12:37 AM – Home (Aryan's POV)
By the time I reached home, my hands were still shaking.
The ride back had been a blur—dark streets, the quiet hum of my bike, the cold wind biting at my face. But my mind was stuck in that abandoned station. Stuck on the man who had known my father.
On the scar.
On the way he looked at me—like I was already too deep in something I didn't understand.
I parked my bike outside and crept toward the house, careful not to make a sound. The lights were off except for the dim glow in my father's study.
He was still awake.
I hesitated at the door. Normally, I would've gone straight to my room, let the night bury itself in my thoughts, convinced myself I'd deal with it later.
Not this time.
I pushed the door open.
The house was silent, except for the faint rustle of paper.
I walked through the hallway, my footsteps lighter than usual. My father's study door was slightly open, just enough for me to see him sitting at his desk, fingers pressed to his temples. His glasses were on the table, his eyes scanning over an old file.
I stepped in. "Dad."
He looked up.
And in that moment, I knew.
The exhaustion in his eyes wasn't just from work. It wasn't just from the long days or the pressure of keeping everything together.
It was from something else.
Something heavier.
Something old.
"Aryan," he said, his voice wary. "Why are you up?"
I shut the door behind me.
"I went to the old railway station," I said quietly.
His entire body went rigid.
For a second, I thought he might pretend not to know what I was talking about. That he might shake his head, tell me I was imagining things, tell me to drop it—again.
But then he exhaled, slow and measured, and leaned back in his chair.
"Sit."
I sat.
For a long moment, he just stared at his hands, like he was weighing something in his mind.
Then he looked up.
"You met him, didn't you?"
The air in my lungs stilled.
I forced my voice to stay steady. "Who is he?"
My father didn't answer immediately. Instead, he opened the drawer of his desk, pulled out an old photograph, and slid it across to me.
A black-and-white image.
Four men, standing side by side. One of them was younger—maybe in his twenties.
My father.
And beside him—
My stomach dropped.
It was him.
The man from the railway station.
His face was sharper back then, his hair neatly combed, no hood to hide his expression. But it was him.
My father sighed. "His name is Arnav Vale."
Vale.
The name.
The secret.
I swallowed. "He said you've been lying to me."
My father rubbed his temples. "Not lying," he murmured. "Protecting."
"From what?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
His eyes met mine. And for the first time, I saw it—
The same fear I had seen the night Aarohi first said that name.
The same fear that made his hands shake at the dinner table.
The same fear that made him tell me to drop it.
"Some truths," he said quietly, "are more dangerous than lies."
I clenched my jaw. "Then tell me the truth."
He hesitated.
Then, finally—
"I used to work for Vale."
The words barely made sense at first.
I blinked. "What?"
His jaw tightened. "I worked for Reyza Vale. A long time ago."
I felt my pulse in my throat, my mind struggling to process what he had just said.
"No," I said automatically. "That doesn't—You don't—"
"I did." His voice was heavy. "And I've spent years trying to leave it behind."
My chest tightened. "You knew about all of this? You knew about the station, about him, about her?"
He nodded.
Something in me cracked.
"You knew," I repeated, the anger rising in my voice. "And you let me go there alone?"
"You shouldn't have gone," he said simply. "You weren't supposed to know."
I let out a hollow laugh. "Well, I do now."
He exhaled. "Aryan—"
"No," I snapped. "You don't get to Aryan me right now." I pushed back from the chair, standing up. "You worked for her. For them."
He looked at me, his gaze unreadable. "I did what I had to."
I shook my head. "What does that even mean?"
Silence.
I turned away, running a hand through my hair, trying to think.
None of this made sense.
None of it fit.
My father—the man I had spent my whole life looking up to—had once worked for a woman whose name he didn't even want spoken at the dinner table.
A woman who scared him.
A woman whose name made his hands tremble.
I turned back. "Are you still working for her?"
He didn't answer.
And that told me everything.
My fists clenched. "So what now?"
His jaw tightened. "Now, you forget this ever happened."
I laughed again, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah, that's not happening."
"Aryan—"
"I want to know everything."
He stood up too, his chair scraping against the floor. "No."
I met his gaze. "You don't get to decide that."
Something flickered in his eyes. "I do if it keeps you safe."
I took a step forward. "And if I keep asking?"
His face hardened. "Then you'll regret it."
A chill ran down my spine.
For the first time in my life, my father wasn't just my father.
He was someone else.
Someone I didn't recognize.
I took a slow breath, forcing myself to stay calm. "I'm going to find out," I said quietly. "With or without you."
He didn't speak.
He just watched me.
Like he was memorizing this moment.
Like he knew that after tonight, nothing would ever be the same.
And maybe he was right.
Because as I walked out of that room, one thing was clear—
I wasn't stopping.
Not until I knew the truth.
And not until I knew what Reyza Vale really wanted.
From him.
From me.
From all of us.