In the humid sprawl of Pune, where glass skyscrapers pierced the monsoon sky like defiant spears, Amar Patel navigated his life like a glitch in the matrix—functional on the surface, but always one wrong line of code away from crashing. At 29, he had it all: a high-paying job, a stunning girlfriend, and a family that adored him. Yet, the world's rot gnawed at his core. His high-rise studio apartment in the upscale Koregaon Park neighborhood was a fortress of escapism: walls lined with shelves of manga volumes—stacked beside gritty novels—and movie posters glowing under neon lights. A life-size action figure loomed in the corner, a silent judge of his mundane battles. He drove his black Force Gurkha through the chaotic traffic, its rugged frame a metaphor for his own unyielding grit, blasting music to drown out the honks.
Amar's days started early, often with a gym session at the local fitness center. Three to five times a week, he'd push through sets of deadlifts and cardio, his 5'9" frame toned and fair-skinned, hair neatly styled in a way that turned heads. "Gotta stay sharp," he'd mutter to himself, wiping sweat from his good-looking face. Fitness wasn't just vanity; it was armor against the world's injustices. Back home, he'd whip up a quick Veggie shake, scroll through the latest manga chapters on his phone, and head to work at Vantablack Technologies Limited, a bustling software firm in Hinjawadi IT Park. As a senior developer in cybersecurity, his job involved fortifying digital walls against hackers—ironic, given how he yearned to see the real ones torn down.
Office politics? Amar thrived in them, not by scheming, but by sheer, unhinged enthusiasm. Take the recent promotion debacle: His colleague, Rajesh, a slimy ladder-climber with a knack for stealing credit, had tried to undermine Amar's project during a team meeting. "Amar's code is solid, but my optimizations would make it fly," Rajesh had smarmed, flashing a PowerPoint slide that blatantly ripped off Amar's ideas. The room tensed, eyes darting. But Amar, with his Rebellious personality, leaned back with a grin that bordered on manic. "Optimizations? Rajesh, your 'tweaks' would crash the server faster than a Diwali firecracker. Let me demo." He pulled up his laptop, fingers flying across the keys, narrating with infectious energy: "See here? Your loop's O(n^2)—mine's linear. Boom." The team erupted in laughter; even the boss chuckled. Rajesh slunk away, defeated. Amar didn't just win; he made it a spectacle, his imaginative flair turning confrontations into triumphs. "Politics is just bad code," he'd say later over coffee with allies. "Debug it publicly."
But victories came with a price. Amid the cubicle chatter, Amar's mind wandered to darker places, as was his habit. Driving home that evening, stuck in gridlock near a slum where ragpickers sifted through garbage under flickering streetlights, he gripped the wheel tighter. A luxury SUV zoomed past, splashing mud on a beggar—probably some corrupt builder evading taxes. The sight ignited his rage: greed everywhere, politicians pocketing billions while kids starved, the poor enduring without a fight. "Why the fuck do we let this happen?" he muttered. "Everyone's selfish, stepping on the weak because it's easier." The injustice burned, and his mind rebelled—everything went black, senses shutting down like a power outage for a second or two. Heart pounding, he blinked back to reality, horns blaring. "What the hell?" he whispered, shaking it off.
Evenings brought solace in Rina. At 26, she was an interior designer running her own small firm from her cozy flat in Baner, with a sharp wit and a laugh that cut through his chaos. They'd met at a design expo two years back, bonding over shared rants about aesthetics and ambition. Tonight, they met at a beach-inspired café in Koregaon Park—ironic, given Pune's landlocked vibe, but it reminded Amar of his coastal roots. Rina, with her messy bun and vibrant earrings, slid into the booth across from him. "Rough day, chaos king?" she teased, sipping her iced latte.
Amar launched in, unfiltered as always. "You won't believe it—the boss wants us to rush a project for some shady client who probably bribes half the city. Meanwhile, kids are dropping out of school because they can't afford books." His voice rose, enthusiastic fire in his eyes, hands gesturing wildly. Rina listened, her smile soft. She loved this about him—his over-the-top views, how he saw the world's rot so clearly, yet cared enough to rage. "You're right," she said, squeezing his hand. "But you do what you can. Remember that kid you helped last month? Sponsored his school supplies?"
He softened, pulling her close. "Yeah, but it's drops in an ocean. I want reformation—big changes. Total overhaul." They talked late, sharing ideas about art and change, and ended with a kiss under the café's string lights. Rina grounded him, her affection a buffer against the eruptions. But as he drove her back to her flat, they passed a street corner where a cop extorted a fruit seller, the man's weathered face resigned. The injustice seared Amar's mind—how could he just comply? Where was the spark to resist? His vision blacked out again, senses gone, a void swallowing him for a fleeting moment. He swerved slightly, shaking it off. "You okay?" Rina asked, concerned.
"Fine. Just... tired," he lied, heart racing. He pulled up to her building, the Force Gurkha idling under the streetlights. Leaning over, he grinned, his chaotic energy flickering back. "Hey, don't forget—Saturday morning, we're hitting the road to Ratnagiri. You're finally meeting the clan. Prepare for Mom's fish curry." Rina laughed, pecking his cheek. "Wouldn't miss it, chaos king." She slipped out, and Amar watched her go, his mind already buzzing with the trip ahead.
Two days later, Saturday morning, Amar and Rina set off for Ratnagiri, the Gurkha's engine rumbling as they left Pune's urban sprawl behind. The open road felt like freedom—Rina by his side, singing off-key to indie music, his cybersecurity gig fueling a comfortable life, and a family waiting to dote on him in their traditional beachside home. His mother's endless pampering, his grandparents' stories, his uncles' and aunts' chatter—it was a life most would envy. Yet, the world's rot festered in his mind, a shadow no amount of personal success could erase. He didn't dream of fixing it himself, but he burned for the world to be fixed—fast—his patience worn thin by its relentless rot.
They stopped at a roadside dhaba for chai, the air thick with the scent of frying vadas. As Amar sipped his tea, he overheard a truck driver arguing with the dhaba owner. "Pay up, or I call my guy at the check post," the owner sneered, implying a bribe to a corrupt official. The driver, weathered and broke, handed over extra cash, his shoulders slumped. Amar's blood boiled—greed and power, crushing the weak again. How could he just give in? The injustice hit like a sledgehammer, and his world went black—senses gone, a void swallowing him again for a second or two. He gripped the table, chai spilling, as Rina grabbed his arm. "Amar, what's wrong?" He blinked, the world snapping back. "Nothing," he lied, heart racing. These blackouts, were growing fiercer.
Back on the road, Rina's hand on his eased the tension, but the fire in him burned. His blackouts were proof of it, a recurring jolt that had haunted him for months, now growing fiercer. Little did he know, the blackouts were a signal, a crack in his world, poised to unleash something vast.