There's a moment in every warrior's journey—
Where he walks onto the battlefield, not to fight,
But to be seen.
For Aarav Malik, that day had come.
The gates opened with a metallic groan as the crowd poured in. A mix of skeptics, mechanics, vloggers, retired uncles in crisp white kameezes, and college boys hoping for free merch. It wasn't some glitzy auto show with spinning stages and jazz music.
It was raw. Real. And buzzing with quiet anticipation.
Five matte-black beasts stood under spotlights, shining like they had something to prove. No famous logos. No foreign labels. Just the badge: Triple Axe, bold and sharp like the name itself.
Aarav stepped forward, in his usual black kurta, not a single drop of polish on his boots. He wasn't here to impress—
He was here to deliver.
Taimoor Shah stood beside him, suited up, smiling like a man who'd just bet on the right horse.
"Today," Aarav said into the mic, "we don't sell cars. We show what we can build."
He turned, eyes fierce.
"This is our beta release. You won't drive them today. But you'll witness them. Hear them. Smell the sweat in their engines."
Engines ignited. One by one, the cars came to life. Loud. Guttural. Proud. The crowd stepped back, then leaned in. Kids raised their phones. Elder men raised their brows.
And then the test drives began—by his crew only. With sharp turns, tire burns, and a display of raw mechanical poetry.
People didn't cheer right away. They watched. Measured. Judged.
Then it came.
Claps.
Then whistles.
Then someone shouted, "Beta model ka yeh haal hai? Phir toh asal release tabahi hoga!"
And just like that—Triple Axe became talk.
Orders didn't fly in yet. But respect did.
That night, social media whispered one line on every screen:
"Triple Axe is not a brand. It's a statement."
Taimoor called Aarav two days later. Voice serious.
"I'm all in."
And when he said all, he meant it.
Money. Land. Machinery. A proper production plant.
No more welding under ceiling fans.
No more oil-stained corners.
Aarav now had a full-fledged automobile unit.
Engineers were hired. Designers trained.
Workers from his neighborhood were put in proper uniforms. The same boys who once begged for shifts now had contracts, ID cards, and purpose.
The garage boys had become company men.
Iqbal? Head of technical training. Still shouting, still respected.
Then came the first official release.
Triple Axe's debut model: a car not just built for roads, but for revenge. Sleek, smart, sustainable—and uniquely local.
It hit the market like a storm.
First day: 48 bookings.
First week: 300.
And within the first month, Triple Axe sold out its first production batch.
Reviewers called it "raw power, reborn."
Critics who once scoffed at "garage boy engineering" now praised the precision.
And Aarav?
He didn't smile in the interviews.
He let the work speak.
The boy who once wiped grease off borrowed tools…
Now stood in a factory built by faith, failure, and fire.
But success isn't a destination.
It's a checkpoint.
And Aarav knew this was just the start.
The roar had begun.
Now the world had to listen.