The freedom of having nothing was a cold, sharp wind. It cleared the head and hardened the heart. Harsh stood on the street corner, not as a king or a pawn, but as a singularity. A point of pure, undiluted intent. The money was gone. The guilt was paid. All that remained was the score.
Swami thought the account was settled. He had taken Harsh's business, his freedom, his body, and nearly his soul. He had taken a part of Sharma's soul and thought he'd taken his son's life. He believed the final payment had been extracted.
He was wrong.
Harsh wasn't there to win a business or build an empire anymore. He was there to collect a debt. And the interest had compounded.
He didn't hide. He walked. He walked through the heart of Bhuleshwar, past his old alcove, now shuttered and dark. He walked past the music shop, where the manager saw him and quickly looked away, fear warring with shame. He walked until he found what he was looking for.
The ghost was leaning against a wall, watching the market with his usual flat-eyed disinterest. He was the last thread connecting Harsh to the man in the shadows.
The ghost's eyes slid over him, dismissed him as another piece of street trash, then snapped back. A flicker of surprise, then cold recognition. He hadn't expected to see Harsh Patel alive, let alone walking openly down the street.
Harsh didn't break stride. He walked right up to him, stopping inches away. He smelled of sweat, grime, and the faint, sharp tang of disinfectant. His eyes, however, were not the eyes of a broken man. They were the eyes of a man who had stared into the abyss and found it lacking.
"The boy in London," Harsh said, his voice quiet, devoid of emotion. It was not a question. It was a statement of fact. "The treatment has been restarted. The debt is paid."
The ghost's expression did not change, but Harsh saw the minuscule tightening around his eyes. The information was new. It was unforeseen. It was a variable.
"Swami thinks he broke me. He thinks he took everything," Harsh continued, his gaze never leaving the ghost's. "Tell him he is mistaken. He took what I had. He did not take what I am."
He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that was more threatening than a shout.
"Tell him the debt is now mine to collect. And I do not deal in money. I deal in empires."
For the first time since Harsh had known him, the ghost was silent. The man who had only ever delivered threats was now receiving one. And it was not a threat of violence or exposure. It was more profound. It was a threat of absolute, relentless opposition.
Harsh didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, leaving the ghost standing against the wall, his usual aura of impassive menace disrupted.
The message would be delivered. The war was not over. It had just changed generals.
Harsh had no army, no weapons, no capital. But he had two things Swami could never understand: a cause that was personal, and the terrifying power of a man who has already lost everything.
He was no longer playing Swami's game. He was changing the rules. The boy from the future was gone, replaced by something harder, sharper, and born entirely in the brutal present.
The ghost would deliver the message. And in a quiet office somewhere, a man who thought himself an emperor would feel the first cold draft of a wind he did not control.
The hunter had just become the hunted.
(Chapter End)