Demon's Physco obsession

Epilogue: Legacy Rewritten

The Vashisth estate in Pune stood timeless against the monsoon sky, its sprawling gardens lush and untamed after a decade of careful tending. Marble pillars gleamed under the rain-washed light, and the air carried the familiar scent of wet earth and jasmine—unchanged, yet layered with the echoes of new lives. Twelve years had woven deeper roots into the family: alliances fortified, enemies silenced, and the once-empty halls now alive with the chaos of children who carried the weight of legacy on small shoulders.

Aarav Vashisth, at ten years old, was a mirror of his father—dark hair cropped short, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a presence that commanded silence even in play. He moved with Adhiraaj's calculated grace, his small frame already hinting at the height and build that would one day intimidate boardrooms and back alleys alike. But it was his traits that truly echoed: a quiet ruthlessness in games, a possessive streak that bordered on fierce, and a soft corner reserved solely for his mother. The servants learned early to tread lightly around him; a misplaced toy or a delayed snack could earn a glare cold enough to curdle milk. "Don't touch that," he'd snap at a maid lingering too long near Ankita's favourite shawl, his voice a child's mimicry of Adhiraaj's authority. They whispered among themselves: "The chota Rakshas is watching again."

Aarav idolised his father, trailing him like a shadow during "office hours" in the study—peering over Adhiraaj's shoulder at maps and ledgers he didn't yet understand, asking pointed questions about "the family business." Adhiraaj indulged him carefully, sharing sanitised stories of negotiations and loyalty, but Aarav's sharp mind pieced together more than intended. One afternoon, after overhearing a hushed call about a rival shipment, Aarav cornered Ved in the corridor: "Mama, when can I learn to handle the bad men like Baba does?" Ved had laughed it off, ruffling his hair, but the boy's eyes burned with determination. Mafia life called to him already, a siren's song in his blood.

Yet with Ankita, Aarav melted. She was his world—his dove, as Adhiraaj called her, though Aarav guarded her like a treasure. Mornings found him curled at her feet during her quiet reading time, head in her lap, listening to stories from her childhood. If she winced from fatigue, he'd bolt upright: "Ma, who hurt you? Tell me." His possessiveness extended to everything: he'd scowl at Adhiraaj for "hogging" her during dinner, or chase away birds from the veranda if they dared flutter too close while she rested. "Go away," he'd hiss at them, small fists clenched.

"She's mine."
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Ved and Jahnvi's sons—Arjun, thirteen, and Vihaan, eleven—were inseparable from Aarav. From sunrise to sunset, the three boys shadowed each other, their friendship mirroring their fathers' in every detail: fierce loyalty laced with constant teasing and reckless trust.

Under the neem tree's shade, Arjun knelt in the red earth, calm-eyed and already thinking like a tactician. He scratched battle lines with a twig.

"Right. Phase one: Vihaan, you sprint past the gardener, screaming about a snake—sell it. Aarav, the moment his back is turned, you're up the ladder branch. I'll give the pull-back signal once we have at least three mangoes. No greed, no falling, and no running to ma if you scrape your knee again."

Vihaan bounced on his toes, barely containing himself.

"Snake? Bro, I'm giving him a full drama—' Hey! Cobra! It's massive!' Watch him bolt like his dhoti's on fire." He flashed a wicked grin at Aarav. "You better climb fast, city boy, or I'm eating your share."

Aarav cracked his knuckles, smirking. "City boy? I'll be picking the ripest king of mangoes while you're still perfecting your fake scream. Bet you trip over your own feet before you even reach the trunk."

"Bet you kiss the dirt first!" Vihaan shot back—and broke into a sprint.

"Oi—wait for the signal!" Arjun hissed, but the other two were already tearing across the lawn like unleashed puppies.