The sun was dipping low, painting the street in the warm, dusty glow of evening.
Radhe sat at his usual spot by the old tea stall, his chair tilted back against the wall. A half-empty cup of chai steamed in front of him. Across the table, his friend was busy teasing the stall owner about the price hike, both of them laughing between sips.
It was the kind of moment Radhe had learned to treasure — calm, ordinary, forgettable.
Then the public phone booth near the stall rang.
It was an ugly little thing — a scratched-up metal box with a handset wrapped in fraying black tape. Hardly anyone used it anymore. The ring was loud and shrill, cutting through the lazy evening hum.
The stall owner glanced over but didn't move at first. The phone kept ringing. Finally, with an annoyed sigh, he shuffled over, picked up the receiver, and muttered a greeting.
For a moment, the stall owner just listened. Then his eyes shifted toward Radhe.
"Bhai," he called, "it's for you."
Radhe frowned.
"For me? Who even calls here?"
He'd had calls before — mostly from local thugs who wanted favors, sometimes a colleague who couldn't be seen talking to him openly. But this… something about the way the stall owner looked at him made his neck stiffen.
Still, he got up and walked to the booth, taking the receiver in his hand.
"Who is this?" he asked.
A low, deliberate voice answered, calm but cutting through the noise of the street.
"How are you, Mr. Shikhavat?"
Radhe froze.
That name — his real name — wasn't something anyone here should know. In this city, he was just Radhe, a street-level hustler blending into the underworld. The only people who knew "Mr. Shikhavat" were back in the force… and none of them would call him like this.
The voice continued, almost amused by his silence.
"Ah, you weren't expecting that, were you? Don't worry, I'm not your enemy… unless you want me to be."
Radhe's grip on the receiver tightened. His eyes scanned the street without moving his head — old habit. No one seemed to be watching him, but he felt the weight of eyes somewhere.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"You can call me… Veer," the voice said. "I know what you're doing here. I know who you're after. Ghani Bhai's men don't exactly open their doors to strangers, but… I can help you walk right in."
Veer did not wanted to reveal his identity first but he knows how radhe works and he can go any length for it to achieve his mission.Also by revealing about himself makes him trust more. Radhe stayed silent.
The voice went on."I'm not here for charity, Mr. Shikhavat. You have your mission, I have mine. We make a deal, we both get what we want. I can take you through Ghani Bhai's chain of command, past the rats and gatekeepers, straight to the man himself."
Radhe's tone turned cold. "And why would you help me?"
Veer chuckled.
"Because sometimes, a little chaos in the right place helps everyone… well, everyone who matters. And because I like knowing the city's most dangerous man owes me a favor."
Radhe glanced at his friend still sitting at the table, completely unaware of the conversation.
"You're assuming I trust you," he said.
"You don't need to trust me," Veer replied. "You just need to believe I'm telling the truth about you… and the guy like me who found your identity than what are the chances for underworld to found your name"
That last line landed like a weight in Radhe's stomach. Veer wasn't just hinting — he was making it clear: one word from him, and Radhe's cover would be blown.
Veer's voice softened, almost friendly now.
"I'll be in touch with instructions. For now… enjoy your tea, Mr. Shikhavat."
The line went dead.
Radhe lowered the receiver slowly, his jaw tight.
He walked back to the table, his face unreadable. His friend asked casually, "Who was it?"
Radhe picked up his cup and took a sip.
"Wrong number," he said.
But his mind was already racing.
...............................
On the other side of the city, the market was alive even at night — louder, brighter, and more chaotic than it had been in the morning. Neon signs flickered over stalls packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their vendors shouting prices like war cries. The smell of frying snacks mixed with incense, sweat, and traffic fumes.
Jatin moved through the crowd with purpose until he reached a small, weathered paan stall. The man behind the counter was busy folding betel leaves, sprinkling them with tobacco and sweet chutney. Paan was a local addiction — a small bundle of flavor and nicotine that sat in your cheek longer than a cigarette could burn.
"Give me a normal paan," Jatin said casually.
The vendor started making it, but Jatin's next words froze his hands mid-fold.
"And… the Raju Special."
For a moment, their eyes locked. The vendor didn't ask what he meant — he already knew.
Jatin slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out crisp rupee notes, neatly rolled. Instead of counting, he tucked the money into the betel leaf itself, wrapping it tight. If anyone saw it, they might laugh at the absurdity — a man stuffing cash into a snack. But here, the meaning was clear.
"Chotu! Come fast!" the vendor called.
In India, "Chotu" was the name every youngest helper got, whether it was their real name or not. A scrawny eight-year-old appeared from the next stall, wiping his hands on his shirt.
"Go bring this guy," the vendor ordered.
The boy didn't need more explanation — clearly, this wasn't the first time. He grabbed the special paan and set off, with Jatin following.
They walked six or seven minutes deeper into the market until they reached another stall. Chotu handed over the paan to a man behind it, who barely glanced at Jatin before motioning him to follow around the back.
A narrow staircase led them down into a basement. The air was damp, lit only by a single swinging bulb that left half the room in shadow. Under the light sat a man counting money — Maqsood.
As Chotu handed him the paan, Maqsood unwrapped it, straightened the notes, and counted without hurry.
"Only this much?" he asked.
"I just need a small one," Jatin replied.
Maqsood stood, his movements deliberate, and stepped behind Jatin. With a click, he turned on the room's main light.
"You sure you want small?" Maqsood asked, almost amused. "I've got enough here to fight an army."
Rows of weapons came into view.
It was like stepping into a dream for any gun fanatic — assault rifles lined the walls, submachine guns stacked in open crates, even a sniper rifle hung like a prized painting in the center.
Jatin didn't flinch.
"Small enough to fit in my pocket," he said.
Maqsood reached for a compact pistol. "China-made," he said. "But this design… it's been used by the top assassin. they call him Baba Yaga."
Without warning, Maqsood pressed the muzzle to Jatin's temple and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Empty chamber. A test.
Jatin didn't even blink.
After a long round of bargaining, and trying out a few models, Jatin settled on a small pistol that could disappear in his coat pocket. The price: three thousand rupees — steep for him, dirt cheap in a city where guns like this could be found in the same lanes that sold spices and silk.
In a place where crime thrived like the monsoon weeds, ammunition wasn't just accessible — it was part of the ecosystem.
Jatin tucked the pistol away and walked back up into the noise of the market, the smell of tobacco still clinging to the air.