Morning light filtered softly through the curtains.
Dhriti Yugen stood near the main switchboard, her fingers methodically pressing each switch one by one. She paused, stared at the labels, then checked them again—lights, kitchen outlets, heaters.
Everything that didn't need to be on was turned off.
She exhaled slowly.
'Why does it feel like I'm forgetting something…?'
Even after double-checking, her heart refused to settle. Though, she was not forgetting anything.
Outside, the quiet hum of the underground parking echoed faintly.
Ken Yugen stood beside a sleek, obsidian-black car, his palm resting gently on its polished surface. The vehicle was impossible to ignore—long, wide, and sculpted with elegance that bordered on arrogance.
This car was not something you simply owned.
It was something you inherited.
A gift from his esteemed elder brother, Porus.
Only two units of this model existed in the world. One with Porus. The other, right here.
Ken unlocked the doors.
The vehicle responded with a low, refined mechanical sound—no roar, no unnecessary display. Beneath its elegant exterior rested a 10-liter twin-turbo V15 engine, paired with a 15-speed automatic transmission, capable of delivering 1,200 PS of power and 900 Nm of peak torque.
A beast restrained by design.
Despite its massive 3,000-kilogram body and imposing dimensions—5,300 mm in length, 2,000 mm in width, and 1,300 mm in height—it moved with dignified grace.
Ken slid into the driver's seat.
The interior was a masterpiece.
A 1,603-piece hand-laid wood veneer, arranged to resemble falling rose petals, flowed across the dashboard. A 150-layer two-tone paint finish gave the cabin depth that shifted subtly with the light. Carbon-fiber and fiberglass reinforced the monocoque chassis, making it both light and strong.
At the center console, an Audemars Piguet watch rested seamlessly—designed to pop out and transform into a wristwatch when needed.
Ken didn't look at any of it.
His focus was elsewhere.
Get there safely. Nothing else matters.
Dhriti stepped out moments later, locking the front door carefully before turning the handle again—just to be sure.
Ekant and Tiyan followed behind her.
"Middle seats," Ken said calmly.
The car was technically a five-seater—two in front, three in the middle. The third middle seat was smaller, designed for a child.
Naturally, Tiyan claimed it without complaint.
Dhriti sat beside Ken in the front passenger seat. Ekant sat quietly beside his younger brother.
The doors closed.
The engine started.
v-v-v-vroom...
rrr-rrr-vroom...
Smooth. Silent. Controlled.
The car eased onto the road, merging into the flow of Nalanda City traffic. Ken maintained an average speed—steady, careful. This wasn't a place for showing off power or speed.
Not today.
Minutes passed.
Buildings drifted by outside the windows. Shops opening. People starting their day. A city unaware that, for one family, this morning carried more weight than most.
Tiyan glanced sideways at Ekant.
His brother's hands were clasped together, fingers subtly tightening and loosening.
"Tch," Tiyan muttered.
Ekant blinked. "What?"
"Why are you so tense?" Tiyan asked bluntly. "You'll be fine."
Ekant hesitated.
Then nodded.
"…Yeah."
Something loosened in his chest.
He leaned back slightly, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
The car continued forward.
After a while, Dhriti spoke without turning her head.
"Ekant," she said gently, "I know what you're thinking."
Ekant stiffened.
She continued, her voice steady but warm.
"You're wondering why we're spending so much money on you."
Silence filled the car.
Dhriti finally turned to look at him.
"You're thinking we're wasting it."
Ekant lowered his gaze.
"…I didn't say that."
"You didn't need to," she replied softly.
She took a breath.
"You already know this," she continued, "but I'll say it again. We love you as our own child."
Ken nodded slightly, eyes still on the road.
"From the day we found you at the orphanage," Dhriti said, "you became our son."
Ekant's throat tightened.
He remembered.
He had been one month old.
Small. Fragile. Alone.
It had been eighteen years since then.
He had learned the truth when he was seven—not through anger or secrecy, but honesty. And even then, nothing had changed.
Meals were still warm.
Hands were still gentle.
Expectations were still high—but never conditional.
"You've never been a burden," Ken said quietly. "Not once."
Tiyan crossed his arms dramatically. "And even if you were, you'd still be our burden."
Ekant let out a short laugh despite himself.
He looked at them—really looked.
"…I'm not worried about the money," Ekant said at last. "I promise."
Dhriti smiled.
"That's good," she said. "Because we aren't either."
The hospital building came into view in the distance.
The car continued forward, steady and unwavering.
Whatever awaited them beyond those doors—
They would face it together.
To be Continued.