The walk back to the alcove was a funeral procession for his ambition. Each step echoed Malvankar's final, damning words. I will not drown with you. The constable hadn't just withdrawn his protection; he had pronounced a verdict. Harsh was a lone swimmer in a shark-infested ocean, and the storm wasn't coming—it was already upon him.
Deepak and Sanjay were waiting, their faces pale canvases of fear. They didn't need to ask. His expression, the slump of his shoulders, said it all.
"It's over," Sanjay whispered, the words not a question, but a surrender.
The sound of it—the sheer, hopeless defeat—ignited something in Harsh. The cold fury he'd felt facing the ghost returned, hotter this time. It wasn't just anger at Venkat Swami; it was rage at the hopelessness in Sanjay's eyes, at the tremor he'd felt in his own hands. He had been reborn for more than this. He had seen the future. He would not be erased by a ghost in a white kurta.
"No," Harsh said, his voice low but cutting through the despair like a shard of glass. "It is not over. This is just the first move."
"What are you talking about, Bhaiya?" Deepak asked, his practical mind unable to chart a course on this new, terrifying map. "He has cut our supplies, our buyers, even Malvankar. We have nothing."
"We have the one thing he wants," Harsh countered, a dangerous plan coiling in his mind like a serpent. "Us. Our operation. Our skill. He didn't send that man to break our legs. He sent him with a business proposal. He doesn't want to destroy us; he wants to own us. That is his mistake."
He paced the small space, the gears turning. "He wants twenty percent of a small repair stall. But what if we offer him twenty percent of something much, much bigger?"
Sanjay looked bewildered. "How? We are finished!"
"We make him a counter-offer," Harsh said, stopping to face them. "We pretend to agree. We bow our heads. But we flip the deal. We tell him we'll pay his twenty percent, but only if he becomes our primary supplier. Not scraps from the railway auctions. The real goods. The damaged electronics that come off his ships. The surplus stock that sits in his warehouses. We get first look, at his cost. We repair it, we refurbish it, we sell it. His twenty percent cut of that business will be a thousand times more than twenty percent of this." He gestured around the cramped alcove.
The audacity of the plan was staggering. It was like a mouse negotiating with a tiger for a share of its kill.
Deepak's eyes widened in horror. "You want to go into business with him? Harsh Bhai, he will swallow us whole!"
"He is already trying to swallow us!" Harsh shot back, the truth of it sharp and clear. "This is the only way to put a stick in his throat. We make ourselves valuable. Too valuable to crush. We become a channel for his goods, a source of significant revenue. If he destroys us, he loses that revenue. It's our only shield."
The logic was brutal and cold. It was the only move left on the board.
The next day, the ghost returned, expecting surrender. He found Harsh waiting for him, posture not of defiance, but of calculated submission.
"My employer will be pleased you have seen reason," the man rasped, his flat eyes showing no pleasure.
"We have a proposal to make the partnership more… profitable for everyone," Harsh began, keeping his eyes slightly downcast, playing the part of the humble but ambitious subordinate. "Taking twenty percent of our small repair work is like taking a spoonful from a well. Why not drink from the river?"
The man's dead eyes showed a flicker of interest. "Explain."
"You control the docks. Goods come in. Some are damaged, some are surplus, some are… off-the-books. They have value, but liquidating them is a hassle for an organization of your size." Harsh laid it out, weaving the vision with careful words. "We can be your liquidation arm. You give us first access to that inventory at a fair wholesale price. We repair it, we market it, we sell it through our network. Your twenty percent comes from the net profit on the entire operation. You make more money. We make more money. It is not protection; it is wholesale."
He held his breath. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant chaos of the market. The ghost was not a man who made decisions; he was a messenger. But he was evaluating the message.
Finally, he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. "A more ambitious proposal. I will convey it." He turned to leave, then paused. "Do not attempt to grow a clever mind, boy. My employer appreciates ambition. But he punishes betrayal far worse than failure."
He left, and Harsh finally exhaled. The hook was set.
Two days later, the answer came. The ghost appeared and simply said, "The proposal is accepted. A list of available goods will be provided each week. You will pay upfront. Our twenty percent will be collected weekly. You will have one chance."
The first delivery arrived that evening: a crate of water-damaged Sony Walkmans from a container that had slipped off a crane. The quality was miles ahead of their railway scrap. They worked day and night, their fear transmuted into frenetic energy.
At the week's end, Harsh calculated the profits meticulously and set aside twenty percent in a thick envelope. The ghost came, counted the money with swift, efficient fingers, gave a curt nod, and left without a word.
Deepak let out a shuddering breath he seemed to have been holding for a week. "He just… took it."
Harsh watched the spot where the man had vanished into the crowd, his heart still pounding. "He didn't just take the money, Deepak," he said quietly. "He took the bait."
The intimidation was over. Harsh had refused to be crushed. Instead, he had negotiated a perilous truce and turned his extortionist into his wholesaler. The cliffhanger of utter defeat had been resolved not with a fight, but with a ruthless, strategic flip.
The storm wasn't gone. He had simply learned to sail in it. And now, he had the ocean's own current, however dangerous, at his back.
(Chapter End)