Neil stared at the glowing screen of his BlackBerry for a moment before finally scrolling down to a familiar name.
Chirkoot 🐒
He exhaled slowly.
If there was one person who would start interrogating him the moment she heard his voice, it was her.
Still… this conversation had to happen sooner or later.
He pressed Call.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then the line connected.
"Rambo!"
The volume of Shraddha Kapoor's voice nearly made him pull the phone away from his ear.
"Where the hell have you been?!"
Neil winced.
"Hello to you too."
"Don't 'hello' me," she snapped. "Do you have any idea what I've been hearing?"
Neil leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly.
"Depends. Which version?"
"That you crashed your car. That you were unconscious. That Batuk was about to abandon Karan Johar mid-shoot and fly back from Georgia."
She paused.
Then her tone softened slightly.
"…Are you actually okay?"
Neil felt something warm settle in his chest.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
A few seconds of silence passed.
Shraddha finally sighed.
"Stupid muscle head."
"Fair."
Another pause.
"So why did you call?" she asked suspiciously. "You never call people unless you want something."
Neil chuckled.
"That's harsh."
"But accurate," she replied immediately.
He shook his head.
"Alright, fine. I do need something."
"Of course you do."
"I have a script."
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
"You have… what?"
"A script."
Shraddha burst out laughing.
"Since when do you read scripts?"
Neil smirked.
"Since I decided I don't want to be the worst actor in my own movie."
That line finally made her stop laughing.
"Wait," she said slowly. "What?"
"I'm serious."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I'm planning to shoot a short film."
Another pause.
This one longer.
"Okay," Shraddha said cautiously. "Now I'm curious."
"It's a psychological thriller," Neil continued. "Three characters. One house. Very dark story."
"And you're calling me because…?"
"I want you to play Kriti."
There was another silence.
Then—
"What's Kriti?"
"The female lead."
"Huh."
He could practically hear her processing the idea.
"Alright," she said finally. "I'll hear the script."
Neil smiled.
"Good. We're meeting tomorrow."
"We?"
"Yeah. I'm bringing Batuk too."
She groaned.
"Oh god."
"Relax. He'll behave."
"No he won't."
"True."
They both laughed.
For a moment the conversation slipped into the easy rhythm it always had.
Childhood familiarity.
Years of shared chaos.
Then Shraddha said quietly,
"You scared us, you know."
Neil didn't reply immediately.
"…I know."
After a moment she cleared her throat.
"Tomorrow. Prithvi Café?"
"Perfect."
The call ended.
Neil placed the phone down.
Step one.
Done.
Batuk arrived the next evening like a hurricane.
The moment Varun Dhawan stepped into the bungalow, his voice echoed across the living room.
"RAMBO!"
Neil barely had time to stand before Batuk stormed into the room and punched him lightly on the shoulder.
"You absolute idiot!"
Neil laughed.
"Ow."
"I was literally packing my bags in Georgia!" Batuk continued. "Karan would've murdered me."
"You're very dramatic."
"I'm serious!"
Batuk paused for a second, looking Neil up and down.
"…You actually look fine."
"Told you."
Batuk crossed his arms.
"You're still an idiot though."
"Fair."
The tension dissolved quickly.
It always did between them.
"So," Batuk said, flopping onto the sofa. "What's this about a short film?"
Neil handed him the script.
Batuk skimmed the first page.
Then the second.
His expression slowly shifted from amusement to concentration.
Five minutes passed.
Then he lowered the script.
"This is…"
He flipped another page.
"…actually good."
Neil raised an eyebrow.
"High praise coming from you."
"Shut up."
Batuk leaned forward, suddenly energized.
"This is messed up."
"In a good way."
"In a very good way."
Neil smiled.
"So?"
Batuk looked up.
"You want me to help shoot it?"
"Not help."
Neil leaned back.
"I want you to direct it."
Batuk blinked.
"…What?"
"You heard me."
"Are you serious?"
"You've been AD-ing for Karan Johar," Neil said. "You know the technical side better than I do."
Batuk stared at him for a few seconds.
Then slowly grinned.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay!"
He slapped the table excitedly.
"This is happening."
Prithvi Café was buzzing with its usual evening crowd.
Actors.
Writers.
Students.
And people pretending to be all three.
Shraddha arrived first.
She was wearing a loose white shirt and jeans, her hair tied into a messy bun.
When she saw Neil and Batuk approaching, she folded her arms.
"So the dead man lives."
Batuk laughed.
"Drama queen."
Shraddha ignored him.
"Sit."
They ordered coffee.
A few minutes later another familiar figure walked into the café.
Sonakshi Sinha.
"Sona!" Batuk called.
She waved and joined them.
"What's this secret meeting about?" she asked.
Neil leaned forward.
"Script."
Sona raised an eyebrow.
"You're serious about this?"
"Very."
He began explaining the story.
Sapan.
Kriti.
Kalpana.
As he spoke, the table gradually fell silent.
Shraddha stopped stirring her coffee.
Sonakshi leaned back thoughtfully.
When Neil finished, Shraddha finally spoke.
"That ending is messed up."
Batuk grinned.
"Told you."
Sonakshi nodded slowly.
"In a good way."
Neil looked at them.
"So?"
Shraddha tilted her head.
"You want me to play Kriti."
"Yes."
"And Sona?"
"Dr. Kalpana."
Sonakshi considered it.
"Interesting role."
"Exactly."
Shraddha leaned back.
"Okay."
Neil blinked.
"Okay?"
"I'm in."
Sonakshi smiled.
"Me too."
Batuk clapped his hands.
"Boom. Cast locked."
Three nights later—
The quiet of the Mehra bungalow was broken by the sharp roar of a motorcycle entering the driveway.
Neil didn't even need to look outside.
Only one person he knew rode like that.
A few seconds later the door to his room swung open without a knock.
Faizal Khan walked in.
Daaku.
Leather jacket.
Messy hair.
Usually wearing that permanent half-smirk that meant trouble.
But tonight the smirk wasn't there.
He stood near the door, staring at Neil.
"You disappeared."
Neil sighed softly.
"Hi to you too."
Daaku didn't smile.
"For an entire week."
He held up seven fingers.
"Seven days, Rambo."
"No calls."
"No messages."
"No meeting."
"And suddenly I hear from Batuk that you're busy making films."
Neil rubbed the back of his neck.
"I've been working."
Daaku let out a short laugh.
"You?"
The word carried more disbelief than mockery.
"Yeah."
"With what?"
"My film."
The moment the words left Neil's mouth, he saw something change in Daaku's eyes.
The easy sarcasm disappeared.
"Film?"
Neil nodded.
"I'm doing a short film first. Preparation for Dil Se Dance. We're planning the shoot—"
Daaku raised a hand.
"Wait."
His voice was quieter now.
"Batuk told me something like that."
He stepped closer.
"You're serious about this?"
"Yeah."
Neil explained the idea.
The short film.
The cast.
The plan.
The entire time, Daaku listened without interrupting.
But the longer Neil spoke, the more distant his expression became.
When Neil finished, silence filled the room.
Then Daaku spoke.
"So that's it."
Neil frowned.
"What?"
"That's why you disappeared."
"That's not what I said."
"You didn't have to."
Daaku leaned against the wall.
"You know what's funny?"
Neil didn't answer.
"All these years… every party… every stupid night ride… every fight outside clubs…"
He gave a small humorless smile.
"You always said the same thing."
"What?"
"That you hated those star kids."
Neil shifted slightly.
"You did."
"You said they were fake."
"You said the industry only cared about status."
Daaku's eyes locked onto his.
"And you said we were different."
A knot tightened inside Neil's chest.
"Daaku—"
But Daaku kept going.
"You remember that night outside Carter Road?"
"Three in the morning."
"You were drunk and ranting about how you'd never become like them."
Neil looked away briefly.
"And now?"
Daaku gestured around the room.
"Now you're writing scripts."
"Making films."
"Hanging out with actors."
"Planning shoots."
He shook his head slowly.
"Funny how that works."
"It's not like that."
Daaku's voice rose.
"Then what is it like?"
"That's not fair." Rambo muttered.
"Fair?"
Daaku laughed again.
"You know what's fair?"
"I came here because I thought something serious happened."
He looked straight at Neil.
"Because I thought my best friend nearly died."
The words landed heavier than Neil expected.
"But turns out," Daaku continued quietly,
"he just found something better to do."
Neil said nothing.
Daaku studied him for a moment.
Then asked softly,
"Is it?"
Neil didn't answer.
And that silence said enough.
Daaku nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
"I thought so."
He pushed himself off the wall.
"You know what the funny part is?"
"What?"
"I always knew this would happen."
Neil frowned.
"What are you talking about?"
Daaku shrugged.
"You were always going to choose that world."
He gestured toward the posters on the wall.
"The film world."
"The shiny one."
"The one where everyone already knows your name."
Neil stood up.
"Daaku—listen to me."
But Daaku was already walking toward the door.
"You've changed, Rambo."
The words weren't angry.
They were tired.
And somehow that made them worse.
Neil stepped forward.
"I haven't forgotten anything."
Daaku stopped at the doorway.
For a second it looked like he might turn around.
But he didn't.
Instead he said quietly,
"Maybe not."
Then after a pause—
"But you're definitely leaving it behind."
He walked out.
A moment later the sound of his bike starting echoed through the driveway.
Then the engine roared away into the night.
Neil stood there for a long time.
Because Daaku wasn't entirely wrong.
Faizal Khan represented everything about Neil's old life.
Carefree nights.
Stupid adventures.
Loyal friendships that didn't care about fame or success.
And now—
Neil was choosing something else.
Something bigger.
Something that might take him far away from that world.
He slowly sat back down.
Staring at the door Daaku had just walked through.
And for the first time since waking up in this new life—
Neil wondered if changing his future meant losing parts of his past.
He leaned back and exhaled slowly.
"Well…"
he murmured.
"Guess second chances come with a price too."
Daaku POV
The music in the room was loud.
Too loud.
Bass thumped through the walls while colored lights flashed over half-empty bottles scattered across the table.
Faizal Khan sat slouched on the couch, a glass of whiskey hanging loosely in his hand.
He hadn't said much since he arrived.
His so-called friends were laughing, talking, arguing over something stupid.
But he wasn't really listening.
His mind was stuck somewhere else.
"You've changed, Rambo."
No.
That wasn't the moment that hurt.
It was the silence before that.
When he had asked—
"Is it?"
And Neil hadn't answered.
That pause.
That hesitation.
That was when Faizal understood everything.
He took a slow sip of whiskey.
Across the table one of the guys noticed.
"What happened to you today, Faizu?"
Another laughed.
"Yeah, man. You look like someone dumped you."
Faizal snorted.
"Nothing."
"Looks like something."
One of them poured more whiskey into his glass.
"Fight with your hero friend?"
Faizal looked at the drink.
"Not a fight."
"Then what?"
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"He just remembered who he really is."
The group exchanged amused glances.
"Ah."
"Star kid problems."
One of them chuckled.
"I told you this would happen."
Faizal didn't reply.
"You thought he was different."
"He partied with you."
"Rode bikes with you."
"Talked trash about the same industry his dad runs."
The guy shrugged.
"But blood is blood, bro."
Faizal's jaw tightened slightly.
Another glass was pushed toward him.
"Forget him."
"People like us… we stay where we belong."
Faizal stared at the whiskey swirling in the glass.
For years he had believed something else.
He had believed Neil was different.
Not another polished Bollywood kid.
Not someone who would eventually disappear behind film posters and red carpets.
But tonight—
That belief had cracked.
Someone across the table tapped a small plastic packet onto the surface.
White powder.
"Here," the guy said casually.
"Come on, Faizu."
"You scared?"
A few of them laughed.
"Don't tell me that Star Kid turned you soft."
Faizal stared at the table.
His mind replayed Neil sitting in that room.
Calm.
Talking about films.
Talking about the future.
Like he had already left everything else behind.
Another voice spoke.
"Look around, bro."
"We're still here."
Faizal slowly lifted the glass.
He drained it in one long swallow.
The burn barely registered.
"THAT'S OUR FAIZU!"
Someone pushed the packet closer again.
"Now try something real."
For a long moment Faizal didn't move.
Across the city—
Neil Mehra was sitting in his quiet room, planning his future.
Writing scripts.
Preparing for a life that might change everything.
But a few kilometers away…
Faizal Khan stared at the white powder on the table.