Sunday was a day of calculated stillness. While the rest of Jodhpur went about its weekend, Neel Verma remained in his small, anonymous room. He didn't sleep. He prepared.
On the screen of his burner phone, he studied every available floor plan of the Umaid Bhawan Palace. It was a city within a city, a sprawling art deco masterpiece of marble and sandstone. He memorized service corridors, staff entrances, kitchen layouts, and security camera blind spots. He read articles about the high-stakes poker games Abhijit Singh was famous for, learning the names of his usual associates, understanding the culture of the world he was about to enter.
He rehearsed his new identity. Sanjay Sharma. From a small village near Pali. Moved to Jodhpur for work. Desperate for the extra cash. Plausible. Forgettable. He practiced the deferential posture, the downcast eyes of a man paid to be invisible. For a man who had spent a decade hiding in plain sight, it was a familiar costume.
As dusk began to settle over the city, casting a golden glow on the distant walls of Mehrangarh, Neel began his transformation. He shaved carefully, leaving a faint shadow of stubble that spoke of long hours, not laziness. He dressed in the crisp black trousers and the ill-fitting maroon jacket. He clipped on the ID card with the stranger's face that was now his own. Looking in the small, cracked mirror, he saw not a brilliant detective, but a tired, anonymous valet. The disguise was perfect.
He arrived at the palace's service entrance with a group of other temporary staff, all trucked in from Gupta's agency. The contrast was staggering. Through one gate, a world of unimaginable luxury and power; through this one, a world of hurried orders, security checks, and the scent of industrial cleaner. Neel kept his head down, his movements quiet, blending into the crowd of nervous waiters and bartenders.
They were led to the private wing where Abhijit Singh was hosting his event. The air grew heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and Cuban cigars. The stakes of the game were rumored to start at fifty lakh rupees, but it wasn't about the money. It was about power, a gathering of the country's industrial and political elite where fortunes were won and deals were made in clouds of smoke.
Neel was posted at the grand, private entrance to the wing, his job simple: take the keys from the arriving guests and park their multi-crore cars. It was the perfect position to observe everyone who entered. For an hour, a procession of Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and Ferraris arrived, driven by the lions of Indian commerce.
And then, at 9:15 PM, a midnight-blue Aston Martin Vanquish pulled up. The security around the entrance subtly tightened. The man who stepped out of the driver's seat was Abhijit Singh.
He was in his late fifties, tall and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. He had a magnetic, predatory charisma, his eyes sharp and intelligent, missing nothing. This was not just a rich man; this was a king in his court, a man who radiated absolute control. He exuded the very power that had crushed Neel a decade ago.
Abhijit Singh barely glanced at the staff as he handed his keys over.
"Park it carefully," he said, his voice a smooth, deep command. "It's new."
Neel took the keys, his gloved fingers brushing against the industrialist's. His head was bowed, his face obscured by shadow. "Yes, sir," he murmured, his voice bland and submissive.
For a brief second, their eyes met. In Singh's, there was nothing but dismissive arrogance. In Neel's, there was a decade of cold, patient fury, perfectly hidden.
Neel watched him walk into the party, a wolf among wolves. He held the keys to the devil's car in his hand. He was inside the lion's den. Now, the hunt could truly begin.