Some time later, DJ stood under the shower, water slamming into his shoulders like it was trying to knock something loose. Steam filled the bathroom. He scrubbed harder than needed. Soap. Water. Again. His hands moved on their own. Nothing washed off. The weight stayed.
He shut the tap and stood there a second longer, water dripping from his hair, staring at the wall. Blank tiles. Lit corner. Same old.
He dried off, pulled on a loose T-shirt, and walked out.
Hunger hit him suddenly. Sharp. Annoying.
He sat at the table, elbows resting on the glass, eyes drifting around the apartment. Too quiet. He checked the time. Frowned.
No maid. Where is Natalie? He thinks of himself.
His fingers moved toward his phone. Service provider. Complaint. Simple.
The door unlocked before he could tap the screen.
She stepped in.
He looked up, irritation already there. "You're late," he said. "And nobody informed me."
She didn't look at him. Took off her sandals slowly. Her voice was low deliberate, she was hiding. "There was… a problem at home."
He scoffed. "Is that my problem?"
She muttered something under her breath.
Too soft to catch.
That ticked him.
" What did you say?"
" Nothing sir." And DJ didn't push forward, but annoyance was clear on his face.
Eventually she went into the kitchen.
Plates clinked. Oil hissed. Silence stretched.
When the food came, he didn't look up. Just pulled the plate closer and started eating.
No small talk. No "how was your day."
Nothing.
He chewed. Slower. Frowned.
"This tastes awful," he snapped. "What is this? You call this food?"
His voice echoed off the walls. He pushed the plate away a little, disgusted. "If you're going to act dramatic, at least do your job right."
She said nothing. Just nodded. "Sorry, sir."
" What sorry? Would it make it good again!
What a waste of money, why am I paying you to make it like this? First you came late without informing and then this? What's wrong with you?" She didn't say anything, just stood there. And seeing this, he became more irritated.
" What are you doing standing there, take this away." Hearing this, she picked up the plate.
Turned to leave.
As she passed the light near the door, he noticed it.
The makeup was thick. Too thick. One cheek is slightly swollen. The other is carefully covered. Her head stayed down.
He felt nothing.
No pause. No guilt. No second thought.
He tossed the plate aside, food sliding onto the table, and stood up.
"I'm going out," he said, already walking past her.
She murmured another sorry behind him.
The door closed.
DJ stepped into the corridor, hands shoved into his pockets. He walked without a plan, the apartment shrinking behind him, the quiet pressing in from all sides.
DJ headed down and entered the parking lot and headed towards his bike. And after sitting, he roared the throttle harder than it needed and rushed out. Tires screeching, cutting lanes like the road owed him money.
Red lights blurred past. Horns screamed. Somewhere behind him, a siren tried to matter. He didn't even look back.
Let them find him.
What was one more number?
He slammed the bike near a bar, didn't bother parking straight. A bouncer stepped in front of him, palm out.
Dj didn't slow. He pulled out a wad of notes, shoved it into the guy's chest. The hand dropped. The rope lifted. No words exchanged. That was how things worked.
Inside, the bass hit him in the ribs. Lights flashed. Sweat. Cheap and expensive perfume mix together. He ordered a drink. Then another. Then stopped counting.
Time bent.
At some point he was arguing with the bartender about a glass. Or ice. Or nothing. His mouth was running faster than his head. He turned away mid-sentence—and froze.
The guy on the floor, dancing like the place belonged to him. Loose shirt. That grin. The same face he'd seen before. Once. Twice. Now again. That same guy who was selling Pullwater to those terrorists.
Dj's thoughts slipped. Logic drowned under alcohol and noise. All that stayed was heat in his chest.
He moved.
A bodyguard caught his arm. Dj reacted on muscle memory. Twist. Pull. The guard hit the floor hard enough to draw cheers. Dj didn't hear them.
He shoved through the crowd, grabbed the girl by the shoulder, pulled her aside. She yelped. Samir turned, confused, smiling like this was a joke—
Dj punched him.
Clean. Straight. Knuckles into cheekbone.
The music didn't stop, like in those movies. There was no dramatic silence. Just noise swallowing violence.
"What did you do to her?" Dj yelled, words slurring together.
Samir blinked, staggered, laughed. "What?"
Hands grabbed DJ from behind. Then more. He swung, connected with someone's jaw, felt something crack—maybe bone, maybe his own skin. Someone hit his ribs. Another clipped his head. He went down, came up, went down again.
Phones came out. Flashlights. People filming instead of helping.
The music slowed. Not stopped. Like the room didn't want to admit what was happening.
Boots. Fists. Too many.
He tasted blood.
Someone dragged him by the collar. Another kicked his leg out. He was hauled outside and thrown onto the pavement like trash.
Samir didn't even look at him. Just waved a hand. "Enough."
The door shut.
Dj lay there for a second, staring at the spinning lights above the entrance. A couple of people hovered nearby, faces awkward, sympathetic. He pushed himself up, wobbling, waved them off without looking, his condition was enough.
He limped to his bike, but before he could grab it, his hand slipped, and fell down. And he started to lose consciousness when he saw a person running towards him, calling his name.
Morning came in pieces.
Light through a cracked curtain. A ceiling fan clicking like it might give up. DJ tried to roll and immediately sucked air through his teeth. Everything hurt. Ribs. Shoulder. Leg. Even his neck felt offended.
"Great," he muttered.
He opened one eye. Then the other.
Not his place.
Smaller room. Cheap poster walls. A worktable shoved near the window, wires hanging off it like veins. Seven floors up—he knew that without looking. No lift. Rony's place.
"How the hell…" He stopped. Thinking hurt too.
He shifted again, failed, then just lay there staring at the ceiling, waiting for the pain to calm down. It didn't.
Footsteps. A cupboard closing.
Rony walked in from the kitchen with a glass. Muddy Orange. Thick. Probably illegal.
He held it out. "Drink."
DJ took it, sniffed it, took a careful sip—and immediately made a face. "What is this?"
"Good for you," Rony said. "Helps healing."
"Yeah, no." DJ put it on the table like it might attack him. "Tastes like regret."
Rony didn't argue. He leaned against the desk instead.
DJ looked at him properly then. Rony's face was mostly fine. One cheek swollen. Faint red along the jaw.
They stared at each other. Long enough to get uncomfortable.
DJ broke first. He looked away, sank back into the mattress. "What did I do wrong?"
Rony didn't answer right away. He turned slightly. One of the monitors lit up behind him.
Grainy footage. Loud music. Bodies moving. DJ recognized the angle before he recognized himself.
Then he heard it. His own voice, slurred. The shove. The punch.
Rony spoke without looking back. "Punching a guy with six bodyguards while drunk isn't wrong. It's stupid."
DJ stayed quiet. The sounds kept playing. Fists. Shouts. Someone laughing.
After a bit, DJ said, "Not that."
Rony finally turned. "Then what?"
"Why did you slap me yesterday?"
That landed.
Rony froze, hand still on the desk. He looked at DJ like he was trying to decide how honest to be.
"If you're asking that," he said slowly, "I don't know what to say."
DJ frowned. "I said if I knew it was her, I would've—"
"—That's not the point." Rony cut him off. Sharp. "You heard it. You knew something was wrong. And you walked away."
DJ tried to sit up. Failed. "You don't know that."
"I do." Rony stepped closer. "You hesitated. Then you chose yourself."
DJ opened his mouth. Closed it.
Rony kept going. "Do you feel guilty?"
Silence.
DJ stared at the wall. The paint had cracks shaped like roads. He followed one with his eyes.
"I don't know," he said.
Rony nodded once. "Fair."
He turned back to the screens. Switched feeds. The bar again. DJ on the floor this time.
Bodies around him. Phones out. No one moving.
"I could've left you there," Rony said quietly.
" Waiting for an ambulance that nobody called for. No help . No hero moment. Just you bleeding on a sticky cold floor."
DJ swallowed.
"There were six bodyguards," Rony continued. "And sixty people watching. They could've stopped it. Easy. Not one tried."
He went quiet.
Then, softer, "It's never about whether you can do it. It's about effort, it's about trying."
He glanced down at his own leg. The brace. The angle that never quite looked right.
"I could've saved my ankle," he said. Like he was talking about the weather.
DJ looked at him.
"During Carl and Krish," Rony went on, "I was running. Just running. Then I saw a kid, a girl I say. A telephone pole was about to fall on her. Didn't think. Just moved."
He shrugged. "Don't even know what happened to her after that. Never saw her face. Didn't know her name or anything."
DJ didn't speak.
After a while, he said, "I'm not a good guy, Rony."
Rony waited.
"I'm selfish," DJ went on. "A coward. Petty thief. Why do you think I'm… anything?"
Rony rubbed his face. Exhaled.
"I don't know," he said. Honest. Tired. "I just think you can do better."
He met DJ's eyes.
"You can be better."
The fan clicked again.
DJ stared at the ceiling, chest heavy, feeling like that sentence hurt worse than the punches.