Prologue
The setting was **Juhu**, one of the most elite areas in Mumbai. In a massive mansion overlooking the coast, silence was usually a luxury, but today it was heavy with the smell of gunpowder. A lone man stood in the center of a grand hall, holding a .45 caliber pistol.
The floor was littered with bodies. He had fought the entire gang alone, shooting them with terrifying precision—some in the chest, some in the legs, some in the head. Now, only one man was left: the leader of the gang.
The leader stood trembling, his eyes wide with the absolute terror of death. His throat was so dry his words cracked as he begged. "So...rry... don't... please. I will give you more money than your friends. You will be the King of Mumbai... just don't kill me..."
Without a single second of hesitation, the man raised the pistol and shot him point-blank in the head. *Bang.*
Deep gasped, his eyes snapping open. He shot up from the bed, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His forehead was slick with sweat. He glanced at the clock on the wall—he was running late for work.
As he tried to get up, a soft hand gently pulled him back.
"Stay a bit longer," Arohi murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
Deep’s racing heart began to slow. He looked down at his wife, his eyes softening with care. "Are you feeling okay today?" he asked gently.
Arohi smiled, shifting so she could sit beside him. She uncovered her pregnant belly and took his hand. "Feel our child. He wants a father's touch."
Deep leaned in, gently tracing her belly with his fingers. "Don't disturb your mother in there, okay?" he whispered. "And remember... I am always with you."
*(For a split second, a memory flashed in his mind: A friend laughing, clapping him on the shoulder, saying, "I am always with you, brother." The memory faded just as fast).*
Deep zoned out for a moment, staring at nothing, before blinking and acting as if nothing happened. "By the way," he smiled, "how do you know our future child is a 'he'? What if it's a she?"
Arohi giggled softly. "I want a boy. Because I want another version of you... someone who will be just as caring as you are."
At those words, Deep’s mind drifted again. He remembered his violent past, the blood on his hands, the monster he used to be. Arohi noticed the distant look in his eyes. She reached out, gently cupping his cheek.
"The past is the past, Deep," she said softly. "You don't have to remember it. This Deep—the one I know—is my loving husband who loves his wife and his unborn child." She traced her belly gently. "I have always loved you, no matter what."
Deep covered her hand with his own, stopping her from saying more. "Thank you, Arohi," he whispered. "Thank you for giving me this life. I love you too."
He pulled her in for a tight hug, and as their lips met for a deep, passionate kiss, his mind flooded with the happiest memories they shared.
*He remembered their wedding. A beautiful, traditional Indian ceremony. Arohi looked breathtaking in a stunning **Lal shari**, just as she had always dreamed, while Deep wore a handsome sherwani. He remembered the warmth of the holy fire as they took their seven rounds together. He remembered standing close behind her, holding her hands to drop the puffed rice into the flames for the **Laja Homam**. And finally, the moment he placed the red sindoor on her forehead—Arohi had cried tears of pure joy, overwhelmed that her dream had finally come true.*
*He remembered the house he brought her to—not a rich man's mansion, but a normal, cozy home that was perfect just for them. He remembered their late-night romances, the sweet midnight kisses. He remembered how their life unfolded: helping her cook lunch in the kitchen, carrying her bags while shopping, taking peaceful walks in the park. Throughout her pregnancy, he wasn't just a husband; he was her best friend. He treated her with extreme loyalty, tending to her every need with a gentle, friendly care.*
The memories settled warmly in his chest as he returned to the present. Arohi was now laying her head peacefully on his chest, while Deep gently stroked her forehead. Life was perfect.
A few hours later, the grease on Deep’s hands was thick and black, smelling heavily of cheap engine oil. He preferred it that way. Grease meant honest work. It was a lot easier to wash off than blood.
Kolkata’s humid afternoon sun beat down on the corrugated roof of *The Believers* garage. Deep wiped his forehead with his forearm, tightening the final bolt on a battered Royal Enfield. Six years had passed since he walked away from his evil past in Mumbai. Now, at twenty-seven, he despised the gangster he used to be. He was a good man now, a mechanic, and a beloved neighbor.
"Deep, my boy!" a warm voice echoed over the street noise.
Deep slid out from under the bike, a genuine smile breaking across his face. Mr. Chaterji—Devraj—stood at the edge of the garage, holding a small tiffin box.
"Mrs. Chaterji sent some sweets. She said you’re working too hard," Devraj smiled. Though Devraj and Monica’s marriage had been arranged decades ago, the love they showed Deep was completely real. To Devraj, Deep was the most caring person he knew—the man who secretly helped pay for their nineteen-year-old son Raj to study in America. To Monica, Deep was like a second son.
"Tell Mrs. Chaterji I'll come by to thank her personally, Mr. Chaterji," Deep said, accepting the box respectfully.
As Devraj left, Rahul walked out from the back of the shop, carrying two steaming cups of tea. Four years ago, Rahul was just a desperate twenty-four-year-old trying to fix his broken motorcycle. When he saw Deep working alone and brilliantly, Rahul begged for a job to support his sick mother. Touched by his words, Deep gave him a chance. They named the garage *The Believers* because they believed that working together made life easier. Now, at twenty-eight, Rahul was his closest friend.
Rahul handed Deep a tea. "Arohi is showing a lot more now. Have you thought of any names for the child?"
Deep’s eyes softened. "I'll let my wife decide. I know a father should give the name, but... I want her to do it."
Rahul smiled, learning yet another lesson in kindness from his friend. "Go home, brother. Arohi is pregnant, she shouldn't be waiting."
They hugged warmly. Deep cleaned up and headed home, stopping at a shop to buy a beautiful bouquet of flowers for his wife.
Meanwhile, Arohi was humming a happy tune in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She patted her belly lovingly, waiting for her husband to return.
*Knock. Knock.*
Thinking it was Deep, she opened the door with a bright smile. Instead, three unfamiliar men stood outside. It was Dhiraj, Vijay, and Ayush.
"I am an old friend of your husband," Dhiraj said smoothly. "Can I come in?"
Without hesitation, Arohi welcomed them inside. As they stepped into the living room, they looked around at the peaceful, successful life Deep had built. Arohi blushed slightly as they complimented the house.
But Dhiraj’s smirk turned cold. "He is successful now," he muttered to Vijay and Ayush. "Look at this... But he forgot about us. Because of *her*."
Before Arohi could react, Dhiraj swung his fist, punching her brutally in the jaw.
Arohi crashed backward onto the table, shattering it. As she lay on the floor, crying in shock, Vijay and Ayush stepped forward and began viciously kicking her pregnant belly.
"He betrayed us!" Dhiraj yelled, pulling a sharp knife from his pocket. "He turned into a family guy!"
Next door, Devraj heard the commotion and broke into the house. Seeing Arohi on the floor, he roared in anger and charged at them. But Dhiraj effortlessly delivered a crushing kick to the older man's chest, sending him crashing to the floor.
Without another word, Dhiraj turned back to Arohi and drove the knife down, killing her on the spot.
Deep was running.
Monica had called him, screaming in a panic that punks had attacked his wife. The flowers he had bought lay discarded in the dirt. Deep sprinted through the streets, his heart pounding with a sickening fear he hadn't felt in years.
He burst through the front door.
The sight shattered his world. Arohi lay dead on the floor in a pool of blood. Deep dropped to his knees, a gut-wrenching sob tearing from his throat. He pulled his wife’s lifeless body into his arms, crying for hours, his mechanic clothes soaking up her blood.
Then, he saw it. The knife, pinned to the floor with a note.
With trembling, blood-stained fingers, he opened it:
> *Long time no see my friend... You think you can hide after what you done.... Now feel the pain what we felt in our past haha.*
>
Deep’s erratic breathing slowly stopped. The crushing grief in his chest hardened into pure, boiling rage. He clenched his fist so tightly his knuckles turned white.
With a roar of fury, he slammed his fist into the floor, cracking the wood and busting his knuckles open. Blood dipped from his hands as he threw his head back and let out a scream of absolute agony and wrath.
"DHIRAJ!"
