The sun crawled over the skyline, but for Vikram Vardhan, it wasn't a new day. It felt like a countdown. He hadn't slept; his brain was a mess of Xavier's whispers and the phantom scent of rain. Arjun? No. Logic wouldn't allow it. Arjun was a ghost, a broken thing he'd tossed away like a spent cigarette. Vikram fumbled with his silk tie, his hands betraying him with a slight tremor. He needed to look like a king today, even if the throne was starting to feel like an electric chair.
As he entered the lobby, the silence hit him. No "Good morning, sir." Just eyes. Pitying, sideways glances from interns who used to look at the floor when he passed. The air in the building tasted thin, like a dying star.
In the elevator, Vikram checked his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen. Red numbers. His personal accounts were hemorrhaging, stocks plummeting so fast the apps couldn't even refresh the loss. "Who is this guy?" he spat, cracking his knuckles against the wood paneling.
The boardroom was a tomb. Twelve men, his 'loyal' circle, were huddled in whispers that died the second he crossed the threshold. The big leather chair at the head of the table—his chair—was turned toward the window.
"What's the hell is going on?" Vikram barked, trying to find his old roar. "I didn't authorize a meeting. Out. All of you!"
"I did," a voice came from the head of the table. Calm. Low. Dangerous.
The chair creaked as it spun around. Xavier sat there, not like a businessman, but like a predator who'd already finished his meal. He was in midnight blue, looking sharper than the glass shards of Vikram's pride. He was casually tapping a manila folder against his knee.
"You?" Vikram's voice cracked. "Get out of that seat. Guards! Get this lunatic out!"
Xavier didn't even blink. He didn't have to. He just looked at Mr. Khanna—Vikram's oldest friend, his right hand.
Khanna wouldn't look up. He looked at his cuticles like they were the most interesting thing in the world. "Vikram... stop. It's over. As of 8:00 AM, Xavier Holdings owns 51%. He... he's the chair now. Legally."
The world tilted. Vikram felt a cold sweat prickling his neck. "51%? That's impossible. You don't just find that kind of cash overnight. This is a setup. I'll sue every one of you!"
Xavier stood up, moving with a slow, heavy grace. He walked around the table, his shoes clicking on the floor like a ticking clock. He stopped an inch behind Vikram, leaning in so close Vikram could smell the expensive, cold scent of his cologne.
"I didn't need a mountain of cash, Vikram. I just needed to dig up your dead." Xavier leaned over his shoulder, dropping the folder. "The pension funds you bled dry for that bridge project. The Cayman accounts. The cheap steel that cost six workers their lives. I didn't just buy your stock, old man. I bought your sins. And then, I bought your friends."
He glanced at Khanna, who still wouldn't look up. "Everyone has a price. You're the one who taught me that, remember? You sold your kid to save a ticker symbol. I just bought your soul to kill it."
Vikram's knees gave out. He slid into a chair, gasping, looking like a man drowning on dry land. "What do you want? Take the money. Take the houses. Just... leave me the name."
Xavier let out a short, jagged laugh. "The name? 'Vardhan' is a curse now. I don't want your money, Vikram. I want you to live in the silence. I want you to feel the cold hunger of being a nobody."
The doors slid open. Two feds walked in, their faces as stone-cold as the handcuffs they were carrying.
"Vikram Vardhan? You're under arrest. Fraud, money laundering... and the disappearance of Arjun Vardhan."
Vikram's head snapped toward Xavier. "Disappearance? He's right there! Look at him! That's Arjun! He's my son!" His voice was a pathetic shriek, his finger trembling as he pointed.
Xavier just looked at the feds with a face of pure, bored confusion. He pulled a Singaporean passport from his pocket, sliding it across the table.
"I'm afraid Mr. Vardhan is having a breakdown," Xavier said softly. "The pressure of losing a billion dollars can do that to a man. My name is Xavier Raichand. My father died a decade ago in Singapore. There are DNA records in the file if you care to check."
The feds didn't even hesitate. They grabbed Vikram's arms. "Let's go, sir. Don't make a scene."
As they dragged him out, Vikram's screams echoed down the hallway. "ARJUN! LOOK AT ME! I KNOW IT'S YOU!"
Xavier stood at the window, watching the police cruiser pull away. He waited for the rush of joy, the heat of victory. It never came. He just felt... hollow. The Architect had rebuilt the house, but the lights were still off.
He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a small, framed photo. A young boy, a laughing mother. He stared at Arjun's face—a face that no longer existed. He slowly laid the frame face-down.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the mahogany table. An unknown number.
"The Father is in a cage. But the man who actually gave the order to the Russians is still sipping scotch. See you at the docks, Xavier. Or should I say... Arjun?"
Xavier's eyes didn't widen. They just turned to ice. The game hadn't ended. It had just evolved.