When I woke, the world felt heavy and blurred, as if reality itself was flexing under the weight of something strange—something impossible. At first, there was only pain: the raw ache behind my eyes, the metallic sting on my lips, and a dull, throbbing headache pulsing in my skull. I tried to recall where I was, clutching at memories that splintered and refracted like light through broken glass. Faces flashed before my mind's eye—parents, friends, the dim glow of my old apartment, the screech of a city bus, and then… nothing. Only blank, crushing darkness.
The room began to crystallize in my awareness. Ornate wooden panels on the walls. Heavy velvet curtains keeping the sun at bay. A lingering scent—opium, incense, gunpowder, fear—curled in the air, thick as fog. My fingers twitched against rough bedsheets, finding hardness beneath—a cold pistol, familiar in its terrible promise. My heart thudded, rapid and uncertain. I focused on my hands: thick wrists, veins visible, fresh scars that tracked across knuckles.
Something felt wrong. Or perhaps, something felt too real.
I lurched out of bed, stumbling toward a full-length mirror propped against the wall, its frame gold and baroque. The image that stared back was not my own—a wild mane of hair, defiant jawline, dark eyes kindled with restless fury. A face marked by violence, ambition, and something worse: a long, jagged scar that cut diagonally across my right cheek. Knowledge crashed down in a tidal wave—Munna Tripathi.
Munna. Prince of Mirzapur. The heir to a criminal dynasty.
Shock twisted my gut, but comprehension followed quickly. Memories not my own flickered at the edges of thought—midnight violence, bruised knuckles, stifled love for a woman he could never have, the cold shadow of his father's expectations. It was all there, woven inside me like an infestation.
I paced the spacious room, testing this body, this consciousness. This must be reincarnation—a second chance, a curse, or some cosmic joke. I had watched Mirzapur as an outsider: Netflix queues and popcorn nights, enthralled by the chaos of Uttar Pradesh's underworld. But now, I breathed their air, shouldered their burdens, and lived in Munna's skin.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. A hesitant knock.
"Munna bhaiya! Kaleen bhaiya is calling in the meeting hall."
The words echoed like a bell toll. Servants, frightened and deferential, waited at the threshold. They saw Munna—a tempest in human form, always on the edge of violence, always chasing validation. But I was no longer just Munna. I was someone else, someone who understood both the world outside Mirzapur and the inside game—the betrayals lurking, the destinies to be rewritten.
I straightened, pulling on a wrinkled kurta. The cloth was soft but stained here and there with blood—whether mine or another's was anyone's guess. I slid the pistol into my waistband, felt the weight anchor me, then strode past the servants with a nod, slow and deliberate, exuding confidence I barely felt. The corridors slithered with shadows and murmurs. Tripathi men watched from the doorways, eyes darting, assessing, afraid.
Downstairs, the main hall glimmered with chandeliers that reflected off polished marble. At the center sat Akhandanand Tripathi—Kaleen Bhaiya. Father, king, and living legend. He commanded everything about this city: the carpet business, opium trails, the pulse of lawlessness. His gaze was sharp, predatory, never missing a detail.
He motioned for me to sit.
I nodded respectfully, stepping into his gravity. My mind raced—canonical events, plot lines—the Pandit brothers, Guddu and Bablu, would soon enter this web. I knew all their fates, their ambitions, their vulnerabilities. If I played my cards right, Mirzapur itself might bend to my will.
"Munna. Problems are rising again," Kaleen Bhaiya said flatly. "The Pandit brothers are ambitious. You know how to deal with them?"
I steadied myself, pulse roaring. Munna's old nature wanted to lash out, prove something, seek chaos. But I knew how recklessness ended: blood on the pavement and dreams in ashes.
I answered with careful diplomacy. "Bhaiya, I think they can be useful. Their ambition—if shaped correctly—makes them loyal. Loyalty is always better than war."
Kaleen's mouth twitched, half-smile, half-sneer. "Since when have you started talking like a politician, Munna?"
The room chilled as a hush fell. My mind sharpened—what was Munna at this juncture? Severely underestimated, angry, raw. But I could change that.
I met Kaleen's gaze. "The city respects power, but it worships results. Pandits handled properly will give us both."
He studied me for a moment, then leaned back, fingers drumming against the table. "Handle them your way. But no mistakes, Munna. Not this time."
I nodded, relieved. The first move was mine. I would gather information, gauge the Pandit brothers' intentions and leverage my foreknowledge to bring them into the Tripathi fold—on my terms, not Kaleen's. This was no longer Munna's story of blood and blunders. This was a calculated takeover.
After the meeting, I retreated to Munna's private study, examining old paperwork, maps, and ledgers. Tripathi business was sprawling—fake invoices, coded notes, bribe ledgers—but what mattered most now was the social pulse: who owed us what, who could be trusted, who was set to betray.
I summoned Munna's closest men: Makkhan, Lala, and Raja. They stood rigid, wary of my moods.
"Raja," I began calmly, "any unusual movement by Guddu or Bablu? Has anyone approached them with offers?"
Raja coughed, uncertain. "Nothing yet, Munna bhaiya. But word is they got into a scrap with the cops. Beat two constables."
I smiled, recognizing the moment—the start of the brothers' violent rise. Good. In canon, Munna antagonized them, driving them further toward rebellion. I would do the opposite.
"If they want power," I mused, "let's show them what power comes with. Make contact. Bring them to me. We'll talk—no guns, no threats."
My men exchanged glances, surprised at this restraint. Munna never parleyed; he only punished. But I needed Guddu and Bablu alive, loyal, indebted.
While they scattered on their tasks, I found myself alone in the mansion's silent corridors. It was surreal—every painting, every artifact steeped in violence and ambition. I thought of the cost of failure, of the countless bodies that would litter the streets if I walked Munna's old path. I refused to be a pawn in someone else's narrative.
Night fell fast, swallowing Mirzapur in a haze of neon and shadow. I stood on the rooftop, city sprawling below, alive and dangerous. Men shuffled through alleys, exchanging drugs and threats. In the distance, a temple bell rang—brief, innocent, painfully out of place.
I gripped the railing, promising myself:
This time, Munna Tripathi would play the game smarter. Manipulation, not mindless violence. Partnerships, not endless war. If gods or fate had given me this second chance, I would wield it like a sword.
Tomorrow, Mirzapur would wake to a new order. And for the first time, Munna Tripathi would decide his own destiny.