February 11, 1986, Mumbai, India – 3:00 PM*
The rooftop of Sudhir Mall in Bandra West baked under the relentless February sun, the air thick with the salty tang of the nearby Arabian Sea and the distant clamor of Mumbai's unending symphony—honking rickshaws, vendors hawking chai, and the low rumble of trains slicing through the city like veins of steel. Arjun Das crouched behind a rusted air-conditioning unit, his black tactical suit blending seamlessly with the shadows of the parapet. At 45, his body was a coiled spring, forged in the fires of Kalaripayattu dojos and the cold precision of sniper nests during his army days. His scarred hands gripped a pair of high-powered binoculars, steady as stone, scanning the chaotic intersection below: 6th Road, where the tea stall—Raju Chai Wala—squatted like a weary sentinel amid the swirl of pedestrians and two-wheelers.
Arjun's breath came even, measured, but his mind raced. *This kid, Raj Mehra—21 years old, barely out of his teens, and he's dragging me into this madness.* The meeting yesterday had been a whirlwind: Raj's piercing eyes, his unshakeable confidence, the audacious plan to dismantle Mumbai's underworld by sniping its lieutenants. Arjun had seen visionaries before—generals with grand strategies that crumbled under fire—but Raj? There was something otherworldly about him, a certainty that bordered on arrogance. *If his intel's wrong, I'm walking into a trap. Or worse, wasting a bullet on shadows.*
He glanced at his watch: 3:00 PM sharp. The rendezvous was set for 3:20, but Arjun had arrived early, as always. Paranoia was a survivor's gift. Below, the tea stall bustled: a wiry vendor sloshing milky chai into chipped glasses, a cluster of office workers bantering over samosas, a stray dog nosing at discarded peels. No sign of Mujibur Rahman yet—the scarred enforcer, Chota Rajan's right hand, a ghost in Mumbai's criminal web known for his brutal efficiency and unerring loyalty to the D-Company don.
*Three minutes late? No, it's only three,* Arjun muttered to himself, adjusting the binoculars. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from the heat but from the weight of the choice. Retirement had been his escape after that knee injury in '82—a quiet life as a security consultant, moonlighting as a vigilante when the darkness demanded it. But Raj's offer? It was a siren call, promising justice on a scale he'd only dreamed of. *Eliminate the operators, create a vacuum. Bold. Reckless. But if it works...*
The minutes ticked by like heartbeats in a foxhole. Arjun checked his watch again: 3:10. His sniper rifle—a sleek, disassembled Dragunov—lay beside him in a black duffel, its components gleaming like a predator's teeth. He'd assembled it a dozen times in his sleep, but today, the stakes felt personal. *What if Mujibur doesn't show? What if Raj is playing me?* The vendor at the stall wiped his brow, pouring another round of chai. A scooter zipped past, its exhaust choking the air. Arjun's pulse thrummed, a low drum of anticipation.
3:15. Still nothing. Arjun's grip tightened on the binoculars, his mind flashing to the files Raj had implied he knew inside out: Mujibur's habits, his chai ritual every Tuesday, the exact route from his Bandra safehouse. *Half an hour more,* Arjun decided, his voice a gravelly whisper lost to the wind. *If he's not here by 3:30, I walk. No loose ends.*
The city pulsed below, indifferent to the drama unfolding above. A child chased a kite across the road, laughter cutting through the din. Arjun envied that innocence, a world away from the blood he'd spilled—thirteen kills in five years, each a shadow justice for the voiceless. The rapist of that six-year-old, the drug peddler poisoning slums... they haunted his dreams, but they fueled his fire. *Raj knows too much. How?*
3:18. Arjun's watch beeped softly—a custom alarm, subtle as a sniper's breath. He swept the binoculars again, heart steadying into the rhythm of the hunt. Then, at 3:20 on the dot, a battered black Bajaj scooter growled into view, weaving through the throng like a shark through minnows. The rider dismounted with predatory grace: mid-40s, stocky build, a jagged scar tracing his left cheek like a lightning bolt, eyes hidden behind cheap aviators. Mujibur Rahman. He kicked the stand down, sauntered to the stall, and barked, "Ek cutting chai, jaldi!"
Arjun's breath caught. *Exact time. 3:20 PM. How the hell...?* Shock rippled through him, a cold wave crashing against his discipline. Raj's intel wasn't just accurate—it was prophetic. Mujibur leaned against the counter, lighting a beedi with a flick of his Zippo, the flame dancing like a devil's tongue. The vendor nodded obsequiously, sliding a steaming glass across the scarred wooden surface. Mujibur lifted it, the chai's steam curling into the humid air, his lips parting for the first sip—
Arjun moved like lightning. In twenty seconds flat, he unzipped the duffel, assembled the Dragunov with practiced symphony—barrel locking into stock, bipod unfolding, scope calibrating with a soft click. He dropped to a prone position, cheek welding to the stock, eye aligning with the crosshairs. The world narrowed to a tunnel: Mujibur's scarred profile, the glint of aviators, the tea glass tilting. Distance: 180 meters. Wind: negligible cross-breeze from the sea. Drop: minimal at this range.
*For the girl in the slum. For the families shattered by D-Company's poison.* Arjun's finger caressed the trigger, steady as a surgeon's scalpel. Mujibur's lips touched the rim—*now.*
The rifle bucked silently, suppressed muzzle flash a mere puff of smoke. The 7.62mm round streaked invisible, a whisper of death. Mujibur's head snapped back, the glass shattering in mid-air, chai splattering like blood across the stall. He crumpled, a puppet with cut strings, skull blooming crimson on the cracked pavement. Screams erupted below—vendors diving for cover, workers scattering like roaches, the stray dog yelping and fleeing. Chaos bloomed: a woman clutched her child, a man shouted for police, sirens wailing faintly in the distance.
Arjun didn't linger. He disassembled the rifle in fifteen seconds, zipped the bag, and slipped down the rear stairs—empty, as Raj promised. Heart pounding not from fear but exhilaration, he melted into Bandra's alleys, a ghost vanishing into the city's veins. *Raj... what are you?* The shot had been clean, surgical, but the precision of the intel gnawed at him. No one predicted like that. No one.
*Mehra Building, Bandra – 3:30 PM*
Across the neighborhood, in the sunlit expanse of Raj's fourth-floor office, the air hummed with creative fervor. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the sea's endless blue, while sketches of Rajput forts and battle scenes cluttered the desk. Director Arjun Singh— a wiry visionary in his late 30s, with a mustache like a warrior's blade and eyes burning with historical passion—leaned forward, sliding a dossier across the polished teak. "Raj sahab, the cast for *Maharana Pratap: The Legacy* is locked. We've got raw talent—fresh faces for authenticity, no overpaid stars diluting the grit."
Raj nodded, his fingers flipping through headshots and bios, the ROI system's glow flickering in his mind like a digital oracle. *Is Vikram Rao right for Pratap?* [*Yes.*] *Lila Devi as Padmini?* [*No—too theatrical.*] He scanned methodically, the system sifting through 1,000 variables per actor: charisma, box-office draw, thematic fit. Five side characters flagged as mismatches—wooden performers who'd drag the epic's momentum.
"Strong lineup, Arjun ji," Raj said, his voice smooth as polished marble. "But cut these five: the advisor, the spy, the two courtiers, and the messenger. They're off—too stiff, won't sell the emotion. The rest? Spot on."
Arjun Singh's brow furrowed, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his face. He had creative autonomy, but Raj's 2-crore investment wasn't pocket change. "Sahab, those five... they're unknowns, but they bring fire in auditions. The advisor's got that haunted look for betrayal scenes."
Raj leaned back, steepling his fingers, the system's certainty a steel rod in his spine. "Trust me—they'll flop the chemistry. We've got 2 crore on the line; emotion drives this film, not filler. Swap them with the alternates from your shortlist. *Maharana Pratap* isn't just a biopic—it's a roar for legacy. We release on his jayanti, May 9, 1987. Make it epic."
Arjun sighed, rubbing his mustache, the drama of compromise etching lines on his face. "You're the visionary with the purse, sahab. I'll recast by week's end. Phase 2 funds—releasing them now?"
Raj slid a signed cheque across the desk, the 1-crore tranche gleaming under the light. "Approved. Sets start tomorrow—Rajasthan forts, battlefields in Gujarat. Shoot the non-heavy scenes next week: dialogues in the palace, training montages. Full production in 4–5 months. Trailers by Diwali; it'll storm the box office."
Arjun's eyes lit up, the thrill of creation overriding his doubts. "This film's my soul, Raj sahab. Pratap's valor, the sieges, the unyielding spirit—it's India reborn on screen. With your backing, it'll eclipse *Sholay*."
Raj chuckled, the system's projection flashing: 5-crore profit in two years. "That's the fire we need. Go make history."
Arjun gathered his papers, pausing at the door. "One more thing—budget for the elephant charge? It's risky, but visceral."
"Double it if needed," Raj said. "Visceral wins wars."
Arjun grinned, exiting with a salute. The door clicked shut, and Raj glanced at his watch: 3:55 PM. His heart quickened, a thrill coiling in his gut. *Arjun Das should be wrapping up.* He closed his eyes, summoning the system. *Has Arjun Das killed Mujibur Rahman?* The response glowed: [*Yes.*]
A rush of adrenaline surged through him—victory's first bitter-sweet tang. Mujibur was down, a domino toppling in D-Company's house of cards. But the real game? It was just beginning. Raj paced to the window, Mumbai's sprawl unfolding below like a chessboard. The ROI system's 70% success rate hummed in his veins, but the 30% risk—the backlash, the retaliation—loomed like storm clouds. *One down. How many more?*
*4:25 PM*
The elevator dinged, and Arjun Das strode in, his black suit dusted with rooftop grit, eyes shadowed but alive with the hunt's afterglow. He carried the duffel slung over one shoulder, its weight a silent testament. Raj rose, a predator recognizing kin, extending his hand. "Congratulations. Clean work on the target."
Arjun shook it, his grip vise-like, a ghost of a smile cracking his stoic mask. "It was textbook. One shot, center mass. Chaos below—screams, scattering like rats. Cops'll call it a rival hit. But you..." He released the hand, eyes boring into Raj's. "How? Exact time, exact spot. 3:20 PM, Raju Chai Wala. No surveillance, no tails—impossible."
Raj's smile was enigmatic, a veil over the system's secrets. "Trade secret, Arjun. Let's say I have... reliable sources."
Arjun dropped the duffel with a thud, crossing his arms, the drama of doubt etching his face. "Sources? Or luck? I waited twenty minutes, sweating bullets—literally. Then bam, he rolls up like clockwork. You playing God, kid?"
Raj circled his desk, gesturing to the leather armchair. "Sit. Luck's for amateurs. This is precision. Mujibur's routine: Tuesdays, post-meeting from his Versova drop. Chai break before the next handoff. I knew because... I know." He paused, the thrill of revelation hanging heavy. "But that's not why you're here. New target?"
Arjun sank into the chair, his body uncoiling slightly, but his eyes remained vigilant. "Always one more, eh? Spill—who's next? Another lieutenant? Dawood's shadow?"
Raj leaned against the window, the sea's roar a distant thunder. "First, watch the reaction. D-Company's reeling—Mujibur was Rajan's ear, his blade. News will hit by evening: whispers in the slums, panic in their dens. Give it a day; they'll scramble, expose weak spots." He paused, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "But I have bigger plans. Work for you—not a hit, a foundation."
Arjun's brow arched, intrigue warring with wariness. "Foundation? You sound like a bloody revolutionary. What—vigilante academy? I'm a sniper, not a schoolmaster."
Raj's laugh was low, charged with the drama of destiny. "Close. A secret organization. Like what you did today, but scaled. *Asur*—demons against demons. We strike the underworld's heart, create vacuums they can't fill. No mercy for operators, no quarter for their poison."
Arjun's face hardened, the thrill of the kill fading into skepticism. "Asur? Poetic. But it's not a solo op, Raj. Building that? Years—recruitment, training, safe houses, alibis. One leak, and we're ghosts hunted by every cop and don in Mumbai. You got the vision, but the grit? I've seen empires like that crumble."
Raj's eyes blazed, leaning in, the room shrinking to their shared fire. "I have the roadmap. Listen: we start small, surgical. Recruit from the forgotten—jails. Not the psychos, the lifers. The wronged ones: framed innocents rotting for fake cases, first-time offenders who snapped in rage but carry guilt like chains. Victims who burn to fix what broke them."
Arjun's fingers drummed the armrest, drama etching doubt. "Jails? You're mad. Half are animals—thieves, killers. You'd arm them? Turn convicts into crusaders? One bad seed, and your 'Asur' becomes the monster it hunts."
"Not animals," Raj countered, his voice a velvet blade. "Criteria, ironclad. One: No psychopaths—screen for remorse, empathy. Two: If they sinned, they own it, guilt carving them hollow. Three: They crave change—society's rot, the nation's wounds. Four: Victims first—framed by the powerful, crushed by the system. We vet them like you vet a shot: thorough, unforgiving."
Arjun leaned forward, the air crackling with tension. "And training? You think a few push-ups make assassins? Loyalty? These men have nothing—betrayal's their currency."
"Start with five, ten max," Raj pressed, his words a blueprint unfolding. "You train them: Kalaripayattu for close quarters, sniper drills for distance, evasion for survival. Safe houses in the suburbs, funded clean. Loyalty? Earned through purpose. Show them they're not tools—they're the blade against the blade that cut them. *Asur* isn't a gang; it's redemption with teeth."
Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Arjun's eyes—storm-dark—bored into Raj's, replaying the rooftop: the perfect intel, the clean kill, the inexplicable precision. *This kid's no dreamer. He's a force.* The drama of the moment hung heavy: Arjun's scarred past clashing with Raj's untested fire. Finally, Arjun exhaled, a warrior yielding to the tide. "Today's shot... it felt right. Clean. If you're the real deal, if this *Asur* guts the beast without becoming it... I'll build it. But cross the line—arm psychos, chase power—and I'll end you myself. Consequences, Raj. Always."
Raj extended his hand, the pact sealing like thunder. "Deal. We start with purpose, end with justice. *Asur* rises."
Arjun gripped it, the shake a vow etched in blood and shadow. "Purpose. Fine. But I need muscle—now. You want vacuums? Fill 'em with chaos first."
Raj's smile turned predatory, pulling a slip of paper from his drawer. "Thought you'd ask. Navi Mumbai, Sector 15, Warehouse 7B—Chota Rajan's black money stash. 10 crore, guarded by five low-level goons. Tomorrow night. Loot it clean. I take 9 crore for the empire; 1 crore seeds *Asur*—gear, bribes, your first recruits."
Arjun snatched the paper, eyes scanning the address, the thrill igniting anew. "Five guards? Sloppy. I can round up 20–30 fighters by dawn—ex-cons I trust, hungry for payback. We'll hit like ghosts: in at midnight, out by one. But if it's a trap..."
"It's gold," Raj assured, the system's certainty a hidden flame. "My channels don't lie."
Arjun pocketed the note, rising with a nod. "Tomorrow, then. *Asur*'s first blood—Rajan's wallet." He paused at the door, the drama lingering. "You're playing with fire, kid. Hope you don't burn."
Raj watched him go, the door's click echoing like a chambered round. Alone, the office's grandeur felt fragile, Mumbai's roar a mocking chorus. The shot at 3:20, Mujibur's fall—it was real, visceral, the first crack in D-Company's armor. But Arjun's warning clawed at him: *Consequences.* Raj's hand trembled slightly as he poured scotch from the decanter, the amber liquid steadying his nerves. *One kill. One heist. Then the vacuum.* The ROI system's glow reassured: 75% success now, with Arjun locked in. But the 25%? Retaliation's ghost.
He sank into his chair, the sea's waves crashing below like applause—or omens. *Asur*. Demons to slay demons. The name fit, a thunder in his blood. Priya and Jyoti waited for dinner, their warmth a balm, but tonight, Raj's dreams would be sniper scopes and shattered glass. The blueprint was drawn; the bullet fired. Mumbai's underworld had met its reckoning, and Raj Mehra was just warming up.