The ghost's words hung in the alcove like a poison gas, choking the life out of their fragile enterprise. For two days, a paralyzing silence descended upon Harsh, Deepak, and Sanjay. The five thousand rupees, once a symbol of their hard-won comeback, now felt like a target painted on their backs. Every customer's approach was met with a flinch. Every sound from the alley was a potential herald of the leviathan's return.
The promised "storm" arrived on the third day. It didn't come with thunder, violence, or the ghost's silent presence. It came with a quiet, bureaucratic ruthlessness that was far more terrifying.
Prakash Rao was the first to arrive. Their scrap supplier didn't call out his usual greeting. He simply shuffled into the alley, his eyes fixed on the grimy ground, unable to meet Harsh's gaze.
"The railway auction, Harsh Bhai," he mumbled, his voice thick with a shame that wasn't his own. "My usual contact… he says my license is under review. I cannot bid this week." He finally looked up, his expression pleading for understanding. "There will be no scrap."
Before the cold dread could fully solidify in Harsh's gut, a young boy from the dhaba where Deepak worked part-time came sprinting up, his chest heaving. "Deepak Bhaiya!" the boy gasped, his eyes wide with a fear that was contagious. "The owner… he says not to come anymore. He says his cousin is helping now. He looked… scared." The boy delivered the message and fled as if the alcove itself were cursed.
Then, Sanjay returned from his morning sales round. His face, usually animated with the day's prospects, was pale and drawn. He'd gone to see the manager of the small music shop, their most reliable buyer. "He said he's overstocked," Sanjay reported, his voice hollow. "Can't take anything for a month. He wouldn't even look at me, Bhaiya. It was like I wasn't even there."
The message was delivered with surgical precision. No broken bones. No smashed stalls. Just a gentle, inexorable squeeze that severed their supply chain, their secondary income, and their primary buyer in one swift, silent motion. It was a masterclass in soft power, a demonstration that their business, their livelihood, existed only at the pleasure of a man they had never seen.
The ghost returned that evening. He was just there, leaning against the wall opposite the alcove as if he'd been part of the brickwork for hours. The same white kurta, the same flat, dead eyes.
"The ocean is getting choppy," he observed, his raspy voice the only sound in the tense alley. "Your boat is taking on water. My employer's offer remains open. It is a lifeline. I suggest you take it."
Harsh felt a cold fury rise in him, burning away the fear. This slow, humiliating suffocation was worse than a direct attack. It was an insult to his intelligence and his will.
"I don't need a lifeline," Harsh said, his voice tighter than he wanted.
"Alone is a luxury you can no longer afford. You are in the current now. You can be pulled to safety, or you can be pulled under. The choice is simple."
"The choice is extortion," Harsh shot back.
Finally, a flicker of emotion crossed the man's face: mild, cold amusement. "A harsh word for a business proposal. Think on it. The water will only get colder."
He pushed off from the wall to leave, then paused, as if remembering a trivial postscript.
"Oh. And your policeman. The fat one who takes your weekly donation. Malvankar." The man half-turned, delivering the blow with casual, devastating cruelty. "Tell him his cut from the Worli docks is being… reconsidered. My employer feels he has been overpaid for his limited services."
And then he was gone, leaving behind a silence more terrifying than any threat of violence.
Harsh's blood ran cold. They knew about Malvankar. They knew the amount. They knew the source. The protection he had bought, his one shield against the chaos of the streets, was not a shield at all. It was a transaction his new enemy could simply cancel.
He was utterly exposed.
He found Malvankar at his usual tea stall. The constable's usual grumpy demeanor was gone, replaced by a simmering, nervous anger. He saw Harsh and glared, his face a thundercloud.
"You," Malvankar spat, venom in his voice. "What plague have you brought to my door? My… contacts at the dock are suddenly unavailable. My phone does not ring."
"They came to me," Harsh said, the words feeling pathetic and small. "A man. He said your cut was being reconsidered."
Malvankar's face darkened, a genuine, primal fear flashing in his eyes that was more frightening than any display of anger. "You idiot boy. You have attracted the attention of them. The real players. Do you know who that man is? He is a shadow. A whisper. He works for Venkat Swami."
The name meant nothing to Harsh, but the dread in Malvankar's voice gave it the weight of a tombstone.
"Who is Venkat Swami?"
"He is the dockyard," Malvankar hissed, leaning in close, his breath smelling of fear and cheap tea. "He is the reason goods move, or don't. He is the reason ships are unloaded, or sit rotting for weeks. He is not a man you say no to."
The scale of his opponent finally dawned on Harsh. This wasn't a local gangster. This was an institution.
"What do I do?" The question was out before he could stop it, a moment of naked, desperate weakness.
Malvankar laughed, a bitter, hopeless sound. "You? You do what he says. You pay. Or you disappear. Those are your choices." He finished his chai and crushed the clay cup. "And do not come to me again. Our arrangement is finished. I will not drown with you."
He walked away, leaving Harsh standing alone on the crowded street, the final pillar of his world crumbling to dust around him.
He was alone. The ghost had been right. The ocean was vast, and his boat was achingly small. The storm wasn't coming. It was already here, and he was at its center, completely and utterly exposed.
The intimidation attempt was over. It had been a complete and total success.
(Chapter End)