It was past midnight on Marine Drive. The humid Mumbai air was heavy with the smell of the sea. The streets were almost empty, the glow of streetlights reflecting on the asphalt. The silence didn’t last long.

The roar of four high-performance engines ripped through the night. These weren’t just cars — they were machines worth crores, driven by men who owned the streets when they chose to. Four of Mumbai’s most powerful heirs had taken the road for themselves, racing down the stretch like nothing else existed.

Rudra Pratap Singh At the front, a black Lamborghini Aventador cut through the air. Behind the wheel sat Rudra Pratap Singh, the 29-year-old son of India’s Prime Minister. Known for his arrogance, temper, and dominance, Rudra was born to lead and hated losing. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead as he gripped the wheel with force.

Rudra: "Kabir, you call that driving? I’ve seen grandmothers move faster than you," Rudra taunted through the comm, his tone sharp and provoking. It wasn’t just a race to him — it was proving a point.

Kabir Malhotra Next to him, in a metallic blue McLaren P1, was Kabir Malhotra, 27, heir to the largest ship supply empire in the world. Arrogant but playful, Kabir thrived on competition. A confident smirk crossed his face as he answered Rudra’s jab.

Kabir: "Talk all you want, Rudra, but let’s see who’s smiling at the finish line," Kabir replied, his voice smooth but edged with challenge. He loved pushing buttons, especially Rudra’s.

Vikram Rajawat In perfect sync behind them, a silver Porsche 911 Turbo moved with precision. Driving it was Vikram Raj Singh, 29, prince of Antardhanpur in Rajasthan. Regal, commanding, and disciplined, Vikram didn’t need to shout to be heard. His eyes stayed sharp on the road as he cut into their banter.

Vikram: "You two should stop bickering. The road doesn’t care who your fathers are," he said calmly, each word carrying weight. Vikram played the long game — in racing and in life.

Karan Oberoi At the rear, a crimson Ferrari F8 Tributo stalked them like a predator. Karan Oberoi, 27, son of one of Bollywood’s most powerful producers and heir to a luxury hotel empire, drove with steady hands and a focused gaze. Smart, aggressive, and quick-tempered, Karan didn’t waste words.

Karan: "If you idiots crash, don’t expect me to call the lawyers," he muttered flatly into the comm. For him, racing wasn’t about thrills — it was about control. The four cars thundered down the road, engines roaring in sync. Rudra took the lead, weaving through sparse traffic with confidence. The others followed, each pushing harder, challenging the other without mercy.

Then it happened.

Rudra: "Kabir, watch out!" Rudra’s tone changed instantly, from mocking to urgent.

Kabir’s smirk vanished. His headlights caught a figure — you — standing frozen in the middle of the road.

Instinct took over. Kabir yanked the wheel, the McLaren’s tires screaming as he swerved, stopping just in time.

Karan, seconds behind, slammed his brakes hard. The Ferrari halted inches from you, the force sending the smell of burnt rubber into the air. Vikram and Rudra stopped close behind.

You fell on the ground, clutching your bag to your chest.

Kabir got out first, his long strides purposeful, his face twisted in a scowl.

Kabir: "What the hell were you thinking? Walking into the road like that? Do you have a death wish?" His tone was sharp, but his eyes held a flicker of something other than anger. Rudra, Vikram and Karan got out too slamming their car doors hard