The export-import firm, "Coastal Traders," was housed in a modest but clean office in a building near the Flora Fountain area. It was a world away from the grit of Bhuleshwar, a place of polished nameplates and the faint smell of typing fluid. The owner, Mr. Agarwal, was a trim man in his fifties with a carefully trimmed moustache and eyes that held the weary defiance of a man who had built something through sheer hard work and was now being told to hand over the keys.
Harsh did not arrive with muscle. He did not arrive with the ghost's silent menace. He arrived alone, dressed in his Malabar Hill meeting clothes, looking every bit the young, ambitious businessman.
The receptionist was hesitant, but Harsh's calm assurance—"Mr. Agarwal is expecting a discussion about logistics optimization"—got him through.
Agarwal looked up from his desk, his eyes narrowing with immediate suspicion. He had been expecting trouble, just not packaged like this.
"Mr. Agarwal," Harsh began, before the man could speak. "My name is Harsh Patel. I represent a consortium of investors with interests in streamlining port logistics. We've noticed Coastal Traders' impressive growth and believe your efficiency could be even greater."
It was a lie, but a elegant one. It framed the intrusion as flattery, not a threat.
Agarwal was not fooled. "I know who you represent," he said coldly, not offering Harsh a seat. "And my answer is the same. My logistics are my own business. I do not need... partners."
Harsh remained standing, his posture relaxed. "I understand your hesitation. Independence is valuable. But consider the bottlenecks. The delays at Dock No. 3 last month for your ceramic tile shipment from Italy. The 'lost' paperwork for your consignment of Belgian machine parts the month before. These are not coincidences. They are the cost of independence."
He saw a flicker of surprise in Agarwal's eyes. How did this young man know the specifics of his troubles? The ghost's network provided not just threats, but intelligence. Harsh was weaponizing it.
"That is the cost of doing business in Mumbai," Agarwal said defensively.
"It is a cost," Harsh agreed smoothly. "But not a necessary one. The consortium I represent can make those bottlenecks vanish. Your shipments would be prioritized. Your paperwork would be... expedited. Your costs would drop, your reliability would become your greatest selling point."
He was not demanding a cut; he was offering a service. The stick was implied—the bottlenecks would get worse without cooperation. The carrot was clear—smoother, cheaper operations.
"What is the fee for this 'service'?" Agarwal asked, the defeat already starting to seep into his voice. He knew how this worked.
"A small percentage of your projected savings on demurrage and storage fees," Harsh said. "We succeed only if you succeed. It is a partnership."
It was a brilliant, vicious offer. It sounded fair, almost generous. But it also meant Agarwal would be forever tied to them, his success fueling their treasury.
Agarwal looked out his window at the bustling street below, his shoulders slumping. He was a proud man, but he was also practical. He could fight, and likely see his business slowly strangled, or he could yield and thrive under new management.
"Who do I speak to about the details?" he asked quietly, not looking at Harsh.
"An associate, Mr. Dalal, will contact you tomorrow," Harsh said. He had just fed the resentful accountant a new client, strengthening that connection too. "He will be most pleased to work with you."
The meeting was over. Harsh had not raised his voice. He had not made a single threat. He had used information, presentation, and the unspoken architecture of power to achieve what strong-arm tactics might have failed to do. He had made Agarwal feel like he was making a choice, not surrendering.
As he walked out of the office, he felt a cold clarity. This was how it was done. This was the real game. Violence was for amateurs. True power was a silent transaction, a shift in perception, a gently applied lever that moved the world.
He reported his success to the ghost that evening in a quiet corner of a Marine Drive promenade. The ghost listened, his expression unchanging.
"The fee is acceptable," the ghost rasped. "The method was... efficient."
It was the closest thing to praise Harsh would ever get from him.
But as Harsh walked away, he knew the real victory was his. He had taken his first assigned task and executed it not as a thug, but as a strategist. He had impressed his master, and in doing so, bought himself more leash, more room to maneuver.
He had also gained something else: a detailed understanding of Coastal Traders' operations, its suppliers, its clients. Information that was now stored in his notebook. Mr. Agarwal was not just a subdued revenue stream for Swami. He was a new, unwilling node in Harsh's own budding network.
He had persuaded a man to surrender, and in the process, he had stolen a piece of the empire's map for himself. The student was learning quickly, and his teacher had no idea just how ambitious his lessons had become.
(Chapter End)