quiet. They look to me for cues, for leadership.

I straighten.

Fear does not disappear-but it folds inward, compressed into something sharp and usable.

This is my territory.

This is where I fight.

As Dad lays her gently onto the bed, my eyes catalog without emotion-breathing pattern, level of consciousness, responsiveness. The blood on his shirt is not hers alone; I can tell that much already. Small mercies matter.

But my heart doesn't listen to logic.

It listens to memory.

To loss.

To the echo of a younger version of myself whispering, not again, please not again.

I step closer.

Close enough to see the tremble in her lower lip. Close enough to see the faint smear of dirt on her cheek. Close enough to feel the gravity of what she means to all of us.

She does not know the darkness this world carries.

She does not know what it takes.

And yet-she has already changed us.

If the universe thinks it can touch her without consequence-

My jaw tightens.

It is wrong.

It is deeply, profoundly wrong.

I guide them fully into the room, positioning everyone, directing with silent gestures. My hands move with confidence even as my chest feels too tight.

Inside me, something old and wounded curls protectively around something new and precious.

I will not lose her.

Not like this.
Not ever.

And if fate is watching-

Let it understand one thing very clearly.

This time,
I am ready to fight back.

.......

I cut her dungaree.

The scissors tremble in my fingers- not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but I feel it. The fabric gives way with a soft, tearing sound, already soaked, already ruined. Blood has darkened the denim, spreading like an ugly truth that refuses to stay hidden. The cloth is torn just above her knee, frayed and cruel, as if even the fabric could not protect her.

I lower my hand.

And then I see it.

The cut is deep.

Too deep for bandages.
Too wide to ignore.

This needs stitches.

My chest tightens.

Avanya is crying, her face buried in Dad's chest, small hands clutching his shirt like it is the only solid thing left in the world. Her sobs are broken, uneven, the kind that come when a child is overwhelmed not just by pain, but by fear.

And I remember.

She hates injections.

She told me once-casually, innocently-when I had introduced myself to her. She had scrunched her nose, crossed her arms, and said she hated needles. That she did not like "sharp things that make you cry."

That memory punches me harder than anything else.

How am I supposed to do this?

I am a surgeon.
I have cut open bodies.
I have stitched flesh while hearts were stopped and restarted.

And yet right now-

I feel useless.

My hands, trained and steady, feel foreign. My mind runs through protocol automatically-clean the wound, assess depth, anesthesia, suturing-but my heart is screaming at me to stop. To not hurt her. To not be the reason she cries more.

A hand lands on my shoulder.

Firm. Grounding.

I don't look up immediately. I don't need to.

It's Arnav bhai.

When I finally turn my head, our eyes meet. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. His gaze is sharp, unwavering-but there is something else there too.

Trust.

Pure, unfiltered trust.

He is trusting me with Avanya.

The same man who never trusts anyone.
The same man who never lowers his guard.
The same man who barely acknowledges people unless necessary.

And yet-he is trusting me with her.

With the girl I never spoke sweetly to.
The girl I barely acknowledged.
The girl who somehow slipped past every wall we built.

Something settles in my chest.

I straighten my spine.

This is not about fear anymore.

This is about responsibility.

I compose myself, force my breathing to even out, and turn to the boy standing nearby. My voice comes out calm, professional-too calm, maybe-but it does its job.

"Syringe."

The ward boy nods instantly and hands it to me. The syringe feels heavier than it should. Clear liquid. Measured dose. Everything precise.

I look at Dad.

"Dad," I say softly but firmly, "hold her tight. Don't let her move."

Dad nods without hesitation. His arms tighten around her instinctively, protective, careful. Avanya doesn't understand what is happening. She only knows something is wrong. She keeps crying, small sobs shaking her tiny body.

I kneel beside her knee.

My heart twists.

I lean closer, lowering my voice-not sweet, not fake-but gentle in a way I rarely use.

"It will be okay," I murmur, more to myself than to her.

She flinches even before I touch her.

When the needle goes in, her body jerks.

Her cry sharpens.

It slices through the room.

Every muscle in my body screams at me to stop-but my hands do not hesitate. They cannot. Because if I stop now, if I let emotion override sense, I will cause her more harm.

I inject the anesthesia.

Her cries grow louder for a moment, her fingers clutching Dad's shirt desperately. Dad tightens his hold, his jaw clenched, eyes burning with restrained fury at a world that dared to hurt her.

I feel the sting too.

Not physically.

Somewhere deeper.

Then-slowly-her cries soften.

Her breathing evens out.

The tension in her small body begins to melt.

Her lashes flutter.

And then-

She sleeps.

Relief crashes over me so hard I have to pause for a second, just to breathe.

I check her vitals.

Stable.

The anesthesia has taken effect.

Good.

Now--

Doctor mode.

I clean the wound thoroughly, flushing out debris, assessing tissue damage. The cut is ugly but manageable. No major vessel damage. No tendon involvement.

Lucky.

I prepare the suturing kit.

My hands move with practiced precision now, muscle memory taking over. Needle holder. Forceps. Suture material. Each movement is careful, controlled, exact.

As I stitch, my mind does something dangerous.

It wanders.

I think about how small her leg is.
How fragile her skin looks under the harsh hospital lights.
How wrong it feels to be stitching pain into someone who should only know comfort.

Each stitch pulls the wound closer, closing what should never have been opened.

I feel eyes on me.

Dad's.

Arnav bhai's.

Kabir isn't here, but I can feel him in the silence.

I don't look up.

I focus.

Because this-this is how I protect her.

By doing my job perfectly.

The procedure ends without complication. The wound is closed cleanly, neatly. I apply antiseptic, dress it carefully, wrap it so it won't restrict movement but will protect the stitches.

Only then do I allow myself to exhale fully.

I step back.

For the first time since they arrived, I really look at her.

Avanya is asleep, her face relaxed, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. Tear tracks have dried on her skin. Her fingers are still curled into Dad's shirt, even in sleep.

She trusts us.

The weight of that trust is terrifying.

And precious.

I straighten slowly, removing my gloves, disposing of them with mechanical precision.

Arnav bhai's hand squeezes my shoulder again.

This time, it lingers for half a second longer.

It's not gratitude.

It's acknowledgment.

Brother to brother.

You did good.

Something shifts inside me.

I was her doctor today.

But I was also-

Her protector.

And maybe, just maybe-

Something more.

Rithvik slowly turned toward Arnav.

The room was quiet now-too quiet. Machines hummed softly, Avanya slept peacefully under the effect of anesthesia, and yet inside him, a storm was forming. His fingers were still stained faintly with dried blood, his mind replaying the image of her wound again and again.

His voice came out low. Controlled. Dangerous.

"How did this happen, bhai?"

Arnav didn't answer immediately.

He looked at Avanya first.

Then at Dad.

Then at Rithvik.

His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened, as if opening his mouth would unleash something he had barely managed to cage. He inhaled slowly... then closed his eyes.

And the world shifted.

FLASHBACK START.....

As soon as Arnav and Vikram heard Avanya's cry, everything else ceased to exist.

The conversation, the deals, the calm evening-gone.

The sound was wrong.

Too sharp. Too desperate.

Vikram was already on his feet before his mind could process it. Arnav followed half a second later. They didn't speak. They didn't ask. They just ran.

Their footsteps echoed as they rushed toward the main door, hearts pounding violently, fear crawling up their spines.

And then-

They saw her.

Avanya stood outside, her back facing them.

For a moment-a cruel, terrifying moment-she looked small. Too small. Her shoulders were hunched, her posture unnatural, as if she was folding into herself.

Tuffy was there.

The dog paced around her anxiously, whining softly, circling her like a guardian who wanted to help but didn't know how. His tail was low, ears alert, eyes frantic. He nudged her leg gently, then stepped back, helpless.

Vikram and Arnav froze.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

They rushed forward, calling her name-but when they reached her and she turned-

Their hearts stopped.

Avanya was holding her knee.

Both her hands were soaked in red.

Blood.

Fresh. Bright. Unforgiving.

For a second, the world tilted.

Vikram felt like someone had ripped his heart straight out of his chest. His ears rang, his vision blurred, and his breath caught painfully in his throat.

Arnav-who had faced enemies, wars, losses-lost his breath completely.

One second.

That's all it took.

Without thinking, Vikram rushed forward and scooped her up in his arms.

She was crying.

Not loud.

Not screaming.

The kind of crying that breaks you because it's filled with shock and pain and fear all at once.

"Baba...." she whimpered, clutching his shirt, trembling.

Arnav snapped out of it instantly.

"Car," he said sharply.

The driver rushed forward-but Arnav stopped him.

"Move."

He got into the driver's seat himself.

He didn't trust anyone else.

Tuffy barked anxiously, pacing faster now.

Vikram paused.

For a moment, he looked at the dog-really looked at him.

"She's fine," Vikram said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. "We're taking her to the doctor. You stay here. We'll come back soon."

Tuffy barked again, louder this time, as if warning them-ordering them-to protect her.

Then Vikram got into the back seat, holding Avanya close to his chest.

Arnav drove like a man possessed.

Vikram quickly removed his handkerchief and tied it around her knee, pressing gently but firmly.

White cloth turned red within seconds.

Still, he didn't stop.

"Shhh....it's okay, princess," he murmured, brushing her hair back carefully. "Baba is here. Nothing will happen to you."

Her cries softened slightly, but her body still trembled.

Vikram swallowed hard, gathering every ounce of courage he had.

"How did this happen, princess?" he asked softly.

Avanya sobbed.

"I... ru-run..."

Her voice broke.

"...brick co-me... I no see..."

She sniffed, her breathing uneven.

"...and I slip... ped..."

She whimpered loudly.

"There was sharp-sha...rp thing..."

Her face twisted in pain.

"It's oui... o...ui..."

Then, barely audible-

"Baba..."

( I run , brick come to me ,I no see,and I slipped,there was sharp -sharp thing, it's oui oui{paining} baba)

Something inside Vikram shattered.

He understood immediately.

The sharp things.

The bricks.

The unfinished work.

The people he had called.

The instructions he had given.

Remove everything dangerous.

And they hadn't listened.

He pulled her closer, holding her protectively.

"Shhh... shhh... it's okay," he whispered, his voice shaking despite himself. "Baba is here. Don't cry."

Arnav's knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

The silence in the car was deadly.

The kind that promised consequencs.

---

The flashback ended.

Arnav opened his eyes.

The hospital room came back into focus.

Rithvik stood frozen.

Every word hit him like a blow.

His chest rose sharply as his breathing turned uneven. His hands slowly curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

Rage.

Pure.

Unfiltered.

Violent.

His eyes darkened, a dangerous fire igniting behind them.

"So," Rithvik said quietly, his voice trembling with restrained fury, "someone didn't do their job."

No one answered.

They didn't need to.

Rithvik turned toward the window, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

Blood.

Fear.

A child hurt because of negligence.

His mind replayed Avanya's trembling voice. Her hatred of needles. Her tears. Her small body jerking in pain.

Something snapped.

"I warned them," he said, voice low and deadly. "I warned them what happens when safety is ignored."

Arnav stepped closer, his presence heavy.

"They will answer for this."

Rithvik laughed softly-but there was no humor in it.

"They better," he said. "Because if anything worse had happened-"

He stopped himself.

Looked at Avanya.

Sleeping.

Alive.

Safe.

For now.

Rithvik exhaled shakily.

The rage didn't leave.

It settled.

Waiting.

And somewhere deep inside, a promise was made.

No one hurts her again.

Not on his watch.

The door opened without drama.

No loud announcement.
No hurried footsteps.

(A/n; In most stories, doors open so loudly that the whole room trembles. But in hospitals, things are different. No matter the situation, staff and visitors are required to be patient and controlled. I have personally stayed in a hospital for several days, and this detail comes from real experience, so the scene is written with that reality in mind.)

Just the soft, almost hesitant sound of a hospital door surrendering to hands that were already trembling before they touched the handle.

And in that single moment, the room felt smaller.

Kabir entered first.

He didn't look like the man the world feared.
He didn't look like the man who ruled rooms without raising his voice, or the man whose silence could end wars before they began.

He looked like a boy who had lost the sun.

The second his eyes landed on Avanya, something inside him broke-quietly, dangerously.
Not the kind of breaking that makes noise, but the kind that changes a person forever.

He ran.

Not fast.
Not recklessly.

But with that restrained urgency of a man who knows if he moves even a second too late, he might lose the only thing that keeps him human.

He went straight to her knees first.

As if grounding himself.
As if reminding his body that she was here, that she was real, that this wasn't another cruel illusion his mind had created to punish him.

Then his gaze moved.

Slowly.
Almost fearfully.

Up her hospital clothes.
To her chest, rising and falling- steady, blessedly steady.
To her arm.

Clean.
Sanitized.

I remembered dad doing it in the car.
His hands shaking despite years of training, despite blood never having scared him before.
I remembered how carefully he did wiped her skin, like the slightest pressure might shatter her.

Kabir sank to his knees beside the bed.

No hesitation.
No pride.

Just Devotion.

He held her hand like she was made of glass and fire at the same time.
Like one wrong move could burn her-or break her.

"She's not fragile," my mind whispered instantly, fiercely.
She never had been.

Not when she stood tall in storms meant to drown her.
Not when fear tried to claim her and failed.
Not when life tested her strength again and again, and she answered every time.

She was a lioness.

But for Kabir....

For us....

She was everything soft we still allowed ourselves to feel.

Kabir bowed his head and kissed her knuckles.

Not rushed.
Not desperate.

It was reverent.

Like a prayer.

Like a promise.

Like an apology for every danger this world had ever dared to throw at her.

His thumb brushed over her skin again and again, a silent rhythm, as if his body needed to convince itself that she was warm, that she was here, that she hadn't slipped through his fingers.

"Sunshine..." he whispered.

His voice cracked.

Not loudly.
Just enough to hurt.

I saw it then-the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing slowed unnaturally.

Kabir wasn't crying.

He was holding back a storm that could level cities.

Arin stepped forward then.

Or tried to.

He froze halfway.

His hand shook violently, fingers curling in on themselves like they no longer trusted the world.
His eyes were locked on Avanya, wide, unblinking, filled with something far more terrifying than panic.

Shock.

The kind that steals your breath.
The kind that paralyzes.

Arnav noticed it instantly.

Before he could move, I was already there.

I caught Arin's hand.

Firm.
Grounding.

"You're here," I said quietly, not commanding-anchoring.
"She's here. Sit."

He didn't resist.

He let me guide him to the couch like a child who suddenly didn't know how legs worked anymore.

I handed him water.

He drank like he'd been underwater for too long, gasping between sips.
His hands were still shaking, but his breathing slowly returned.

His eyes never left her.

Never.

Kabir felt Arin's presence even without looking.

That's what love does-it sharpens your awareness of those who share the same fear.

He turned slightly, just enough to see him.

Their eyes met.

And in that silent exchange, years of unspoken brotherhood unfolded.

Kabir didn't say anything.

He just reached out with his free hand.

Open palm.

An invitation.

Arin hesitated.

Then he stood, legs still unsteady, and moved closer.
He placed his hand over Kabir's wrist-the one holding Avanya.

Three hearts connected.

One fragile moment.

One unbreakable bond.

I watched them.

Kabir-the shield.
Arin-the soul.
Avanya-the center.

Kabir leaned forward, resting his forehead against the edge of the bed.

His voice was barely audible now.

"I should've been there," he murmured.
"Every time, every damn time I think I've protected her enough, life proves me wrong."

Arin swallowed hard.

"This wasn't your fault bhai," he said, voice trembling but sincere.
"She's strong. She always comes back."

Kabir let out a breath that sounded more like pain than relief.

"I know," he replied.
"That's what scares me."

I felt that.

Because strength doesn't mean invincible.
And loving someone like Avanya meant knowing the world would try again.

And again.

And again.

Kabir straightened slowly.

His expression shifted-not to calm, not to peace-but to resolve.

The kind that doesn't shout.
The kind that plans.

The kind that promises consequences.

"She'll wake up," he said softly.
"And when she does,she won't remember fear. Because she never does."

His thumb brushed her hand once more.

"But the world will."

Arin nodded.

Not in agreement.
In trust.

I stood there, watching them-two men bound not by blood alone, but by a shared love so fierce it could rival fate itself.

And in that sterile hospital room, surrounded by machines and silence, one truth became painfully clear:

Avanya wasn't alone.

She never would be.

Because no matter how dark the night became,
three men stood guard over her light.

And I would burn the world before letting it dim again.

.......

Time did not move forward in that room.
It circled us.
Mocked us.
Tick.
Tock.

Each second landed with a weight, like it knew we were helpless and decided to press harder.

Dad sat on the couch, his back curved in a way I had never seen before, as if the years had suddenly caught up to him in one single afternoon.

Arin's head rested in his lap, too still, too quiet for someone who usually carried storms in his eyes. Dad's fingers moved through Arin's hair slowly, unconsciously, the way one soothes a child without realising they are doing it. His other hand rested on his knee, clenched, knuckles pale.

Arnav sat beside them, close but not touching, his presence solid and guarded, like a wall that had decided to stay standing no matter how much the ground beneath it shook. His eyes never left Avanya. Not once. Even when someone shifted, even when the air changed, his gaze stayed anchored to that bed, to the rise and fall of her chest that told us-silently-that she was still here.

Kabir....
Kabir was on his knees.

He hadn't moved since he sat down there.

One knee pressed into the cold hospital floor, the other bent awkwardly, forgotten, as if comfort had lost all meaning to him the moment his hand found hers. His fingers were wrapped around Avanya's hand carefully, reverently, like he was holding something sacred and breakable at the same time. The machines hummed softly beside the bed, but Kabir listened only to her breathing, counting it, syncing himself to it, as if letting go even for a second would send her drifting away.

And then there was me.

I stood against the wall, my shoulder blades pressed into the hard surface, arms crossed tightly across my chest, not because I was cold-but because if I loosened them, something inside me might spill out. My eyes never left her. I didn't blink unless my vision blurred, and even then it felt like betrayal.

Avanya lay on the hospital bed, surrounded by white-white sheets, white lights, white walls-like the world had stripped itself of color to remind us how fragile life could look when reduced to essentials. Her face was calm now, too calm compared to the chaos that had brought us here. Her lashes rested against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, her breathing steady but shallow.

Nearly four hours.

Four long, unforgiving hours under anesthesia.

The doctor instinct had said it calmly, clinically, like it was just another fact to list. But to us, those hours stretched endlessly, each minute dragging itself across our nerves like sandpaper. We had counted them without clocks, measured them in heartbeats, in silent prayers, in the way Kabir's grip tightened every time a machine changed its tone.

No one spoke.

We didn't need to.

The room was heavy with unasked questions, with fear dressed up as patience. Even the air felt thick, like it didn't want to move too much and disturb her.

I watched Kabir closely.

His forehead rested lightly against the edge of the mattress now, eyes closed, lips brushing against Avanya's knuckles every few minutes-not a kiss filled with desperation, but something quieter. Something steadier. As if he was reminding her, and himself, that she was not alone. That she was loved in a way that didn't need noise.

They called her fragile.
People always did when they saw her lying still.

But we knew better.

She was a lioness.

I had seen her hold herself together with shaking hands and stubborn courage when everything around her threatened to fall apart. Strength lived in her bones, in her silence, in the way she faced things head-on without asking the world for permission.

Arin stirred slightly in Dad's lap, his brow furrowing, as if even in sleep-or whatever fragile rest this was-his mind refused to let go. Dad's hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its slow rhythm, grounding both of them. I saw Dad's jaw tighten, his eyes glistening just a little, and I turned my gaze away out of respect. Some grief deserves privacy.

Minutes passed.

Five.
Then ten.

The ticking inside my head grew louder, crueler. I found myself counting her breaths again, matching them to my own, afraid that if I stopped paying attention, something terrible would slip through unnoticed.

The machines beeped steadily.

Kabir shifted slightly, adjusting his position without letting go of her hand. His shoulders were tense, carrying the weight of everything he hadn't said, everything he couldn't afford to feel right now. Love sat heavy on him-not the soft kind, but the fierce, protective kind that burns quietly.

Arnav leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees now, fingers interlaced. His eyes softened in a way I had rarely seen, his usual sharpness dulled by worry. He was waiting. We all were.

And then-

Something changed.

It was subtle. So subtle that for a second I thought I imagined it.

Avanya's fingers twitched.

Barely noticeable. A small movement, like a whisper passing through her hand.

Kabir froze.

Every muscle in his body went still, his head lifting instantly, eyes snapping open, searching her face with a hope so raw it hurt to witness. My breath caught painfully in my throat. Arnav straightened. Dad's hand paused mid-motion in Arin's hair.

The room held its breath.

A few seconds passed.

Then Avanya's eyelids fluttered.

Slowly.
Carefully.
As if waking up was something she had to decide.

Her lashes trembled again, and then her eyes opened-just a fraction at first, adjusting to the harsh hospital light. She blinked once, twice, confusion clouding her gaze as she took in the unfamiliar ceiling above her.

Kabir leaned forward instinctively, his grip tightening ever so slightly, grounding her without pulling her back too fast. I saw his lips part, but no sound came out. Words seemed unnecessary now.

Avanya's eyes moved, slowly scanning the room, still hazy, still caught between sleep and reality.

And that-

That was where everything stopped.

-------------------👉🏻👈🏻------------------

Alright my Anuvians, come here

Let me clear a few things properly, calmly, and from my heart-as Anuvae, your author, not as a character, not as drama, just honesty.

First of all-yes, this is a fictional world. We all know that.
But fictional does not mean illogical or unrealistic.

Rithvik is a doctor.
No matter what label you give him-mafia doctor, dark doctor, whatever aesthetic name fits-his first priority is still the patient on the bed.
That is basic medical ethics. That is humanity.

That's why in the chapter, when he was in the operation theatre, he didn't pick up the phone immediately.
Because when a doctor is operating, nothing comes before the life in his hands.
Not calls. Not panic. Not even personal loss.

And honestly?
If any of us were in that position, we would do the same.
That scene was written very consciously. It wasn't ignorance. It was responsibility.

Now the second thing-
Kabir and Arin entering the room.

It is not necessary that every emotional entry has to be loud, dramatic, door-banging, running, and shaking the entire room.

This is a hospital.
There is a child on the bed.
A child who flinches at loud sounds.

So yes, they entered calmly.
Because sometimes love is quiet.
Sometimes care is silent.
Sometimes the strongest emotions walk in on tiptoes.

Making noise doesn't prove concern.
Protecting someone's peace does.

Now let's talk about Avanya.

Just because everyone loves her, watches her, worries for her-
does not mean she is caged.

She is a child.
She is allowed to run.
She is allowed to roam.
She is allowed to explore her own house.

Watching her doesn't mean restricting her.
Caring doesn't mean binding her.

That's exactly what I wanted to show through Vikram.

A parent who trusts.
A parent who allows freedom.
A parent who knows that a child grows not by being held every second, but by being allowed to live.

Avanya is not fragile glass kept in a showcase.
She is a child in her own home.

And no-
If I ever show her playing, moving, going around freely,
that does NOT mean her family doesn't care.

It means they care enough to let her breathe.

Kabir, Arin, Vikram, Rithvik,Arnav-
They are not careless.
They are not blind.
They are not irresponsible.

They are a family learning how to love a child who entered their lives suddenly, softly, and permanently.

So if at any point you feel like
"Why didn't they do this?"
"Why didn't they stop her?"
"Why wasn't someone watching her 24/7?"

Please understand-
This is intentional.
This is realistic.
This is love without suffocation.

I'm always open to questions, doubts, discussions - really.
But I wanted to clear this once, properly, so no confusion stays.

Thank you for trusting my writing.
Thank you for reading with your heart.

And thank you for caring enough to question-because that means you're emotionally invested, and that matters to me 🤍

Always yours favourite,
Anuvae 🌙

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