The man's name was Badrilal.
Not the richest merchant in Chandni Chowk. Not the loudest. But important in a way that mattered: he moved goods without questions and settled accounts without leaving written records.
Spices, cloth, grain, sometimes more. He didn't ask what came in sealed crates — only what the buyer could pay.
Vikram watched him for four days before making contact.
It started with a debt.
A boy named Raju — one of Vikram's runners — had borrowed three rupees from Badrilal's assistant. For medicine. The assistant now demanded six. Raju couldn't pay.
Vikram told him not to.
Instead, Vikram showed up at Badrilal's shop the next morning, holding the edge of a ledger he never intended to read.
"I heard you're fair to people who don't lie," Vikram said.
Badrilal looked up. Thick hands, silver ring, turmeric stains on both thumbs. "Who says I'm fair?"
"I do."
The man smirked. "You here to beg for that rat you sent?"
"No. I came to pay him off. But I'll only pay what he took. Not a paisa more."
Badrilal narrowed his eyes. "And why would I take less?"
Vikram stepped forward and held out the coins — flat in his palm. Badrilal reached.
Three seconds.
The thread connected.
That night, Vikram entered the merchant's memories.
The numbers were clearer than most minds. Tidy records, hidden ledgers, personal stash of silver coins under the storeroom tiles. But Vikram wasn't interested in cash.
He looked deeper.
Names. Couriers. A trader from Lahore who brought in foreign watches. A man from Meerut who moved weapons for British agents. A bribe paid to a constable to ignore a night shipment.
And a secret handshake with a network Vikram hadn't touched yet.
Hawala.
He didn't dive into that.
Not now.
Just a pin. A thread. He'd come back when he had the mental power to pull it all in.
What mattered today was simpler.
He planted a new memory.
A conversation. Just subtle enough to pass.
"That boy, Vinod Pratap… he's trustworthy. Clean. Connect him to our supplier for the press ink."
When Badrilal woke the next morning, he scratched his beard, stared at the roof beams, and said aloud:
"Maybe I was too hard on that boy."
By the end of the week, Vikram had a new supplier. Better prices. No middlemen. No record.
The first trader was his.
And no one saw the chain pull tight.