The ballroom was bathed in a suffocating, dreamlike haze of spun sugar, violet velvet, and flickering candlelight.
Seventeen-year-old Krishna stood in the center of the hall, draped in a floor-length crimson satin gown that clung to every athletic, sculpted curve of her swimmer’s silhouette.
Surrounding her were familiar faces.
Her mother Ayesha clapping with aristocratic poise, her father Jackie cheering through his aviators with a raised champagne flute.
“HAPPY EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY, KISHU!”
A booming, chest-deep roar of laughter cut through the applause, vibrating straight into the soles of her feet.
Stepping through the golden mist was Rudra.
He was breath-taking.
His broad, 6’3″ frame clad in a tailored black tuxedo, the silk shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, revealing the dense bronze marble of his collarbones.
His liquid-gold irises shone with boundless, unconditional adoration as he approached the three-tiered cake, clapping harder than anyone in the room.
“Make a wish, birthday girl,” Jackie grinned, nudging her shoulder.
Krishna turned to her brother, her hazel eyes searching his chiselled face.
“Will you make it come true, Superhero?”
Rudra took a step closer.
The room seemed to quiet around them, leaving only the sound of his deep velvet baritone.
“Kishu…
you are the most important woman in my life, even above Mom,” Rudra spoke softly.
His voice thick with a sacred, unbreakable devotion.
“Mom gave me this breath, she gave me the honour of being her son.
But you…
you gave me the honour of being an elder brother.”
“Your happiness matters to me more than the entire world.
Ask me for anything, and it’s yours.
That is my solemn vow.”
He wrapped his massive, muscular arms around her, pulling her flush against his broad chest in an anchor-tight embrace.
Krishna’s eyes narrowed into dark, hooded slits.
A slow, wicked, and intoxicating smirk curled across her plush lips as she nestled her cheek into the crook of his neck, inhaling the dizzying musk of dark vanilla, wild honey, and burning cedarwood.
She tightened her arms around his back, leaning until her lips grazed the sensitive shell of his ear, whispering with low, dangerous velvet.
“Are you absolutely certain, Superhero…?”
“That I can ask for anything I desire…?”
“Anything at all?”
Rudra chuckled, patting her back with innocent, warm affection.
“Anything in this universe, Kishu.”
Krishna pulled back slowly.
POP.
The background sounds died completely.
In an instant, the banquet hall, the cheering crowd.
Jackie, and Ayesha dissolved into shadows, leaving only the two of them standing beneath the burning chandelier.
Rudra blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“Kishu…?
Where did everyone—”
Before the words could leave his throat, Krishna’s hands shot up!
Her manicured fingers tangled ruthlessly into his thick obsidian waves!
She wrenched his head down, bringing his breathtaking, chiselled face flush against hers.
Her dilated pupils boring straight into his startled golden gaze!
“I want you, Rudra,” Krishna whispered, her breath hot, ragged, and trembling with feral possessiveness.
“Not as my protector.
Not as my family.”
“I want you as my man.
That is my ultimate wish.”
GASP!
She surged upward, smashing her open mouth directly against his!
“MMPH!”
Rudra’s golden eyes snapped wide in absolute, paralyzed shock!
Her soft, hungry lips devoured his with desperate, bruising friction!
A wanton, guttural moan tore from Krishna’s throat as she forced her tongue between his parted lips, invading his mouth, tangling with his tongue, hungrily slurping his breath.
His saliva, his very essence!
SLURP.
SUCK.
Rudra’s hands slammed against her shoulders, tearing his mouth back.
His face pale with sudden, horrified fury!
A glistening, silver thread of shared saliva stretched between their lips, shimmering like a thin, unbroken wire of dark taboo in the candlelight!
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Kishu?!” Rudra bellowed, his voice cracking in thunderous disbelief.
“I am your biological brother, for God’s sake!
This is sick!
This is wrong!”
He tried to thrust her back—
SWOOSH!
Krishna didn’t flinch.
Driven by an unhinged, elite human athletic hunger.
She lunged forward, leaping off the floor and coiling her long, toned legs tightly around his muscular waist!
Her thighs locked around his hips like an iron vice, grinding her wet, throbbing pelvic heat directly against his groin!
She buried her hands in his hair again, forcing his furious golden gaze to lock with hers.
Her lips parting in a dark, deranged giggle.
“Hehehe…
What happened, Superhero?”
“You swore I could have anything!
A king doesn’t break his royal oath!”
“Get off me!” Rudra snarled, his hands reaching to pry her iron like thighs apart—
FLICKER.
Atop the birthday cake, an eighteen-wick candle tilted.
A single ember tumbled down, striking the silk tablecloth.
WHOOSH!
A terrifying, volcanic wall of dark violet fire erupted across the room!
The flames didn’t burn.
They spread with the sickening, insidious rot of Alia Bhatt’s psychological poison, consuming the walls, consuming the chandelier, rushing inward to engulf them both in a swirling cyclone of heat!
The fire chewed through their clothes in a single, scalding breath!
The tuxedo vanished; the satin gown dissolved!
Krishna’s naked, glistening breasts—heavy, athletic, tipped with rigid hard pink nipples—pressed flat against Rudra’s bare, carved marble chest!
Her bare thighs locked around his waist.
The scorching friction of her naked pink pussy grinding shamelessly against the colossal, iron-dense length of his unyielding Carnal Dick!
Alia’s venomous, mocking whisper slithered through Krishna’s skull like a coiled viper:
“Tera asli bhai Jai tha, Kishu…
Rudra nahi!”
(Your real brother was Jai, Kishu…
not Rudra!)
Krishna looked down into Rudra’s blazing golden eyes, throwing her head back in wild, defiant ecstasy as the dark flames roared:
“You are not my brother!” Krishna cried out, her nails digging bloody crescents into his broad shoulders.
“Jai was my brother, but you…
you are my supreme king!”
“Take my body, Rudra!
Take my virginity!
Make me scream!”
She crushed her mouth against his once more.
Her tongue sliding deep into his throat, sucking his soul, drowning in the dark, taboo fire as the flames roared—
“HAH!”
Krishna’s eyes snapped wide!
She bolted upright on her mattress.
Her chest heaving violently, drenched from collarbone to hip in cold, clammy sweat!
Her cotton bedsheets were tangled tightly between her bare thighs, soaked in a heavy, scalding deluge of involuntary feminine arousal!
“Oh God…
Oh God, no…” Krishna choked out, clutching her temples with shaking, trembling hands, her breath rattling in her chest.
“What is happening to me…?
Why…
why am I having wet, depraved dreams about my own fucking brother?!”
Alia Bhatt’s poisonous words echoed in the dark bedroom with chilling clarity:
“Both sister-in-law and sister…
sharing the same king, devouring his flesh together.”
“FUCK YOU, ALIA!” Krishna snarl-whispered into the dark, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her hair in pure, agonizing self-hatred.
“What the fuck did you do to my head, you sick, psychotic bitch?!
You twisted, calculating little snake…”
“Just to get your filthy claws on him, you tried to infect my mind!”
Krishna swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her bare feet on the cool hardwood.
She was an elite athlete.
A state-level swimming champion and an undefeated junior boxer whose willpower had withstood the worst of the 2009 paparazzi hounds.
When her brother Jai had retreated into a shell.
Krishna had stood tall.
“I am not like you, Alia,” Krishna ground out through clenched teeth, her athletic discipline forcing her racing heart to slow.
“I have a champion’s mind.
You won’t break me with cheap mind-games.
I will purge this poison.”
She remembered last night’s dinner table.
She had feigned a severe migraine and stomach cramps just to avoid looking at Rudra.
She had hidden in her bedroom, terrified that a single glance at his chiselled face or broad shoulders would trigger the taboo fire.
She glanced at her bedside clock: 4:30 AM.
“Running,” she muttered, tying her hair into a viciously tight ponytail.
Flush the lactic acid, flush the fever, reset the brain.”
Bandra Seaface — 5:15 AM
The coastal mist was thick and cool, smelling of fresh tide and morning kelp.
Krishna sprinted along the damp shoreline.
Her sneakers pounding the hard-packed sand, the sea wind whipping across her athletic tank top.
Lap after lap, she pushed her cardiovascular threshold until her lungs burned and her calves turned to lead.
Stopping near the water’s edge, she bent over, hands on her knees, panting heavily.
She stood up, letting the gentle, cool foam wash over her bare ankles.
She closed her eyes, raising her arms to the sea breeze, letting the rhythm of the ocean cleanse her spirit.
A fragile, victorious smile touched her lips.
“It’s gone…
I am in control.
Rudra is my brother.
My Superhero.”
She opened her eyes, gazing down the rocky promontory toward Carter Road—
And froze.
Fifty yards out, perched atop a flat, jagged black basalt boulder surrounded by crashing waves, was a solitary figure.
He was completely bare-chested, wearing only a pair of dark athletic compression shorts.
He sat motionless in the deep, classical Padmasana (Lotus Posture).
His spine straight as an arrow, his head tilted toward the eastern horizon where the very first pale silver light of dawn was breaking.
Even from a distance, the sheer, breath-taking architectural symmetry of his body left her paralyzed.
Then—
The figure moved.
He uncoiled from the lotus posture without using his hands.
His core muscles pulling his entire frame upward in a single, defying act of kinetic levitation!
He dropped into a low, terrifyingly wide martial stance.
Krishna’s jaw fell slack.
She had trained alongside national-level wushu practitioners and Olympic gymnasts, but she had never witnessed human biomechanics executed with such fluid, non-resistant perfection.
The youth planted his right palm into the damp stone.
His legs lifting into the air in a flawless, single-arm handstand!
His center of gravity didn’t waver by a millimeter as he slowly, methodically lowered his body into a one-armed, suspended planche push-up—pushing back up with zero strain.
His back muscles undulating like tectonic plates!
He dropped back onto his feet, flowing seamlessly into the Ashta Vadivukal.
The eight sacred animal stances of ancient Kalaripayattu.
From the terrifying, low-coiled compression of the Varaha (Boar) stance.
He transitioned into the wide, chest-flared majesty of the Simha (Lion) form, before twisting his spine with the liquid, lethal grace of the Sarpa (Serpent) posture!
Every transition was silent, lethal, and poetry in motion.
Thick, glistening beads of morning sweat covered his sun-bronzed skin, catching the early light, rolling down the deep valleys of his eight-pack core like scattered pearls of liquid gold!
Krishna took a dazed, subconscious step forward across the wet sand.
Her breath locked in her throat.
“Who on earth are you…?” she whispered in awe.
CRUNCH.
Her foot clipped a loose sea shell.
On the boulder, the flow snapped.
The figure smoothly arrested his momentum.
His deep chest expanding as he drew a long, meditative breath through his nose.
He slowly turned his head.
His eyes opened.
Two piercing, radiant, and hypnotic liquid-gold irises locked dead onto her!
At that exact second—
The morning sun crested the edge of the Arabian Sea directly behind his broad shoulders!
The brilliant, blinding solar rays exploded across the horizon, forming a radiant, flaming celestial halo around his thick obsidian hair!
He stood against the rising sun like an ancient emperor carved from living bronze, commanding the tide, the wind, and the earth itself.
A dazzling, affectionate smile split his chiselled face.
Krishna’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Her vision swam as the heat returned with apocalyptic fury, the phantom whisper of Alia detonating in her ears:
“Tera asli bhai Jai tha, Kishu…
Rudra nahi!”
(Your real brother was Jai, Kishu…
not Rudra!)
Rudra hopped down from the boulder, landing on the sand with the silent, shock-absorbing grace of a panther.
Seeing her wide, panicked eyes and pale complexion, his smile faded into deep, protective brotherly concern.
He strode across the sand, his towering 6’3″ frame looming over her, resting a warm, calloused hand gently on her shoulder.
“Kishu?” Rudra asked, his velvet baritone rich with genuine worry.
“What are you doing out here at dawn?
You looked exhausted at dinner last night.”
“You’re stressing too much about the inter-house swimming qualifiers, aren’t you?”
Krishna looked up into his face.
Up close, the sheer, suffocating heat pouring off his skin made her dizzy.
He reached out, his warm thumb gently cupping her chin, tilting her face up as his golden eyes held hers with infinite, sacred tenderness:
“Kishu…
remember what I told you.
I am always here for you.
No matter what storm comes, you are my first priority.”
“When we were kids and I used to hide from the world, you were the one who held my hand and protected me.”
“Now…
you can lean on me.
Let your big brother carry the weight.”
Krishna’s throat seized.
He is saying the exact same words from my dream…
Her eyes welled with sudden, scalding tears.
She couldn’t fight it anymore.
Moving on pure, uninhibited impulse.
She threw her arms around his naked waist, burying her face into the dense, burning muscle of his chest!
“Rudra…” she choked out, inhaling the intoxicating deluge of dark vanilla, wild honey, and burning cedarwood mingled with the salty tang of his sweat.
Her hands roamed across his broad back, feeling the terrifying, stone-like density of his muscle.
He didn’t feel like a normal man who ate simple lentils and vegetables.
He felt like an apex chimera forged from a Royal Bengal Tiger and an Indian Gaur.
‘A monster in everything…’ a dark, forbidden thought whispered through her core.
‘Even in bed…’
Her tongue darted out, silently, secretly licking a single, glistening bead of sweat from his pectoral ridge!
A violent, electric shudder tore straight through her spine!
She anchored herself against his chest, realizing with sudden, razor-sharp clarity that Alia Bhatt had been right:
The shy boy Jai was gone.
In his place stood an untamed king.
‘Alia…
you sick, depraved bitch,’ Krishna thought with cold, possessive resolve.
‘You might have seen his light first…
but I will never let your poison cross my threshold.
He is mine to protect.’
She pulled back slightly, looking up into his golden gaze, whispering softly:
“Do you promise, Rudra?
That you’ll always stand by me?”
Rudra threw his head back and laughed, extending his right pinky finger with a bright, roguish wink.
“A pinky promise, Kishu!”
“The most sacred, unbreakable treaty in the universe-just ask Sundari and the troops at Sunshine Shelter!”
Krishna burst into giggles, linking her pinky with his, the dark fog finally clearing from her spirit.
ROOOOOOAR!
A massive, cavernous wave rose ten feet in the air, bearing down upon the shoreline right behind them!
Krishna gasped, closing her eyes in fright—
SWOOP!
Rudra bent his knees, scooping her into an effortless, bridal carry, and surged forward!
KABOOOM!
The concussive wall of seawater crashed against Rudra’s bare back in a violent explosion of white foam!
He absorbed the kinetic shockwave without giving an inch, sprinting up the dry sand dunes while Krishna clung to his neck, laughing hysterically as the cold spray misted her face!
GURRRRRRRRLE.
Krishna’s stomach let out an ungodly, echoing growl that drowned out the gulls!
Her face flushed crimson, burying her head in his shoulder: “Ugh…
I skipped dinner…”
Rudra barked with laughter, setting her down gently on the promenade.
“The great warrior queen needs fuel!
Come on, race you to the kitchen”
“I’m making three-cheese omelets!”
“You’re on!” Krishna shouted, sprinting ahead, her athletic stride light and restored.
Rudra watched her retreating figure, a fond, elder-brother smile on his lips as he stretched his neck.
‘Teenagers carry the weight of the universe on their shoulders,’ Rudra thought, touching his Rudraksha beads.
‘Let them run.
I’ll carry the real storm.’
He turned his gaze toward the Bandra skyline.
His golden eyes narrowing into cold, predatory slits as his lips curved into a dark smirk:
“Time to wake up, Imtiaz bhai.
The sharks are circling your script.”
Bandra West — The Residence of Imtiaz Ali (8:00 AM)
The master bedroom smelled of cold, stale black coffee and emotional detachment.
Imtiaz Ali stirred groggily beneath his cotton quilt, running a hand through his tangled salt-and-pepper curls.
He glanced to the empty space beside him on the king-sized mattress.
His wife, Preety Ali, had not slept in this bed for six months.
Imtiaz sat up, the guilt gnawing at his ribs like a dull blade.
At thirty-eight, he was a genius who could capture the most delicate, heartbreaking nuances of human connection on celluloid; yet in his own domestic life.
His obsession with cinema had left him an absentee ghost.
Preety was a striking, regal woman—fair-skinned, with sharp Kashmiri features, dark expressive eyes, and an innate, unyielding intellectual dignity.
She had stood by him as his creative producer through the agonizing early years of Socha Na Tha, balancing the books while he wandered dusty highways chasing poetry.
But the industry was poisoning him; he was trading his independence to appease corporate studio heads.
“I will fix this, Preety…” Imtiaz whispered to the empty pillows.
“Once I lock Rudra for Rockstar, Eros will yield.”
“We will make our masterpiece, and I’ll come home.”
He remembered his bitter screaming match last night with Kishore Lulla and Sunil Lulla, the executive brass of Eros International.
They had demanded Ranbir Kapoor; Imtiaz had fought tooth and nail for the raw, untamed newcomer who had bled on the Worli stage.
The producers had finally offered a tense truce.
“We’ll convene at nine tomorrow morning, Imtiaz.
We’ll find a middle ground.”
BANG!
The heavy teak bedroom door slammed open against the wall!
Imtiaz shot out of bed, startled!
Standing in the doorway was Preety.
Her face was deathly pale, her dark eyes wide and brimming with scalding, furious tears.
Behind her, stumbling into the room with his shirt unbuttoned and his spectacles askew, was Irshad Kamil.
The legendary lyricist—Imtiaz’s creative brother.
The poet whose verses had breathed soul into Jab We Met and Love Aaj Kal- collapsed heavily onto his knees on the carpet, his chest heaving with choked, broken sobs!
“What happened?!” Imtiaz gasped in terror, rushing forward.
“Preety!
Irshad!
Did something happen to Ida?!”
Irshad raised his tear-stained face, clutching Imtiaz’s shins.
His voice cracking in raw, bleeding agony:
“Sab kuch chura liya hamara, Imtiaz bhai…
Hamari saalon ki mehnat chura li!”
(They stole everything from us, Imtiaz brother…; They stole years of our sacred sweat and blood!)
Imtiaz froze, his stomach plummeting into a bottomless pit of ice.
Preety stepped forward, tears spilling over her lashes as she pointed an accusing, trembling finger directly at her husband:
“Maine tujhe kaha tha, Imtiaz!
Maine haath jod kar kaha tha ki un darindon par bharosa mat kar!”
“Hum log khud Rockstar bana sakte the…
par tune meri ek nahi suni!”
“Kyunki tujhe un corporate ke kutto par yakeen tha…
par apni biwi par nahi!
Apne bhai jaise dost par nahi!”
(I warned you, Imtiaz!; I begged you with folded hands not to trust those beasts!; We could have produced Rockstar independently…
but you refused to listen to a single word I said!; Because you placed your faith in corporate studio dogs…
but not in your own wife!; Not in the friend who stands beside you like a brother!)
Preety dropped to her knees beside Irshad, wrapping her arms around the weeping lyricist, both of them sobbing in distraught, helpless ruin.
Imtiaz’s mind fractured.
The room tilted violently on its axis.
He dropped to his knees.
His hands trembling as he grabbed Irshad’s shoulders.
His voice a frantic, desperate whisper:
“Kya hua, Irshad…
Mujhe bata, saaf-saaf bol!”
(What happened, Irshad…
Tell me, speak plainly!)
Irshad looked up, his eyes swimming in a toxic cocktail of betrayal and pity:
“Eros International ne subah saat baje press release nikaal di hai, Imtiaz…
Unhone Rockstar announce kar diya hai.”
“Lead hero Ranbir Kapoor hai…
Director koi aur hired gun hai…”
“Aur mere saare likhe hue gaane, tumhara poora draft, unhone apne naam se copyright karwa liya hai!
Hum road par aa gaye, bhai!”
(Eros International issued a national press release at seven this morning, Imtiaz…; They have officially announced Rockstar.
The lead hero is Ranbir Kapoor…
The director is some hired studio gun…; And every single song I penned, your entire shooting draft, they have copyrighted under their own banner!; We have been thrown out onto the street, brother!)
Imtiaz stumbled backward, his back slamming into the bed frame.
“N-No…
That’s impossible!” Imtiaz stammered, shaking his head in wild, manic denial.
“Sunil promised me!
We haven’t even signed the final production agreement!”
“How could they steal it without my signature?!”
Irshad let out a hollow, hysterical laugh, tears dripping from his chin.
“In the fine print of the development advance you signed six months ago, Imtiaz…
They own the intellectual property.
You were just a vendor.”
Preety lunged forward, grabbing Imtiaz by the lapels of his pajama shirt, hauling him to his feet, screaming into his face.
“Toh kya jhooth bol rahe hain hum log, Imtiaz?!
Ya abhi bhi tujhe lagta hai ki hume koi galatfehmi hui hai?!”
(So are we lying to you, Imtiaz?!; Or do you still foolishly believe that we have merely misunderstood the situation?!)
Imtiaz pulled her hands off his chest, his eyes wide with desperate, unhinged denial.
“Main khud jaaonga…” Imtiaz rasped, backing toward the door.
“Unhone vaada kiya tha mujhe!
Mere bina Rockstar nahi ban sakti!
Main baat karoonga unse!”
(I’ll go myself…
They had promised me!
They can’t become a Rockstar without me!
I’ll talk to them!)
Without changing his clothes, without washing his face.
Imtiaz dashed barefoot down the corridor, tearing through the front door like a madman!
Preety collapsed against the doorframe, burying her face in her hands, weeping bitterly as Irshad sat in the dust.
Down the quiet hallway.
A nine-year-old girl stood barefoot in the shadows.
Ida Ali clutched the wooden frame of her bedroom door, her innocent, doe-like eyes wide with quiet, agonizing terror.
She had heard every scream.
She had felt the foundation of her home crack down the centre.
She turned back into her room.
In the corner stood a modest, sacred sanctuary.
A brass altar where an ancient, gold-embossed copy of the Holy Bhagavad Gita rested side-by-side with an embroidered silk-bound copy of the Holy Quran.
Her parents had raised her to seek the divine beyond mortal dogmas.
Ida dropped to her knees, placing her small left hand on the Gita and her right hand on the Quran.
“Hey Upparwaale…” Ida whispered, her small chin trembling as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Mere parivaar ko tootne se bacha lo…”
“Main apne Papa aur Mamma ke bina kaise rahoongi…?”
(O Divine Almighty…; Please save my family from breaking apart…; How will I ever survive without my mother and father together…?)
Two heavy, crystalline teardrops fell from her lashes, landing simultaneously on the sacred pages of both scriptures.
SHWIP.
Through the sheer linen curtains, two brilliant, piercing rays of morning sunlight cut through the glass.
The twin beams struck the two teardrops resting on the holy books!
The light refracted with blinding, celestial intensity, casting a massive, dual-golden reflection onto the white bedroom wall!
Ida gasped, her breath catching in her throat.
The golden light reflected on the wall took the unmistakable, razor-sharp shape of two towering and hypnotic liquid-gold eyes staring down at her with infinite, protective warmth!
A soothing, radiant heat washed over her small face, completely vaporizing the wet tears on her cheeks before they could even hit her collarbone!
A fragile, breath-taking smile broke across Ida’s face.
She turned her head slowly, looking at the large, glossy Filmfare poster pinned beside her study desk.
The morning sunbeam fell directly across the printed image of Rudra standing beneath the moon, weeping tears of diamond while red rubies scattered from his bleeding fingers across the guitar strings.
Ida touched her chest.
Her voice a quiet, awe-filled whisper to the morning light.
“Rudra…
The Rockstar God.”
[ Chapter End ]
Author Note
I know after reading this chapter many of you must be shocked and disturbed by the theme of taboo desire.
And I proudly state that on Webnovel, no one can match me in the depth of mental games- especially when it comes to exploring taboo and cheating psychology.
I also want to thank all of you for never disturbing my vision, though I understand some may feel uncomfortable.
So let me clarify: Rudra is not Krishna’s brother.
I already hinted at this earlier.
This is part of my paradoxical design – Jai’s soul is fully liberated, while Rudra is rising into his peak physique, far superior to Jai’s prime.
In simple words, Rudra embodies a Captain America‑level peak human physique.
That’s why he feels so strong and overpowered.
Regarding Alia and Krishna: as some of you noticed, I never use adult words for them while they are 17.
I strictly avoid explicit content until they are legally adults.
The only exception was Krishna’s dream sequence, where she was 18 because I follow the law very carefully.
The next chapter will be even more shocking.
You’ve already glimpsed the bitter truth in the last part about script stealing, and sadly, no Bollywood novel dares to explore this territory.
I’ve read many, except Big Bro GOA, who focuses on pure cinema, tech and geopolitics.
Finally, I must acknowledge something important: some of my scenes are heavily inspired by Big Bro’s cinematic style.
His mastery of “light refraction physique” – the ability to make a character feel mythic, godlike is unmatched.
I take inspiration from him, but I’ve forged my own path, creating an R18 cinematic style that no one else rivals except Big Bro himself.