It was not his first time in Chandni Chowk, but it was the first time he walked through it as a man with a name.
Vinod Pratap.Nobody knew the name yet. That was the point.
The street pulsed with activity. Horse-drawn tongas rattled past rows of spice stalls. A fakir sat cross-legged, chanting near the steps of a haveli where glass bangles glittered in the sun. Conversations blurred in a dozen dialects, but the rhythm was the same — negotiation, trade, movement, money.
Vikram kept his pace slow.
This place wasn't just a market. It was a circulatory system. If Delhi had a heartbeat, it pulsed through here. Imports, gossip, goods, threats — everything moved through Chandni Chowk eventually.
He had no cart, no banner, no shop. But he wasn't here to buy or sell.
He was here to see.
And to connect.
He stopped at a paan stall and asked for lime leaf, just to hold it in his fingers. The vendor handed it over, brushing against his skin.
Three seconds.
Connection made.
Vikram didn't even chew the leaf.
Inside the man's memory, he saw flashes of daily deliveries: who sold what, which merchant paid in coin or delay, which guard looked the other way on stolen crates. A whole map unfolded — goods from Agra, copper from Punjab, printed cloth from Jaipur, British arms hidden beneath sacks of indigo.
Vikram thanked him quietly and moved on.
By midday, he'd connected with a tonga driver, a chaiwala, two porters, and a book merchant. All brief touches. Nothing suspicious.
Each one expanded the thread-space in Magicnet. Each one added more detail to the moving parts.
He paused near Ghantewala Sweets. Not for the jalebi — though the smell tugged at him — but for the man shouting about ghee prices.
Another trader. Muslim, sharp-tongued, missing two fingers. Someone people avoided.
Vikram leaned on the same post. Waited for a boy to pass. Let their shoulders touch.
Three seconds.
Inside: years of memory. Scams. Loans. The names of grain suppliers. And, buried deep, a man he reported to — a tall visitor with a British accent and a private cart who gave him sealed pouches in exchange for information.
Vikram didn't erase anything.
Not yet.
But he marked that thread in Magicnet. A tag. A future problem. Possibly a future resource.
By sundown, he sat on the mosque steps, watching carts roll toward Fatehpuri. His mind stretched wide — full of faces, prices, patterns, rivalries. The market was no longer noise. It was shape.
Vikram wasn't there to be seen.
He was there to see everything else.
And by the time he stood up to leave, he didn't just understand Chandni Chowk.
He owned it.