Rain and accident

It was raining heavily. A cool breeze blew along with it. Just then, a car sped down the highway — a sleek, black BMW glinting under the streetlights.

On the driver’s seat sat a strikingly handsome young man, around twenty-three years old. He wore a crisp white shirt and black trousers. Anger burned in his eyes. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he pressed the accelerator harder. There was no one else around.

He slammed one hand against the wheel and growled, “What does he think of himself? How dare he call me, Aatish Ahluwalia, spoiled! They have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of.”

A mysterious smile flickered across his lips, but his rage only deepened. He pushed the car to an even higher speed. The rain made it hard to see, but Aatish seemed beyond reason now.

Glancing at the rearview mirror, he noticed several cars following him. His hold on the wheel grew tighter. Deciding to take a U-turn, he accelerated again in fury.

Suddenly, from the left, a truck came speeding toward him. The moment Aatish saw it, his expression changed. He tried to hit the brakes—but it was too late.

The truck rammed into his car and sped away. Aatish’s BMW lifted off the ground, crashing violently a long distance ahead. The streetlight by the roadside shattered into pieces.As soon as Aatish’s car hit the ground, there was a deafening explosion.

The vehicle shattered into countless pieces, black smoke curling through the air until silence fell over the highway. The cars following him screeched to a halt; the tires dragged across the road, leaving long black marks.

Guards poured out of their cars and ran toward the wreckage. Their faces were blank, but fear glimmered in their eyes.

Some time later, the lights outside the ICU room of City Hospital burned dimly. One guard stood on the balcony, speaking nervously into his phone.

“Sir, the situation is very critical,” he said in a trembling voice.

There was a response from the other side. The guard straightened and answered quietly, “Yes, sir.” Then he ended the call.

Half an hour later,

several cars stopped outside the hospital. Guards surrounded the one in the middle. From it stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing glasses, around thirty years old, his expression unreadable. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he walked straight into the hospital.

Outside the ICU,

he stopped beside the guard.

The guard bowed slightly and said fearfully, “Big Master, Young Master had a fight with the President. After that, he left the house in anger. We followed him, but someone ambushed him on the way. We’re still investigating.”

The man’s eyes hardened. His jaw tightened as he growled, “Find out who dared to attack Rudraksh Ahluwalia’s younger brother.” His fist clenched until his knuckles turned white. The guards, terrified, backed away.

Moments later,

the ICU door opened and a senior doctor stepped out, looking grave.

“Master Rudraksh,” he said, “your brother’s condition is very critical. He’s lost a lot of blood and suffered a severe head injury. We can’t say anything yet. Please arrange for blood—his group isn’t available in our bank.”

The hospital belonged to Rudraksh himself, so the doctor spoke to him directly. Rudraksh said nothing. He simply rolled up his sleeve and followed the doctor inside—ready to donate his own blood.

Aatish’s surgery went on through the night.

By dawn,

around 5 a.m.,

the doctor came out, weary and tense. In the corridor, Rudraksh stood motionless, his face expressionless, deep in thought.

“Mr. Rudraksh,” the doctor said carefully, “the Young Master is out of danger, but because of the head trauma, we still can’t be sure of his recovery.”

Rudraksh paused. His voice was low, steady. “Is there a problem with his brain? Are you hiding something?”

The doctor hesitated before answering, “We’ll only know once he regains consciousness. The injury to his head was severe—there might be memory loss, or… he could slip into a coma. But if he’s kept in a calm, positive environment, there’s hope for full recovery.”

The doctor left. Rudraksh’s anger surged—he struck the wall hard.

Outside, the rain hadn’t stopped. He stood by the window, staring into the downpour, his eyes cold.

A guard rushed in, panting. “Big Master,” he said, voice shaking, “the truck driver… he committed suicide. It’ll be very hard to find out who planned the attack on the Young Master.”

Rudraksh clenched his fist again, trying to contain the storm inside him. Then he turned toward the ICU.

Inside, Aatish lay surrounded by machines. His eyes were closed, his skin pale. He looked less like a man—and more like a living corpse.

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