February 11, 1986, Mumbai, India – Evening*
The sun dipped low over Mumbai's sprawling skyline, casting long, blood-red shadows across the narrow lanes of a nondescript neighborhood in Andheri East. Dust swirled in the humid air, kicked up by the tires of a black Ambassador car that screeched to a halt outside a modest two-story house. The engine growled to silence, and the driver's door swung open. Chota Rajan stepped out, his stocky frame clad in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, a gold chain glinting around his neck like a noose. His face, scarred from years of street wars, was a mask of controlled fury, eyes narrowed against the dying light. Behind him, two burly men—his enforcers, armed with concealed revolvers—exited the car, their postures alert, scanning the quiet street for threats. The neighborhood was eerily still, as if the residents sensed the storm brewing.
Chota Rajan strode toward the house, his boots crunching on the gravel path. The door creaked open before he reached it, revealing a dimly lit interior thick with the scent of incense and grief. Inside, a somber gathering awaited: twenty-odd men stood in rigid silence, their faces etched with a mix of fear and respect. In the center of the room, on a simple cot draped with a white sheet, lay a body—Mujibur Rahman's—his once-imposing form now still and cold, bloodstains seeping through the cloth covering his head. A group of women huddled nearby, their sobs muffled but piercing, hands clutching rosaries or dupattas as they rocked back and forth in mourning. The air hung heavy with unspoken dread; Mujibur had been more than a lieutenant—he was the iron fist of D-Company's operations in Mumbai's underbelly.
Chota Rajan paused at the threshold, his gaze sweeping the room like a hawk surveying prey. The silence deepened, broken only by the women's whimpers. He stepped inside, his enforcers flanking him like shadows. "Kya hua?" he barked, his voice low and gravelly, laced with barely contained rage. "How did this happen? Mujibur—my right hand—gunned down like a dog? Speak!"
A man in his thirties, Rahman—slender, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes darting nervously—stepped forward from the crowd. He was Mujibur's closest associate, his hands trembling slightly as he clasped them in respect. "Bhai," Rahman began, his voice cracking under the weight of Chota Rajan's glare, "it was sudden. Mujibur bhai was at Raju Chai Wala in Bandra West, just stopping for his usual cutting chai after a meeting. He ordered, picked up the glass... and then, from nowhere, a shot. A sniper, bhai—from one of the buildings across the road. Hit him clean in the head. No warning, no sound. He dropped like a stone, blood everywhere. The stall owner screamed, people scattered. By the time we got there, the shooter was gone. Vanished like smoke."
Chota Rajan's fists clenched, veins bulging on his forehead. He paced closer to the body, yanking back the sheet to reveal Mujibur's lifeless face, the entry wound a gruesome crater. The women wailed louder, one collapsing into another's arms. "Sniper?" Chota Rajan snarled, whirling on Rahman, his voice rising like thunder. "A professional hit? And none of you idiots saw it coming? Mujibur wasn't some low-level punk—he was my blade, my eyes in the streets! Who did this? Rivals? Cops? Speak, or I'll make you wish you were lying next to him!"
Rahman swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow despite the ceiling fan's lazy whirl. The room's tension was palpable, the men shifting uneasily, afraid to meet their boss's eyes. "Bhai, we... we don't know for sure. No one saw the shooter—roof access, probably. But the precision... it screams hired gun. Not local thugs; this was clean, calculated. I think... I think it's the Shetty gang. They've been sniffing around our territories, and they have connections outside India—mercenaries from Dubai or Sri Lanka. Remember last month, when they poached our smuggling route? This could be payback."
Chota Rajan's eyes blazed, a storm of fury and calculation brewing. He slammed his fist on a nearby table, rattling a tray of untouched tea glasses. "Shetty gang? Those cowards? They've got the balls now? Mujibur was worth ten of their best! All of you—waste! Standing here like statues while my brother bleeds out on a chai stall floor. If it's Shetty, they'll pay in blood. No more games."
One of the enforcers, a hulking man named Babu, stepped forward hesitantly. "Bhai, Rahman's right. Shetty's been bragging about foreign muscle. We hit their warehouse last week; this could be retaliation. But a sniper? That's not their style—too clean. Maybe... outsiders?"
Chota Rajan spun on him, his voice a venomous whip. "Outsiders? Or traitors in our midst? Someone leaked Mujibur's routine. Find out—interrogate the stall owner, the witnesses. Break fingers if you have to. And Shetty? We don't wait. Tonight, we strike back. Gather twenty men—the best, armed to the teeth. Their night bar in Juhu—hit it hard. Kill as many as we can. Let them feel the vacuum Mujibur's death leaves."
Rahman nodded vigorously, relief flickering amid his fear. "Yes, bhai. We'll make it bloody. For Mujibur."
The room stirred, the men murmuring assent, their silence shattering into a buzz of preparation. Chota Rajan knelt by the body, placing a hand on Mujibur's cold shoulder, his voice softening for a moment. "Brother, we'll avenge you. This city will run red." He rose, eyes hardening. "Move! Tonight, Shetty learns fear."
As the group dispersed, the women's cries swelled, a haunting chorus to the brewing war. Chota Rajan stepped outside, lighting a cigarette, the smoke curling like his twisting thoughts. *Shetty... or something bigger?* The sniper's precision gnawed at him—a ghost in the machine. But rage overrode caution; blood demanded blood.
*That Night – Juhu Night Bar*
The moon hung low over Juhu Beach, its silver light glinting off the waves crashing against the shore. The night bar—a seedy den tucked behind palm groves—pulsed with muffled music and laughter, oblivious to the storm approaching. Inside, Shetty gang members reveled: bottles clinked, cards slapped on tables, smoke haze thick as secrets. Fifteen strong, they guarded their turf with lazy arrogance, revolvers tucked in waistbands.
Outside, shadows moved. Chota Rajan crouched behind a parked van, his 20 men fanned out—knives glinting, guns cocked, faces smeared with boot polish for camouflage. The air reeked of tension, sweat, and gun oil. "Remember Mujibur," Chota Rajan whispered, his voice a razor. "No survivors. In fast, out faster."
Rahman, at his side, nodded, clutching a .38 revolver. "Bhai, they're drunk—easy pickings. But if cops show..."
"They won't," Chota Rajan snarled. "Our mole tipped them off the wrong way. Go!"
The assault erupted like a monsoon. Chota Rajan's men burst through the doors, guns blazing. "For Mujibur!" one roared. Bullets shredded the air—glass shattering, tables overturning, screams piercing the night. A Shetty thug drew first, firing wildly, clipping one of Rajan's men in the shoulder. Chaos reigned: a bar brawl turned massacre. Rahman tackled a fleeing goon, knife flashing in the dim lights, blood spraying across the floor. Chota Rajan moved like a specter, his pistol barking—headshot to a bartender reaching for a hidden shotgun, gut shot to a card player scrambling for cover.
"Die, you dogs!" Chota Rajan bellowed, dodging a wild swing from a burly Shetty enforcer. He countered with a knee to the groin, then a point-blank shot to the chest. The man crumpled, gurgling. Crossfire intensified: Rajan's men dropped five in the frenzy—two to knives in close quarters, three to bullets ricocheting off walls. Shetty's crew fought back desperately, a hidden AK rattling, mowing down three of Rajan's before a grenade—tossed by Babu—exploded in the back room, silencing it in a fireball.
Fifteen minutes of hell: bodies slumped over bars, blood pooling like spilled liquor, the music system sparking and dying. Fifteen Shetty men lay dead or dying; Rajan's losses: five, including Babu, his chest riddled. Chota Rajan stood amid the carnage, chest heaving, blood splattered across his shirt. "Enough," he panted. "Torch the place. Send Shetty a message: we're coming for all of you."
Flames licked the walls as they fled into the night, sirens wailing in the distance. Chota Rajan climbed into the getaway car, his face grim. "This is war. Mujibur's avenged—for now."
*February 12, 1986 – Mehra Building, Bandra*
Morning light filtered through the blinds of Raj's fourth-floor office, casting striped shadows on the newspaper sprawled across his desk. The headlines screamed: "BLOODY SHOOTOUT IN JUHU: 20 DEAD IN GANG CLASH." Raj scanned the article—Chota Rajan's raid on the Shetty gang's bar, 15 rivals slain, 5 of his own lost in the crossfire. He leaned back in his leather chair, a low chuckle escaping his lips, building to a full-throated laugh. "Kill each other," he murmured, wiping a tear of amusement. "Infight like rats in a sack, and I'll reap the profits. Mujibur's death lit the fuse—now watch them burn."
The ROI system's glow affirmed it: D-Company weakened by 15%, Shetty by 20%, chaos creating vacuums for *Asur* to exploit. Raj's plan was unfolding—subtle, surgical, his hands clean. But the laughter faded as he flipped the page: "RELIANCE, TATA, BIRLA REPORT RECORD PROFITS: 500-1000 CRORE IN PAST YEAR." His mouth fell open, eyes widening in shock. "A thousand crore?" he whispered, the numbers hitting like a thunderbolt. His own 12-crore fortune—built in months through risks that would terrify most—suddenly felt small. He laughed again, this time rueful, shaking his head. "With the system, I've clawed my way up, no fear of the giants. But these titans... they're oceans, and I'm a river. Still, my risks pay quicker—they play safe; I play to win."
The article detailed Reliance's textile boom, Tata's steel surge, Birla's cement dominance. Raj's mind raced: *They build legacies over decades; I reshape in months. But 1000 crore? Time to scale.* His thoughts shifted to the upcoming football tournaments—the 1986 World Cup in Mexico, billions swirling in global gambling markets. "This is my arena," he muttered, excitement building. "Aim high: 100 crore from bets. The system will guide every wager—teams, scores, upsets. No one sees it coming."
Energized, Raj summoned the system's shop interface, a mental bazaar of futuristic tools. Items scrolled: advanced AI algorithms for 10 crore, market predictors for 5. But one caught his eye: [*Road Creation Technique: 1 Crore*]—20% less material, 40% less time, 30% more durability. Visions flooded him: government contracts, infrastructure booms, profits multiplying as India modernized. He purchased it instantly, knowledge downloading like a torrent—formulas for reinforced concrete, efficient curing methods, modular designs. Ideas sparked: bid on Mumbai's pothole-riddled roads, undercut competitors, deliver faster, stronger. "This changes everything," he grinned. "From films to foundations—my empire expands."
He buzzed Suraj. Five minutes later, the CEO entered, notepad in hand. "Boss?"
"Sit," Raj said, gesturing to the chair. "We need to acquire a small road construction company—something mid-sized, with basic equipment and licenses. Low debt, good workforce."
Suraj's brow furrowed, curiosity piqued. "Road construction? That's a pivot from films and ventures. Why now?"
Raj leaned forward, eyes alight with the thrill of opportunity. "India's infrastructure is crumbling—potholes, delays, corruption. I've got tech that'll cut costs 20%, time 40%, boost durability 30%. We'll bid on municipal contracts, undercut the big players like L&T. Profits? Sky-high. Government tenders are goldmines."
Suraj scribbled notes, nodding slowly. "Smart play—urban boom's coming. But acquisition? We'll need due diligence: assets, liabilities, permits. I know a firm in Thane—small, 50 employees, equipment worth 30 lakhs, but they're cash-strapped. Price tag around 40 lakhs?"
"Perfect," Raj said. "Move fast. Acquire in a week; paperwork in two. I'll front the funds. Make it clean—no red flags."
Suraj paused, his voice cautious. "Boss, risks? Bribes in construction are rampant. And unions..."
Raj's smile was wolfish. "We play clean—efficiency wins bids. Get it done."
Suraj rose, energized. "On it. Update by evening."
As the door closed, Raj leaned back, the system's purchase thrumming in his veins. Mumbai's chaos was his canvas—gang wars fueling his ascent, roads paving his legacy. The World Cup loomed, 100 crore beckoning. But D-Company's fractures? They were just the beginning.