The fist hammered against the door again, a thunderous boom that shook the flimsy wood on its hinges. "OPEN UP! POLICE!"
The voice was a blade of ice, severing the last threads of Harsh's paralysis. Time didn't slow; it exploded into a hyper-focused, adrenaline-fueled present. Every sound, every shadow, every splinter in the wood grain was preternaturally clear.
The strongbox. The calculators.
They were not just evidence of business; they were a signed confession. The cash alone was enough to raise unanswerable questions. The imported calculators were a one-way ticket to a holding cell.
The pounding came again, more furious. "LAST WARNING!"
Think. MOVE.
His body reacted before his mind could fully process the plan. It wasn't a strategy; it was pure, desperate instinct.
He lunged for the strongest part of the alcove's floor—a section near the back wall, under the heavy workbench. A loose floorboard there, disguised by dirt and grime, concealed a shallow cavity. It was too small for the strongbox. But the calculators…
He scrambled to the component crates, his fingers tearing through layers of resistors and capacitors. He found the cloth-wrapped bundle—ten sleek, incriminating calculators. He shoved them into the cavity, his hands trembling, and slammed the floorboard back into place, kicking dirt over the seams.
The strongbox. It was too big, too heavy to hide quickly. He couldn't lift the workbench alone.
Thud! The door shuddered under a heavy impact. They were ramming it.
His eyes swept the chaotic room and landed on the large, foul-smelling vat of used motor oil Deepak used to clean grimy components. It was black, viscous, and repulsive.
Without a second thought, he grabbed the strongbox, hefting its impossible weight. He ripped off the lid, dumping the entire contents—bundles of five-hundred and hundred-rupee notes—into the thick, black oil. The money disappeared instantly, swallowed by the opaque sludge.
He shoved the empty strongbox itself under a pile of rags just as the door splintered and burst open.
Light from powerful torches blinded him. Three figures filled the doorway, backlit by the harsh glare from the trucks outside. The lead officer was a tall, grim-faced man with a sharp mustache and cold eyes that missed nothing. Inspector Sawant. His name was a legend in the underworld, and none of the stories were good.
"Harsh Patel?" Sawant's voice was a low growl.
Harsh, still on his knees by the oil vat, held up a hand to shield his eyes, hoping his panic looked like confusion and fear. "Yes, sir? What… what is this?"
Sawant stepped inside, his nose wrinkling at the stench of oil and solder. His torch beam swept the room, illuminating the piles of components, the workbench, the soldering iron.
"We have information," Sawant said, his voice cutting through the small space. "Information about smuggled goods. Electronics. Being sold from this location." His eyes locked onto Harsh. "Where are they?"
"Smuggled?" Harsh's voice cracked, the genuine terror making his performance convincing. "I… I repair radios, sir. Old ones. I buy broken ones from Chor Bazaar. I fix them. That's all." He gestured weakly at the piles of junk. "Look for yourself. It's all here. Nothing new."
Sawant's eyes narrowed. He wasn't buying it. He made a sharp gesture. "Tear it apart."
The two constables with him began a methodical, brutal search. They upended crates, sending a fortune in delicate components scattering across the floor. They pulled tools from shelves, kicking through piles of wire. The sound of splintering wood and clattering metal was deafening.
Harsh's heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He watched, helpless, as one of the constables approached the workbench. The man bent down, his hand brushing near the loose floorboard.
No. No. No.
The constable's fingers probed the edge of the board.
Just then, a commotion came from outside. Raised voices. One of them was familiar, a blustering, authoritative tone.
Constable Malvankar pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers that had gathered, his face a mask of performative outrage.
"Inspector! Inspector Sawant! What is the meaning of this?" Malvankar boomed, planting himself in the doorway. "This is my beat! My jurisdiction! You can't just come in here like a stormtrooper without notifying the local chowky!"
Sawant turned, his expression one of pure contempt for the local constable. "This is a Crime Branch operation, Malvankar. We don't need your permission. Stand aside."
"An operation based on what?" Malvankar shot back, not moving. "A tip? From who? Some rival trying to cause trouble for a hardworking boy? I know this kid. He fixes radios. He's got no record. This is harassment!"
While Malvankar engaged Sawant in a heated argument about procedure and jurisdiction, his eyes briefly met Harsh's. It was a fleeting glance, but the message was clear: I'm creating a diversion. The rest is on you.
The constable by the workbench, distracted by the argument between the senior officers, straightened up, abandoning his inspection of the floorboard.
The search continued for another twenty agonizing minutes, but the wind had gone out of their sails. Malvankar's interference had broken their rhythm, turned a precision raid into a messy, contested operation.
They found nothing. The calculators were buried. The money was dissolved in oil. The strongbox, empty, was just a metal box under some rags.
Finally, Sawant, his face dark with frustration, called off his men. He stopped in front of Harsh, who was still kneeling amidst the wreckage of his shop.
"This isn't over, Patel," Sawant hissed, his voice low enough so only Harsh could hear. "I know your type. You're dirty. I'll be watching."
He turned and stalked out, his men following. The headlights of the trucks swung away, plunging the alley back into darkness.
The silence they left behind was absolute. Harsh sat amidst the complete and total destruction of everything he'd built. Components were smashed, tools broken, his carefully organized system reduced to trash.
Malvankar stood in the doorway for a moment longer, looking at the ruin. He gave Harsh a slow, almost imperceptible nod. The sixty rupees a week had just paid the biggest dividend of all. Then he too left, melting back into the night.
Harsh was alone.
The adrenaline receded, leaving a bone-deep trembling in its wake. He had survived. He had narrowly escaped. But the cost was immense. His operation was in ruins. His inventory was destroyed. And Inspector Sawant's eyes promised this was only the beginning.
He looked at the oil vat, where a small fortune was congealing in the black sludge. His life's savings. Gone.
He had never felt more victorious, or more utterly defeated. The escape was a miracle. But it proved Priya right. He was playing with fire. And tonight, he had been burned.