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Chapter 20 - Cornered (Interlude)

The three figures emerged from the shadows not like men, but like extensions of the darkness itself. The brief, false sense of relief Harsh had felt after surviving the initial attack evaporated, replaced by a cold, metallic fear that tasted like blood in his mouth. They had been waiting. The destruction of his stall wasn't the message; it was the prelude.

The lane was a tomb. The usual sounds of the city—the distant blare of horns, the chatter of night vendors—had been swallowed by an eerie, complicit silence. A door slammed shut up ahead, a final period ending any hope of intervention.

The leader stepped forward, the same man who had overseen the wrecking of Harsh's life. He tapped the iron rod against his palm with a soft, rhythmic thwack that was louder than any shout.

"The boss said to make sure the message was received," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the cobblestones. "We thought we'd deliver it personally. Make it… memorable."

Harsh's back pressed against the cold, damp brick of the building behind him. The rough texture was the only real thing in a world that had suddenly narrowed to this deadly funnel. His mind, usually a whirlwind of strategies and calculations, was terrifyingly blank. There were no moves left on the board. No lies to tell, no deals to make.

He was out of tricks.

The leader's grin widened, a predator sensing the end. He could see the resignation in Harsh's eyes. The other two men fanned out, cutting off any possible escape route. They were enjoying this, the slow closing of the trap.

"You broke my things," Harsh said, his voice sounding thin and reedy in the thick air. It wasn't a protest. It was a statement of fact, a last grasp at reason in an utterly unreasonable situation.

The leader chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Things can be replaced. A lesson? That lasts. Now hold still. This will only hurt a lot."

The rod lifted, poised to swing. Harsh braced himself, his arms coming up in a futile gesture of protection. He saw his future not as a billionaire, but as a broken boy in a hospital bed, his hands shattered, his dream extinguished before it truly began. The ambition that had fueled him for weeks curdled into a bitter, helpless despair.

In that fraction of a second before the blow fell, a single, crystal-clear thought pierced the panic: This is how it ends. Not with a stock market crash or a corporate takeover, but in a dirty alley for a few hundred rupees.

The moment stretched, taut and unbearable. The leader's muscles coiled for the strike.

And then, a new sound.

It was a cough. A dry, deliberate, almost theatrical cough from the mouth of the alley.

All four of them froze. The leader's head snapped around.

Standing there, silhouetted against the faint yellow glow of a distant streetlamp, was Constable Malvankar. He wasn't in uniform, just a simple vest and pajama pants. He held a lathi loosely in one hand. He took a long, slow drag from a beedi, the ember glowing brightly in the gloom.

He didn't say a word. He didn't need to.

His presence was an ice bath. The two lackeys immediately took a step back, their bravado evaporating. The leader slowly lowered the iron rod, his face a mask of confusion and dawning fear. This wasn't part of the plan.

Malvankar exhaled a plume of smoke that hung in the still air. He took another step into the lane, his slippers making a soft scraping sound on the stone.

"Ganesh's boys," Malvankar said, his tone conversational, as if he'd just recognized a stray dog. "I thought I made myself clear. This is not your area to collect. And it is definitely not your area to break things."

The leader found his voice, though it had lost its menacing rumble. "Constable Saheb, we… we were just—"

"I know what you were just," Malvankar interrupted, his voice hardening. "You were just leaving. And you will just tell your boss that the next time he sends puppies to do a man's job, I will have them put down. Understood?"

The threat was delivered with such casual certainty that it was more terrifying than any shouted curse. The thugs nodded mutely, their earlier swagger completely deflated. They didn't wait for a second dismissal. They turned and almost scrambled out of the alley, their footsteps fading quickly into the night.

Malvankar watched them go, then turned his gaze to Harsh, who was still pressed against the wall, his heart hammering so violently he thought it might crack a rib.

"You," Malvankar said, pointing the beedi at him. "Are a magnet for trouble."

Harsh could only manage a shaky breath, the adrenaline leaving him weak-kneed and trembling.

Malvankar took a final drag and flicked the beedi away. "Sixty rupees a week doesn't just mean I don't bother you. It means I bother other people who bother you. That's the deal. Now go home. And for god's sake, take a different route tomorrow."

He turned and walked away, leaving Harsh alone in the sudden, profound silence.

The relief was so potent it was nauseating. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold ground, his head in his hands. He had been cornered. Truly, utterly cornered. And he had been saved not by his own cunning, but by the cold, calculative protection of a corrupt policeman.

It was a humbling, terrifying lesson. His money had bought him a shield. Tonight, that shield had held. But as he sat there in the dark, the smell of spilled dye and fear thick in his nostrils, he knew he never, ever wanted to be that helpless again. The taste of his own powerlessness was far more bitter than any defeat. The fight was over, but the lesson was just beginning.

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