Chapter 10: Shattered Silence

Aadi slumped against the door, breath heaving in shallow, jagged bursts, the hum a mournful whisper clawing at his skull. The hallway light cast harsh shadows across his blood-streaked shirt, the gash on his ribs seeping red through the torn fabric, his scars—chest slashed, arm jagged, ribs welted—throbbing with every shudder. His father's slap still stung his cheek, a sharp echo that had silenced his sobs, anchoring him to a fragile calm—but the images wouldn't fade: Manisha's throat spraying crimson, Neha's neck snapping, Ria's chest gushing as the rock's glow died. Tears streaked his face, drying in cold trails, the night pressing in around him like a vice.

His father stood over him, hands trembling from the slap, his faded kurta smeared with Aadi's blood—his face a mask of frustration and worry, eyes searching his son's crumpled form. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by Aadi's ragged breathing and the faint hum pulsing through the floorboards. "Enough!" his father had barked, voice low but steady, gripping Aadi's shoulders—his touch firm, grounding, yet trembling with something unspoken. "You're home—you're safe—calm down. No one's here, see? You're bleeding, you're scared, but you're alive—breathe, Aadi. Just breathe."

Aadi's sobs quieted, chest hitching as he stared at the floor, the hum fading to a dull thrum—his father's words sinking in, a lifeline he clung to despite the terror still gnawing his gut. He'd spilled it all—people outside, the knives, the baton, his friends' blood—and his father had listened, doubt warring with concern, opening the door to an empty porch, proving no one was there. But it didn't erase the truth Aadi knew, the slaughter he'd fled, the guilt that choked him.

His father crouched, knees creaking, his rough hands hovering over Aadi's bloodied ribs—hesitant, unsure, like he didn't know where to begin. "You're hurt bad," he muttered, voice softer now, almost breaking. "Why're you bleeding like this? What happened out there—really happened?" He grabbed the dish towel again, pressing it harder against the gash—blood soaked through, staining his fingers, his jaw tightening as Aadi winced, pain flaring under the pressure.

"They killed them," Aadi rasped, voice raw and quaking, hands clutching his knees as the words tumbled out again. "Manisha—Neha—Ria—at school—knives, a baton—they wanted something Ria had—I couldn't stop them—I ran—" His voice cracked, the slaughter replaying—blood pooling, bones snapping, that relentless laughter—guilt and terror strangling him until he could barely breathe. "They're after me—I heard them—I thought they'd—"

His father's hands stilled, the towel pressed firm, his eyes narrowing—not with doubt now, but something deeper, a flicker of fear beneath the frustration. "Killed them? Aadi, that's—how'd you get cut? This—" He lifted the towel slightly, the gash red and jagged, blood seeping anew—"this isn't some accident. You fought? Ran all the way here? Tell me straight—who did this?"

"I don't know who they are," Aadi choked, tears spilling as he clutched his side, the pain a tether to reality. "Hoods—stitched 'A's on their collars—they came for Ria, for a rock—glowing—she was crazy about it—they killed her, then the others—I swung at one—missed—he cut me—I ran—" He buried his face in his hands, the hum spiking as their deaths looped—Manisha's growl silenced, Neha's glasses shattering, Ria's shrieks snuffed out. "I couldn't—I just ran—"

His father's breath hitched, the towel dropping to the floor with a wet thud—he stared at Aadi, hands hovering, then clenching into fists, unclenching again. "A rock? Murder—at school?" His voice trembled, disbelief clashing with the blood on his hands, the truth in Aadi's broken words. "You saw this—saw them die—and you're cut like this—" He stopped, swallowing hard, his usual steady calm fracturing. In all the years Aadi had lived here—sixteen years of quiet meals, curt nods, his father's care shown in packed lunches and fixed bikes but never words, never touch—affection had been a ghost, a wall neither breached. His mother's suspicion ruled, her sharp tongue and sharper eyes keeping love at bay, and his father—always there, always caring—had stayed silent, distant, unsure how to cross that divide.

But now, something shattered—his father's hands shot forward, clumsy and rough, pulling Aadi into his chest, arms wrapping tight around his shaking frame. Blood smeared between them, the kurta soaking it up, but he didn't pull back—his grip was fierce, awkward, like he'd forgotten how to hold anything fragile. "You're my son," he rasped, voice thick and unsteady, cracking with years of unspoken weight. "You're here—you're alive—I've got you, Aadi—I've got you." His breath shuddered against Aadi's hair, hands clutching his shoulders, his back—desperate, unpracticed, a flood of care he didn't know how to shape into anything but this raw, messy embrace.

Aadi froze, the hum faltering—his father's arms were foreign, stiff with disuse, but warm, real, a shield against the nightmare. He'd never felt this—not in years of silent mornings, of his father's quiet fixes and averted eyes, care buried under routine, love locked behind a wall he'd never breached. How could he show it? Aadi wondered, tears soaking his father's chest—how could a man who mended tires and paid bills, who stood by while his mother's suspicion ruled, know how to hug his son? Yet here it was, clumsy and fierce, a father's love spilling out in the only way he could find—holding tight, blood and all, as if he could squeeze the terror out of Aadi's bones.

"I—I couldn't save them," Aadi sobbed, voice muffled against the kurta, hands clutching back—needing this, needing something to hold onto. "They're dead—I ran—I'm sorry—"

"Stop," his father murmured, voice rough but steadying, one hand cupping Aadi's head, the other pressing his back—awkward still, but firm. "You're here—you're breathing—that's enough. I don't know what's out there, but you're not alone—hear me? Not tonight." He paused, breath hitching, then softened, words spilling like they'd been dammed too long. "Remember how when you were little—most kids your age didn't want to play with you 'cause you were obsessed with that Japanese show—DBZ—and some others? You'd have those little friends, but you'd talk about it for hours—wanted me to listen. I'd always say, 'Tomorrow, Aadi—how about you tell me tomorrow We can talk then.' His voice cracked, a rare tremor of regret. "I kept putting it off—always tomorrow—never sat with you like I should've—"

A shotgun blast tore through the door—wood splintered, shards flying as the boom shattered the air, the lock buckling inward. Aadi yelped, jerking back—his father's arms tightened, then shoved him down, both crashing to the floor as glass rained from a nearby window. The hum roared back, a chaotic wail—his father's breath rasped above him, shielding him, voice hoarse with panic. "Stay down!"

The night erupted, silence gone—their fragile moment shredded by the blast, the shadows outside no longer empty.