The world shrank to the three advancing figures, the stench of garbage, and the cold, metallic taste of fear in Harsh's mouth. There was no time to think, only to react. The brain that could calculate market surges and geopolitical ripples was gone, replaced by the raw, primal instinct of a cornered animal.
The lead thug with the pipe lunged, a swift, brutal arc aimed at Harsh's head. Harsh didn't try to block it. He dropped. The pipe whistled over his head, the force of the missed swing throwing the thug off balance for a microsecond.
That was all Harsh needed.
He didn't spring up. He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his fingers clawing through the putrid, slippery muck. The man with the knife cursed and slashed downward, the blade slicing through the air where Harsh's chest had been a moment before, embedding itself in a damp sack of refuse.
Harsh's hand closed around something solid and cold hidden in the filth. A broken bottle, the jagged edge sharp and filthy. He didn't hesitate. As the knuckle-cracker moved in to grab him, Harsh swung his arm up in a wild, desperate arc.
He didn't aim to kill. He aimed to shock.
The jagged glass caught the man across the forearm, not a deep cut, but a vicious, tearing rip that drew a line of bright red blood and a startled, pained yell. The man recoiled, clutching his arm, his face a mask of shock and rage. He hadn't expected a fight.
The distraction was enough. Harsh was on his feet now, backing away, the broken bottle held out in front of him like a talisman. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"You little rat!" the scarred leader snarled, hefting the pipe again. The one with the knife wrenched his blade free from the muck.
They fanned out, more cautious now. They had him cornered against a unstable-looking wall of compressed trash bags. There was nowhere to run.
Just as the leader tensed for another charge, a new sound cut through the tension—a sharp, piercing whistle, twice, then a pause, then twice again. A signal.
All three thugs froze. Their heads snapped toward the source of the sound. On a ridge of garbage overlooking the scene stood two figures. They were silhouetted against the dying sun, but their posture was relaxed, almost bored. One of them casually held a stout wooden lathi.
They didn't say a word. They just stood there, watching.
The scarred thug's face went through a rapid series of emotions: anger, confusion, and finally, a dawning, cold fear. He recognized them. These were not rivals. These were Venkat Swami's men. The ghost's people.
The message was delivered without a single word being spoken. This territory is claimed. This boy is claimed. Walk away.
The lead thug lowered his pipe. The fury in his eyes was replaced by a bitter, impotent rage. He spat on the ground, the glob landing near Harsh's feet.
"This isn't over," he hissed, the threat now hollow, a face-saving measure. "Tell your master this isn't over."
But he was already backing away. The other two followed, the injured one still clutching his bleeding arm, shooting a look of pure venom at Harsh. In seconds, they had melted back into the labyrinth of garbage, leaving Harsh alone, trembling, the broken bottle still clutched in his hand.
The two figures on the ridge watched them go. Then, one of them—the one without the lathi—made a subtle, flicking motion with his hand: Go.
Then they too turned and disappeared.
Harsh stood there for a full minute, his body shaking with adrenaline and relief. The threat was gone. He was alive. He slowly unclenched his hand, letting the bloody bottle fall into the muck.
He looked at the empty, violated hiding place. The gold was gone. But he was still breathing. The protection he had resented, the fifty percent cut he had raged against, had just saved his life. Venkat Swami's long shadow had reached into this stinking hellhole and pulled him out.
The walk back to the alcove was a blur. He was covered in filth, his clothes torn, the coppery smell of blood mixing with the reek of garbage. When Deepak and Sanjay saw him, their faces went pale with horror.
"Harsh Bhai! What happened?!"
"They found it," Harsh said, his voice hollow. He slumped onto a crate, his energy utterly spent. "They took it."
Sanjay let out a choked cry of despair. Deepak just stared, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
"But…" Sanjay began, the question dying on his lips as he took in Harsh's state. "How did you…?"
"The ghost's men," Harsh whispered, the reality of it settling on him like a physical weight. "They were watching. They intervened."
The implications were staggering. They were always being watched. Their every move was monitored. Their "secret" hiding place had never been a secret. The ghost had known all along. He had allowed the theft to happen, had allowed Harsh to be ambushed, just to make a point. To demonstrate, in the most brutal terms possible, exactly how vulnerable they were without his protection.
The gold was a test. The ambush was the lesson.
And the lesson was clear: Connections = Survival.
It wasn't enough to be smart. It wasn't enough to be right. In this world, foresight without force was worthless. Money without muscle was an invitation to be robbed. Ambition without allies was a suicide mission.
He had been so focused on the global game, on outsmarting the market, that he had forgotten the fundamental rule of the jungle he lived in. Venkat Swami hadn't forgotten. He had just given Harsh a refresher course, written in blood and garbage.
The gold was gone. But the debt to Chiman remained. The new, exorbitant tax to Desai remained. They were back to square one, poorer than ever, and deeply in debt.
But they were alive.
Harsh looked at his terrified partners, at his own filthy, trembling hands. The clever, ambitious boy from the future was gone. In his place was something harder, colder, and clearer-eyed.
He had learned his lesson. The hard way.
Now, he needed to build connections that were truly his own.
(Chapter End)