The days after his return were a study in controlled tension. Harsh moved through the city not as a fugitive, but as a claimant. He was a man staking a flag on contested ground, and everyone was watching to see if it would be trampled.
He didn't hide. He occupied. He went back to the alcove. The lock was broken, the interior dusty and stale. It smelled of abandonment. He didn't clean it. He simply sat inside on an upturned crate, a silent declaration of ownership. He was a squatter in the ruins of his own former life, waiting for the eviction notice.
It didn't come.
The ghost did not reappear. Swami's enforcers did not descend. The silence was more unnerving than any attack. It was the silence of a predator reassessing its prey, recalculating the angles of attack.
Harsh used the silence. He met with Prakash Rao again, not in the scrap yard, but in a noisy, crowded Irani café.
"The auctions," Harsh said, stirring a glass of overly sweet chai. "Your license. It will be reinstated."
Rao looked skeptical, weary. "How can you know this? The man at the railways, he is still in Swami's pocket."
"He is in the pocket of whoever fills it," Harsh corrected. "And Swami's pockets have holes. Yours do not." He slid a thick envelope across the sticky table. "This is for him. A 'processing fee.' It will clear the way."
Rao's eyes widened at the thickness of the envelope. This was not the small compensation from before; this was a serious bribe. "Harsh Bhai, this is too much. And if Swami finds out—"
"Let him," Harsh said, his voice flat. "He is fighting a war on two fronts now. One against me, and one against his own crumbling finances. He cannot watch every pocket. This one," he tapped the envelope, "is now mine."
It was a test. A small, targeted probe into Swami's infrastructure of corruption. If the bribe was accepted and Rao's license was magically approved, it would mean Swami's control was weakening. If it was rejected, it meant the empire was still locked down tight.
Two days later, Prakash Rao found him at the alcove, his face a mixture of elation and fear.
"It worked," he whispered, as if saying it too loud would break the spell. "The license is under review, they said. A 'speedy review.' The man took the envelope. He did not even mention Swami's name."
A crack in the foundation. The first tiny breach. Harsh had successfully bribed an official in Swami's own network. The sun was beginning to shine on a new patron.
The next move was bolder. He sent for Deepak and Sanjay. He didn't know if they would come. They had families, lives. They had seen the cost of defiance.
They came. They stood at the entrance to the alcove, hesitant, their eyes full of a complicated mix of hope and terror.
"Harsh Bhai," Deepak said, his voice thick with emotion. "We heard... we heard you were back."
"We heard you fought the ocean," Sanjay added, his usual bravado replaced by a kind of awe.
"I am not fighting it," Harsh said. "I am learning to redirect its currents." He looked at them, these two boys who had been with him from the beginning. "I cannot promise you safety. I can only promise you a fight. And a share of what we build from the ashes."
He didn't need to ask twice. They were in. The team was reforming, not around profit, but around a cause.
He gave them their first task. Not to repair electronics. To listen. To be his ears in the city. He gave them money, more than they had ever seen, drawn from the Arun Patel account.
"Go to the tea stalls where the dock managers drink. Go to the bars where the customs officers relax. Buy them drinks. Listen. I want to know everything. Which shipments are delayed? Which officials are suddenly nervous? Who is complaining about missed payments?"
He was building an intelligence network with rupees and chai. He was mapping the nervous system of Swami's empire, looking for the points of failure.
The information began to trickle in, then flow. A ship was stuck at port because a bribe hadn't been paid. A trucking company was refusing new jobs from Swami's holding companies over unpaid invoices. A mid-level politician was suddenly "reconsidering" his support.
The economic pressure Harsh had applied with the oil short was rippling through the system, creating chaos and opportunity.
He was no longer just a claimant. He was a competitor. A hostile one.
The invitation for Swami to come himself had been delivered. And now, Harsh was making it impossible for him to refuse.
He was systematically poaching Swami's corrupt officials, his suppliers, his manpower. He was offering a better deal, backed by the one thing Swami was suddenly lacking: liquid cash.
He was buying Swami's empire out from under him, one brick at a time.
The final brick was the most symbolic. He found out which local artist Swami used to forge documents and falsify manifests. He was a nervous, talented man named Farooq who worked out of a tiny closet-sized shop near the docks.
Harsh walked in. Farooq looked up, his eyes widening in panic. He knew who Harsh was. Everyone did now.
"I am not here to threaten you," Harsh said, placing a stack of rupees on the counter. It was twice what Swami paid him. "I am here to hire you. Your first job is to create a new letterhead. For a new company."
Farooq stared at the money, then at Harsh. "What is the name of the company?" he asked, his voice trembling.
Harsh allowed himself a small, cold smile.
"Patel Holdings," he said.
The empire was being rebuilt. Not in the shadows. Not through fear. But in the open, through a better offer.
The invitation was no longer just a challenge. It was a takeover bid.
And everyone in the city was waiting to see how the emperor would respond.
(Chapter End)