The engine of my red Porsche didn't just roar; it screamed, mirroring the violence inside my chest. I shifted gears with a brutal jerk, weaving through the suffocating Mumbai traffic like a blade through silk. Horns blared around me—angry, desperate—but I didn't care. Let them scream. In this city, I am the storm, and they are just the dust.

My knuckles were white against the leather steering wheel, trembling with a cocktail of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated fury. Every time I hit the accelerator, I felt the phantom sting of her palm against my skin.

I glanced at the rearview mirror, and my blood turned to ice. There it was. A smudge of black ink—her ink—still staining my cheek, right where she had struck me. It wasn't just a mark; it was a brand of my public execution.

A "scholarship girl" from the slums had reached out and broken the face of a Rajvanshi.

I felt like a wounded lion—not weak, but twice as lethal because I was bleeding. My ego wasn't just bruised; it was shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, and I was going to use every single one of those shards to cut her down.

I didn't see the cars in front of me. I saw the library aisles. I saw her simple tunic. I saw the way she dared to stand up.

I slammed my foot onto the accelerator, the engine’s growl turning into a guttural, predatory scream that vibrated through my very marrow. The world outside the windshield became a distorted smear of grey and yellow, but inside this cockpit, everything was focused, sharp, and lethal. My chest was tight, my lungs burning as if I were breathing in fire, every jagged breath fueled by the humiliation that tasted like copper in my throat. I didn't see the lanes, I didn't see the lights; I only saw her terrified face and the way her hand had dared to connect with my skin. That ink smudge on my cheek felt like it was burning through my flesh, a mark of shame that only her total submission could wash away. I was no longer a man; I was a force of nature, a wounded beast tearing through the concrete jungle with a singular, obsessive purpose. The speed wasn't enough, the noise wasn't enough—nothing would be enough until I felt the air leave her lungs as I crushed her world under my heel. I pushed the Porsche to its absolute limit, the car shaking under the strain of my rage.

I killed the engine, the sudden silence of the car more deafening than the roar of the Porsche had been seconds ago. I stepped out onto the pavement of Marine Drive, the humid sea breeze hitting me like a slap—not that I needed another one of those. I was still in my school uniform, the crisp white shirt wrinkled and tainted, a mockery of the power I was supposed to represent. I reached into the back seat, my fingers curling around the neck of a chilled beer bottle; the condensation felt like needles against my heated skin. I slammed the door shut and strode toward the edge, my polished shoes clicking rhythmically against the promenade as I approached the sea wall. The Arabian Sea was churning, a chaotic mess of grey and salt, reflecting the storm inside my head. I stood there, a king on the edge of his crumbling empire, the bottle sweating in my hand as I stared at the horizon with bloodshot eyes, watching the waves crash against the rocks just like her defiance had crashed against my life.

I popped the cap with a sharp, metallic twink, watching it vanish into the churning grey waves without a second thought. I tilted the bottle back and gulped the beer with a raw, desperate intensity, the bitter liquid burning my tongue and scorching my throat. It was a brutal sting, but it worked—it started to drown the fire in my lungs and settle the white-hot mercury of my rage into a cold, lethal resolve. As the chill spread through my chest, the "Wounded Lion" died, and the "Executioner" took his place. One bottle to cool the blood; one night to plan her ruin.

I stood on the very edge of the concrete, the salt spray stinging the bloodshot whites of my eyes, but I didn't blink. I raised the bottle, drained the bitter dregs, and then lunged toward the horizon, my voice tearing out of my throat like a predator’s roar.

"I HATE HER!" I screamed, the words shattering against the waves. "I HATE THAT GIRL SO MUCH IT BURNS!"

The sound of my own voice startled the gulls, but I didn't stop. The white-hot rage was back, vibrating in my chest like a trapped beast.

"I will show her her place... I vow today, I will destroy her in a way that no one—not God, not her mother, not anyone—can ever fix. She has a habit of slapping, doesn't she?" I let out a dark, breathless laugh that felt like glass in my lungs. "I’ll show her how Ruhaan Rajvanshi slaps back. I’ll make her wish she had never learned to raise her hand. I’ll make her wish she never existed , i will make her wish ..she never met me ."

I gripped the bottle, my knuckles white, and tilted it—not to my mouth, but over my head. I let the freezing, bitter liquid pour directly onto my face, drenching my hair and soaking into the collar of my uniform.

The ice-cold beer slammed against the heat of my cheek, washing over the ink mark, washing over the ghost of her palm. I wanted to drown the humiliation. I wanted to burn the memory of her touch out of my skin with the sting of alcohol. As the liquid dripped down my chin and onto my chest, I closed my eyes, feeling the chill seethe into my pores. It was a baptism of hate.

The sting on my tongue was nothing compared to the sting of my pride, but as the cold settled, the chaotic rage in my brain solidified into a diamond-hard obsession. I wiped the wetness from my eyes with a brutal swipe of my sleeve, looking at the soaked fabric. The ink was gone from my face, but the stain on my soul was permanent.

"That was the last time," I hissed, the sea wind catching my words. "The last time anyone makes me feel small. From this second on, girl your life belongs to me. I’m going to haunt your every breath until you forget how to smile."

I headed back to the car, my soaked uniform clinging to my skin like a cold, wet shroud. I slumped into the driver’s seat and just sat there, exhaling a long, shuddering breath that rattled in my chest. The interior of the Porsche, usually my sanctuary, felt suffocating.

Suddenly, the console lit up. My phone started buzzing, sliding across the leather—Akash.

I stared at the name as it pulsed. My best friend. The one person who usually knew how to handle my moods. But right now? The thought of his voice, his questions, his "bro, chill out"—it made my blood boil. I didn't want a lecture. I didn't want "logic." I didn't want to talk to anybody.

I grabbed the phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. I knew myself. If I picked up, I wouldn’t speak; I’d bark. I’d snap and tear into the only person who had my back, fueled by a rage that didn't belong to him. With a brutal shove of the button, I switched the damn thing off. The screen turned black, reflecting my own bloodshot, hollow eyes.

I headed back to the car, my soaked uniform clinging to my skin like a cold, wet shroud. I slumped into the driver’s seat and just sat there, exhaling a long, shuddering breath that rattled in my chest. The interior of the Porsche, usually my sanctuary, felt suffocating.

Suddenly, the console lit up. My phone started buzzing, sliding across the leather—Akash.

I stared at the name as it pulsed. My best friend. The one person who usually knew how to handle my moods. But right now? The thought of his voice, his questions, his "bro, chill out"—it made my blood boil. I didn't want a lecture. I didn't want "logic." I didn't want to talk to anybody.

I grabbed the phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. I knew myself. If I picked up, I wouldn’t speak; I’d bark. I’d snap and tear into the only person who had my back, fueled by a rage that didn't belong to him. With a brutal shove of the button, I switched the damn thing off. The screen turned black, reflecting my own bloodshot, hollow eyes.

I jerked the steering wheel, pulling the Porsche into the lane that led toward the hills, toward that architectural tomb I was forced to call a residence.

"Home," I scoffed, the word tasting like ash and irony. No, that place hadn't been a home in thirteen years—not since the warmth was sucked out of the hallways and replaced by the cold, sterile smell of floor wax and betrayal. It was just a mansion. A sprawling collection of expensive walls, marble floors that echoed with loneliness, and people who stood around like decorative showcases.

I was heading back to a nest of poisonous snakes and hollow ghosts.

My "family" didn't live there; they just occupied space, waiting for the right moment to sink their fangs into whatever pride I had left. But I had no choice. If I stayed out, if I showed up to the gates looking like this—drenched in beer and smelling of a street brawl—the "lectures" would start. The arguments, the cold analytical teardowns of my "failures" as a Rajvanshi heir... my head would literally burst. I couldn't handle their noise on top of the screaming in my brain.

I didn't even tap the horn; the guards saw the red streak of the Porsche and scrambled to heave open the massive iron gates of the Rajvanshi estate. They bowed—low, fearful, like they were supposed to—but I didn't give them the satisfaction of a glance. I pushed the car to the very edge of the driveway and killed the engine right at the main entrance, the silence that followed feeling like a physical blow.

I stepped out, my beer-soaked uniform heavy and cold against my skin. A servant appeared out of the shadows, his head bowed, hand out for the keys. I didn't look at him. I just flipped the keys into the air with a jerk of my wrist and heard them jingle into his palm as I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat.

Every step I took into that grand hallway felt like I was walking into a tomb made of marble and gold. The air-conditioning hit me, turning the dampness of my shirt into ice, but the fire in my head was still burning. This wasn't a homecoming; it was a retreat to the war room. I walked past the portraits of my "noble" ancestors, their painted eyes watching the smudge of ink on my face, their silent judgment fueling the growl in my chest.

Gemini said

I reached the grand hall and stopped dead. My stomach lurched. The space was crawling with them—a swarm of high-society vultures, socialite snakes draped in thousands of rupees worth of designer silk and fake attitudes. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of expensive perfume and even more expensive lies.

And there she sat, right in the center of the nest. My stepmother, Rubeena that fucking snake .

She was draped in a black designer saree, the blouse cut so small it was practically a scandal, her face layered in so much makeup it looked like a mask of porcelain. She held a teacup like it was a scepter, her lips pulled back into that signature fake smile that never reached her cold, calculating eyes.

The moment I stepped onto the marble, the chatter died down. I felt it—that eagle-eyed gaze of hers locking onto me, scanning for a weakness, a flaw, a drop of blood. To her, I wasn't a son; I was just her favorite prey, the only obstacle between her and the Rajvanshi throne.

"Ruhaan, darling?" she cooed, her voice like honey laced with arsenic, as her eyes traveled from my messy hair down to my beer-soaked, ink-stained uniform. "You're home early. And... my goodness, what is that smell? Did the 'Prince of Viceroy' fall into a gutter, or have you finally started celebrating your failures?"

The ladies around her snickered, their fans fluttering like the wings of insects. I gripped my bag strap until my knuckles burned. I was a wounded lion walking into a pit of vipers, and every one of them was waiting for me to trip.

Mrs. Khanna (adjusting her diamond necklace):

"Goodness, Reena! If I wanted to see something that pathetic, I would have visited the slums myself. Does he come with a 'caution' sign now? Or should we just start calling him the Prince of the Pavement?"

The Young Heiress (smirking behind her silk fan):

"I heard the Rajvanshis were 'old money,' but Ruhaan looks like he just crawled out of a bad debt. Is that ink on his face or is his ego finally leaking out?"

Mrs. Kapoor (with a sharp, artificial laugh):

"It’s such a shame, really. All that tuition and he still hasn't learned that class isn't something you can buy at a liquor store. He smells like a cheap Saturday night and a wasted Tuesday morning."

I felt the air in the hall thicken with the stench of their judgment. Mrs. Singhania, a woman whose face was pulled so tight by plastic surgery she could barely blink, wrinkled her nose in disgust, raising her glass as if to shield herself from my presence.

"Ugh, Rubeena darling," she drawled, her voice dripping with fake concern, "your son is looking like a gutter boy. He’s smelling of such... cheap alcohol."

The words hit the marble floor like shards of glass. My stepmother, Reena, didn't flinch. Instead, she let out a light, melodic chuckle—the kind that sounded like a silver bell but felt like a blade to the ribs.

"It’s nothing, Mrs. Singhania," she said, waving a manicured hand dismissively while her eagle eyes bored into mine, savoring my humiliation. "He simply never cares. Discipline is a foreign concept when one thinks they own the world, isn't it, Ruhaan?"

He looked directly at Reena, who was gripped her teacup so hard her knuckles were white.

"And mrs . rajvanshi ?" He leaned over the banister, a dark, twisted smile playing on his lips. "Next time you want to talk about my 'failures' in front of your snake pit... remember whose name is on the deed to this mansion. It’s not yours. It’s Rajvanshi. And last I checked, you’re just a guest who stayed too long. Enjoy the tea. It’s the most expensive thing about you."

I stood there, the beer-soaked fabric of my shirt chilling my skin, the ink smudge on my face a badge of the war they didn't even know I was fighting. They saw a gutter boy; I saw a room full of corpses who just hadn't stopped breathing yet. The "cheap alcohol" was burning in my veins, and for a second, I imagined flipping the heavy mahogany table and watching their designer sarees catch fire.

"I don't care about the smell," I said, my voice low, vibrating with a lethal huskiness that made Mrs. Singhania’s hand tremble slightly. "Because unlike you, I don't need perfume to hide the fact that I’m rotting inside. Enjoy your tea, 'ladies.' The smell of your desperation is much worse than the beer."

I didn't wait for the gasp. I didn't wait for Reena’s eyes to narrow. I turned my back on the snake pit and headed for the stairs, my boots leaving damp, mocking footprints on the pristine white marble.

I burst into my room and slammed the door with a force that rattled the heavy mahogany frame, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the mansion’s hollow halls. I was an animal, raw and unhinged, trapped in a cage of gold and judgment. I hurled my bag toward the study table—a heavy, violent arc that sent my expensive textbooks and designer stationery flying like debris in a storm.

"AGHHH!" The growl tore out of my throat, primal and jagged. I didn't just walk; I lunged. My hands found the crystal lamp on my desk, and I swept it off with a brutal shove, watching it shatter into a thousand shimmering diamonds against the floor. I didn't stop. I grabbed the chair, the heavy leather groaning as I flipped it over. Every elegant, curated piece of this room felt like an insult.

I was gasping for air, my chest heaving, my hair matted to my forehead with beer and sweat. I looked at the pristine walls and saw her face. I saw that scholarship girl’s eyes. I saw the pity, the fire, the defiance.

"You think you broke me?" I hissed, grabbing a heavy glass paperweight and hurling it at the mirror.

The silver glass webbed and cracked, splintering my reflection into a dozen jagged versions of a monster. I leaned over the desk, my knuckles buried in the wood, my breath hitching in a terrifying rhythm. The room was a wreck—a graveyard of luxury—and in the center of the ruins, I finally felt at home. Because now, the outside finally matched the absolute carnage inside my soul.

i can still here the murmurs of ladies on my behaviour and that mrs rajvanshi fuming for her spoiled party ..buts its not on me ..they dared to mess with me and she alswys do so yes i wont keep quite for her preety image if she can insult me in front of those crocodiles i can insult her too she and her group all are damm species of repetiles .colour changing bitches ..dammm to all .

I stumbled into the bathroom, my boots tracking glass and grime across the white marble. I didn’t even bother to strip. I reached out with a trembling hand and wrenched the shower handle to the coldest setting.

The water didn't just fall; it hit me like a barrage of icy needles.

I let out a sharp, choked gasp as the freezing spray slammed into my head, instantly drenching my hair and making the beer-soaked uniform cling to my skin like a leaden weight. The fabric felt like a cold, suffocating cage, heavy with the stench of my own humiliation. I slammed my palms against the wet tiles, the impact vibrating up my arms and into my teeth.

"Fuck*! no one ...hh.. no one let me breath for one fucking mibute last night mr. rajvanshi have to lecture me and at evning that girl that fucking girl i dont even name of ..and now this my fucking step mother ...what the hell is the problem to all thses peoples from me! "** I hissed, my breath coming out in ragged, white plumes of steam that didn't exist, though I felt the frost in my soul.

I leaned my forehead against the cold wall, the water cascading over my shoulders, drowning the world out. I closed my eyes and exhaled—a long, agonizingly slow breath that felt like it was pulling the last bit of humanity out of my lungs. The "Prince of Viceroy" was drowning under this shower head, and something much darker was taking his place. The cold was biting my skin, trying to numb the heat of that slap, but it couldn't reach the core of me. The core was white-hot. The core was pure, unadulterated venom not only from slap but from the damm life ...the life is hell i need a home.

" I HATE THIS ..I HATE EVRYONE ..I HATE THIS DAMM FUCKING WORLD " his voice no more roar it was scream not from arrogant ruhaan ..but from that 5 years small boy ...

The silence of our small apartment felt heavier than any noise could ever be. the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the wall clock felt like a countdown to a disaster I couldn't name.

I sat at my cramped desk, staring at my textbooks. The ink from my pen seemed to blur into the shape of his face—that mask of arrogance I had shattered with a single, desperate swing of my hand. My palm still felt hot, a ghost of the impact vibrating through my bones. I had slapped him i dont even know who was that guy . I hadn't just defended myself; I had declared war on a god.

In the living room, I could hear the soft rustle of paper. My mother was hunched over the small sofa, her glasses slipping down her nose as she corrected her students' exam papers. She looked so peaceful, so hardworking—so fragile. She had cooked my favorite dal makhani tonight, the aroma usually enough to make me forget the world, but tonight it tasted like ash. Every swallow felt like a stone in my throat.

How could I tell her? How could I tell her that I might have just thrown away the scholarship she sacrificed her life for?

The library incident wasn't just a memory; it was a physical weight on my soul. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that ink smudge on his jaw and the terrifying . I felt like a bird that had pecked at a mountain, thinking it could move it, only to realize the mountain was about to fall and bury me.

I reached for my bag to pull out another notebook... but then my hand found something else. A crumpled paper. I pulled it out and opened the crumpled sheet.

The memory of lunch time flashed before my eyes, clearer now than the fear itself.

I was walking through the school garden, the sun warm on my shoulders, heading back from the cafeteria i had visited with my new friend alia she was soo sweet and fed me lots of sanwithes and coldcofee i was smiling ...i was happy to have atleast one good friened here now . then My gaze fell on a single, crumpled sheet of paper lying lonely near the auditorium window. my brows furrowed .Being a civil student, my first instinct was to pick it up and toss it in the bin—keep the campus clean.

But my curiosity got the better of me.

I smoothed it out, and my breath caught. It wasn't trash. It was poetry—beautiful, raw lines that looked like the lyrics to a new song. Someone had been sitting here, pouring their soul onto the page. I peeked through the auditorium window, half-expecting to see a lonely musician or a fellow dreamer, but the hall was empty and silent.

Because I love music and spend my own nights scribbling lyrics, I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. I thought, Maybe I can complete this. Maybe I can find the melody these words are looking for. I tucked it into my bag like a treasure .

I stared at the lyrics, my mind racing. Back in the garden, they had felt like a gift, a connection to a mystery person who shared my love for words. But now, in the quiet of my room, the ink seemed to vibrate with an energy I didn't understand. And its written with green ink ...and it makes it more interesting ..well i also write with pink ink may be this person chose green.

Hawaavaan vich teri khushbu aave,

Mainu hor kite hun chain na aave,

Assi doven hoyiye, te teesra koi na,

Bas ishq saadi hi gall sunaave.

"Who are you? who just ripped out out ur heart on this paper and just threw away." I whispered to the empty room, my thumb tracing a particularly deep indentation in the paper where the pen had almost ripped through.

I smiled to myself, a small, genuine spark of joy lighting up my tired face. "Who would throw away such beautiful lines?" I whispered. I couldn't let them stay lost.

I pulled open my study drawer—the one that creaked just a little—and reached for my diary. It wasn't just a book of paper and ink; it was my sanctuary. It held my secrets, my heart, and the sea of my talents that I kept hidden from the world. I giggled softly, the sound feeling strange after such a heavy day, as I flipped through the pages. My fingers traced the ink of my own poems, each line a heartbeat.

I stopped at the last page I’d written before we moved to Mumbai. Before the world turned gray. Before my father...

Kujh gallan hon jo ankhiyaan naal,

Kujh chup reh ke hi keh deyiye,

Je naseebaan vich tera saath likhiya,

Te jagg nu piche chadh deyiye.

"Dil di kitaab te tera hi panna aave,

Mainu tere bin hun kalleya rehna na aave,"

I shook my head quickly, blinking back the sudden sting in my eyes. I couldn't go there tonight. I laid the crumpled sheet beside my diary and gasped. "No way..."

The rhythm, the rhyme scheme—even the raw, aching feeling behind the words—it was a perfect match to what I had written. It was as if two broken halves of a song had finally found each other in the dark. With a newfound energy, I grabbed my pen and began to write, merging the stranger’s lines with mine, weaving our souls together on the page.

I stared at the fresh page, the ink still wet and glistening under my lamp. I had merged my world with the stranger's, and the result was... breathtaking.

Hawaavaan vich teri khushbu aave,

Mainu hor kite hun chain na aave,

Assi doven hoyiye, te teesra koi na,

Bas ishq saadi hi gall sunaave.

Kujh gallan hon jo ankhiyaan naal,

Kujh chup reh ke hi keh deyiye,

Je naseebaan vich tera saath likhiya,

Te jagg nu piche chadh deyiye.

"Dil di kitaab te tera hi panna aave,

Mainu tere bin hun kalleya rehna na aave,"

I leaned back, my eyes scanning the new lyrics. The transition from his jagged, angry rhythm to my soft, melodic response was seamless. It was as if two people who had never met were having a conversation in a language only they understood. A small, sad smile touched my lips. In a city of millions, where I felt like a ghost, I had found a connection on a crumpled piece of paper.

"How can someone so full of pain write something so beautiful?" I whispered to myself and that crumbled paper. i dint throw away that paper though i have a fresh now but i want to keep it ...may be i can find that person .so i just folded it carefully and slipped between my dairy's pages ..between where my soul lives ..and the paer looks like a beautifull guest ..i smiled to myself sometimes i am so dramatic yes i know ..ohho ishika now stop it ...i whisoerd to myself and loked at the pink ink smudged at my fingers yes yes ..i now i am alwys clumsy while writing but maa says ..this is the good sign .

For a moment, the nightmare of the library, the sting of the slap, and the cold dread of that boy faded away. I wasn't the "Scholarship Girl" who was about to be hunted. I was just a songwriter who had found the missing piece of her soul’s melody.

she ran her fingers over the paper, feeling the indentations of the pen, unaware that she was literally touching the heartbeat of her greatest enemy and may be her fates cruel turnings