Lahore's air was heavy, choked with grief and the thick smell of British cigars.
Bhagat Singh was gone, hanged at the gallows in Lahore Central Jail.
The Raj thought it had broken the spirit of Punjab.
Instead, it had set the stage for you.
---
The police station stood like a squat brick toad at the end of the bazaar road.
A half-dozen sepoys in khaki leaned on their Lee–Enfield rifles, chatting in lazy Punjabi while their British sergeant barked insults at a boy selling tea.
You walked straight down the middle of the street, coat unbuttoned, no weapon in sight.
The first sepoy squinted.
"Eh, stop there! What business—"
The sergeant noticed you — tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with the unhurried confidence of someone who didn't care if they were outnumbered.
He barked, "Clear off, brown boy, before I—"
You kept walking.
"Where's your officer in charge?" you said in perfect English, voice calm but sharp.
The sergeant stepped forward. "What's your—"
Your right hand shot out, gripping his belt and shirt front. You lifted him off his feet like a child's toy and tossed him into the mud. He landed in a heap, coughing.
"Inside," you said.
---
The sepoys raised rifles.
You didn't stop.
The first volley cracked — dry, sharp echoes down the street.
The bullets slapped into your chest and shoulders, tearing cloth… and then simply fell to the ground with dull metallic clinks.
The sepoys froze. You kept walking.
Another volley. Same result.
You reached the gate, grabbed the iron lock with one hand, and ripped it apart like it was paper. The gates swung wide.
---
Inside, the jail cells were lined with men — some political prisoners, some local thieves.
The inspector, a pot-bellied Anglo-Indian in a crisp uniform, stepped forward with a trembling revolver.
"Who… who are you?" he stammered.
You took one step forward and smashed the revolver in his hand — literally flattened the barrel between your palm and his wrist.
"I'm the man who's here to tell you," you said, staring into his eyes,
> "This land isn't yours. And if you try to touch another patriot, I'll be back for your bones."
You turned, grabbed the cell bars, and tore them out of the wall, one after another. The prisoners, wide-eyed, stumbled out, whispering your name already — a name you hadn't even told them yet.
---
By the time you stepped back into the street, British soldiers from the cantonment were running toward the station.
You didn't run.
You stood in the middle of the road, fists on hips, daring them to fire.
And when they did, the bullets bounced harmlessly away.
One soldier swore he saw you grin.
---
By nightfall, Lahore's bazaars were buzzing with the tale:
A man who walked through gunfire.
A man who ripped prison doors off their hinges.
A man who told the British they no longer owned India.
The Rhino of Bharat was born.
---