Chapter 11: Splinters of Night

Aadi slumped against the living room wall, his breath heaving in shallow, jagged bursts, the hum a mournful whisper gnawing at the edges of his mind. The soft glow of a sleek, wall-mounted television flickered in the corner, casting shadows across his blood-streaked shirt—the gash on his ribs seeped crimson through the torn fabric, staining the faded floral sofa cushion beside him. His scars throbbed relentlessly—chest slashed from some buried memory, arm jagged from rough encounters, ribs welted from a night he couldn't erase. His father's slap still stung his cheek, a sharp anchor that had pulled him back from spiraling panic just moments ago, but the images clung like damp heat: Manisha's throat spraying crimson across cracked school tiles, Neha's neck snapping under a hooded boot, Ria's chest gushing red as the rock's eerie glow flickered out. Tears streaked his face, drying in cold, salty trails, the night pressing in around him—his father's arms, wrapped around him for the first time in years, trembled beside him on the worn couch, a rare warmth in the cluttered, cozy space they called home.

The house wasn't grand but comfortable—a single-story sprawl with smooth plaster walls painted a practical beige, a ceiling fan whirring lazily overhead, and a sturdy wooden center table cluttered with old newspapers, a half-empty chai mug, and a small brass Ganesha idol. The living room opened to a hallway lined with family photos—smiling faces from better days—and a neat kitchen beyond, its shelves stocked with steel containers and a gleaming pressure cooker, the faint hum of a refrigerator blending with the night's tension. His father sat hunched, hands unsteady, his faded kurta smeared with Aadi's blood from their clumsy embrace—his face was etched with exhaustion, deep lines framing eyes that searched his son's crumpled form, trying to grasp the boy he'd cared for silently through years of packed lunches and quiet nods. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by Aadi's ragged breathing and the faint, persistent hum vibrating through the tiled floor, a sound that pricked his nerves like an unscratchable itch. "You're my son," his father had rasped earlier, voice thick and unsteady, cracking with years of unspoken weight as he'd pulled Aadi close—blood had smeared between them, staining the kurta further, his grip fierce yet awkward, a flood of care he'd never voiced before. "You're here—you're alive—I've got you, Aadi—I've got you."

The living room door exploded inward—a shotgun blast's deafening roar shredded the thin wood into jagged shards, splinters flying like shrapnel, glass from a framed photo of Aadi's tenth birthday shattering and raining down as he hit the floor hard, his father's weight crashing over him, a shield of muscle and blood. The hum surged, a chaotic wail that drowned his senses—his scars flared with searing pain, the gash on his ribs pulsing fresh red, soaking into the patterned rug beneath him. His ears rang, the night's fragile calm obliterated—the air thickened with the sharp sting of gunpowder and charred wood, dust swirling in the fan's sluggish breeze—panic clawed at Aadi's chest, his breath hitching as he tried to make sense of the chaos.

"Stay down!" his father rasped, voice hoarse with sudden panic, his hands pressing Aadi flat against the rug—his breath was hot and ragged against Aadi's neck, his kurta now clinging wetly with sweat and blood, the fabric sticking to his skin. A shadow loomed beyond the shattered door—not from the street outside, but from the hallway leading to the bedrooms—his mother stepped through the wreckage, her silhouette stark and menacing, shotgun still smoking in her grip. Her kurti was creased from lying in bed, her hair loose and tangled, but her face was cold, unyielding—her sharp eyes, once narrowed over spilled tea or late nights, now glinted with a ruthless, predatory edge. An "A" stitch on her collar caught the light, a subtle mark Aadi had never noticed—or perhaps ignored—branding her as one of them, an agent of Axiom, emerging from the quiet room where she'd slept just beyond the living room's walls.

"What are you doing?" his father choked, his voice breaking as he rolled off Aadi, scrambling to his feet—disbelief shattered his steady calm, blood dripping from his hands as he faced her, hands empty but clenched into fists. "Leela—what—"

"We are compromised," she said, her voice flat and mechanical, stripped of warmth or hesitation, the shotgun steady as she advanced across the rug, barrel trained on Aadi's sprawled, trembling form. "He has to be eliminated—so step aside and follow orders." Her tone was pure ice, erasing every trace of the woman who'd once haggled over vegetable prices or scolded him for muddy shoes—she was a soldier now, her gaze locked on Aadi like he was nothing more than a mark to be erased, not the son she'd raised in this very house.

"Eliminated?" His father's voice rose, shock twisting into a raw, guttural fury—he lunged forward a step, then stopped, his hand slipping under his kurta with a swift, practiced motion—metal glinted as he drew a hidden handgun, its barrel scratched and worn but steady, aimed squarely at her chest. "He's our boy, Leela—what the hell are you saying? Drop that thing—now!" His breath came in sharp bursts, the gun trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the rage boiling beneath his disbelief, his knuckles whitening around the grip as sweat beaded on his brow, soaking into the blood-streaked fabric.

"He's seen too much," she snapped, her shotgun unwavering—her slippers crunched over splintered wood and glass as she closed the distance, her movements deliberate, predatory, her eyes flicking briefly to her husband before settling back on Aadi with cold precision. "They'll come for us all if he's still breathing. Step aside—I won't ask again." Her finger hovered on the trigger, her posture rigid—years of her suspicion, her distance, her sharp words now coalesced into this chilling resolve, a mask for something far darker, an Axiom operative who'd lived among them, hidden behind the routine of chai and scolded chores.

Aadi's breath seized in his throat—his mother hunting him—the hum roared louder, a frantic cacophony as his scars burned like brands under his skin. "Mom—no—" he choked, his voice barely a whisper, clawing backward across the rug, his blood-slick hands slipping on the fibers—his father fired, the handgun's crack sharp and piercing—blood sprayed from her shoulder, a dark bloom spreading across her kurti as her shotgun jerked upward, her snarl twisting into a grimace of pain. She fired back almost instantly—the blast shredded the couch beside Aadi, fabric and stuffing erupting in a cloud, the force knocking a brass lamp off the center table—it crashed to the floor, its bulb popping with a faint spark—splinters grazed Aadi's cheek, drawing thin lines of blood that mingled with the sweat streaking his face as he ducked, pressing himself against the wall.

His father dove forward, tackling her to the rug with a guttural roar—they hit the ground hard, a tangle of limbs and fury, the shotgun and handgun clattering amidst the wreckage—her elbow slammed into his ribs, a muffled grunt escaping him as he grappled for her wrists—she kneed his gut, her slippers scraping the floor as she twisted, clawing for the shotgun with desperate ferocity. "Leela—stop this!" he bellowed, pinning one of her arms under his knee—blood dripped from her shoulder, staining the rug red, but she fought on, her free hand raking his face, nails digging bloody furrows across his cheek that welled instantly, crimson streaking down to his jaw.

Aadi scrambled back, his back slamming against the wall—his chest heaved, the hum a deafening storm as he watched, paralyzed, the living room transforming into a battlefield—shattered furniture, blood-smeared rug, the ceiling fan whirring above the chaos as shadows danced wildly. His father wrenched her arm, twisting it behind her—she hissed, biting his wrist, teeth sinking deep into flesh—blood welled, dripping onto her chin as she wrenched free, her hand closing on the shotgun's stock—she swung it up, barrel catching his shoulder with a dull thud—he grunted, shoving her back, his handgun skittering across the floor toward the television stand as he lost his grip, the weapon clattering against the baseboard with a hollow thunk.

The shotgun roared again—the blast tore through the ceiling, plaster raining down in choking clouds—Aadi ducked, coughing, his eyes stinging as dust filled the air, coating his throat with a gritty film—his father lunged, headbutting her hard, the crunch of her nose breaking audible even over the hum's wail—blood gushed from her face, splattering his kurta, her grip faltering as she reeled back, shotgun slipping slightly in her blood-slick hands. He tore it from her grasp, hurling it toward the corner where it crashed against a small wooden shelf, toppling a stack of old magazines—his breath came in ragged gasps, his face a mask of blood and determination as he swung a fist, cracking her jaw—her head snapped to the side, blood spraying from her lip onto the wall, but she retaliated, her knee slamming into his groin with vicious force—he doubled over, a choked groan escaping as she rolled free, scrambling for the shotgun again.

Aadi's hands shook—he pressed himself tighter against the wall, his fingers digging into the rug as he watched, his voice caught in his throat—his mother's voice cut through, sharp and venomous: "You're weak—always were!" She seized the shotgun, swinging it like a club—its stock smashed into his father's temple, blood trickling from the gash as he staggered, vision blurring—yet he surged forward, tackling her again, driving her back against the television stand with a thud that rattled the screen, its frame creaking as it wobbled precariously—his father punched her gut, her breath exploding in a wheeze as she doubled over—he grabbed her hair, yanking her head back, his fist cocked for another blow—she twisted, elbowing his throat, a guttural choke escaping him as he stumbled back, releasing her—she lunged, snatching a shard of broken glass from the floor—its edge glinted as she slashed, slicing a deep gash across his forearm—blood sprayed, his yell sharp as he clutched the wound, red streaming between his fingers onto the rug.

The living room was a warzone—blood painted the walls in streaks and spatters, the rug a swamp of crimson and debris—shattered glass crunched under every move, the hum a relentless scream in Aadi's ears as he cowered, his father's handgun lying just out of reach near the stand—his mother rose, her shoulder oozing, her face a mask of blood and fury—she charged again, glass shard raised—his father intercepted, slamming his shoulder into her mid-stride—she crashed into the center table, wood splintering as the chai mug shattered, brown liquid mixing with the blood—his father grabbed her wrist, twisting until the glass dropped, embedding itself in the rug—he kicked her shin, her leg buckling as she snarled, her free hand clawing at his eyes—he ducked, shoving her back—she stumbled into the wall, the framed photos rattling, one crashing down, its glass cracking further as it hit the floor.

She lunged again, tackling him—they fell, rolling across the rug, a blur of fists and elbows—her nails raked his neck, blood welling as he roared, slamming his palm into her chest—she gasped, winded, but swung her fist, cracking his cheekbone—he reeled, blood trickling from his mouth—he grabbed her throat, squeezing—she kneed his ribs, a crack echoing as he grunted, loosening his grip—she twisted free, crawling for the shotgun—his father seized her ankle, yanking her back—she kicked, her heel smashing his nose, blood gushing as he howled, clutching his face—she reached the shotgun, swinging it up—his father dove, grabbing the barrel—a blast fired wild, shattering the window, cold night air rushing in as glass shards flew, scattering across the room like deadly confetti.

Aadi flinched, the hum a piercing wail—his father wrenched the shotgun free, tossing it aside—it skidded under the sofa, out of sight—his mother snarled, lunging with bare hands—her fist slammed into his jaw, blood spraying—he retaliated, slamming her against the wall again—her head cracked against the plaster, a smear of blood left behind—she slid down, grabbing a broken table leg—she swung, cracking his knee—he dropped, a howl of pain ripping free as he clutched the joint—she rose, limping, her shoulder and face oozing—she swung again, the wood smashing his shoulder—he caught it, twisting it from her grasp, hurling it aside—he tackled her once more, pinning her to the rug—his fists rained down, her cheek, her gut—blood sprayed, her gasps sharp as she clawed back, nails tearing his ear—blood dripped, her resistance fading—his final punch cracked her temple, her body jerking as she slumped, blood pooling beneath her.

Her chest heaved, shallow and ragged, her eyes rolling back as she went limp—blood streaked her kurti, her face a crimson mask, her shotgun lost under the sofa—his father staggered up, hands trembling, turning to Aadi—his face was a ruin of blood and bruises, nose broken, ear torn, but his eyes burned with fierce relief. "It's over—she's down—stay with me, Aadi—"