The nation loved Armaan Khanna most when he was angry.

Not smiling through luxury watch campaigns.

Not laughing beside Bollywood actresses at Ambani weddings.

Not standing in tailored navy suits beside trophy cabinets and endorsement walls.

No.

India loved him feral.

Sweat-soaked under stadium lights, jaw clenched hard enough to crack, eyes blazing beneath the brim of his cap while seventy thousand people screamed his name like prayer.

ARMAAN.

ARMAAN.

ARMAAN.

The Wankhede crowd moved like a living thing around him, flashes exploding through the darkness as television cameras zoomed in on the golden boy of Indian cricket pacing near the boundary rope.

The commentators were already losing their minds.

"Khanna looks furious tonight."

"He thrives under pressure."

"He's dangerous when he's emotional."

Dangerous.

The word followed him everywhere.

Dangerous on the field.
Dangerous with women.
Dangerous with reporters.
Dangerous with his temper.

Armaan liked it that way.

Because fear kept people from looking too closely.

The final wicket fell two overs later.

The stadium detonated.

Blue jerseys surged through the stands while fireworks exploded over Mumbai's humid night sky. Teammates rushed the field, cameras swarmed, microphones shoved forward from every direction.

Armaan barely reacted.

He ripped his helmet off, dragging a hand through damp black hair while sweat slid along the sharp line of his throat. Veins stood out against his forearms from the force of his grip around the bat.

A cameraman nearly tripped trying to get closer.

That face sold everything.

Luxury brands.
Perfumes.
Sportswear.
Dreams.

The nation's favorite disaster.

And Armaan knew exactly how to weaponize it.

He looked straight into one of the cameras and smirked.

Twitter would explode within seconds.

It always did.

-

The locker room smelled like sweat, deodorant, muscle spray, and expensive cologne trying unsuccessfully to overpower exhaustion.

Music blasted through speakers.

Someone was screaming the lyrics terribly.

Someone else had champagne open already.

Reyansh Kapoor was standing shirtless on a bench with a towel around his neck, yelling at nobody in particular.

"Did you see that six?"

"You say that after every match," Kabir Sahni said flatly from his corner while unwrapping tape from his wrist.

"Because I'm consistently impressive."

"You're consistently unemployed-looking."

The room burst into laughter.

Reyansh pointed aggressively. "This is why your fanbase thinks you're emotionally constipated."

Kabir didn't even look up. "And yours thinks you have commitment issues."

"I do have commitment issues."

Armaan collapsed onto the leather bench with a low groan, throwing his head back against the locker.

"Someone get me water before I pass out."

"You've had three energy drinks and half a protein shake," Veer said from nearby.

"Exactly. I'm basically dying."

Veer snorted quietly.

The two of them together always drew attention even inside the team.

Veer Malhotra and Armaan Khanna.

Captain material and chaos incarnate.

One controlled.
One combustible.

Yet somehow inseparable since they were teenagers.

Armaan leaned forward, dragging his jersey over his head before tossing it carelessly toward Reyansh, who immediately threw it back.

"Brother, your female fanbase would sell organs for this."

"Then auction it."

"Disgusting capitalist behavior."

"You literally own shares in a tequila company."

"Entrepreneurship."

The room dissolved again.

Someone shoved a phone into Armaan's face.

"Bro."

He squinted.

An entertainment page had already uploaded a slow-motion clip of him glaring at the crowd after his last boundary.

The caption read:

ARMAAN KHANNA LOOKS LIKE HE COULD RUIN LIVES TONIGHT.

Two hundred thousand likes in under ten minutes.

Reyansh whistled.

"Comments are thirsty."

"They're always thirsty."

"An actress just posted fire emojis."

"Which actress?"

"Does it matter?"

Armaan rolled his eyes.

This was his life now.

Every expression became discourse.
Every glance became flirtation.
Every rumor became headline.

His phone buzzed against the bench.

Nikhil Seth.

Of course.

Armaan groaned immediately.

"Your babysitter?" Reyansh asked.

"My PR manager," Armaan corrected bitterly.

"Same thing."

He answered anyway.

"Nikhil, if this is about the press conference, I'm busy surviving."

"You're trending for fighting with a spectator."

Armaan blinked slowly.

"What?"

"Clip's already viral."

Kabir looked over immediately.

Veer straightened.

Nikhil continued speaking with the exhausted calm of a man who managed disasters professionally.

"Did you or did you not tell someone in the crowd to shut the hell up?"

"They were abusing our fielding coach."

"That is not the point."

"It literally is the point."

"Armaan."

His tone sharpened.

The room quieted slightly.

"You have three brand meetings next week. One more aggression controversy and sponsors will start asking questions again."

Again.

There it was.

The word hanging heavy beneath every conversation.

Again.

Again after the nightclub fight.
Again after leaked paparazzi photos.
Again after the actress breakup.
Again after the hotel incident in Dubai.

Scandal followed him like perfume.

Armaan rubbed a hand over his face.

"I didn't punch anyone this time."

"Congratulations. The standards are on the floor."

Reyansh nearly choked trying not to laugh.

Even Veer looked amused.

Nikhil kept talking.

"We need discipline from you for at least six months."

"That sounds miserable."

"It sounds employable."

Call disconnected.

Armaan tossed the phone aside.

"Marriage," Reyansh announced dramatically from across the room.

"Shut up."

"I'm serious. Public loves stable men. Find a beautiful rich wife. Smile in family photographs. Suddenly everyone forgets your sins."

Kabir muttered, "That strategy works concerningly often."

Veer was toweling off his hair quietly when he said, almost absentmindedly:

"Your problem is you look like trouble even when you're standing still."

Armaan grinned lazily.

"Jealous?"

"I enjoy peace."

"You're a liar. You've been enabling me since 2015."

"That was before your face became national news every week."

Armaan laughed.

But exhaustion lingered beneath it.

The kind that didn't leave after sleep.

Sometimes he wondered what silence felt like.

No cameras.
No speculation.
No strangers discussing his personality online.

Just quiet.

The thought disappeared quickly.

His life had never known quiet.

-

Outside the stadium, Mumbai had already turned the match into mythology.

Fans crowded barricades screaming his name.

Phone flashes lit up the humid night in violent bursts.

Security guards struggled to control the chaos as journalists shouted questions over one another.

"Armaan! One statement please!"

"Are the aggression allegations affecting your endorsements?"

"Is it true you were seen with actress Ananya Sen last week?"

"Any comment on the leaked video?"

"Armaan!"

"Armaan!"

"ARMAAN!"

The black SUV finally rolled forward.

People slammed against barricades trying to glimpse him through tinted windows.

Inside the car, Armaan loosened the first few buttons of his black shirt and leaned back heavily against the seat.

The city blurred outside.

Billboards carried his face.

One advertising luxury watches.
One sportswear.
One cologne campaign where he looked devastatingly untouchable.

It was strange seeing yourself turned into product.

His phone kept vibrating.

Messages.
Notifications.
Tags.
Rumors.
Invitations.
Women.
PR reminders.

Noise.

Constant noise.

Then another message appeared.

Veer:

Dinner at Malhotra house tomorrow.
Dadi's birthday.
Don't disappear.

Armaan smirked faintly.

I was literally invited against my will.

Veer:

Wear something decent.

impossible

Veer reacted with a middle finger emoji.

Armaan laughed quietly to himself.

The Malhotra house.

Old money.
Controlled smiles.
Family politics hidden behind crystal glasses and polished silverware.

He had spent half his life there.

Enough to know every hallway.
Enough to know every silence.

Enough to know Veer's family was beautiful from a distance and exhausting up close.

Outside, the city screamed his name again as the SUV stopped at a signal.

A group of boys recognized him immediately.

Phones lifted.

Excited shouting exploded.

Armaan gave them a tired salute through the glass.

The internet would call him arrogant tomorrow.

Or charming.

Maybe both.

In this country, people loved him with frightening intensity.

But none of them knew him.

Not really.

And somewhere across the city, inside a massive house full of expensive silence, a girl he had known almost his entire life sat at a piano she no longer allowed herself to touch.

Not yet.

But he would soon.