The silence in the wake of victory was a hollow space. Harsh moved through the days that followed like a man in a dream, the adrenaline of the hunt replaced by a leaden fatigue. The newspapers called him a "whistleblower," a "hero." The words felt like a poorly fitting suit. He had not set out to be a hero. He had set out to survive, and then to break the thing that was trying to break him.
He visited Anjali Kulkarni before she returned to Pune. She was staying in a modest hotel, her bags packed. The hardness in her eyes had softened slightly, replaced by a weary peace.
"They've offered me protection until the trial," she said. "But I think the danger is past. You saw to that."
"I'm sorry it took fifteen years," Harsh said.
"It took the right person," she corrected him. "My father can rest now. I can rest." She offered him a small, sad smile. "What will you do now?"
It was the question everyone was asking. The question he had been avoiding.
He went to see Prakash Rao's family. He found his widow in a small, dark apartment, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. She didn't blame him. She thanked him for bringing justice. The gratitude was a knife in his heart. He placed a thick envelope on the table—a fraction of the "Arun Patel" wealth, enough to secure her children's future. She tried to refuse, but he insisted.
"It was his money, in a way," Harsh said, which was both a lie and the deepest truth. "He earned it."
She accepted it, her silence more painful than any accusation. He had paid a blood debt with cash. The transaction felt both necessary and utterly inadequate.
Inspector Sawant found him next. The policeman's triumph had been tempered by the sheer scale of the cleanup ahead.
"The trial will be a circus," Sawant said, lighting a cigarette. "Swami won't go quietly. He'll drag half the city's elite into the dock with him. It will be messy."
"Let it be messy," Harsh said. "The infection needs to be cut out."
"And after?" Sawant asked, watching him carefully. "That empire… it's a vacuum now. Nature abhors a vacuum. Especially in this city."
"I know," Harsh said.
He did know. He had spent the last few days not resting, but studying. With Merchant's help, he had obtained lists—Swami's assets, his shell companies, his holdings. The legitimate ones, at least. The empire was a sprawling, diseased tree, but its roots were deep and some of its branches were still strong. Shipping logistics. Warehousing. Even a small, struggling electronics assembly plant Swami had acquired through a hostile takeover years ago.
He could let it all be devoured by rivals. He could let the city tear itself apart fighting over the carcass. Or…
He met with Mr. Iyer, the bank manager. The man was terrified, expecting retribution for his past greed.
"I want to close the Arun Patel account," Harsh told him. "Transfer all assets to a new corporate entity."
Iyer blinked, surprised. "A new entity, sir? And what will be the name of this new company?"
"Patel Holdings," Harsh said.
The name was a statement. It was no longer a ghost. It was a fact.
His next meeting was with the one man who understood the legal labyrinth of Swami's empire: Mr. Dalal. The administrator was in a jail cell, awaiting trial, his cool efficiency useless behind bars. He looked smaller without his suit.
"You," Dalal said, his voice flat. "Come to gloat?"
"Come to make an offer," Harsh said. "You know where the bodies are buried. You know which assets are clean, which can be salvaged. You know the people, the systems."
Dalal's eyes narrowed. "What kind of offer?"
"Work for me. Testify fully and honestly against Swami. In return, when you get out—and you will get out sooner with my help—you have a job. A real job. Building something, not just hiding the rot."
It was a monstrous gamble. Dalal was a snake. But he was a useful snake. He knew the machinery of the empire better than anyone.
Dalal studied him, a cynical smile on his lips. "You want to become him."
"No," Harsh said, his voice cold. "I want to build what he only pretended to. I want to take his corrupt machine and turn it into something that actually works. The choice is yours. Die as his loyal clerk, or live as my chief of operations."
He left Dalal to ponder the offer.
Finally, he went to the docks. Not as a loader, but as a visitor. He stood at the edge of the pier, watching the water. The ghost of the place still haunted him—the back-breaking labor, the constant fear, the taste of his own blood.
But he also saw the potential. The relentless, powerful flow of commerce. The movement of goods and people. The engine of the city.
This was where it had started for Swami. This was where it would start for him.
He wasn't going to be a king. Kings ruled by fear and inheritance. He was going to be an architect. Architects built. They used strong materials, they followed plans, and they created structures meant to last.
He would use Swami's own empire—the warehouses, the ships, the contacts—but he would run it differently. No protection rackets. No smuggling. No bribes. He would pay fair wages. He would pay his taxes. He would build a business so transparent, so efficient, so legitimate that it would become unassailable.
It was a naive dream. He knew that. The city would fight him every step of the way. The corrupt system would try to reject this new, healthy organ.
But he had something Swami never did: a clear conscience, and a vision that extended beyond his own greed.
He pulled out a single, worn hundred-rupee note from his pocket. The seed. It was creased and faded, but it was still there. A reminder of where he began.
He hadn't started this to build an empire. He had started to prove he could. Now, he would prove he could build one that wouldn't need to be torn down by another angry young man with a soldering iron and a grudge.
He looked out at the vast, indifferent ocean, then turned his back on it.
The architect was going to work.
(Chapter End)