The grand Bajaj mansion in Mumbai glittered under the stormy sky, its sprawling halls filled with relatives for Karuna Bajaj's 1-year death anniversary. The air was thick with incense and resentment, as family members gathered in the opulent living room, their eyes sharp like daggers.

"I won't divorce him!" Ari Bajaj declared, her voice echoing off the marble walls, her stunning beauty—long dark hair, sharp features, and graceful poise—making her stand out like a diamond in the rough.

"Divorce him, and you can come back to the family home!" Adhiraj Bajaj shouted, her grandfatherly face twisted in fury, slamming his cane on the floor.

"Yes, divorce him!" Tanish Bajaj, the eldest uncle, sneered. "He is nothing! His family didn't want him, he has poor roots, an orphan tossed aside like trash!"

"Don't say that to my husband!" Ari shouted back, her eyes blazing with anger.

"Divorce him, Ari, my friend has been asking," Aadiv Bajaj, the third uncle, said smoothly, a sly smile on his lips. "His only son likes you very much. His wife died last year, leaving just one 3-year-old son. The man saw you at the office and has taken a liking to you. Marry him—he owns two construction companies!"

"Yes, Ari, divorce this poor orphan!" Driti Bajaj jeered, her cousin's voice dripping with envy. The girls hated Ari for her extreme beauty, and Ishaan's handsome looks only fueled their spite—they couldn't stand seeing her with him. "He only knows how to do housework. Marry this other man!"

"Exactly," Prithvi Bajaj added, his bratty tone matching his sister's. "That guy's not good-looking, but at least he's rich, not some mute housekeeper like him!"

"Enough is enough! I will never divorce him!" Ari snapped, her chest heaving.

Misahay Bajaj, her father, cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ari, return home if you won't divorce him." He stared toward the grandfather in hopes of pleasing him, but Adhiraj looked indifferent, his eyes cold.

The room erupted in more taunts.

"Look at that silent fool!" Rajat Bajaj laughed. "Tall and Big on the outside, but empty inside!"

"Pathetic orphan, dragging our Ari down!" Ranveer Bajaj mocked. "She deserves a real man, not a house servant!"

"Ari, think of the family!" Tanish pressed. "This marriage was a mistake from the start. Karuna's gone—time to fix it!"

"Grandma wanted this!" Ari retorted. "I honor her wishes!"

"Honor? With him?" Driti scoffed. "You're wasting your beauty on a nobody who can't even speak up!"

"Quiet, all of you!" Lajja Bajaj, Ari's mother, pleaded weakly. "Ari, listen to your grandfather."

"No!" Ari yelled, grabbing Ishaan's hand. "We're leaving!"

"You'll regret this, girl!" Adhiraj growled.

"She'll come crawling back!" Aadiv chuckled.

Ishaan, a quiet man—Ari's husband, 6'3" tall, slim, fair, and handsome with long hairs tied in a bun—let her pull him away without a word.

They stepped out of the mansion, the gates clanging shut behind them. Rain poured down, drenching them instantly. Ari stood in front of the gate, sobbing, her clothes clinging to her.

"I hate them!" she said, tears mixing with rain. "And I hate you! You never stand up for yourself, never say anything! Why don't you? Do you like hearing what they say to you? I don't want anyone saying anything to my husband!"

Ishaan remained silent, years of abuse from his adoptive family having forged his quietude like iron. But today, seeing her cry, something stirred deep within. He wanted to hug her, to make her stop crying, but his body didn't move. He loved his wife—how she stood for him, how she cared, even if subtly. Although they had been married for two years, the relationship was in name only, no love or affection between them on the surface. But he loved her deeply. He had believed his life would stay like this always—endless endurance—but today, he wanted it to change for her.

"You're so frustrating!" Ari wailed, shoving him lightly. "Why are you like this? Speak! Fight back!"

Still, silence. "I can't do this alone," she whispered, breaking down further.

Inside, Ishaan's heart ached. He loved her more than anything, her strength inspiring him to dream of a better tomorrow.

They hailed a taxi, the rain hammering the roof like accusations. Ari slumped in the seat, crying herself to sleep. Back at their modest 2BHK, Ishaan took the floor as always, while Ari slept on the bed, the night heavy with unspoken promises.

As Ishaan lay there, staring at the ceiling, memories flooded him—the abuse from his uncles Aarush, Divit, and Zavian; the indifference of Madhura, his adoptive mother; the timid care from Niti. He had promised his late father Rajesh to protect them, but now, for Ari, he yearned to break free.

The next morning, Ishaan woke up early at 5 AM, the vivid scene from yesterday's confrontation replaying in his mind like a relentless storm. He lay on the floor of their rented 2BHK flat, the thin mat doing little to cushion the hard tiles. What can I do? he thought, his secret savings of 4 lakhs burning in his mind. If Misahay or Lajja knew, they'd snatch it away in an instant, claiming it for "family needs." But what could it buy? Freedom? Respect? A way to protect Ari? He sighed, pushing the thoughts aside. This was his routine—stealing a few hours of peace before the chaos began.

After the expulsion from the Bajaj mansion, the four of them—Ishaan, Ari, Misahay, and Lajja—had crammed into this modest flat in a dingy Mumbai suburb. No luxury, just survival. Ishaan rose quietly, did his usual exercises: push-ups, stretches, and meditation in the tiny balcony, breathing in the humid air as the city stirred. By 6:30, he was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast—simple idlis, chutney, and tea. The aroma filled the air, a small act of duty he clung to.

At 7 AM, Ari stirred in the bedroom. Ishaan heard her footsteps and called softly, "Breakfast is ready."

She emerged, rubbing her eyes, still puffy from last night's tears. "Do you need some help with anything?" she asked, her voice neutral but laced with yesterday's exhaustion.

"No, everything is done already," Ishaan replied quietly, setting the plate. She nodded, ate quickly, got ready by 8, and left for work at the Bajaj company—Adhiraj's empire, where he kept her employed to remind her of her "place," preventing her from shining elsewhere.

Misahay woke at 8, grumbled through his morning routine, then went for a jog. He returned at 9, sweating, and sat for breakfast. Lajja was already up, sipping tea. They ate together, the table tense.

The moment Lajja spotted Ishaan clearing dishes, she cursed. "You, The moment you came to our house, everything went to hell! Look at us—kicked out because of your worthless hide!"

Misahay, timid as ever, chimed in weakly. "At least do the housework properly. You're blessed to marry my beautiful daughter—don't mess it up!"

Ishaan bowed his head. "Yes, I'll make sure."

Lajja snorted. "Blessed? Ha! You're a curse. Clean faster, orphan boy!"

Misahay finished, patted his belly, and left on his old bike for the 5-acre orange plantation on the city's outskirts. No real need to go daily—the low-yield farm barely scraped by with two servants—but there, he could boss them around, feeling like a big shot. "Order some tea, boys!" he'd bark, basking in flattery. He'd return by 5-6 PM, sometimes sneaking drinks with friends if Lajja allowed or Ari slipped him pocket money.

Lajja, bitter and self-deluded as a faded beauty queen—good-looking for her age but cheap, showy, and money-hungry—stayed behind. She handled finances like a tyrant: Ari's 1 lakh salary vanished into her purse each month. "15 thousand for you, girl—don't waste it!" she'd snap to Ari. "10 thousand pocket money for your father—for travel and expenses." Everything else? Her permission required. Ishaan fetched groceries, counted every rupee under her hawkish eye. She spent her days at spas, tea parties, and card games with "rich" housewives, bragging, "My family's loaded—Bajaj blood, you know!"

After they left, Ishaan grabbed the grocery list and headed out. First, the market—rice, veggies, spices—then, his sanctuary: the century-old second-hand store in a narrow alley. The dusty shelves overflowed with forgotten tomes and trinkets. Ishaan returned a borrowed book, the owner nodding. "Back on time, as always. 20 rupees for the rental."

Long ago, Ishaan had struck a deal: borrow, read, return—no buying outright, as he couldn't afford it. His passion for reading was his escape, devouring English, Hindi, Marathi, Sanskrit, even picking up Kannada, Telugu, Malayalam, and Odia basics. Today, a book caught his eye: no cover, leather binding cracked with age, pages yellowed. The script resembled Sanskrit but twisted, unreadable.

"What's this?" Ishaan asked, tracing the symbols.

The owner shrugged. "Came in a new lot—people dump old junk. Useless scribbles. If you can't read it, put it back."

But Ishaan was drawn: the ancient aura, the mystery. "I will return it"

"Take it if you want—probably trash."

He took it, tucking it under his arm with the groceries.

Home by noon, Ishaan watched his favorite show: martial arts techniques from around the world. He'd loved it since childhood, imitating moves in the empty living room—kicks, blocks, flows. No one home, just him and the screen.

Ari returned at 6:30, tired. "Dinner?" she asked.

"Starting now," Ishaan said, chopping veggies.

Misahay arrived at 7, reeking of farm dirt. "Food ready, boy?"

Lajja swept in at 8. Dinner was tense: dal, roti, curry.

"You burned the roti again!" Lajja snapped. "Useless hands!"

"It's fine, Ma," Ari defended. "Ishaan works hard."

"Hard? Like a servant!" Misahay muttered. "At least you're fed—most orphans don't have this luxury."

"Grateful? He's a leech!" Lajja hissed. "If not for Karuna's stupidity, we'd be back home!"

Ari sighed. "Stop it. He's family."

Taunts flew like arrows, Ari shielding him quietly. They ate in silence after, then went to bed.

In the bedroom, Ishaan dimmed the lights for Ari. "Goodnight."

She nodded, asleep soon. Alone, he studied the book with a magnifying glass under a dim lamp. Page by page, symbols danced—Sanskrit-like, yet alien. Then, one page: a faded, crude picture of a man holding a book, eerily similar to him now—long hair in a bun, slim frame.

Curious, Ishaan traced his finger over it. When it touched the book's image... flash! A blinding white light engulfed everything. The book vanished in a puff, knowledge surging into his mind like a torrent. He collapsed, thudding to the table.

The noise woke Ari. She stirred, saw him slumped over the table. "Ishaan?" No response. Assuming exhaustion, she draped a blanket over him and returned to bed, the mystery lingering in the dark.

The morning sun crept through the curtains of the bedroom window, casting a soft glow. Ishaan stirred, his eyes fluttering open as a strange sensation washed over him. His body felt light as air, weightless, like he was floating on a cloud. "What... what's this feeling?" he whispered to himself, sitting up slowly. A surge of energy and positivity flowed through him, tingling from his toes to his scalp, making every muscle hum with vitality.

He rubbed his eyes, the memory of yesterday's incident flashing vividly—the mysterious picture in the ancient book, the blinding light that seemed to swallow everything, the book vanishing into thin air. "Was that real? Or just a weird dream?" he questioned aloud, shaking his head in confusion. "I must have been too tired from all the drama at the mansion. Ari's tears... that must have messed with my head." But deep down, a part of him doubted it was that simple. The book had felt so tangible, its leather binding cool under his fingers.

Pushing the thoughts aside for now, Ishaan headed to the bathroom to freshen up. As he splashed water on his face and glanced in the mirror, he froze, his reflection staring back at him like a stranger. His muscles, which had been decent and functional from his daily exercises before, now looked perfectly toned, like those of an athlete who'd dedicated hours to rigorous training every day. His flat stomach had evolved into chiseled six-pack abs, his chest and arms defined with sharp lines. Even his long black hair, usually practical and unremarkable, shone with a healthy, glossy sheen, framing his fair, handsome face in a way that made him look like a total model from a magazine cover.

"Whoa... is this me?" he muttered, turning side to side to examine himself. "I never cared much for looks before—always too busy surviving. But this... this is insane! How did my body change overnight? Am I hallucinating?" He flexed his arm, watching the muscles ripple effortlessly. "No, this feels real. Too real. What if that book did something to me? But magic? That's ridiculous... isn't it?"

Amazed and a bit unnerved, Ishaan stepped out of the bathroom, still in disbelief. He decided to stick to his routine, starting his usual exercises in the living room—push-ups, squats, stretches. But as he began, the difference hit him like a wave. "No breathlessness at all?" he said aloud, completing double the reps without a hint of fatigue. His stamina had increased exponentially; what used to leave him winded now felt like a warm-up. "Okay, this is not normal. Before, I'd be sweating by now. Today? Nothing!"

Encouraged, he recalled the martial arts moves from his favorite TV show—the ones that were too difficult and technical before, requiring precision he could never quite master. He tried a complex spin kick, and to his shock, it flowed out with the grace of a practiced master. "How did I just do that?" he exclaimed, landing perfectly. He followed with a series of punches and blocks, each one seamless. "It's like my body knows what to do instinctively. No hesitation, no mistakes. What if I try that advanced flip I always failed at?" He attempted it, flipping mid-air and sticking the landing. "Impossible! I couldn't even get halfway before. This... this has to be from the book. But how? Why me?"

Breathing steadily—not a pant in sight—Ishaan moved to the kitchen, preparing breakfast with newfound ease. The dosa batter sizzled on the pan, chutney blended in seconds. "Everything's so effortless," he murmured, chopping vegetables at twice his normal speed. "Time feels slowed down. Tasks that took an hour? Done in half. Is this superhuman or what?" By 7 AM, the flat was spotless—floors mopped, laundry folded, breakfast laid out perfectly. "I've got time to spare. What now?"

With the household chores wrapped up unusually early, Ishaan stepped onto the balcony, the bustling Mumbai city sprawling below like a chaotic tapestry. The cool breeze ruffled his shining hair as he leaned on the railing, deep in thought. "Yesterday wasn't a dream," he said to himself, piecing it together. "I've changed—somehow. And there's all this knowledge in my head now, things I never learned. Ancient scripts, energy flows, techniques for strength... the book must have been a magical treasure. But why did it choose me? Was it fate, or just luck?"

He closed his eyes, feeling the invisible energy aura pulsing around him, faintly visible as a shimmer in his vision. "Something has truly changed in me," he whispered, a mix of excitement and fear bubbling up. "For Ari's sake, I can use this. No more silence, no more enduring. But how? Where do I start?" As the sun rose higher, Ishaan's mind raced with possibilities, but his thoughts were interrupted by Ari’s voice calling from the living room. “Ishaan! Ishaan, are you there?”

“Yes!” he replied, stepping through the door. The warm morning sun framed him, casting a golden halo around his figure. He wore his usual black t-shirt and pajamas, but today the fabric clung tightly to his chiseled upper body, sculpting him like a Greek statue. His skin glowed extra fair, and his long hair, tied in a messy bun, shimmered with an almost otherworldly sheen.

Ari glanced up, her breath catching. He’s so handsome… The thought slipped into her mind unbidden, and a blush crept up her cheeks. She quickly looked away. “Good morning,” she said quietly, her voice softer than usual.

“Good morning,” Ishaan answered, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Do you need any help?” she asked, trying to regain her composure.

“All the household work is done for today,” he said, his tone calm but confident.

“Very nice,” Ari replied, a hint of relief in her voice. “Mom won’t be able to nitpick on you today.” She chuckled lightly.

Ishaan let out a small laugh, the sound rare and warm. They sat for breakfast together—dosa and chutney—sharing a quiet moment amid the tension of their lives.

As Ari prepared to leave for work at 8 AM, Ishaan hesitated, then spoke with effort. “Can I drop you? I know you take an auto, then a local, then another auto—it must be hectic. Should I drop you?”

Ari’s mind blanked for a moment, surprised by the offer. Coming back to her senses, she nodded. “Okay, then drop me to work today.”

Ishaan nodded eagerly, dashing to the bedroom. He emerged minutes later in a neatly pressed white shirt and black pants—clothes he meticulously washed and maintained himself, a small pride in his sparse wardrobe. “Ready,” he said.

“You look wonderful, Ishaan,” Ari said, her eyes widening. “Hope you could dress formal like this every day.”

Ishaan laughed silently, a shy grin on his face. Just then, Misahay, freshly awake, shuffled out. “Where are you going?” he asked, eyeing Ishaan suspiciously.

Ari stepped in. “I asked him to drop me to the office. Please let him borrow your bike for today.”

“No, I need to go to the farm!” Misahay protested.

“You can take a rest today,” Ari countered firmly. “Ishaan has cooked lunch and cleaned the house. Sometimes you need to rest, Father.” Without waiting for more objections, she grabbed the keys from the wall and pulled Ishaan out.

They sped off on the bike, heads turning at the beautiful couple weaving through Mumbai’s streets. At a signal, a sleek Mercedes-Benz S-Class pulled alongside. The driver, a rich-looking man in a business suit, lowered his window. “Ari!” he called.

Ari glanced back. It was Vickey Malhotra, Aadiv Bajaj’s friend's son—his wife died a year ago, and since spotting Ari at the office, he’d been infatuated. “Good morning,” she said curtly, facing forward.

“Hey, Ari!” Vickey called again. “If you’re going to the office, let me drop you. I’m heading there too.”

“No, my husband will drop me,” Ari replied politely but firmly.

Vickey’s face darkened with envy. “Why sit on a cheap bike and struggle? Come relax here with me. I bet your husband can’t even dream of driving a beauty like this!”

“No thank you,” Ari snapped, a hint of anger in her tone. The signal turned green, and they sped off, but Vickey’s words left her mood sour.

Seeing her frown, Ishaan offered, “I’m glad to drop you. Don’t let him get to you.”

She managed a small smile. “Thanks, Ishaan.” He dropped her at the office, then turned to leave, but a voice halted him.

“Ishaan!” a young man called—Prithvi Bajaj, Tanish’s son, Ari’s cousin. “What are you doing here?” he asked with a condescending sneer.

“Dropping Ari,” Ishaan replied evenly.

Prithvi smirked. “All you can do is do housework and play driver? Come, hold my bag to my cabin!” he demanded.

Ishaan quietly took the bag, following him through the lively office—hundreds of workers buzzing before the executives arrived. He dropped the bag in Prithvi’s glass cabin and turned to leave.

On the way out, Vickey spotted him. “Ishaan, wait!” he called, pulling him aside to the emergency staircase. “I need to talk about something important.”

“What is it?” Ishaan asked, his voice steady.

“I’m in love with Ari,” Vickey said, his tone smug. “Uncle, Aadiv told me your marriage is a facade—she’ll divorce you soon. Here’s a check for 10 lakhs Vickey took out his checkbook from his coat pocket and wrote him a check for 10 Lakh rupees . Enjoy it, just divorce her!”

Slap! Ishaan’s hand struck Vickey’s cheek, his once lifeless eyes now lively and fierce. Vickey staggered, stunned, a flash and sound ringing in his ears. Seconds later, he realized, “How dare you slap me, you fu—!”

Slap! Ishaan interrupted mid-sentence, stepping close. “Ari is not an object you can buy. She’s my wife. Remove all thoughts of her—consider this a warning.”

Vickey clenched his fist, raising it to strike, but Slap! Ishaan hit again before it landed. “Why can’t I see it coming?” Vickey’s mind jumbled, his cheek stinging.

Ishaan stepped down the stairs toward the exit. “You will pay! I’ll make you pay! How dare you slap me!” Vickey shouted, fury boiling.

Ishaan steered the bike away from Ari’s office, the wind whipping past him. After dropping her off, a rare sense of freedom stirred in his chest, urging him to delay the inevitable return to Misahay and Lajja’s sharp tongues. “Do I really have to go back?” he muttered to himself, the engine’s rumble blending with his thoughts. “Those two will just tear into me again—Lajja with her endless curses, Misahay nodding like a puppet. Maybe I should just keep riding… but where to?” The weight of their flat’s tension pushed him to veer toward Nala Sopara, a quiet suburb where an old coworker from his pre-Ari days might still linger. “Ravi might be there,” he said aloud. “He was kind back then. Would he even remember me now?”

The ride stretched his mind back to the life before Ari, a time of relentless struggle carved into his soul. Adopted by the Ahuja family at 11, he’d found a flicker of love from his father, Rajesh, and his timid sister, Niti, but Madhura, his adoptive mother, had always been a cold void. “Why didn’t she ever care?” he questioned, his voice rising over the wind. “Was I just a burden to her from the start? I tried so hard to please her, but her eyes never softened. Did she hate me for being adopted, or was I just invisible to her?” He gripped the handlebars tighter, the memory of her indifference stinging like an old wound. “Still, I was grateful for a home,” he admitted. “A roof, food—better than the streets. But was it worth it? All that gratitude, and for what?”

At 18, Rajesh’s death had shattered his fragile peace. On his deathbed, his father’s weak hand had clung to his, voice trembling. “Ishaan, promise me you’ll look after your mother and Niti.” Those words had bound him like chains. “Why did I make that promise?” he asked himself, the guilt creeping in. “I wanted to honor him, but did I have a choice? The uncles—Aarush, Divit, Zavian—they never wanted me. ‘You don’t belong,’ they’d sneer. ‘An orphan tainting our blood.’ Did they ever see me as family, or just a servant they tolerated?” Niti, his sweet sister, had been too timid to shield him, her soft voice drowned by their cruelty. “Poor Niti,” he sighed. “She loved me, but she couldn’t fight for me. And Madhura? Did she even notice my pain? Was I nothing to her but a chore?”

Forced to abandon his engineering dreams, Divit had smirked one day, “Work will toughen you up, boy.” It was a pretext, a cruel trap. “Toughen me up?” Ishaan scoffed aloud. “He just wanted me scrubbing tables at the family restaurant! Did he think I’d break? I never complained—never dared. Why didn’t I fight back then? Was I too scared, or just too used to it?” He toiled as a waiter, rising to manager by 21 through sheer determination. “I proved myself,” he said to the road. “Managed schedules, handled customers—didn’t I earn their respect? But no, they saw me as a tool, not a person.”

Then, at 21, Divit struck again. “You’re too comfortable here,” he’d said with that fake smile. “Go see real life—leave the family business.” “Real life?” Ishaan laughed bitterly. “Odd jobs, Away from family business—that’s what he meant! Did he enjoy watching me struggle? Was it a game to him, kicking me out after all I gave?” For a year before marrying Ari, Ishaan bounced between gigs—loading trucks until his hands bled, delivering parcels in the scorching heat, working at retail shops,. “Was it worth it?” he asked empty air. “All that toil, just to end up a house husband under Lajja’s thumb? Or was it preparing me for this… this power I feel now?”

The dusty streets of Nala Sopara stretched out before Ishaan as he navigated the bike through memory, the hum of the engine a steady companion to his swirling thoughts. He aimed for a familiar address—an old coworker from his pre-Ari days, Ravi, who’d once shared a laugh and a meal with him at a computer sales and repair showroom. “Will he still be here?” Ishaan murmured to himself, the bike rattling over uneven roads. “It’s been years—has he moved on, like I never could? Or am I chasing a ghost of my old life?” The uncertainty gnawed at him, but the need for a connection, someone who might help him navigate this new strength, drove him forward.

Guided by faint recollections, Ishaan parked near a weathered building and climbed the narrow stairs to a 1BHK flat. He knocked, his heart thudding. The door creaked open, revealing a young man with a puzzled frown. “Who is it?” Ravi asked, squinting at the tall figure before him.

“So now you can’t even tell it’s me?” Ishaan said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Ravi’s eyes widened, recognition dawning like a sunrise. “Ishaan!” he exclaimed, lunging forward to hug him tightly. “Ishaan, I’m so glad to see you! How are you?”

Ishaan returned the embrace, a rare warmth spreading through him. “I’m good, Ravi. I’m surprised you haven’t moved out of here yet.”

“I know, I wanted to move too,” Ravi laughed, stepping back to gesture inside. “But well, I’ll tell you about it later. First, come inside!”

Ravi, a good-looking guy who’d been 19 when they first met—Ishaan at  was a stark contrast to his rural roots. His family, back in a distant village, depended on his earnings, pushing him to Mumbai as soon as he could work. The 1BHK flat was a chaotic haven, its hall dominated by PCs for repair and parts scattered like treasures. A table groaned under three monitors and a massive custom CPU—Ravi’s intimidating gaming setup, a testament to his love for high-stakes virtual battles. “Sit here,” Ravi said, clearing a single sofa chair by shoving parts aside, the clatter echoing in the small space.

“Tea?” Ravi offered, heading toward a kettle.

Ishaan waved a hand, pulling out a bag. “I bought some samosas and Pepsi on the way. Here.” He handed it over with a shy smile.

Ravi’s face lit up. “Nice! Hold on.” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with the snacks arranged on plates. Handing one to Ishaan, he settled into his own chair, the glow of his monitors casting shadows. “So, what’s up?” he asked, popping a samosa into his mouth.

Ishaan hesitated, the weight of his purpose pressing down. He hadn’t seen Ravi in two years, and the secret of the book burned in his chest—something he’d never share, not yet, not with someone he’d just reconnected with. “It’s been a long road, Ravi,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “You remember how tough it was back at the showroom?”

“Yeah, man,” Ravi nodded, chewing. “You were always the quiet one, fixing keyboards while I debugged systems. What happened after?”

Ishaan sighed, leaning back. “After that job, life got messier. The Ahujas—my adoptive family—never wanted me. Ravi frowned. “That’s rough, bro.”

Then Ari came along.” Ravi raised an eyebrow. “Ari? Your wife? How’d that happen?”

“A long story,” Ishaan said, deflecting. He’d come here for a reason, not to dwell on the past. “Ravi, I need your help. I’ve been stuck doing housework, no real income. ‘How do I earn money?’ I ask myself every day. ‘Can I break free from this?’ You’re a computer whiz—any ideas? I need something to start with, something to build on.”

Ravi leaned forward, intrigued. “Money, huh? Well, you’ve come to the right guy. Let’s talk business, bro. What skills you got now?”