The five thousand rupees was a fragile peace, a temporary armistice signed with the universe. For a few days, a tense normalcy settled over the alcove. The rhythm of honest repair work was a kind of penance, and Harsh leaned into it, finding a grim satisfaction in the purity of a well-executed solder joint, a perfectly cleared short circuit. The money from the refurbished players was clean, explainable, a balm to his rattled nerves.
But in the economy of the Mumbai underworld, peace was a currency with a brutally short half-life. Success, no matter how modest, was a beacon. And it drew predators of a different, far more dangerous breed.
The man arrived at dusk. He didn't emerge from the shadows; he seemed to coalesce from them. He was not like Ganesh's thugs, all bluster and cheap muscle. He was lean, dressed in a simple white kurta-pajama that was impeccably clean, a stark contrast to the grime of the alley. His face was gaunt, his eyes dark and flat, like two chips of obsidian. He moved with a silent, lethal grace that made the hair on the back of Harsh's neck stand up.
Deepak, who was cleaning up for the day, saw him first and went perfectly still, his hand freezing mid-wipe on the soldering iron. Sanjay, who was counting the day's take, subtly closed his fist over the notes.
The man ignored them. His obsidian eyes fixed on Harsh.
"You are the Patel boy," he said. His voice was quiet, raspy, as if unused to conversation. It wasn't a question.
Harsh straightened up, setting down the multimeter in his hand. "I am. Who's asking?"
The man offered a thin, bloodless smile that didn't touch his eyes. "My name is of no consequence. I represent an interested party. A businessman. He has noticed your... industriousness."
Harsh's blood ran cold. This was not Inspector Sawant. This was not a rival shopkeeper. This was something from the deeper, darker water he had only heard whispers of: the dockyard mafia. The real power behind the "grey market" he'd been dabbling in.
"Industriousness doesn't usually attract businessmen," Harsh said, keeping his voice neutral, trying to mask the sudden jackhammering of his heart.
"It does when it operates in waters they consider their own," the man replied smoothly. "You have been moving product. A non-trivial amount. Without paying mooring fees."
So that was it. Shetty wasn't the top of the food chain. He was just a middleman for this "businessman." And Harsh's success had been noticed upstream.
"I pay my supplier. Fairly," Harsh said.
"The supplier pays his dues. You do not pay yours," the man corrected him, his tone that of a patient teacher explaining a simple concept to a slow child. "You are fishing in our ocean, boy. It is only fair you contribute to its upkeep."
He let the words hang in the air. The threat was not shouted; it was woven into the very fabric of the sentence. Our ocean.
"What is it you want?" Harsh asked, the question tasting like ash.
"The businessman is a reasonable man. He doesn't wish to stifle ambition. He wishes to... partner with it. A twenty percent share of your gross revenue. In return, you receive his protection. His blessing. You will find your supply lines become much smoother. Your competition... less persistent."
Twenty percent. Gross revenue, not profit. It was a vampire's bargain. It would suck his operation dry, leaving him a slave, working not for himself, but for this unseen kingpin.
"And if I decline this generous partnership?" Harsh asked, already knowing the answer.
The man's smile vanished. The air in the alcove grew several degrees colder. "The ocean is a dangerous place for a small boat that refuses a lighthouse. Storms can appear from nowhere. Your suppliers might suddenly find themselves unable to supply. Your customers might develop concerns about the safety of their purchases." His flat eyes scanned the alcove, the repaired players, the tools. "This is a fragile thing you have built. It would be a shame if it were to... collapse."
The unspoken words were louder than the spoken ones: Or if you were to collapse with it.
The man didn't wait for an answer. He had delivered his message. The choice was presented as an option, but it was an ultimatum. Pay, or be erased.
He turned and walked away, melting back into the gathering dusk as silently as he had arrived.
The silence he left behind was thick and heavy. Deepak let out a shaky breath. "Harsh Bhai... who was that?"
"The bill coming due," Harsh whispered, his mind reeling.
The five thousand rupees in his pocket felt suddenly worthless. He had been so focused on rebuilding from the police raid, on his petty rivalry with Kersi, that he had forgotten the fundamental rule of the jungle: bigger predators always prowled higher up the food chain.
He had outgrown the street thugs and the jealous shopkeepers. His success had now placed him on the radar of the true organized crime that controlled the city's underbelly. This wasn't a fight he could win with a public demonstration of quality or a clever lie to a constable.
This was an offer he couldn't refuse. And a threat he couldn't counter.
The cliffhanger of the police raid was a passing squall. This was the leviathan rising from the deep. The game had just changed in a way he was utterly unprepared for. He had vowed to build an unassailable empire, but its first real test had arrived in the form of a man in a white kurta, and Harsh had no walls high enough to keep him out.