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Chapter 30 - Cliffhanger

Priya's words were a ghost that followed Harsh out of the university gates and back into the swirling chaos of Mumbai. "You're playing with fire." They echoed in his mind, a stark counterpoint to the satisfying weight of the day's profits in his satchel. Her fear was a cold seed planted in the warm, fertile soil of his ambition. For the first time, a sliver of doubt had been wedged into his certainty. Was he building an empire, or was he just building a taller pyre?

He tried to shake it off, burying himself in the familiar rhythm of his other life. The alcove was a hive of controlled activity. Deepak's soldering iron hissed its steady song. Sanjay was counting a stack of rupees, his lips moving silently. The new shipment from Shetty—a cache of slim, valuable scientific calculators—was already half gone, pre-sold to the contacts he'd cultivated at the engineering college.

"The American calculators are a hit," Sanjay said, not looking up from his counting. "The professor wants ten more. Says he'll pay upfront."

The numbers should have thrilled him. Instead, he heard Priya's voice. "For what? A bigger profit?"

He pushed the thought down. This was real. This was tangible. This was power.

"Tell him fifteen," Harsh said, his voice sharper than he intended. "The dollar rate is climbing. Our cost went up."

Sanjay nodded, jotting it down. The machine was working. It was efficient. It was profitable.

Later that evening, as the sun bled out over the city, Harsh made his weekly delivery to Constable Malvankar. He met him at their usual tea stall, the air thick with the smell of frying snacks and diesel.

Malvankar took the envelope, his fingers making the notes disappear with practiced ease. He didn't count it. The trust was its own kind of currency.

"Things are quiet," Malvankar remarked, sipping his chai. "Too quiet. Even the street dogs are not barking." He gave Harsh a sideways glance. "Your 'suppliers' behaving themselves?"

"No problems," Harsh said, though the question sent a faint prickle of alarm down his spine. Malvankar's instincts were rarely wrong.

"Good. Keep it that way." The constable's eyes scanned the crowded street, forever watchful. "A big shot from the Crime Branch was sniffing around the area today. Asking about electronics. Black market. Didn't say why."

The prickle became a cold trickle. The Crime Branch was not like Malvankar. They weren't local. They weren't open to "arrangements." They were hunters.

"Asking about who?" Harsh asked, keeping his voice casual.

"Didn't get names. Just… questions." Malvankar finished his chai and crushed the clay cup. "Just a heads-up. Maybe keep the flashier stuff off the street for a week. Be a little less… successful."

He walked away, leaving Harsh with a fresh knot of anxiety tightening in his gut. Priya's warning, Malvankar's news—they were converging into a single, ominous cloud.

He returned to the alcove, his mind racing. He told Deepak and Sanjay to pack up the remaining imported goods—the calculators, the last few Walkmans. "Bury them in the component crates. The deep ones. We're going quiet for a bit."

They obeyed without question, but he saw the worry in their eyes. The rhythm was breaking.

That night, sleep wouldn't come. He lay on his cot, listening to the city's night sounds—the occasional distant shout, the rumble of a truck, the frantic barking of dogs. Malvankar's words echoed. "Too quiet."

He must have finally drifted off, because the sound that woke him was not part of any normal dream.

It was the sound of engines. Not the putter of a scooter or the rumble of a bus. These were diesel engines, guttural and authoritative. And they were close.

Then came the voices. Sharp. Official. Shouted commands.

And then, the worst sound of all: the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on pavement. Many boots. Moving in unison.

His eyes snapped open. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure adrenaline. He was on his feet in an instant, moving by instinct alone. He peered through the crack in the window shutter.

The narrow lane was lit by the harsh, unforgiving white light of police truck headlights. Silhouetted against them were figures—dozens of them—in the distinct uniforms of the Mumbai Police Crime Branch. They were not like Malvankar's men. They moved with a coordinated, aggressive purpose.

They were fanning out, surrounding the market. And two of them, led by a man with a flashlight and a clipboard, were walking straight toward his alcove.

Time seemed to warp, stretching and snapping back. This was it. The raid Malvankar had vaguely warned about. But it wasn't a vague threat anymore. It was a targeted, precise operation. And they were coming for him.

His mind, usually so sharp, went blank with a terror so profound it was paralyzing. The strongbox. It was under the floorboard, filled with a fortune in cash from the day's sales. The calculators. They were buried, but not buried well enough. A determined search would find them in minutes.

The boots stopped outside his door. A fist pounded against the flimsy wood, a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the pre-dawn silence.

"OPEN UP! CRIME BRANCH!"

The voice was hard, impersonal, and it held the absolute certainty of state power.

Harsh stood frozen in the center of the dark room, his empire crumbling around him before the first door was even broken down. The cliffhanger wasn't a question anymore. It was a fact.

He was cornered.

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