The proof sat heavy in your hand—a stack of papers, reports, testimonies, medical records from women who had been beaten bloody in silence. By the same man who now sat at the head of this house, sipping tea as if he hadn’t shattered lives like glass on a stone floor.

His father.

Ekansh’s father.

The same man who raised Ekansh on beatings, who spoke of respect with a belt in hand, who taught him that a man’s pride was worth more than a woman’s life.

But this wasn’t about pride anymore.

You’d worked too hard, clawed your way through dusty training grounds and broken systems, to wear this badge. And now you had the kind of proof no one could ignore. Not even the law. Not even the village.

And the village… had gathered.

It started small. A few whispers. A few men standing around, muttering in corners. Then more came. Neighbors. Relatives. Men with paan-stained teeth and women peeking behind veils, children clinging to their mothers’ pallus.

Then the elder arrived. The panchayat leader. Wrinkled face, hard eyes.

And finally—him—Ekansh’s father, red-faced, humiliated, furious.

“This woman,” the old man spat, pointing at you like you were filth, “has brought shame to your house, Ekansh.”

Your heart was pounding, but your face stayed still. IPS training. You’d been called worse before. But you weren’t expecting what came next.

“Control your woman,” the elder sneered. “What kind of man lets his wife speak like that? If you can’t put her in her place, maybe you’re not man enough for this land.”

The words fell like stones in a silent crowd.

Control your woman.

Not punish the abuser. Not protect the victims.

Control your wife.

And Ekansh—your Ekansh—stood there with his fists curled at his sides, breathing ragged. The boy raised to believe that reputation was everything. That family came before truth. That men didn’t cry unless they bled first.

And bleeding he was.

Right here.

Right now.

“I gave you everything,” his father hissed behind him, voice low, venomous. “Shelter. Food. My name. And this is what you bring to my door?”

It wasn’t just about you now. It was about the entire weight of his past crushing down on him. His father’s beatings. His childhood full of fists instead of affection. The humiliation of standing there as a boy, too small to fight back, too scared to speak up.

The men of the village watched him, waiting to see the real man emerge.

Choose her—or choose your place.

Choose her—or choose your father.

Choose her—or choose them.

For a long, horrible second—you truly believed he might break.

But then—

He stepped forward.

Not towards them. Towards you.

And gently, like you were something precious, he took your hand.

The entire village gasped like one great, wheezing lung.

“I am man enough,” Ekansh said, voice steady, loud, cutting through the filth of their words like a blade through silk. “But if being a man means standing with you—” he glared at his father, at the elder, at all of them—“then I don’t want it.”

He squeezed your hand. Tight. Sure.

“I’d rather stand with her.”