Shubman and His Dirty Secrets - Episode 11

**INT. HARDIK’S APARTMENT – BEDROOM – 7:42 AM**

Early morning light filters through rain-streaked windows, soft and gray. The city outside is still half-asleep. Inside the king bed, Ishan Kishan lies curled on his side, eyes red from the night’s tears, breathing shallow. Hardik Pandya spoons him from behind, one strong arm wrapped protectively around Ishan’s waist, chest pressed to Ishan’s back, lips brushing the nape of his neck.

Ishan stirs. A soft, broken sound escapes him — half sob, half need.

**ISHAN**  

(voice hoarse, trembling)  

Hardik… I can’t stop seeing their faces. The kids. What we did to them.

Hardik tightens his hold, nuzzling closer, voice low and warm against Ishan’s skin.

**HARDIK**  

(soft, reassuring)  

I know, baby. I know. But we’re going to fix this. Together.

Ishan turns in his arms. Their eyes meet — raw, exhausted, full of everything they’ve lost and everything they still have in each other. The kiss starts gentle, almost hesitant, lips brushing like a question. Then it deepens, slow and hungry, tongues sliding together with quiet desperation. Hands roam — Hardik’s palm sliding up Ishan’s back under his t-shirt, Ishan’s fingers threading through Hardik’s hair, pulling him closer.

The kiss turns wild.

Hardik rolls them so Ishan is on top, hands gripping Ishan’s hips, grinding up against him with open hunger. Ishan moans into his mouth, hips rolling in response, the friction building fast and hot. Clothes are torn off with impatient tugs — t-shirts yanked over heads, shorts shoved down thighs, skin meeting skin in a rush of heat.

**HARDIK**  

(breathless between kisses, voice thick with love)  

You’re mine right now. Let me take care of you.

He flips them again, pinning Ishan gently to the mattress, kissing down his neck, sucking soft marks into the hollow of his throat, then lower — tongue tracing collarbones, nipples, the ridges of abs, the sharp V of his pelvis. When he takes Ishan into his mouth it is deep and passionate, throat relaxing, eyes locked upward with pure adoration. Ishan’s back arches, fingers twisting in Hardik’s hair, moaning his name like a prayer.

**ISHAN**  

(voice wrecked, loving)  

Hardik… fuck, I love you like this. Don’t stop.

Hardik doesn’t. He works Ishan with slow, filthy devotion — tongue swirling, lips sliding, humming so the vibration travels straight to Ishan’s spine. Ishan’s hips buck, but Hardik holds him steady, loving every sound, every tremble.

They flip again. Ishan pushes Hardik onto his back, kissing down his tattooed chest with the same wild hunger, sucking marks of his own. When he takes Hardik into his mouth it is eager and deep, throat working, eyes watering but never breaking contact. Hardik’s hand cups Ishan’s cheek, thumb stroking gently even as his hips roll.

**HARDIK**  

(groaning, voice full of wonder)  

God, you’re so beautiful like this… taking me so good.

They move together like they were made for it — wild, passionate, yet every touch is laced with tenderness. Hardik slicks himself and slides into Ishan in one smooth, deep thrust, face to face, legs wrapped tight around each other. The rhythm starts slow and grinding, then builds — hard, passionate strokes that make the bed creak, skin slapping, sweat slicking their bodies. Ishan rides him next, bouncing with wild abandon, hands braced on Hardik’s chest, head thrown back in ecstasy while Hardik strokes him in time, whispering praise and love between gasps.

They change positions again and again — missionary with deep eye contact and slow, loving thrusts; Ishan on all fours while Hardik takes him from behind, one hand reaching around to stroke him, the other tangled in his hair; side-by-side, spooned tight, Hardik fucking into him with rolling hips while they kiss over Ishan’s shoulder.

Every moan is laced with “I’ve got you,” every thrust full of shared grief turning into something life-affirming. They come together in a shuddering, overwhelming wave — Ishan first, spilling between them with a broken cry of Hardik’s name, Hardik following seconds later, burying himself deep and flooding Ishan with heat, bodies locked tight, foreheads pressed, breathing the same air.

They stay tangled long after, kissing lazily, hands stroking sweat-slick skin, whispering soft words of comfort and love until the rain outside begins to ease.

**CUT TO:**

**INT. ABANDONED TEXTILE MILL – CENTRAL DELHI – LATE AFTERNOON**

The mill looks different in daylight — gray, cold, the blood from last night hosed away but the memory still thick in the air. The five men sit around a makeshift table of crates, coffee steaming in paper cups. Faces are drawn, eyes hollow, but there is new fire in them.

**VIRAT**  

(voice steady but tired)  

We let the kids go. We were wrong. The real killer is still out there. We start over.

**KL RAHUL**  

(nodding)  

We go back to the beginning. The villa. The timeline. Who came after the boys left.

Hardik suddenly sits up straighter, eyes widening as the memory hits him.

**HARDIK**  

The watchman. The security guard at the gate. The kids said he logged them out at 3:07 AM. He must have seen who came next.

The room snaps to attention. Tension crackles like electricity.

**ISHAN**  

(leaning forward, voice urgent)  

We go now. Today. Before anyone else gets to him.

**ABHISHEK**  

(already pulling up maps on his laptop, voice calm)  

I’ll pull the villa address. We approach quiet. No masks this time. Just questions.

**VIRAT**  

(standing, voice low and final)  

This is our last real lead. We make it count.

They rise as one. The mill feels smaller, heavier.

**CUT TO:**

**EXT. VASANT VIHAR VILLA GATE – EVENING**

The same middle-aged watchman stands at the booth, nervous under the five men’s stares. They show no badges this time — just quiet authority and cash slipped across the counter.

**WATCHMAN**  

(thinking hard, voice low)  

After the six boys left at 3:07… six older men arrived. Very important men. Ministers, big businessmen. They said it was a private meeting. Stayed almost two hours. Left around 5 AM. I logged them too. Their cars… I remember the plates. Big names. Their fathers.

The five men exchange glances — shock, rage, and a new, sharper determination.

**HARDIK**  

(voice dark)  

The fathers.

**VIRAT**  

(quiet, lethal)  

We bring them in. Carefully. No alarms. No scratches. Same mill. Same questions.

The watchman’s words hang in the air like a death sentence.

The pre-climax builds — the five men pile into the vans, plans already forming in clipped, urgent voices. The climax hits as they speed through Delhi traffic, rain starting again, the city lights blurring past.

**ABHISHEK**  

(quiet from the back seat)  

This changes everything.

Ishan glances at Hardik in the rear-view mirror. Hardik meets his eyes. A silent, uneasy look passes between them — the first crack of doubt toward Abhishek, small but unmistakable.

The vans disappear into the night.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**