Chapter 6 Eighteen
"Tell me something," Aarohi Mehra asked quietly.
The rain had softened outside.
The city slept.
But inside the dim hospital room, neither of them could.
"When did you stop trusting people completely?"
Silence stretched for a long moment.
Then Ekansh Rathore gave a humorless smile.
"At eighteen."
His eyes drifted toward the rain-covered window.
And for the first time...
He let himself remember.
—
The Rathore mansion looked beautiful from the outside.
Huge chandeliers.
Marble floors.
Luxury.
Power.
Respect.
Lies.
Eighteen-year-old Ekansh walked through the mansion hallway with blood on his knuckles and rage burning beneath his skin.
Another fight.
Another problem.
Another complaint his father would pretend to care about.
Servants immediately lowered their gazes when he passed.
Not out of respect.
Fear.
He had inherited his mother's sharp eyes.
But none of her softness.
At least that's what everyone said.
The moment he entered the study room, his father looked up coldly.
Vikram Rathore sat calmly behind the desk while his second wife stood nearby pretending concern.
The woman Ekansh hated with every piece of his soul.
"Sit down," Vikram ordered.
Ekansh stayed standing.
"You called?"
His father's expression hardened instantly.
"Your anger is becoming uncontrollable."
Ekansh laughed mockingly.
"My anger?"
"Three boys hospitalized this month."
"They touched me first."
"You nearly killed one."
"He should be grateful I stopped."
The stepmother sighed dramatically.
"See? This is exactly what I mean. He needs help."
Ekansh's eyes snapped toward her so sharply that she instinctively stepped back.
Good.
Fear suited her.
"Careful," Vikram warned coldly.
The room fell silent.
Then his father suddenly changed tone.
Calmer.
Controlled.
"We're taking you for a medical checkup tomorrow."
Ekansh frowned slightly.
"What kind of checkup?"
"Your mother's old reports were found recently. I want to ensure you inherited nothing serious."
That made him pause.
Mother.
He rarely mentioned her.
Rarely allowed anyone to.
And the fact that his father used her name so casually irritated him instantly.
But still—
He agreed.
Because somewhere deep inside, eighteen-year-old Ekansh still wanted to believe his father cared.
Big mistake.
—
The next morning, rain poured heavily across Jaipur.
Ekansh sat impatiently inside the luxury car while his father handled paperwork outside a private hospital.
He hated hospitals already.
The smell.
The lights.
The fake sympathy.
Everything about them irritated him.
"Come," Vikram finally said.
Ekansh followed him through long white hallways until they stopped outside a secured psychiatric wing.
His brows furrowed.
"Why are we here?"
No answer.
Something cold crawled down his spine.
Then two male attendants appeared beside him.
Ekansh's expression darkened instantly.
"What is this?"
Vikram finally looked at him directly.
"Your treatment."
Silence.
Ekansh actually laughed once.
Disbelieving.
"You think I'm mentally ill?"
"I think you're unstable."
The attendants moved closer.
Wrong move.
Ekansh shoved one hard enough to slam him into the wall instantly.
"What the hell is this?!"
Another attendant grabbed his arm.
Pure instinct exploded.
Ekansh punched him brutally.
Chaos erupted immediately.
Doctors rushed forward.
Voices echoed everywhere.
"Hold him!"
"Sedate him!"
"Careful!"
Panic mixed with rage inside him violently.
"DON'T TOUCH ME!"
But there were too many people.
Hands grabbed him from every direction.
His shoulder slammed against the wall.
Someone twisted his arm painfully.
A needle pierced his neck.
Then another.
Then another.
"LET GO OF ME!"
His voice cracked into something raw.
Desperate.
Terrified.
Nobody listened.
The sedatives blurred his body slowly, but his mind remained awake enough to feel everything.
The restraints.
Leather straps around wrists and ankles.
Cold metal bed.
White lights burning his eyes.
Tears of rage filled his vision.
And through it all—
His father stood near the door watching calmly.
Not stopping them.
Not helping him.
Just watching.
That broke something permanently.
"Please—"
The word escaped before he could stop it.
Humiliating.
Pathetic.
He hated himself for saying it.
But he was eighteen.
Scared.
Drugged.
Alone.
"Dad..."
Vikram's expression never changed.
"He'll thank us later," one doctor said.
Ekansh stared at his father desperately.
Begging silently.
Don't leave me here.
Please.
Then Vikram turned around and walked out.
The door shut behind him.
And something inside Ekansh died quietly.
—
Days blurred afterward.
Needles.
Restraints.
Forced medication.
Isolation rooms.
Doctors calling him aggressive while ignoring his panic.
Every time he fought back, they increased sedation.
Every scream became "violent behavior."
Every fear became "instability."
Then came the ECT.
Electroconvulsive therapy.
He remembered the machine more than the pain.
Cold.
Mechanical.
Terrifying.
"I don't want this," he had whispered weakly.
Nobody listened.
The first shock shattered something in him.
The second destroyed whatever trust remained.
After that—
Ekansh stopped begging.
Stopped explaining.
Stopped expecting kindness.
When he was finally released weeks later, he returned home quieter.
Not healed.
Worse.
Much worse.
The fear disappeared.
Empathy weakened.
And rage became colder.
Controlled.
Deadlier.
His father thought the treatment had broken him into obedience.
Instead—
It created a monster smart enough to hide its teeth.
—
Age 19.
Ekansh entered the business world.
Ruthless.
Untouchable.
Emotionless.
People underestimated him because of his age.
Most regretted it quickly.
Age 20.
Competitors vanished.
Traitors disappeared.
Power shifted toward him rapidly.
Age 22.
The underworld stopped calling him by his real name.
They started calling him Ravan.
And by then—
Nobody dared touch him again.
—
Present Day
The hospital room remained silent after the story ended.
Aarohi Mehra felt her chest ache painfully.
Not because she pitied him.
Because she understood exactly what had happened psychologically.
Fear conditioned into violence.
Trauma reinforced through force.
A terrified boy repeatedly punished for being terrified.
Ekansh leaned back against the bed again, expression empty now.
Like telling the story changed nothing.
Maybe to him, it didn't.
Then quietly, without looking at her, he said—
"That was the last time I ever called someone dad."