The silence left by the man in the kurta was louder than any threat. The staged chaos had worked, but the victory felt hollow, brittle. They had survived by pretending to be insignificant. The truth was, they were significant, and that made them a target. Harsh knew the performance had to end. The business had to re-emerge, but it needed a new kind of armor. Not just a lie, but real, tangible power.
The sixty rupees a week to Constable Malvankar had been a transaction for non-interference. It had bought a blind eye. What Harsh needed now was active intervention. He needed Malvankar to not just ignore him, but to protect him. To become a shield.
But asking for a favor from a man like Malvankar was like handing him a knife. Harsh needed to turn the request into an offer. A better deal.
He found the constable at his usual tea stall, holding court with a few lower-ranking officers. Malvankar saw him approach and dismissed the others with a slight jerk of his head. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were curious.
"The theatrics are over?" Malvankar asked, sipping his sweet, milky chai. "The market is quieter. Less entertaining."
"The audience left," Harsh replied, leaning against the stall. "But the play might have a sequel. With different actors."
Malvankar grunted. "The well-dressed one won't be back. I made sure of it. Your sixty rupees bought you that."
"It did," Harsh agreed. "And it was a good investment. But I'm thinking of a different investment now. A partnership."
Malvankar's eyebrows rose slightly. "A partnership. With me. A police constable. You have interesting ideas, Patel."
"Not a partnership in business," Harsh clarified. "A partnership in… peace. You keep the peace on my street. I make sure it's profitable for you to do so."
He let the words hang. He was renegotiating their terms.
"My peace is already profitable," Malvankar said, his tone implying the conversation was over.
"Is it?" Harsh pressed, his voice dropping. "You get sixty rupees from me. You get what from the others? Twenty? Ten? From businesses that might not be here next month?" He leaned in. "My business is growing. The more it grows, the more I attract trouble. The more trouble I attract, the more work it is for you to keep that peace. My fixed sixty rupees becomes a worse and worse deal for you."
Malvankar's eyes narrowed. He was listening now, really listening. The boy wasn't complaining; he was doing cost-benefit analysis.
"What are you proposing?" Malvankar asked, his voice a low rumble.
"A variable rate," Harsh said. "A percentage. Of my profit. Not a lot. Two percent. You do less work for the other businesses. You focus your peacekeeping on me. My success becomes your success. You're not just a tax collector. You're a… stakeholder."
It was a breathtakingly audacious offer. He was proposing a corrupt policeman become his silent business partner.
Malvankar was silent for a long time, staring into his glass of chai. He was calculating. A fixed, small income from many, or a growing, percentage-based income from one rising enterprise. He saw the logic. The boy was a magnet for trouble, but he was also a generator of cash.
"Two percent," Malvankar finally said, a slow smile spreading across his face. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was the smile of a shark that had just found a new feeding ground. "And my 'peacekeeping' extends to ensuring your competition understands the new market realities."
It was an offer to become his enforcer. Harsh felt a cold knot in his stomach. He was crossing a line, not just stepping over it.
"Understood," Harsh said, his voice tight.
"Good," Malvankar said. "Now, was there a specific piece of peace that needed keeping?"
"Ganesh's men," Harsh said. "The ones who broke my stall. The ones who work for Ravi. I want them to understand that the peace has changed."
Malvankar nodded, finishing his chai. "Consider it done."
The lesson was learned, and it was the most expensive one yet. A bribe was a one-time fee. A partnership was a permanent tether. He had bought himself a powerful guardian, but he had willingly put a leash around his own neck. The price of safety was a share of his soul, paid in weekly installments. He walked away, the taste of the deal like ash in his mouth. He was safer. And he was infinitely more vulnerable.