The Strings Tighten

Raghav’s Routine, Interrupted

The morning light was pale, the city buzzing alive with the familiar chorus of vendors, rickshaws, and the distant clang of temple bells. Raghavendra adjusted his delivery satchel, the leather already wearing thin at the edges, and prepared for another day on the bike.

But even before he left home, something was off.

“Bhaiya!” Aarti’s excited voice rang from the kitchen. She rushed in, waving an envelope. “Look at this! A scholarship letter—from the coaching center! They’re waiving my tuition for the year. Can you believe it?”

Raghav blinked, stunned. “Wait… what? That’s impossible. You didn’t even—”

“It says I got nominated anonymously,” Aarti interrupted, her face glowing. “This changes everything, Bhaiya. I can finally attend the classes I’ve been dreaming about!”

She hugged him, laughing, her eyes shining with hope.

But Raghav didn’t smile. His gut twisted. Anonymous? His thoughts immediately flew to a pair of piercing, dark eyes.

Viraj’s Morning Ritual

At the same time, Viraj Singh Rathore leaned back in his velvet armchair, sipping black coffee as Kabir placed a file on his desk.

“The Deshmukh girl’s scholarship is arranged, sir. No trace back to you. As instructed,” Kabir reported.

Viraj’s lips curved in satisfaction. “Good. She deserves it.” His voice softened, almost tender. “And Raghav deserves to see the people he loves taken care of. Even if he doesn’t realize… who’s really protecting him.”

Kabir hesitated. “Sir… he might not see this as protection. He might see it as… intrusion.”

Viraj’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. “Intrusion?” His voice lowered dangerously. “Kabir, when you care for someone, when you see them… truly see them… every move becomes necessary. Every act becomes devotion. He will understand. He has to.”

Kabir bit back his reply. He knew arguing against obsession was like speaking to a storm—you could scream, but it would not listen.

A Chance Encounter

Later that day, Raghav’s delivery route once again brought him to Rathore Mansion. He debated skipping it—handing the package to another courier—but something inside him refused. Pride? Curiosity? Or something darker gnawing at him?

The guards waved him through with unnerving ease this time. He rang the bell, and as if waiting, Viraj opened the door himself.

Their eyes locked.

“You look… unsettled,” Viraj observed, his voice low, too smooth.

Raghav forced a neutral tone. “Do you always study people this closely? It’s unnerving.”

Viraj’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Only the ones worth studying.”

Raghav shoved the package forward. “Here. Sign.”

Instead of reaching for the pen, Viraj stepped closer—too close—and signed the paper against the doorframe, his hand brushing Raghav’s again, deliberately lingering.

“You should learn to accept gifts,” Viraj murmured.

Raghav’s breath caught. His jaw tightened. “So it was you. The scholarship. The… other things.”

Viraj tilted his head. “I help where help is needed.”

“That’s not help,” Raghav snapped. “That’s interference. My family doesn’t need your charity.”

Viraj’s gaze darkened, intense. “It isn’t charity when it’s devotion.”

Raghav froze at the word. His pulse raced, his throat suddenly dry. He stepped back quickly. “Keep your devotion to yourself.”

And yet—even as he walked away, his hand clenched the satchel tighter, his chest a storm of emotions he couldn’t untangle.

Sameer’s Warning

That night, Raghav met Sameer near the tea stall by the railway crossing. The rain had begun to drizzle, the air thick with the smell of wet earth.

Sameer was restless, lighting a cigarette he didn’t even smoke. “Bhai… I’ve been hearing things. Dangerous things.”

Raghav frowned. “About what?”

“About the man you’ve been delivering to. Viraj Singh Rathore.” Sameer’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They say he’s not just rich. He’s… mafia. Underground. People disappear around him. People obey him without question.”

Raghav’s stomach sank, but he masked it with irritation. “Rumors. That’s all.”

Sameer grabbed his arm. “Rumors don’t make men vanish, Raghav. Stay away from him. Please.”

Raghav pulled free, shaking his head. “I don’t have a choice. It’s my route. My job.”

Sameer’s eyes softened with worry. “Then be careful. Because men like him… they don’t notice ordinary delivery boys. If he’s noticed you, it’s for a reason. And it won’t be good.”

Viraj’s Obsession Grows

In his study, Viraj stared at the monitors. Each screen showed different angles of the city—streets, corners, faces. And on one of them: Raghav, laughing with Sameer at the tea stall.

The sight made his chest ache in ways he didn’t understand. That laugh… why wasn’t it mine to claim? Why does he let others see it?

Viraj gripped the arm of his chair, knuckles white. “Kabir,” he said slowly, “I want more eyes on that boy. Every street he takes, every word he says, every person he speaks to. Especially the friend.”

Kabir’s jaw tensed. “Sir—”

“Do it,” Viraj cut sharply. Then, softer: “I don’t like sharing what’s mine. And Raghav… he is already mine. He just doesn’t realize it yet.”

Rain-Soaked Night

The storm broke fully that night. Rain battered the city, heavy and relentless. Raghav arrived home drenched, every muscle sore, every thought heavy. He tried to sleep, but the journal and pen on his table seemed to glow in the shadows, reminders of Viraj’s presence even in his absence.

He tossed, turned, muttered under his breath. Why am I letting him in? Why can’t I stop thinking—

A knock on the door startled him. Midnight. He froze, heart racing. Who could it be at this hour?

When he opened the door, no one stood there. Only a small black box rested on the ground, drenched from the rain. Inside: a silver chain with a single charm shaped like a key.

A note attached read:

“Because one day, you will open every door to me.”

Raghav’s breath caught. His hands shook as he slammed the box shut.

And yet… he didn’t throw it away.

Chapter Four Cliffhanger

Outside, across the street, a sleek black car waited in the rain. Inside, Viraj sat in silence, watching the faint glow of Raghav’s window through the downpour.

His lips curved faintly as the car idled.

“Every door,” he whispered to himself. “And soon, Raghavendra Deshmukh… every part of you.”

The rain poured harder, drowning the city in silver sheets, but nothing could drown out the tightening strings between them.

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