Wrong House Romance Episode 2

Chapter 2: The Forbidden Zone
The memory didn't come in waves. It came like a train derailment—sudden, violent, and screeching with metal-on-metal dissonance.
Vishal was walking down the crowded pavement of North Usman Road, dodging pedestrians and hawkers selling plastic phone cases, but his mind was five hundred kilometers away and eight years in the past. The neon lights of the jewelry shops blurred into the yellow sulfur lamps of a railway platform. The smell of frying bhajis morphed into the acrid stench of diesel and dried blood.
Eight Years Ago. Kurnool Railway Station.
It was 11:45 PM. The station was a cavern of shadows and echoing announcements. The Rayalaseema Express idled on Platform 2, a sleeping iron beast breathing out hisses of steam.
Vishal, eighteen years old and wearing a t-shirt that was two sizes too big, stood near the sleeper coach entrance. He was trembling so hard his teeth chattered, despite the suffocating April heat.
"Here. Take it."
A thick envelope was shoved into his chest. Vishal looked down. It was stained with something dark and wet.
He looked up at his brother.
Aravind Rao looked like he had been put through a meat grinder. His left eye was swollen shut, a grotesque purple bulb. His white shirt was torn at the shoulder, revealing a deep gash that was sluggishly oozing blood. His knuckles were raw, the skin peeled back to reveal the bone.
"Anna..." Vishal whimpered, clutching the envelope. "You’re bleeding. We need a doctor. Let’s go to the hospital."
"No hospital," Aravind rasped. He spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the tracks. "Hospitals have registers. Registers have names. We are done with names tonight."
He grabbed Vishal by the shoulders. His grip was terrifyingly strong, the grip of a man running on pure adrenaline and desperation.
"Listen to me, Chinna. Do you have the ticket?"
"Yes," Vishal sobbed. "But I don't want to go. Where is Amma? Why isn't she here?"
Aravind’s face contorted—a spasm of grief that he quickly suppressed behind a mask of rage. "Amma is safe at Auntie’s in Hyderabad. She’s fine. You are the one in danger. You are the heir, Vishal. If they kill me, the land goes to you. If they kill you, the line ends. They want the line to end."
"I don't care about the land!" Vishal screamed, though the sound was swallowed by the sudden blast of the train’s horn. "I don't want it! Give it to the Reddys! Let them have the dirt!"
Aravind slapped him.
It wasn't a hard slap, but the shock of it silenced Vishal instantly. Aravind had never raised a hand to him. Aravind was the one who bought him comic books and shielded him when their father went on drunken tirades.
"Don't you ever say that," Aravind hissed, leaning in close. The smell of copper and sweat was overwhelming. "It is not dirt. It is our blood. It is our grandfather’s bones. We do not give it away."
He softened, his hand moving to cup the back of Vishal’s neck. His thumb brushed away a tear on Vishal’s cheek, leaving a smear of red blood on Vishal’s skin.
"I am sending you away to keep you clean, Vishal. You are not made for this. You have soft hands. You have a brain that understands books, not knives. I want you to go to Chennai. I want you to study. Get that degree. Get a job in an office with air conditioning."
"When can I come back?" Vishal asked, his voice small.
Aravind looked him in the eye. The purple bruise on his face seemed to throb under the station lights.
"Never."
The word hung in the air, heavier than the humidity.
"What?"
"You never come back to Rayalaseema," Aravind commanded. "Not for holidays. Not for festivals. Not for weddings." He paused, his voice cracking. "Not even for funerals. If I die, you do not come back to light the pyre. You stay in Madras. You become a city man. You forget the name Rao. You forget the soil. Do you understand?"
"Anna, please—"
"Swear it!" Aravind shook him. "Swear on my life! If you come back, you kill me. Your safety is the only reason I am still standing. If you come back, I will lie down and let them take me. Swear it!"
"I swear," Vishal whispered, broken. "I swear."
The train lurched. The whistle blew again, a lonely, mournful sound.
"Go," Aravind shoved him toward the door. "Get in. Lock the berth. Don't talk to anyone."
Vishal stumbled into the compartment. He scrambled to the window, pressing his hands against the bars.
On the platform, Aravind stood alone. He looked small against the vastness of the dark station. He didn't wave. He simply turned his back on the train and began to walk toward the exit, limping slightly, walking back into the war he had just saved his brother from.
As the train pulled away, gathering speed, Vishal watched his brother disappear into the shadows. He looked at his hand. The smear of his brother’s blood was drying on his cheek, a mark of the covenant he had just made.
The Forbidden Zone. That’s what home had become. A place of death.
Present Day. T. Nagar, Chennai.
"Vishal!"
The shout broke through the memory like a stone shattering glass.
Vishal flinched violently, nearly dropping his laptop bag. He stopped dead on the pavement. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs—thud-thud-thud—mimicking the wheels of that train.
He turned around.
Nandini was jogging towards him, her tote bag bouncing against her hip, her hair flying in the wind. She looked annoyed, out of breath, and terrifyingly normal.
"Are you deaf?" she panted, catching up to him. She grabbed his arm to steady herself. "I’ve been yelling your name since Panagal Park. You walk like you’re escaping a crime scene."
Vishal stared at her. For a split second, he didn't see Nandini. He saw a liability. He saw a target. Aravind’s voice echoed in his ear: Forget the girl. This has nothing to do with her.
He pulled his arm away. It was a reflex, sharp and jerky.
Nandini straightened up, her expression shifting from annoyance to confusion. "Whoa. Easy, tiger. I’m not a mugger."
"I told you to go to the restaurant," Vishal said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—tight, high-pitched. "I told you I’d meet you there."
"And I told you that you’re a terrible liar," Nandini countered, crossing her arms. "You were walking in the opposite direction of the restaurant. Unless Saravana Bhavan moved to Saidapet while we were in that meeting, you were ditching me."
She stepped closer, peering into his face under the streetlights. "Okay, seriously. Cut the crap. You look like you’re about to throw up. What did Aravind say?"
Vishal looked away, focusing on a mannequin in a saree shop window. He couldn't look at her eyes. If he looked at her eyes, he would crumble. He would tell her everything—about the safe house, the hitmen, the fear that was eating him alive. And if he told her, she would try to help. And if she tried to help, she would get hurt.
"Nothing," Vishal lied. He forced a scoff. "You know him. He’s just... dramatic. The court date got postponed again. He thinks it's a conspiracy. He just wanted to rant for twenty minutes about the corruption of the Indian judicial system."
"That’s it?" Nandini raised an eyebrow. "You look like this because of a court date adjournment?"
"It’s stressful, Nandu," Vishal said, shifting his weight. "It’s money. It’s time. He’s my brother. I worry about him."
"I know you worry," Nandini said, her voice softening. She reached out again, this time gently touching his elbow. " But you don't usually run away from dinner. You usually stress-eat three dosas and complain until you feel better. Why are you running?"
"I’m not running," he snapped. He took a deep breath, trying to dial back the aggression. "I just... I have a migraine. A bad one. The sudden kind. I just want to go home, turn off the lights, and sleep. I didn't want to ruin your dinner."
Nandini studied him. She was the Strategist. Her job was to find holes in narratives, to identify weakness in a pitch.
"You have a migraine," she repeated flatly.
"Yes. Light sensitivity. Nausea. The works."
"You were staring at your phone screen on full brightness two minutes ago."
"Nandini, please," Vishal said, desperation bleeding into his tone. "Can you just... let it go? Just for tonight? I need to be alone."
Something in his voice—the raw, pleading edge of it—made her stop. She saw the genuine terror behind his glasses, even if she didn't understand the source. She assumed it was the emotional toll of the family feud, the burden of the exile she knew he carried.
She sighed, dropping her hand. "Okay. Fine. You want to sulk in the dark? Go ahead. Be the tragic hero."
"Thank you," Vishal exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "I’ll see you Monday."
He turned to walk away, desperate to put distance between them, desperate to get to his apartment and barricade the door before Aravind’s security detail arrived.
"But I’m not letting you take a rickshaw," Nandini called out.
Vishal froze. "What?"
"You have a migraine. You’re dizzy. You’re clutching that bag like it’s a parachute," Nandini said, pulling her phone out. "I’m booking a cab. I’ll drop you at your place, then I’ll go home. It’s on the way."
"No!" Vishal spun around. "I can take a rickshaw. I’m fine."
"Don't be stupid, V," she was already tapping on the screen. "It’s 9 PM in T. Nagar. The rickshaw drivers will ask for your kidney as payment. Plus, it’s unsafe. Remember what Aravind said? 'Take a verified cab'?"
Vishal felt the blood drain from his face. She was using his own brother's warnings against him.
"Nandini, seriously, I—"
"Cab confirmed," she announced, holding up the phone. "Four minutes away. White Swift Dzire. And don't argue with me, or I will call Aravind myself and tell him you’re wandering the streets aimlessly."
Vishal closed his mouth. That was the nuclear option. If she called Aravind, Aravind would know Vishal hadn't followed instructions. He would know Vishal was still out in the open.
He was trapped. Trapped by her stubbornness, trapped by his own lies, trapped by the affection she held for him.
"Fine," he whispered, defeated. "Just... drop me at the gate. You don't have to come up."
"Deal," Nandini smirked, pleased with her victory. "See? Was that so hard? We share a ride, I make sure you don't pass out in a gutter, everyone wins."
She walked over to stand beside him on the curb. She bumped her shoulder against his. "You know, you’re lucky you have me. Who else would put up with your brooding moods?"
"Yeah," Vishal murmured, his eyes scanning the dark street, his heart still pounding. "Lucky."
He looked at her profile—the way the streetlights caught the stray curls escaping her bun, the confident set of her jaw. She was so alive. So brilliantly, dangerously oblivious to the shadow that was stretching out from Rayalaseema to swallow them both.
He wanted to scream at her to run. He wanted to push her away. But the cab was already turning the corner.
And parked fifty meters behind it, invisible in the chaos of traffic, the black Scorpio shifted into gear.