Shankar's mind raced. "I'm sure now. He is a clown," he thought, dread prickling at the back of his neck. Regret hit him like a freight train. Should I call my mom to say my final goodbye? he mumbled to himself.
Guna stood frozen like a deer in headlights. Punitha clutched Dhiviya's hand, her knuckles turning white.
At that exact moment, a new presence entered the scene—Drona Singh, storming in with the force of a man on a mission. But the moment his eyes locked onto Athavan's expressionless face, the transformation was instant. His confident strides faltered, his posture straightened, and the fire in his eyes dimmed into something darker—recognition... and fear.
Everyone around Athavan could feel it—the atmosphere thickened, the air buzzed with something unspoken.
Before anyone could react, Athavan dropped a grenade of casual chaos.
"Drona, my brother-in-law wants your autograph. Give it to him."
Everyone's faces turned ashen. We're finished, they thought in unison.
Drona's mask cracked. His mouth opened, but no words came out. His hands trembled.
"Shit... he's so angry," Shankar whispered under his breath.
But Athavan simply smirked. "So, you're as famous as a celebrity."
Now the crowd was getting annoyed. They thought Athavan was provoking Drona Singh without grasping the danger. But the world they thought they understood flipped on its head with what came next.
"Sir, please don't make fun of me. I'm sorry for making you wait. I was stuck in traffic. I'm seven minutes late. I sincerely apologize, sir," Drona Singh stammered, glancing at his watch as if it might explode.
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
The man who had chewed up reporters on live television was now bowing his head like a guilty schoolboy. He was genuinely afraid of the quiet storm in front of him. In Athavan's world, even seconds mattered. Hierarchy was sacred, and Athavan was at the top.
Athavan waved a hand like he was swatting a fly. "It's okay. I gave you a tight deadline. Thanks for coming."
Drona inhaled with relief, but still stood like a cadet reporting to a general. Gone was the high-powered legal icon. This was submission.
Is this a fake Drona Singh? Shankar wondered, blinking in disbelief.
Guna couldn't even form a coherent thought. The emotional gears in everyone's heads had jammed.
"Sir, it is my pleasure to come here to serve—I mean, to help you. Finally, I have the chance to meet you. Thank you for giving me this opportunity," Drona said cautiously, mentally recalling every warning Ragavan had ever given him.
Athavan began walking. Drona followed, trailing exactly two steps behind—no more, no less.
"What's the situation?" Drona asked quietly.
Before Athavan could respond, another figure hurried toward them.
"Sir, this is the Good Hope District Police Station Head, Joseph Fernandez," Drona introduced, slipping back into his professional mode.
Drona had already briefed Joseph while en route. All he had said was: This man is Ragavan Manoharan's boss. That alone had been enough to make Joseph's heart skip a beat. Ragavan's influence ran deep in Walaysia's politics and economy. And if this man stood above him?
Joseph approached cautiously, extending his hand. "Yes, sir. How can I help you?"
Athavan ignored the handshake.
"Find me a private room to discuss. This is my family. Get a laptop and a card reader. I have an interesting movie for you to watch," Athavan said with a mocking smile.
Joseph slowly lowered his hand, cheeks burning. He didn't even know what he had done wrong—but he obeyed. The rest of Dhiviya's family looked like they'd stumbled into a Telugu blockbuster.
Once inside the discussion room, Athavan spoke.
"Play the clip from 4:55 PM. Watch this first."
Joseph ordered his men to roll the footage. The screen lit up with Officer Sabri slapping Shankar and barking at Guna. The footage was from Guna's dashcam.
"Shankar. Tell them everything. Leave nothing out," Athavan said coldly.
Shankar didn't even blink. He obeyed like a soldier before a commander. Not even the police questioned it.
By the end of his explanation, Joseph finally understood the earlier power play—Athavan had mirrored what his people endured. Now the message was clear.
"Drona. Sue the officer on behalf of Shankar. I want him to feel what it means to raise his hand against someone connected to me. This man stepped forward to protect my wife, and he was slapped for it."
Athavan's calm voice began to rise. His palm slammed down on the table with a deafening crack.
The thick wooden surface split.
Everyone jumped.
"And that bastard labeled my wife a mental case? Who the hell gave him that right?!"
His fury blazed.
Dhiviya gasped. "Athavan!" she blurted for the first time, eyes wide. She shook her head gently, pleading for calm.
Athavan closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled.
Silence returned.
"I don't give a damn about the car," he said. "But targeting my wife? That's the line. Everyone involved will face consequences."
Joseph stood at attention. "Sir, I will investigate—"
"You have 48 hours," Athavan cut him off. "Not a second more."
Then he stood. "Let's go. I believe Mr. Joseph will handle this with integrity."
As he approached the door, he paused.
"The table's kind of old. Sponsor a new one on my behalf," he said to Drona without looking back.
Drona nodded quickly. Joseph glanced at the cracked table, pale.
That was a solid table… what kind of monster is this guy?
He followed the group out, visibly shaken.
Outside the police station, Athavan turned to Drona.
"Give him your autograph. He's your fan."
Guna flinched. Damn, he still remembers that?
"Sir… are you serious?" Drona asked, confused.
"Why not? I promised him."
Guna whipped out his phone. "Here, sir. You can sign on the back."
Drona took a marker from his bag and signed it with shaking hands. Athavan gave a subtle nod—dismissal, permission, and trust—all in one look.
Just as Athavan turned to leave, Drona hesitated.
"Sir… one moment, please," he said.
Athavan raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
Can… can I get an autograph too?" Drona asked, eyes darting like a nervous schoolboy.
There was a long pause—too long.
Then Joseph jumped in with perfect timing, flashing a grin. "Sir… can I get an autograph too?"
Everyone else just stood there—numb, overwhelmed, and very, very curious.
A single question echoed in every stunned mind:
Who the hell is this man?
The End.