Shubman and His Dirty Secrets - Episode 9

**EXT. GREATER NOIDA FARMHOUSE – NIGHT (48 HOURS AFTER THE FAILED PARTY)**

Rain comes down in sheets, turning the marble driveway into a black mirror. Aryan Sharma is dragged from the side door of the pool house, body limp, chloroform rag still pressed to his face. Virat and Hardik move like machines — zip-ties snap tight around wrists and ankles, the boy is shoved into the back of the unmarked black van. Doors close with a soft, final thud. The van melts into the storm without a single headlight.

**EXT. GURGAON HIGH-RISE – TWO NIGHTS LATER – 2:41 AM**

The twins are taken in the service elevator. Rohan first — a fake emergency call from “father’s office” pulls him down alone at 2:37 AM. KL Rahul and Abhishek strike in perfect silence inside the elevator car. Chokehold. Plastic cuffs. Rohan is bundled into the waiting van in the basement garage before the doors even finish closing. Vihaan is grabbed the following night when panic makes him leave the penthouse alone at 3:12 AM. Same elevator. Same silence. Same van.

**EXT. SOUTH DELHI PRIVATE GYM – SAME NIGHT – 3:19 AM**

Kabir Oberoi is snatched mid-workout, towel still around his neck, earbuds still blasting music. Hardik and Ishan move in through the back service door. One hand over the mouth, one quick strike to the temple. Kabir drops. They carry him out wrapped in his own gym bag like laundry.

**EXT. YAMUNA RIVER YACHT DOCK – TWO NIGHTS LATER – 1:58 AM**

Arjun Khanna is lifted off the yacht during a private fireworks display. Ishan slips aboard in the chaos, drags him over the railing into the water, then into the waiting inflatable. Arjun barely has time to scream before the tape is across his mouth.

**EXT. HARYANA FAMILY FARMHOUSE – 4:07 AM**

Dev Malhotra is last — taken from his silk-sheeted bed while his father’s guards patrol the outer wall. Abhishek cuts the power to the bedroom wing. Virat and Hardik move in through the balcony. Dev wakes up to a rag over his face and the last thing he sees is Virat’s eyes above the mask.

Six separate vans. Six separate routes through the rain-soaked city. No mistakes. No witnesses.

**INT. ABANDONED TEXTILE MILL – CENTRAL DELHI – 3:12 AM (THE SAME NIGHT THE LAST BOY IS TAKEN)**

The mill is a rotting concrete cathedral forgotten by time — windows boarded with rusting tin, roof half-collapsed, floor slick with decades of oil and rainwater. A single bare bulb hangs from a long chain in the exact center of the vast open floor, swinging gently, throwing long, jagged shadows across peeling walls and rusted machinery skeletons.

Six metal chairs are bolted in a tight circle directly under the bulb.

All six boys are now strapped there — wrists and ankles zip-tied so tight the plastic bites into skin, mouths taped, designer clothes torn and soaked with rain and fear-sweat. Aryan in the center. Rohan and Vihaan on either side of him. Kabir, Arjun, Dev completing the ring. Their faces are pale, eyes wide and darting, chests heaving.

The five men stand just beyond the circle of harsh light, black tactical masks still covering their faces, rain dripping from their shoulders onto the concrete.

A long, heavy beat.

**VIRAT** (voice low, deadly calm through the mask)  

All six secured.

One by one the masks come off — slow, deliberate, like a ritual of judgment. Virat first. Then Hardik. KL Rahul. Ishan. Abhishek. The six boys recognize them instantly. Muffled screams erupt behind the tape. Bodies jerk violently against the ties, chairs scraping on concrete.

**ARYAN** (muffled, frantic)  

No — you can’t do this — please —

Hardik rips the tape off Aryan’s mouth with one savage tug. Aryan gasps for air, coughing.

**HARDIK** (leaning in close, voice soft and terrifying)  

You don’t get to talk until we say so.

**CUT TO:**

**INT. ABANDONED MILL – 4:07 AM**

The interrogation has already lasted fifty-five brutal minutes.

It is methodical. Relentless. Professional.

Virat stands directly in front of Aryan, sleeves rolled high, knuckles already raw and bleeding. He drives a short, vicious hook into the boy’s ribs. Aryan folds forward with a wet, choking cough.

**VIRAT** (quiet, almost conversational)  

You took him to that villa. You and your five friends. You used him. You broke him. Now tell us the rest.

Aryan spits blood onto the concrete between his feet. “We fucked him. That’s all. He wanted—”

Ishan steps forward without warning and slams a knee into Aryan’s stomach. The boy retches violently, bile and blood splattering the floor.

**ISHAN** (voice shaking with pure rage)  

He begged. He said no. We have the fixer’s statement. We have the videos you thought you deleted.

They move around the circle like a machine that has no off switch.

Hardik takes Rohan next — open-hand slaps across the face, one after another, measured and merciless, until the twin’s lip splits open and blood runs in a steady line down his chin. “Talk,” Hardik growls.

KL Rahul works on Vihaan with cold, surgical precision — a single, perfectly placed punch to the solar plexus that leaves the boy gasping for air that simply will not come. Vihaan’s face turns purple, eyes bulging.

Abhishek stands in front of Kabir, eyes completely dead, and snaps three fingers on his right hand one at a time — slow, deliberate cracks that echo through the mill. Kabir screams until his voice cracks into a hoarse whimper.

Arjun and Dev are handled together — Hardik and Ishan alternating blows in perfect rhythm, fists and questions raining down without pause or mercy. Every denial earns another strike.

The mill echoes with wet meat sounds, broken sobs, the scrape of chairs, and the steady, indifferent drip of rain through the broken roof.

Forty-three minutes of unrelenting violence.

Finally, Dev Malhotra — the youngest, the one who always smiled the widest in the videos — breaks completely.

His head hangs forward, blood dripping steadily from his nose onto his ruined designer shirt. His voice is a wrecked, trembling whisper, barely audible over the rain.

**DEV**  

(hoarse, defeated, every word costing him)  

It’s correct… we used him. We abused him. That’s all we did. We passed him around like a toy. Double-teamed him. Triple-teamed him. Spit on him. Slapped him. Kicked him in the balls. Pissed on him. Choked him until he blacked out and woke up again. Everything you already know from the videos. But we didn’t kill him.

The five men freeze mid-motion.

The swinging bulb throws their shadows long and monstrous across the floor.

**VIRAT** (voice dangerously quiet, almost a whisper)  

Say that again.

Dev lifts his swollen, tear-streaked face. His eyes are almost swollen shut, but the terror in them is absolute — and something else. Raw, desperate truth.

**DEV**  

We left the guest house around 3 AM. You can check with the security guard at the gate — he logged us out. Timestamped. You can cross-check it with the time of death in the postmortem report. The coroner said he died between 4:30 and 5:15 AM. We were already home by then. We promise… we liked him. He was a perfect slave for all of our dicks. Even thinking of that night still gives us erections. We swear on our mothers — we didn’t kill him. When we left… he was alive. Breathing. Crying. But alive.

Silence crashes down like a physical weight.

The bulb swings once, slow and lazy. Rain drips louder than heartbeats.

The five men stand motionless, as if the words have physically punched holes through their chests.

Virat’s fists unclench slowly. Blood drips from his raw knuckles onto the floor in steady red drops.

Ishan’s face drains of all color. He takes one stumbling step backward, hand pressed to his mouth like he might be sick right there on the concrete.

Hardik’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His eyes are wide, glassy, staring at nothing.

KL Rahul’s hands start shaking violently at his sides. The clipboard he’s been using to note every answer slips from his fingers and clatters to the concrete with a sound that seems impossibly loud.

Abhishek looks like a man whose entire world has just been flipped upside down and set on fire. His breathing is shallow, rapid, almost panicked.

**ABHISHEK**  

(whisper, barely audible, voice cracking)  

…what?

**DEV** (voice cracking, but steady now that the truth is out)  

When the news broke the next morning… we were all shocked. We thought it was a joke at first. We left him alive. Someone else got to him after we left. Someone moved the body to the roadside. We didn’t kill Shubman Gill. We just… destroyed him for a few hours. Then we went home.

The words hang in the damp, blood-scented air like smoke that refuses to clear.

The bulb swings again. Shadows twist and stretch across the six bound, bleeding boys and the five shattered men.

The revenge they came for — the justice they bled and tortured for — has just been ripped away in a single, devastating sentence.

The real killer is still out there.

And the five men who just spent the last hour beating six teenagers half to death have become something far worse than avengers.

They have become the monsters who tortured the wrong men.

**VIRAT**  

(voice hollow, almost broken, staring at the floor)  

…fuck.

He turns slowly, looking at each of his four brothers. Their faces mirror his own — shock, horror, a grief so deep it feels like it’s carving new hollows inside their chests. No one speaks. The only sound is rain and the faint, wet breathing of the six boys.

The mill is silent except for the rain.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**