Kashish Chandravanshi opened his eyes, not groggy, not tired—just awake. Years of discipline had trained his body to function like a machine, waking up at the exact moment he needed to, without hesitation.
He sat up, stretched his neck, and ran a hand through his thick hair before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The cold floor met his feet, grounding him, reminding him of the life he had built. A life of power, fear, and control.
Without wasting another second, he got up and started his morning routine—meditation, push-ups, and stretching, all done with a precision that spoke of relentless practice. His routine was never just about fitness; it was a ritual, a necessary start to a day filled with chaos.
By 5:30 AM, he was in the gym, the rhythmic sound of weights and punching bags echoing through the massive training hall. His body moved with ease, sweat dripping down his back as he pushed himself beyond limits, testing his endurance, his strength—because in his world, weakness was never an option.
The last part of his workout was his favorite. The real test.
His guards and trainees lined up, their expressions tense but determined. They knew what was coming. Every morning, he chose a few of them to fight him—not because he needed to prove himself, but because he needed to see their growth.
"Who's first?" Kashish asked, his voice calm but carrying authority.
A young fighter stepped forward, confidence in his stance. Kashish smirked. Good. He liked confidence—but confidence alone wasn't enough.
The fight began.
A punch was thrown. Kashish dodged effortlessly, his movements calculated. The fighter tried to strike again, faster this time. Kashish blocked it with ease, twisting the man's arm and flipping him onto the mat in one swift motion.
"Too slow," he said coldly. "Again."
One by one, they came at him—each stronger than before, each better than yesterday. But none good enough. Kashish didn't hold back. He fought with precision, testing their limits, pushing them harder. By the end of it, his men were panting, some groaning on the ground, others standing but barely.
"You all need to improve," he said, his sharp gaze scanning the room. "In this world, only the strong survive."
Without another word, he left. He went to his room.
After a long, cold shower, Kashish dressed in a crisp black shirt and trousers, his usual intimidating look. But as he walked downstairs, his sharp eyes softened just a little.
The scent of fresh food filled the air.
His mother stood in the kitchen, arranging a plate for him. Poha, fresh salads, and warm tea—his usual breakfast. She smiled when she saw him, a warmth in her eyes that no one else could bring out of him.
"Good morning, beta," she said.
"Good morning, Ma," he replied, sitting down.
His family was already gathered at the table—his father reading the newspaper, his younger siblings chatting about their plans for the day. It was a rare moment of peace, a moment that reminded him that despite the bloodshed outside, this house was untouched by it.
At his Office
By the time he reached his office, the warmth of home had vanished.
The cold, ruthless Kashish was back.
His assistant was already waiting for him as he stepped inside.
"Did you find anything about her?" Kashish asked, his voice sharp.
The assistant swallowed nervously. "Sir... no, not yet."
Silence.
The air in the office dropped a few degrees.
Kashish's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. "Not yet?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low.
The assistant flinched. "W-we are trying, sir. She disappeared without a trace. But we will find her—"
A loud crash echoed through the office as Kashish slammed his fist onto the desk, making the assistant jump.
"Trying isn't enough," he growled. "I want results. I want every piece of information about her—where she came from, who she is, and why she dared to steal from me. And I want it now."
The assistant nodded frantically, scrambling to leave before Kashish's anger turned into something worse.
As the door slammed shut, Kashish leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
His fingers tapped against the desk, his mind sharp, focused.
No one escaped him. No one dared to challenge him and walked away unscathed.
Making a story relatable across different backgrounds means crafting deep, multi-dimensional characters, universal emotions, and themes that resonate with many. Writing so that everyone can enjoy my imagination.
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