Kayala gave a single nod of dismissal.
Without another word, Vikram turned and left the Hall.
When he entered the mess, it was alive with clatter and chatter. Chefs shouted over steaming pots, workers shuffled heavy trays across the floor, cleaners scrubbed at spills with practiced indifference. The air was thick with the scent of grease and smoke, and yet none of it seemed to reach Vikram.
Because his eyes had already found him.
Maldev sat at the far end of the hall, separated from the noise though he hadn't moved an inch. A scarred man among the crowd, but somehow untouched by it. He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed, a tin cup in his hand.
Vikram stopped at the threshold. His first thought was to turn back. His second was that it wouldn't matter, Maldev's eyes had already found him. A slow, deliberate smile carved itself across his face, and he raised the cup as though to toast him.
The din of the mess blurred to background noise. Vikram walked forward, each step heavier than it should have been. By the time he reached the table and sat opposite, it felt like they were the only two in the hall.
"Hello, Vikram…" Maldev's voice slipped through the chaos, smooth and clear, as though the noise bent around him.
Vikram didn't bother with pleasantries. He leaned forward slightly, meeting his gaze. "I don't have time for games, Dev. What do you want?"
Maldev clicked his tongue and pouted, the gesture grotesque on his scarred face. "So rude. After all these years." His voice carried mock hurt, though his eyes gleamed with something else, something sharp, obsessive.
Vikram's jaw tightened. "Just say it."
"Fine, fine." Maldev swirled the dregs in his cup, then set it down with a faint clink. The playfulness drained away as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. The air between them seemed to contract, pressing inward.
"I want to know where you stand, Vikram."
The words came quiet, but Vikram felt them slide beneath his skin like a knife. Maldev's gaze held him pinned, unwavering, predatory.
"Where I stand?" Vikram asked, his tone even but his chest tight.
Maldev's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "This world is changing. Sides are being chosen. And you…" He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "…you don't get to remain in the middle forever. You'll either be with me," his voice dropped lower, harsher, "or against me."
Around them, plates clattered, steam hissed, voices rose and fell.
But inside Vikram mind was completely blank.
'What the hell did this guy take in his prison?'
"The freak are you talking about, man?" Vikram raised his voice just enough to draw a glance from a nearby worker before forcing himself to settle. He was ready to cut this whole farce short, stand up, walk away, but Maldev's next words struck differently. His voice deepened, gained a strange, ethereal cadence, as if the air itself bent to carry it. Against his will, Vikram felt his ears lean in.
"Thousands and thousands of years," Maldev intoned, "women were used like broken chairs."
Vikram's brow furrowed. The hell is this guy on about?
"Dragged into humiliation, degraded into tools for the whims of men."
The space around Vikram thickened, like he'd been dropped into heavy water. His lungs strained, his limbs tensed, yet some part of him whispered that he could snap free—if only he pushed hard enough.
"Just listen to me for a few seconds," Maldev urged, his lips twitching.
Vikram grit his teeth. "It's not like I have a choice," he muttered.
Maldev giggled. Actually giggled in a feminine way. On that scarred, brutal face, the expression made Vikram's skin crawl.
"Tell me, Vikram," Maldev said, tilting his head, "was it right for men to treat women like that?"
Vikram's frown deepened. "Why the hell are we getting philosophical now?"
Maldev only smiled, waiting. Silent. The kind of silence that demanded an answer.
Vikram exhaled through his nose. "Of course it was wrong. Any blind fool could see that. But why the hell are you suddenly turning into a feminist when you..." Vikram paused, looked at Maldev, and gulped unconsciously.
"What... What are y-"
"Thousands of years of resentment… and imagine, Vikram, if the status quo changed…"
A chill sank into Vikram's chest. His gut twisted, and with it came a dreadful certainty that something was wrong with Maldev.
Something very wrong...
"Think for a moment," Maldev continued, eyes shining with a fanatic's gleam. "The resentment of womankind, nurtured for centuries. And one day… they gain the means to fight back. Truly fight back."
Vikram swallowed, his heart sinking. This isn't just talk. He is actually believing in what he says? But he's the last guy to stand with femini-
That was when it clicked, not because he was smart, but because Maldev spelled it out for him.
As if flipping a switch, Maldev chuckled and leaned back. "Ohh, I almost forgot."
The heavy air cracked like glass. Vikram blinked. The zeal, the preacher's fire, the suffocating weight, all of it was gone. He could only stare as Maldev rummaged through his bag, humming softly.
"Sorry for forgetting your birthday," he said lightly, producing a small, wrapped package and nudging it across the table. "The rain was too heavy that night to drive back and give it to you."
Vikram paused, and his eyes widened...