Shubman And His Dirty Secrets - Episode 3

**EXT. DELHI ROADSIDE – DAWN**

A cracked asphalt shoulder on the outskirts of South Delhi. Monsoon puddles reflect the first gray light. A jogger’s flashlight beam catches pale skin. Shubman Gill lies naked, face-down in the dirt, body curled like a broken doll. Bruises bloom across his back, thighs, neck. Dried blood and semen streak his inner thighs and the pavement beneath him. His famous wrists—those silk wrists that once flicked centuries—are bound behind him with cable ties. Eyes open, staring at nothing.

A siren wails in the distance.

**CUT TO:**

**INT. VARIOUS LIVING ROOMS / HOTEL SUITES – MORNING MONTAGE**

Television screens blaze across India. The same breaking-news graphic pulses in red and black.

**HEADLINE CHYRON (ALL CHANNELS):**  

**SHUBMAN GILL FOUND DEAD – NUDE ROADSIDE BODY BEARS SIGNS OF BRUTAL GANG RAPE AND MURDER**

Reporters shout over footage of the crime scene, blurred for broadcast.  

**REPORTER 1 (NDTV):** “India’s golden boy… reduced to this. Police confirm multiple assailants, extreme sexual violence—”  

**REPORTER 2 (INDIA TODAY):** “Sources say the cricketer was last seen leaving a high-security Vasant Vihar villa at 4 AM. The nation mourns—”  

**REPORTER 3 (Aaj Tak):** “Social media is exploding. #JusticeForShubman trends at 12 million tweets in one hour.”

The country stops. Offices empty. Streets fill with stunned crowds. Candlelight vigils ignite outside the BCCI headquarters. Prime Minister’s office issues a statement. Cricket is cancelled nationwide.

**CUT TO:**

**ITC MAURYA HOTEL SUITE – DAY**

Ishan Kishan sits on the edge of the unmade bed, still in yesterday’s tracksuit. The TV is muted but the headline scrolls endlessly. His phone lies face-down on the carpet, buzzing with hundreds of missed calls. Tears carve clean lines down his unshaven cheeks.

He replays the last voice note Shubman sent him—three nights ago, post-Mumbai, voice husky and laughing:  

**SHUBMAN (VOICE NOTE):** “Miss your cock already, baby. Delhi’s gonna be filthy. Can’t wait to be your dirty secret again.”

Ishan’s fist slams the remote. The screen cracks. He stands, breathing hard, eyes black with grief and something sharper—rage.

**ISHAN**  

(whisper, broken)  

They touched you. They *broke* you. I’m coming for every last one of them.

He grabs his keys. No police. No BCCI. This is personal.

**CUT TO:**

**KL RAHUL’S MUMBAI PENTHOUSE – SAME TIME**

KL Rahul paces barefoot across marble floors, phone pressed to his ear. The same news plays on the wall-sized TV. His face is stone, but his free hand trembles.

**KL RAHUL**  

(into phone, low)  

I don’t care what the cops say. I want the villa guest list, the CCTV, the fixer who set it up. Money’s no object.

He ends the call. On his desk: a hidden drawer slides open. Inside—a single Polaroid of him and Shubman, shirtless, laughing in a Goa hotel two years ago. No one knew. No one *could* know.

**KL RAHUL**  

(voice cracking)  

You always said yes to everyone… but you were mine first.

He slips on a black cap and leaves. Private investigator already waiting downstairs.

**CUT TO:**

**HARDIK PANDYA’S VILLA – AHMEDABAD – DAY**

Hardik Pandya stands at the edge of his infinity pool, phone in a death grip. The news ticker reflects in the water. His jaw is locked so tight a muscle jumps.

**HARDIK**  

(to his reflection)  

Six rich brats thought they could touch my boy? I’ll bury them myself.

He dials a number from his “old friends” list—underworld contacts from his Baroda days. No names. Just: “Find the pimp. Find the six. Keep it quiet.”

Flashback hits him hard: Shubman on his knees in a team hotel bathroom during the last T20, eyes locked on Hardik’s, whispering, “Harder, daddy. Make me forget the cameras.”

Hardik punches the glass railing. Blood drips into the pool.

**CUT TO:**

**VIRAT KOHLI’S GURGAON FARMHOUSE – DAY**

Virat Kohli sits alone in his home gym, lights off, phone on silent. The TV is the only glow. He watches the blurred crime-scene photos and something ancient and protective cracks open inside the King.

He doesn’t cry. He plans.

**VIRAT**  

(quiet, lethal)  

They killed the kid who trusted me with his secrets.

He opens a burner phone. Texts fly to three trusted ex-cops on his payroll. “Independent inquiry. No BCCI involvement. Report only to me.”

Memory: Shubman in his lap after a World Cup win, drunk on victory and lust, murmuring, “You’re the only one who never treated me like a toy, Virat bhai.”

Virat stands. The investigation begins.

**CUT TO:**

**ABHISHEK SHARMA’S HYDERABAD APARTMENT – DAY**

Abhishek Sharma, youngest of them all, is already at his laptop in a darkened room. Screens glow with dark-web tabs, deleted Instagram stories, and traffic-cam footage he’s illegally pulled.

**ABHISHEK**  

(muttering, furious)  

Six teenagers. One fixer. One dead best friend. Not on my watch.

He’s the tech ghost. No one ever suspected the quiet left-hander had been Shubman’s secret midnight hook-up during the last IPL—stolen nights in team buses, whispered promises.

Abhishek’s eyes burn. He starts scraping every Vasant Vihar villa booking from the last month.

**MONTAGE – THE INVESTIGATIONS (THREE DAYS LATER)**

**VARIOUS LOCATIONS – INTERCUT**

Each man works alone, in parallel shadows.

- Ishan bribes a hotel concierge in Vasant Vihar; gets nothing but a blank guest log.  

- KL Rahul leans on a corrupt cop; the officer is found dead the next morning—*suicide*, they say. Dead end.  

- Hardik shakes down a low-level pimp in Delhi’s underbelly; the man swears he knows nothing, then disappears.  

- Virat’s ex-cops hit a wall of sealed BCCI files.  

- Abhishek’s algorithms flag six burner phones near the villa that night—but the numbers route through a VPN in Singapore. Ghost.

They are close. So close. Tension coils tighter with every missed lead. Paranoia sets in. Each wonders: *Am I being watched?*

** ABANDONED WAREHOUSE – SOUTH DELHI – NIGHT (END OF DAY 4)**

Rain hammers the tin roof. Five black SUVs arrive separately, headlights cutting through the downpour. The men step out—hoods up, faces grim.

Ishan first. Then KL Rahul. Hardik. Virat. Abhishek last.

They freeze ten feet apart, staring at each other.

**ISHAN**  

(voice raw)  

You?

**KL RAHUL**  

(quiet realization)  

All of us?

A long, electric beat. The truth lands like a body blow.

**HARDIK**  

(soft, broken laugh)  

He really did say yes to everyone… didn’t he?

**VIRAT**  

(stepping forward)  

Doesn’t matter now. He was ours. All of ours. And they took him.

**ABHISHEK**  

(holding up his phone)  

I just got a ping. Encrypted message. Anonymous. Traces to the same fixer who arranged the villa meet. The pimp. Real name unknown, but we have a location—old safehouse in Noida. He’s the one who delivered Shubman to those six bastards.

They look at each other—grief, rage, and a new, fragile brotherhood forging in the rain.

**ISHAN**  

(voice steel)  

Then we go together. No more secrets. No more solo hunts.

**HARDIK**  

(grinning darkly)  

And when we find him… we make him talk.

**VIRAT**  

(eyes cold)  

Then we finish what they started.

The five men climb into one SUV. Taillights disappear into the storm.

**END OF PART 3**

**TO BE CONTINUED…**

The nation still mourns on every screen. But in the shadows, five broken lovers have become something far more dangerous: a unit.