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October 17, 2021. Dubai.
The world of cricket was focused on the imminent T20 World Cup, but in a boardroom in Mumbai, a different kind of game was being played. A game of zeros and commas.
The BCCI had opened the tender for two new IPL franchises—Gujarat and Lucknow. The titans of industry were there: Adani, Goenka, the Glazers from Manchester United. Everyone expected a fierce bidding war, but they expected it to stay within the realms of "sanity."
Then, the envelope from the Torrent Group was opened.
Bid Amount: ₹7,777 Crores.
A silence descended on the room, followed by a collective gasp that rippled out to the media waiting outside. The highest bid was miles away. This wasn't just a bid; it was a hostile takeover. It was a statement of infinite resources.
Breaking News (CNBC-TV18):"Shockwaves in the BCCI HQ! Torrent Group, a subsidiary of the shadowy Pathak Family Conglomerate, has acquired the Gujarat based franchise for a staggering ₹7,777 Crores!
But Pathak's wasn't done.
Half an hour later, another notification flashed on the business channels.
Breaking News (Business Standard):"Hostile Takeover? Pathak Entertainment, another arm of the Pathak Group, has acquired an 87% controlling stake in NDTV Media. The board has been dissolved with immediate effect with dilution of all the public shares at 20% premium."
I looked at the TV screen where, just days ago, Kapil Dev and Saba Karim had sat on that very channel calling me a "liability" and "soft."
"You want to control the narrative?" I whispered to the empty room. "Then you better own the station."
The message was sent. Now, it was time to play cricket.
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October 16, 2021. The Palm Jumeirah, Dubai.
The IPL was over. The confetti had settled, the yellow jerseys of Chennai Super Kings were celebrating their title, and the bubble-to-bubble transfer was complete. The carnival was done. Now, the crusade began.
The Indian squad for the ICC Men's T20 World Cup 2021 gathered in the 'Grand Ballroom' of our team hotel. The room was vast, air-conditioned to a chilling temperature, and smelled of sanitizer and freshly brewed coffee.
This wasn't a casual meet-and-greet. This was the War Room.
The doors were closed. The phones were confiscated.
At the front of the room, a massive whiteboard spanned the wall. In front of it sat the brain trust of Indian cricket:
Head Coach: Ravi Shastri, wearing his trademark sunglasses even indoors, radiating an aura of defiant confidence. Bowling Coach: Bharat Arun, the architect of our pace revolution, looking at his laptop with the intensity of a grandmaster. Fielding Coach: R. Sridhar, holding a clicker. Batting Coach: Vikram Rathour, shuffling papers. Physio: Nitin Patel. Trainer: Nick Webb. Analyst: Hari Prasad Mohan.
And sitting right in the center, flanked by Virat Kohli and Rohit Sharma, was the man whose mere presence changed the atmospheric pressure of the room.
Mahendra Singh Dhoni.
The BCCI had pulled a masterstroke. They had appointed him as the 'Team Mentor'. He wasn't playing—he had retired from international cricket a year ago—but Captain Cool was back in the blue setup. He sat there, legs crossed, a serene smile on his face, looking less like a coach and more like a monk who just happened to know everything about limited-overs cricket.
We, the 15 chosen ones, sat in concentric semi-circles.
The Squad:
Openers: Rohit Sharma (VC), KL Rahul, Ishan Kishan.
Middle Order: Virat Kohli (C), Suryakumar Yadav.
Wicketkeepers: Rishabh Pant, Ishan Kishan.
All-Rounders: Hardik Pandya, Ravindra Jadeja, Aarav Pathak.
Spinners: Varun Chakravarthy, Ravichandran Ashwin.
Pacers: Jasprit Bumrah, Bhuvneshwar Kumar, Mohammed Shami, Shardul Thakur.
(Reserves: Shreyas Iyer, Deepak Chahar, Axar Patel sat at the back).
Ravi Shastri stood up. He didn't need a microphone. His voice boomed off the walls.
"Gentlemen," Shastri began, scanning the room. "Welcome to the mission. We have been the best Test team in the world for five years. We are 50 overs champions. We have conquered Australia. We have conquered England. But this format... this trophy... it has eluded us for 14 years. Since 2007."
He pointed at MS Dhoni.
"The man who lifted it then is sitting right here. He is here to guide you. But he cannot play for you. You have to play."
Shastri turned to the whiteboard, where the groups were drawn.
Group 2: India, Pakistan, New Zealand, Afghanistan, Scotland, Namibia.
"We don't look at the semis. We don't look at the final. We look at October 24th. Pakistan. Then New Zealand. We win those two, we own the group. We lose one, we scramble. We lose two, we go home. It is that simple."
He looked at Virat. "Skip, the floor is yours."
Virat stood up. The intensity in his eyes was palpable. This was likely his last assignment as T20 Captain (he had announced he would step down after the World Cup). He wanted this more than anything.
"We play bold," Virat said, his voice tight with controlled aggression. "We don't wait for the game to come to us. We take the game by the throat. I don't care about the IPL form. I don't care about averages. When you wear this badge, you become a different animal."
He walked over to the tactical board.
"Let's talk combination. This is the blueprint."
He uncapped a marker and wrote the playing XI structure on the board.
KL Rahul
Rohit Sharma
Virat Kohli
Aarav Pathak
Suryakumar Yadav
Rishabh Pant (wk)
Hardik Pandya
Ravindra Jadeja
Bhuvneshwar Kumar
Jasprit Bumrah
Varun Chakravarthy
A ripple of murmurs went through the room.
Vikram Rathour, the batting coach, stepped in to explain the shift.
"Aarav," Rathour said, looking at me. "We know you bat at 3 for RCB. We know you dominate there. But look at this lineup."
He pointed to the names.
"Rohit and KL are the best openers in the world. Virat at 3 is the anchor who controls the game. If we lose early wickets, Virat stabilizes. But at Number 4... that is the pivot point."
Rathour tapped the board.
"Number 4 is where the game is won or lost in the middle overs (7-15). We need someone who can play spin aggressively but also handle high pace if the top order collapses. SKY is brilliant, but we want him at 5 to explode at the death. Pant is the lefty floater at 6. Hardik and Jaddu are the finishers."
"Aarav," Rathour continued. "You are the bridge. If we are 20/2, you play like a ODI batter who can score at 140 strike rate. If we are 100/1, you go out there and destroy the spinners. You are the all-rounder. We trust your technique more than anyone else's to adapt to the situation."
I nodded. It made sense. At Number 4, I could control the tempo.
"And," MS Dhoni spoke for the first time, his voice calm and gravelly. "It keeps the left-right combination flexible. If a wicket falls, Aarav goes. If a spinner is on, maybe we float Pant. But Aarav at 4 gives us security. He is the insurance policy that pays out big."
Dhoni looked at me. "You ready to bat anywhere, right?"
"Anywhere, Mahi bhai," I replied instantly. "Open or Number 11. Doesn't matter."
"Good," Dhoni smiled. "But Number 4 is yours. Own it."
Then came the bowling strategy. This was where the room got tense.
Bharat Arun took center stage.
"Look at the XI," Arun said. "Bhuvi, Bumrah, Shami. That's usually three pacers. But in UAE, the pitches will be slow. We need spin. Varun Chakravarthy is our X-factor. Jadeja is a lock."
He circled Hardik Pandya's name.
"Hardik is not bowling full tilt yet. His back is still an issue. We cannot rely on him for 4 overs."
He then circled Aarav Pathak's name. The circle was thick and bold.
"This is where the team balance changes," Arun said, his eyes gleaming. "In the past, we played three pure seamers because Hardik was the fourth. Now? Aarav is not the fourth seamer. Aarav is a Frontline Pacer."
He looked at me with immense pride.
"We have seen the nets. We saw the speed gun. 150 clicks. You are bowling faster than Shami. You are matching Bumrah. So, effectively, Aarav Pathak is our third or main seamer. This allows us to play Varun Chakravarthy as the spinner/mystery bowler."
"This puts a lot of load on you, Aarav," Virat said, looking concerned. "You are batting in the top 4 and bowling 4 overs of express pace. Can the body take it?"
I remembered the System's upgrade. The Brett Lee Mechanics. The Super-Human Recovery.
"The body is fine, Skip," I said confidently. "I can bowl 10 overs if you need me to. 4 is a warmup."
"Love the attitude," Shastri boomed. "So that's the plan. Bhuvi swings it up front. Bumrah attacks. Aarav creates chaos with pure pace in the middle or opens if the matchup dictates. Varun and Jaddu choke them."
The video analyst, Hari Mohan, dimmed the lights and pulled up the projector. The tactical breakdown began.
Target 1: Pakistan (Oct 24)
The screen showed Shaheen Shah Afridi.
"This guy," Rathour said, pointing to the tall left-armer. "He is their match-winner. Full, swinging in to the right-handers. Rohit, KL... you know the drill. He will look for the pads first ball."
"Play him straight," Rohit murmured, his eyes narrowing as he studied the footage. "Don't plant the front foot too early."
"If we survive Shaheen's first two overs," Virat said, "we kill the game. Their middle order is weak. But their opening pair... Babar and Rizwan."
The screen shifted to Babar Azam and Mohammad Rizwan.
"They don't get out," Hari said. "They accumulate. They run hard."
"We bowl dry," Bharat Arun countered. "We attack Rizwan with the short ball. Aarav, that's you. Rizwan struggles against high pace above the waist. You pepper him."
"And Babar?" I asked.
"Babar is class," Bumrah said softly. "But he plays with soft hands. We bring the slip into play. Fourth stump channel."
Target 2: New Zealand (Oct 31)
The screen changed to the Black Caps. The room grew colder. New Zealand was our bogey team.
"Kane Williamson," Virat said, looking at his counterpart's face on the screen. "He will use the spinners. Santner and Sodhi. They will bowl slow in the middle overs. They will try to strangle us."
"That's why Aarav is at 4," Dhoni interjected. "Aarav, against NZ, your role changes. You don't just consolidate. You attack the spin. Santner bowls flat. You use the crease. You disrupt their lengths. If we let them bowl 4 overs for 20 runs, we lose. You have to hit them."
"Trent Boult is the other threat," Rohit added. "Left-arm swing again."
"We handle Boult," KL Rahul said confidently. "We will be ready."
The Minnows (Afghanistan, Scotland, Namibia)
"We don't take them lightly," Virat warned. "Rashid Khan from Afghanistan is a world-class threat. But these games... these are for Net Run Rate. We don't just win; we smash them. We need to boost the NRR just in case."
As the technical meeting wound down, MS Dhoni stood up. The room went silent.
He walked to the center, hands in his pockets.
"Tactics are fine," Dhoni said softly. "Plans are fine. But in a World Cup, especially against Pakistan... plans go out the window in the first over if you panic."
He looked at Hardik Pandya.
"Hardik, you are the finisher. But don't swing at everything. Take the game deep. You know the drill. If we need 15 off the last over, back yourself. Don't panic in the 18th over and get out."
He looked at Rishabh Pant.
"Rishabh. One hand off the bat is fine. Falling over is fine. As long as you watch the ball. Don't try to manufacture shots that aren't there. The bowlers will make mistakes under pressure. Wait for them."
Then, he walked over to me. He put a hand on my shoulder. It was a heavy, reassuring grip.
"Aarav," Dhoni said. "You have the talent. You have the pace. I hear."
"But listen to me," Dhoni's eyes were serious. "You are the X-factor. But you are also young. In an India-Pakistan game, the noise is deafening. You won't hear Virat calling you. You won't hear me. You will only hear your own heartbeat."
He tapped my chest.
"Control that heartbeat. If you get angry, you lose. If you get too excited, you spray the ball. Be a monk who can kill. Controlled aggression. Like Virat, but... calmer."
"I understand, Mahi bhai," I said.
"And one more thing," Dhoni added, looking at the bowlers. "The 19th over."
"The 19th over is the most important over in T20," Dhoni stated. "The 20th takes care of itself. But the 19th kills the game. Bumrah usually bowls it. But Aarav... be ready. If Virat throws you the ball in the 19th over of a World Cup match, don't look for the perfect yorker every ball. Read the batsman. Play poker with him."
The meeting had gone on for two hours. The roadmap was clear.
Batting: Aggressive top order, Aarav as the pivot at 4, power finishers. Bowling: 3 Pacers (Bhuvi/Shami, Bumrah, Aarav) + 2 Spinners + Hardik (if needed). Mindset: Attack.
Ravi Shastri clapped his hands. "Right. That's the theory. The practical starts tomorrow in the nets. I want intensity. I want blood on the floor—metaphorically."
Virat stood up for the final word.
"We are here to win," Virat said, his voice echoing. "Not to participate. We are the best team in the world. Let's play like it. For the next one month, we are not friends with anyone outside this room. We are a family. We protect each other. We fight for each other."
He extended his hand into the center of the circle.
Rohit put his hand on top. Then Dhoni. Then me. Then the whole squad.
"1... 2... 3... INDIA!"
The shout was primal.
As we broke the huddle, I felt a weight settle on my shoulders. But it wasn't a burden. It was the weight of responsibility. I was the Number 4. I was the Main Pacer.
I walked out of the hall with Bumrah.
"Jassi bhai," I said. "Pakistan match. We bowl them out for under 160."
Bumrah smiled, that rare, dangerous smile. "Why 160? Let's aim for 120."
"Done," I grinned.
The War Room was closed. The battleground awaited.
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October 16, 2021. 10:00 PM. Team Hotel, Dubai.
The War Room had dispersed. The strategies were set, the roles defined, and the weight of a billion expectations had been evenly distributed across fifteen pairs of shoulders. I was back in my room, the silence of the hotel suite a stark contrast to the intensity of the meeting hall.
My roommate, Suryakumar Yadav (SKY), was already in bed, watching a web series with his headphones on, chuckling occasionally. I sat on the balcony, looking out at the Palm Jumeirah. The man-made island glittered below like a fallen constellation, the dark waters of the Persian Gulf lapping against the shores of luxury.
Day after tomorrow was the day. India vs Pakistan. The mother of all battles.
My phone buzzed on the glass table.
I picked it up, expecting a message from the physio or maybe a meme from Rishabh Pant. Instead, the screen flashed a name that always made me sit up straighter.
Incoming Call: Dad (Sachin Sir)
I frowned slightly. I knew Sachin Tendulkar was coming to Dubai. As the Global Brand Ambassador for Byju's (the ICC's partner) and a legend of the game, his presence at an India-Pakistan World Cup match was mandatory. But according to the schedule Anjali (Mom) had shared with me, his flight was due to land tomorrow morning, just in time for the match.
I slid the green icon.
"Hello, Dad? Is everything okay?"
"Aarav," the familiar, soft voice came through, sounding clearer than a long-distance call. "Everything is fine. Just... the flight schedule changed. Private jets have their perks, you know? We landed early."
"You're in Dubai?" I stood up, leaning against the railing.
"I am," Sachin chuckled. "In fact, I am in your hotel. The ICC arranged a suite for me here. It's... spacious."
"That's great! Which floor? I'll come down and say hi. Do you need anything?"
"I'm on the 4th floor. Room 403. It's a suite at the end of the East Wing," Sachin said. "And I don't need anything, but... come by. Just for five minutes. I want to see you before the madness starts tomorrow."
"I'm coming," I said instantly.
"Room 403," he repeated. "Don't knock too loud. It's late."
"Understood. See you in two minutes."
I hung up. I grabbed my key card and a hoodie.
"SKY," I whispered. "Going to meet Sachin Sir. Back in twenty."
SKY pulled one earphone out. "The God is here? Touch his feet for me also. Ask him for blessings for my sweep shot."
"Will do," I grinned.
The hotel corridors were wide, carpeted in plush royal blue with gold accents. It was quiet. The security guards stationed at the elevators recognized me and nodded, letting me pass. This was the sanctity of the bio-bubble; only authorized personnel and family were allowed in this wing.
I took the elevator down to the 4th floor. The air here smelled different—richer, somehow.
Room 401... 402...
I reached the end of the hallway. Room 403.
It wasn't just a door; it was double mahogany doors with gold handles. A Presidential Suite. Fitting for the God of Cricket.
I adjusted my hoodie, running a hand through my hair. I took a deep breath. Meeting Sachin Tendulkar never really got 'normal', even if I called him Dad in private. He was still the man whose poster I had on my wall in my previous life and in this too.
I raised my hand and knocked. Three sharp raps.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I waited, expecting the door to be opened by the Master Blaster himself, perhaps in his casual tracks, maybe holding a cup of tea.
The lock clicked. The handle turned.
The door swung open.
"Hello Dad!"
I froze. The greeting died in my throat. My brain short-circuited.
It wasn't Sachin Tendulkar.
Standing there, framed by the soft amber light of the suite's hallway, was a vision I hadn't expected to see for another month.
She was wearing a simple white oversized t-shirt that hung off one shoulder and grey sweatpants. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, with loose strands framing a face that was currently lit up with the most mischievous, radiant smile I had ever seen.
Shradha.
"Surprise!" she whispered, her eyes dancing with mirth.
I stood there, mouth slightly agape, looking like a fish out of water. "You... but... flight... Dad said..."
Shradha laughed - that bubbly, infectious sound that was my favorite song. She reached out, grabbed the front of my hoodie, and yanked me inside.
"Get in here, you idiot! Before someone sees!"
She pulled me into the foyer and kicked the heavy door shut behind us with her foot.
The moment the latch clicked, the playfulness vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated longing. She threw her arms around my neck and buried her face in my chest.
I snapped out of my stupor. I dropped my key card on the floor and wrapped my arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground.
"Shradha!" I breathed into her hair, which smelled of vanilla and strawberries.
I spun her around once, twice. She squealed softly, clinging to me. I set her down but didn't let go. I pulled back just enough to look at her face, cupping her cheeks with my hands.
"You're here," I said, still not quite believing it. "You're actually here."
"I'm here," she beamed, her hands resting on my chest, feeling my racing heart. "Did you really think I would miss your first World Cup? My dad might be the God of Cricket, but my fiancé is the next King. I had to come."
"But... the quarantine? The bubble?"
"ICC Family Protocol," she winked. "Dad pulled some strings. Plus, I've been vaccinated and tested negative three times in Mumbai. We flew private. Bubble to bubble."
I laughed, a sound of pure relief and joy. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, lingering there for a moment, letting the warmth of her skin ground me.
"I missed you," I whispered against her skin. "God, I missed you."
"I missed you too," she murmured, tightening her hug. "Video calls are trash. This... this is better."
We stood there in the foyer of the suite, wrapped in each other, for what felt like an eternity. The pressure of the Pakistan match, the noise of the media, the weight of the expectations, it all melted away. In this circle of her arms, I was just Aarav.
A polite cough echoed from the living room.
We broke apart instantly, like teenagers caught skipping class. Shradha turned a shade of pink that matched the roses in the vase on the console table.
I looked past her. The suite was massive, a living area bigger than a normal entire apartment back in Mumbai. And sitting on a plush cream sofa, looking at an iPad with a knowing grin on his face, was Sachin Tendulkar.
"If you two are done spinning around," Sachin said, his eyes twinkling, "I did actually invite you for a chat, Aarav."
I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. "Dad! Sir! I mean... Dad."
"Come in, come in," he waved us over.
Shradha took my hand, lacing her fingers through mine, and led me into the living room. She sat next to her father, and I took the armchair opposite them.
"So," Sachin looked at me, his expression shifting from amused parent to mentor. "Did the surprise work?"
"I almost had a heart attack," I admitted. "I thought I was hallucinating."
"Shradha insisted," Sachin said, patting his daughter's knee. "She said if she didn't come, you would bowl wides tomorrow because you'd be distracted missing her. I couldn't risk the team's chances, could I?"
"Exactly," Shradha nodded solemnly. "I am a strategic asset to the BCCI. I provide emotional stability."
I laughed. "You certainly do."
"How are you feeling, son?" Sachin asked, his tone turning serious. "Really feeling? Not the media answer. The truth."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "The body is good. The System... uh, the rehab worked. I feel fast. Faster than ever."
"I heard," Sachin nodded. "Virat texted me. 154 in the nets? Is that accurate?"
"Maybe a bit more," I smiled.
Sachin whistled low. "That is a weapon, Aarav. But be careful. Against Pakistan, adrenaline is a drug. It can make you bowl fast, but it can also make you spray. Line and length first. Pace second."
"I know," I said. "I'm focusing on the channel. The pace will take care of itself."
"Good. And don't get involved in the verbal battles," he advised. "They will try to get under your skin. Shaheen, Rauf... they are aggressive boys. You stay in your bubble. Silence is louder than words."
"I'll let the ball do the talking," I promised.
"That's my boy," Sachin smiled warmly. He stood up. "Right. I have an early morning shoot with the ICC. And I suspect..." he looked at Shradha, then at me, "...that you two have things to discuss that don't involve leg-spin and run rates."
Shradha blushed again.
"I'm going to my room," Sachin pointed to a connecting door on the far left. "You guys can stay here. Order room service. But Aarav... 1 AM curfew. You need sleep."
"Yes, Dad. 1 AM sharp," I promised.
He walked over, hugged me briefly, and kissed Shradha on the head. "Goodnight, kids."
He disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door with a soft click.
The moment the door closed, the dynamic shifted back. We were alone. In a luxury suite in Dubai.
Shradha turned to me, her eyes shining. "So... Mr. Cricketer. You look tired."
"It's been a long month," I sighed, sinking back into the armchair. "The IPL... the criticism... it was heavy."
She stood up and walked over to me. "Move."
I shifted, and she sat on the edge of the armchair, perching on the armrest, her hand finding its way to my hair. She started running her fingers through it gently—my favorite thing in the world.
"I saw the news," she said softly. "Kapil Dev calling you soft. I wanted to throw my shoe at the TV."
"I think I broke a remote," I admitted.
"Good," she said fiercely. "You should have broken the TV. They don't know what you were going through"
"It's done now," I said, leaning my head against her side. "The rehab is 100%. I feel... upgraded. Like I can run through walls."
"Just run through the Pakistani batting lineup, please," she teased. "Walls are expensive."
"I will," I promised.
"Hungry?" she asked.
"Always."
"I ordered for you," she smiled. "It should be here any minute."
As if on cue, a knock at the main door. Shradha ran to get it. It was a trolley.
She wheeled it in. On it sat two tall glasses of Cold Coffee with extra ice cream (my weakness) and a plate of club sandwiches.
"You know me too well," I groaned with happiness.
We sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa, the coffee between us. We didn't talk about cricket anymore.
We talked about us.
"How is the Study planning going?" I asked, taking a sip of the cold, sweet caffeine. "Or are you going to get failed?"
"It's too much! I don't know why I took medical Science, that too during this covid-19," Shradha sighed dramatically. "It's like I am studying to be the Prime Minister."
Aarav Laughed, "we should go on another trip soon! just 2 of us this time."
"Obviously," she smiled. "a good romantic trip."
"Done," I said. " Goa? Or Maldives?"
"Maldives," she decided. "No paparazzi."
"Expensive," I teased.
"Other than cricket talent, one thing you don't lack is money, Aarav," she deadpanned. "I think you can afford a resort."
"Right," I shook my head. "I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut."
"Never keep secrets from me," she whispered, tracing the line of my jaw with her finger. "That's the rule."
"Rule accepted."
We sat in silence for a while, just enjoying the proximity. The cold coffee was finished, the ice cream melted at the bottom.
"Are you scared?" she asked suddenly. "About tomorrow?"
I thought about it. The hype. The history. The expectation.
"No," I said honestly. "I used to be. But now... I feel ready. I feel like I've been preparing for this moment for two lifetimes."
"You have," she said. "And you're going to be amazing."
She turned her face to mine. Her eyes were dark pools of affection.
"Aarav," she whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Just... come back safe. Don't break yourself again."
"I won't."
"I don't care about anything other than you," she said fierce. "I only care about you."
I leaned in. The distance between us closed.
I kissed her.
It wasn't a hungry, desperate kiss. It was slow, soft, and tasted of cold coffee and vanilla. It was a kiss of reassurance. A promise.
When we pulled apart, she rested her forehead against mine.
"You should go," she whispered. "It's 12:55."
"Five more minutes?" I pleaded.
"Dad will wake up and drag you out by your ear," she laughed. "Go. Sleep. Conquer the world day after tomorrow. Then come back to me."
I stood up, pulling her with me. I hugged her one last time, breathing her in, storing the memory like a talisman against the pressure of tomorrow.
"Goodnight, Shradhs."
"Goodnight, Aaru."
I walked to the door. I looked back. She was standing in the middle of the room, hugging herself, watching me leave.
I stepped out into the hallway and the heavy door clicked shut.
I walked back to my room, my feet light, my heart full. The silence of the hotel didn't feel lonely anymore. It felt peaceful.
I entered my room. SKY was asleep, snoring gently.
I climbed into bed.
Soon, I would face Shaheen Afridi. Day after Tomorrow, I would face Babar Azam. Day after Tomorrow, a billion people would scream my name.
But tonight, I had held my world in my arms. And that was all the strength I needed.
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