Mithun Chakraborty POV
There was a certain rhythm to film sets—one that didn't come from the script or the director, but from years of repetition, from lights being adjusted before they were asked to be, from actors hitting their marks without looking down, from the quiet understanding that everyone there knew exactly what they were doing, even when the scene itself was chaos.
Mithun Chakraborty had lived inside that rhythm for decades.
Which was why he noticed when something didn't fit into it.
They had been shooting for a few days now.
Not long.
Just enough time for first impressions to settle into something more real.
And if he was being honest with himself his first impression of the film hadn't been… impressive.
When Rani Mehra had first sent him the draft script, he had read it the way he read most commercial scripts these days — efficiently.
Without expectation.
Without judgment.
Because he had already seen too much to be surprised easily.
It had felt familiar.
A typical Bollywood structure.
Dance.
Emotion.
Conflict.
A bit of action.
A bit of sentiment.
Something designed to work.
Something designed to sell.
Something designed to launch.
And he had understood it immediately.
This wasn't just a film.
It was a vehicle.
For their son.
For Neil Mehra.
He hadn't complained.
Why would he?
He had done the same.
When his own son, Mimoh Chakraborty, debuted in Jimmy, Mithun had known exactly what he was doing.
Every father did.
You built something safe.
Something that protected them.
Something that gave them a chance.
So he had agreed.
Professionally.
Calmly.
Without overthinking.
And then a few days later the call had come.
"Script changes."
He had almost smiled when he heard it.
Because that was the most normal sentence in the industry.
Scripts changed.
Scenes changed.
Endings changed.
Sometimes entire films changed.
He had expected adjustments.
Tweaks.
Maybe a stronger emotional arc.
Maybe better dialogues.
What he hadn't expected was the narration.
Because it wasn't Rani who spoke that day.
It was Neil.
And for the first few minutes—
Mithun had simply listened.
Not reacting.
Not interrupting.
Just observing.
But somewhere between the first act and the shift in the second something had changed.
The voice.
The control.
The modulation.
This wasn't someone reading a script.
This was someone who understood it.
And more than that someone who felt it.
By the time the narration reached the emotional pivot the room had already gone quiet.
And Mithun had stopped thinking like an actor.
He had started listening like an audience.
Because what was in front of him now was not the same film he had agreed to.
The structure had evolved.
The characters had deepened.
The balance had shifted.
No one felt like a prop anymore.
Not Michael.
Not Munna.
Not Mahinder.
Not Sara.
Each one carried weight.
Each one had a voice.
Each one mattered.
And that was risky.
Especially for a debut.
Mithun had seen this before.
Young actors trying to prove too much too early.
Taking on too much.
Losing themselves in ambition.
But this this didn't feel like overreach.
It felt like intention.
And that had surprised him.
He had leaned back slightly during the narration, watching Neil more than the script.
Watching how he shifted tone between characters.
How he held silence.
How he didn't rush emotion.
And when it ended Mithun hadn't said much.
He rarely did.
But inside he had already acknowledged something.
This boy is not ordinary.
Still experience had taught him something else too.
Bollywood didn't run on talent alone.
It ran on timing.
On luck.
On perception.
On things no script could control.
He had seen brilliant films fail.
Seen mediocre ones succeed.
Seen stars disappear.
Seen outsiders rise.
So while he respected what he saw he didn't trust it fully.
Not yet.
Then the shoot began.
And that was where everything changed.
Because narration could be prepared.
Emotion could be practiced.
But the camera never lied.
On the first day, Mithun had watched quietly from his mark as Neil stepped into a scene opposite him.
A simple scene.
Dialogue-heavy.
No distraction.
No choreography.
Just presence.
Neil didn't rush.
Didn't overperform.
Didn't try to dominate.
He listened.
That was the first thing Mithun noticed.
And when he spoke his lines didn't feel delivered.
They felt… placed.
Exactly where they needed to be.
Another scene unfolded opposite Deepika Padukone.
It wasn't loud.
Didn't rely on raised voices or dramatic breakdowns.
It was the kind of scene that looked simple on paper—
and fell apart the moment someone tried too hard.
Emotional.
Subtle.
Dangerous, in the way silence is dangerous when it demands honesty.
Most newcomers, Mithun knew, either disappeared in front of an actor like Deepika—shrinking into the frame, letting the moment pass through them without ever really holding it or they overcompensated.
Pushed harder.
Spoke louder.
Tried to match experience with effort.
And failed.
Neil did neither.
He didn't compete with her.
He didn't retreat either.
He simply… stayed.
Present.
Still.
Grounded in a way that didn't ask for attention but held it anyway.
When she looked at him he held the gaze.
Not aggressively.
Not challengingly.
Just… steadily.
Like he belonged there.
He didn't rush his lines.
Didn't fill the pauses out of nervousness.
He allowed them to exist.
Allowed the silence to breathe.
And more importantly he trusted it.
Deepika didn't slow down for him.
Didn't soften her performance.
Didn't adjust her rhythm the way experienced actors sometimes do when they sense inexperience across them.
She responded.
Naturally.
Instinctively.
Because there was something there to respond to.
And Mithun noticed that.
Because that was rare.
Very rare.
Then came a dance sequence with Arshad Warsi.
On paper, it was lighter.
More energetic.
Almost playful in tone.
But underneath it carried its own complexity.
Because Arshad wasn't just an actor.
He was a performer.
A dancer with instinct.
With timing.
With that natural looseness that couldn't be taught.
Mithun had seen it before. Recognized his caliber. Only if he had some background in industry.
The kind of rhythm that came from within—not rehearsed, but lived.
And he expected, like he always did that the newcomer would either try to overpower it…
or fall behind it.
Neil did neither.
Again.
He met it.
Step for step.
Beat for beat.
Not louder.
Not sharper.
But aware.
Completely aware.
He didn't overstep.
Didn't try to steal focus.
But at the same time he never allowed himself to be overshadowed.
Every movement had intention.
Every transition carried control.
Even in improvisation he didn't lose shape.
There were small moments—unplanned ones.
A slight shift in rhythm.
A playful pause.
A change in energy from Arshad.
Neil caught them.
Instantly.
Returned them.
Adjusted without breaking flow.
Built on them like he had been dancing alongside him for years.
And that,
that wasn't training.
That was instinct.
Mithun found himself watching more closely now.
Not as someone evaluating.
But as someone… recognizing.
Because somewhere between those exchanged glances with Deepika and those perfectly timed beats with Arshad something had shifted inside him.
He had stopped looking at Neil as a newcomer.
Stopped measuring him against expectation.
Stopped giving him that silent allowance that seniors often give the young that margin for error.
And without even realizing when it happened he had started watching him differently.
Not as a boy being launched.
Not as someone learning.
But as someone standing.
As someone who didn't need space to be given because he already knew how to take just enough of it.
No more.
No less.
And for the first time in days Mithun wasn't observing as a senior anymore.
He was watching as an equal.
Which he hadn't expected.
There was also something else.
Something quieter.
Camera awareness. Neil knew where the frame was.
Without looking.
Without checking.
He adjusted subtly.
Angles.
Posture.
Timing.
Not taught.
Not explained.
Understood.
And that was instinct.
Mithun leaned back in his chair between takes, watching the boy from a distance as the crew reset lights for the next shot.
There was no arrogance.
No unnecessary display.
No attempt to prove anything.
Just work.
And for the first time a small, almost reluctant thought crossed his mind.
Gaurav is lucky.
Very lucky.
Because this wasn't just a launch.
This was arrival.
And that thought was followed by another.
Less comfortable.
More personal.
Where does Mimoh stand… in front of this?
Faizal (Daaku) POV
The city hadn't changed.
It was still loud in the same careless way, still alive in the way that didn't ask permission from anyone, still moving forward like nothing that happened inside it ever really mattered in the long run.
But something in Faizal had.
And that was enough to make everything feel… off.
He sat on the edge of his bed, one elbow resting on his knee, his phone hanging loosely in his hand as the same video played again—light flickering across his face in uneven bursts.
Kriti.
He didn't remember when he had pressed play the first time that night.
Or why he hadn't stopped after the second.
Or the fifth.
Or the twentieth.
At some point, the video had stopped being something he was watching and had become something he was stuck inside.
The final scene played again.
Rambo standing there.
Broken.
Unsettling.
Different.
Faizal's jaw tightened slightly.
Not in anger.
Not exactly.
Something else.
Something harder to name.
He dragged a hand across his face and let out a slow breath, pausing the video this time, the screen freezing on that same expression he still couldn't fully understand.
"…what the hell are you doing, Rambo," he muttered under his breath.
But the question didn't carry irritation.
It carried confusion.
Because he was happy.
That part was real.
He could see it clearly.
Neil wasn't drifting anymore.
Wasn't wasting time.
Wasn't just another rich kid floating through life without direction.
He had found something.
Something solid.
Something that made sense.
And he truly was glad.
But somewhere underneath that quiet.
Persistent.
Uncomfortable was something else.
He missed him.
Not this version.
Not the one on screen.
Not the one who spoke about scripts and characters and "vision" like he had suddenly grown ten years older overnight.
He missed Rambo.
The one who didn't think twice before calling him at 2 a.m. just to go for a ride.
The one who would show up unannounced, helmet in hand, grin already in place like trouble was a guarantee.
The one who didn't care about where they were going only that they were going.
Mithibai days.
Lazy afternoons that stretched into evenings without purpose.
Bikes cutting through traffic like rules didn't exist.
Random drives to Alibaug just because someone said "Lets go."
Stopping mid-road for cutting chai.
Arguing over nothing.
Laughing over everything.
Simple.
Pointless.
Perfect.
Faizal leaned back against the wall slowly, his head resting against it as his gaze stayed fixed on the paused screen.
Rambo still called.
Sometimes.
Not regularly.
Not like before.
But enough.
The voice was the same.
The tone.
The way he said his name.
But something behind it was missing.
Faizal couldn't explain it.
Couldn't point at it.
Couldn't even say it out loud without sounding stupid.
It just felt like…
someone else was speaking through him.
Not fake.
Not forced.
Just different.
"Maybe this is what growing up looks like," he muttered quietly, more to himself than anything else.
The words didn't comfort him.
They didn't explain anything either.
He locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed beside him, letting out a breath that stayed heavier than he expected.
A knock on the door broke the moment.
Sharp.
Impatient.
"Faizal!"
His father's voice.
No room for delay.
He closed his eyes for a second before pushing himself up, rolling his shoulders once like he was preparing for something far more exhausting than it actually was.
"Coming," he called back.
The hallway smelled faintly of polish and expensive liquor, the kind of quiet wealth that didn't need to prove itself loudly.
His father stood near the living room, already dressed, already ready, already expecting.
"There's work today," he said simply.
Faizal resisted the urge to sigh.
"What kind of work?"
"Routine visits."
That sounded worse.
His father glanced at him once, measuring, before continuing.
"College."
"Schools."
"A few pubs."
"Just make sure everything is running properly."
Faizal leaned against the wall slightly.
"And if it is?"
"Then make sure it stays that way."
Same thing.
Different words.
A few months ago he wouldn't have even entertained this.
Would've made an excuse.
Disappeared.
Called Rambo.
"I am coming get ready."
And that would've been enough.
But now—
He had nothing better to do.
And maybe—
just maybe—
he didn't feel like sitting in his room watching that video again.
His father's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Finish this properly…"
A small pause.
"…and I'll give you something."
Faizal looked up.
"What?"
A faint, knowing look.
"Beretta Cheetah 81."
That got his attention.
A slow smirk pulled at the corner of his lips despite himself.
"Seriously?"
His father didn't repeat himself.
Didn't need to.
Faizal exhaled, pushing himself off the wall.
"…fine."
If this was the trade he'd take it.
He grabbed his keys from the table, flipping them once in his hand as he headed toward the door.
"Where first?" Faizal paused for half a second.
Then a crooked smile appeared.
Because he already knew exactly which one he need to start his day with.
That fat, bootlicking principal.
The one who smiled too much.
Talked too sweetly.
And always—
always—
kept the good scotch hidden in his office like it was some kind of offering.