Royal Fall to abandoned world

Sweaty bodies, restless energy, and dreams too big for the metal walls enclosing them were all on the train from Jaipur to Mumbai.

With his earphones plugged in, his cap lowered, and his back against the window, Arjun Rajput sat in the sleeper coach's corner seat, but no music was playing. He just gazed at his image in the dusty windowpane. An exiled prince. No, worse—a future nobody.

His raging thoughts were not much calmed by the train's rhythm. Betrayal. humiliation. helplessness.

He relived every second of the previous twenty-four hours.

As he toasted their relationship, his uncle's eyes were warm.

The composure with which he exposed the treachery.

The guards who had once saluted him now had a stern, cold expression on their faces as they blocked his path.

It was more than just a monetary loss.

Erasure was the term.

He had been deprived of his parents' legacy, the dynasty he had vowed to continue, as if it had never been.

He reached Mumbai shortly before daybreak.

The city never slept. It simply slowed down.

Neon boards blinked over stores that hadn't opened in hours, the streets gleamed from the last of the rain, and the air was heavy with humidity. Diesel and wet concrete combined with the aroma of vada pav.

Arjun left the station without a plan, carrying only a duffel bag, a few pairs of clothes, and ₹72,000 remaining in his savings account.

On the outskirts of Mumbai City, the boy who used to attend investor summits and wear custom suits was now just another lost soul.

Arjun spent the next few weeks looking for a job, any job, moving from budget guesthouses to PG rooms.

His resume highlighted his leadership positions, investment experience, and prestigious education. Now, however, none of that mattered. He had a tarnished name.

He had underestimated the extent of his uncle's influence. He received the same response from each business he contacted: "We'll get back to you."

"An internal problem exists."

"We apologize, but all positions have been filled."

blocked.

He tried phoning old acquaintances.

He once assisted the tech CEO Rohan in obtaining funding: "I'm out of town, bro. Give me a call later.

The startup founder he had coached, Meghna: No response.

Even his longtime friend Zayed, whom Arjun once helped get out of a ₹50 lakh predicament, left a voicemail:

"Look, man, I'm sorry. At the moment, business is delicate. You have a complicated name. I hope you get it.

You get it?

One night, Arjun stood on the Andheri West sidewalk and chuckled sourly.

He got it exactly.

He was a lighthouse when he was wealthy. He was just noise now that he had nothing.

He eventually got something two weeks later: a job as a crew assistant on a movie set. No agreement. wages per day. No honor.

But he agreed.

He was yelled at like a throwaway rag while carrying equipment, cleaning floors, and fetching water. On the first day, the younger version of himself would have left. However, this version—this damaged version—just wished to live.

The studio was packed and disorganized. Loud voices, bright lights, and egos wearing expensive shoes. When Aryan Khurana, the main actor, blinked and sacked people over coffee temperature, he was the type of man who insisted on silence.

Arjun remained silent, inconspicuous, and forgettable.

Until the trap was set.

It took place during a lunch break.

The production team had rested for a little while. Aryan's voice boomed, "Where the hell is my Rolex?!" as Arjun was folding a reflector cloth in a corner.

People turned. Then there was silence.

Aryan pointed directly at Arjun a moment later.

"He was the only person close to my bag!"

Arjun looked up, perplexed. "Sir, I didn't—"

"Look him over!" Aryan gave a bark.

Two of the actor's private bodyguards seized Arjun, gave him a violent pat down, and knocked him to the ground before he could even react.

He attempted to yell, "I didn't touch your—" but was struck in the ribs by a boot.

Then another strike. And yet another.

Weakly, someone in the background said, "Call someone—this isn't right—"

However, nobody did.

They observed. Some even got it on tape.

And the guards halted when Aryan waved his hand at last. Arjun's nose and lip were both bleeding. His dignity was in ruins, and his shirt was ripped.

 Aryan sneered, "Thief." "I'm glad I didn't report you to the police."

None of the other crew members looked him in the eye.

Wheezing, Arjun lay there.

He lacked the strength to scream, protest, or explain.

Later, he was dragged to Versova Beach's edge and dumped close to the rocks by someone, most likely one of the younger production workers. "Avoid returning. You have been placed on a blacklist.

The evening descended.

With his body hurting and his eyes refusing to cry, Arjun lay curled up on the damp sand.

The wind increased. The waves murmured. Mumbai kept breathing all around him, heartless and unstoppable.

People walked past him.

No one looked.

No one halted.

Except for a couple.

"Wait—look, Ramesh bhai!"

The voice of a woman.

Her presence felt warm, even though he couldn't see well.

 "Make an ambulance call. He is heavily bleeding. He needs assistance!

"An ambulance won't arrive here quickly. We'll have him.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

A gentle dupatta was placed against his forehead as he felt himself raised. The man carried him as if he were composed of glass. He saw the woman's face briefly; it was determined, fearful, and kind.

Accents from Gujarat. soft hands. pure hearts.

Someone held him for the first time in weeks because he needed assistance, not because they wanted something.

And as darkness descended and awareness waned, Arjun muttered the only thing he knew: "I've lost everything."

His hand was squeezed by the woman. "Then perhaps this is the beginning of something new, beta."