"You may outrun the past, but you can never truly escape it."
Vikram was silently lying on the hard metal bed, eyes closed, though his mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts.
Andrich was scrubbing the toilet as part of a schedule Vikram had "democratically" assigned. Vikram shat; Andrich cleaned.
Andrich gagged at the foul stench. "What poisonous garbage are you shoving down your throat?"
"Whatever filth those unhygienic cooks are brewing in the rat nests they call kitchens," Vikram replied, without opening his eyes.
"Learn to flush. Or at least throw some water after you're done, for fuck's sake," Andrich grunted.
"Just shut your damn mouth and scrub. I want it cleaned the next time I unload." Vikram tossed a half-eaten apple at him. "Consider it your reward for your hard work."
Vikram chuckled. Andrich rolled his eyes.
"This childish shit and your narcissistic attitude is what makes you so damn unpleasant," Andrich muttered.
"Fuck you." Vikram flipped him off.
"You weren't like this in the beginning. Nafisa used to sing your praises day and night. Sure, you were arrogant and smug even then, but you had other things too, like you had the brains, guts, and drive. I think Nafisa had a bit of a thing for you, honestly. But, you being you, you ruined it. Your bad side just.... devoured the good. What happened?"
Vikram was quiet for a moment. Then, with a dry smile, he said,
"Good. Bad. Malevolent or benevolent, I have all the traits. But people only see what they want to see. I'm still the same kid who would've pissed himself if someone told him to pull a trigger. But time... and situations... they twist even the strongest. And honestly? I was never that strong to begin with."
Andrich wiped the sweat off his brow, tossing the cleaning rag aside. he sat back on his heels and looked over at Vikram with a faint, almost teasing smile.
"Everyone has a sob story. What's yours?"
Vikram cracked open one eye, amused. "You haven't heard it already?"
"A bit here and there. But none of it feels real," Andrich replied. "You... something about you doesn't add up. Like something happened. Something you don't talk about, not because it hurt, but because you're afraid it'll happen again. Not just to someone else. To you."
Vikram blinked, surprised for a brief second. Then, he smirked."Huh. I was wrong. You're not as much of an idiot as I thought. You've got a sharper eye than you let on."
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Yes, yes, the usual tragic backstories every 'villain' or 'anti-hero' sings like a broken record. But mine... mine's a little different. Or at least, I like to think it is."
He chuckled, almost bitterly.
"Go on," Andrich urged. "It's not like we've got anything better to do."
Vikram gestured lazily. "Wash your hands first. Sit properly. I'm not telling my life story while you smell like piss and bleach."
Andrich groaned but obeyed. A few minutes later, he plopped down in front of Vikram, cross-legged, curious.
Vikram sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I never thought I'd have to narrate my own story... and definitely not to you."
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as if trying to pull the past down like an old film reel.
"My beginning? Everyone already knows it. No point wasting breath on that.
College life was... routine, exhausting, and painfully average. An endless loop of assignments, sleepless nights, and thankless effort. I slogged through lectures like a zombie, fueled by greasy pizzas, limp fries, and enough carbonated poison to kill a small horse. My body ran on junk; my soul ran on fumes.
Then came Shabana.
Falling into a relationship with her didn't change the workload, but it changed me. Suddenly, there was an escape—no, not an escape, a refuge. Someone to crash into after days that felt like punishment. We didn't talk about stress. We drowned it.
Only God, Shabana, and I know how much of our relationship existed between tangled sheets and tangled thoughts. Most guys spent their weekends with a barber or at the bar. Me? Mine were all about sleep, sex, repeat. A ritual of release, over and over, until even pleasure began to feel like muscle memory.
But like anything done too often, the spark began to flicker. Shabana had trouble keeping up with the pills. I had trouble staying focused after nights that left me both drained and dazed.
So the rhythm changed. The fire cooled, but didn't die—it matured. We swapped wild nights for quiet evenings. Restaurants, long walks, and the kind of coffee dates people post with cheesy captions. It was cliché, sure. But damn, it was beautiful in its way.
That's my college life, in a nutshell. Want to dig deeper?"
Vikram poured himself a glass of water, his gaze calm, yet unreadable.
"What about Iyer? And that other guy you're often associated with… Fardeen?"
Vikram chuckled, shaking his head. "Iyer? That story comes much later. We'll get there—hopefully."
He leaned back. "Fardeen Khanan... now that guy was something else. Not your typical teacher. He felt like someone plucked straight out of a film. Sharp mind, magnetic presence, and a ridiculous knack for simplifying the most complex crap into digestible knowledge. And yeah—he was Greek god handsome. Girls used to stare. Hell, even some guys."
A pause. His tone dropped slightly. "But beyond all that? Not much else. He had none of the darker traits that attract hollow people. No ambition for power. No games. Just... goodness. Fardeen sir was the kind who'd give more than he had. He even bailed me out financially once, when my idiot brother ended up behind bars."
Vikram's eyes dimmed. "People say I killed him. But the truth... the truth's not that simple."
"What is the truth?" Andrich leaned in, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"That's a tale for another time." Vikram waved it off.
"Fine. Then at least tell me—what changed?"
"What changed?" Vikram gave a long, tired exhale. "Everything. But that's a long anecdote."
"Okay, okay," Andrich relented. "Then how did you meet Massino?"
"Massino…" Vikram's lips curled into a sly smile. "Now that's an interesting memory. It was around seven years ago. Back then, Mr. Valentina wasn't bedridden yet. Sick, yes—but still active."
He sipped from his glass, eyes wandering into the past. "Massino had this ridiculous moustache—looked like the Monopoly guy. Sonny was younger then. Dark hair, slick stubble... like Tom Cruise if he were Italian. As for Annabelle, she was abroad at the time. But I saw her old photos—she looked like a porcelain doll."
A chuckle escaped him. "But credit for that entire connection? It goes to Mr. Coppola. The man lives to serve. When I first landed in Italy, it was Coppola who set up the meeting between Massino and me. Mr. Valentina was present too, briefly. But he left the moment Massino arrived. Couldn't stand sitting next to him, I guess."
"And how did that meeting go?"
"Smooth. Surprisingly smooth. Massino wasted no time—grasped my hand the moment he could. And truth be told, I was more eager to meet Valentina back then. He was the real deal—wealthy, connected, and far more manageable than his chaotic counterpart."
He sighed. "Anyway, I did what I had to. I made Massino big. Bigger than even he expected. Our relationship grew... but the bigger we got, the more we attracted the wrong kind of attention. Envy has sharp teeth, Andrich. And that's where my dear friend Mr. Dempsey entered the picture."
Vikram suddenly waved his hand dismissively. "Bah. Enough of this nostalgic shit. Go wash whatever mess Mr. Henderson wants cleaned. It was supposed to be my job, but I think my body deserves sleep more than soap right now."
He shoved Andrich lightly toward the cell door. "On your way back, bring some food, will you? Got hungry narrating the past."
He winked.....