The monsoon had arrived like an army laying siege to Cyber City. Sheets of rain lashed against glass towers, turning their mirrored façades into trembling canvases of Gray. From the 32nd floor of a luxury penthouse, Vikram Kapoor stood motionless, his silhouette framed against the sprawling skyline of Gurgaon. The city glittered in defiance—neon signs flickering through the storm, traffic crawling like veins of molten light. To most, this was progress. To Vicky, it was a battlefield.
He exhaled slowly, the faint aroma of imported whiskey curling in the air. Years abroad had honed him—his tailored suit whispered Milan, his watch ticked Zurich precision—but beneath the polished veneer lay scars no fabric could hide. His family name, once etched in gold across boardrooms, had been dragged through mud by a cartel that ruled this city like feudal lords. The Mehta Syndicate. He had left India broken, humiliated, and burning with a single thought: revenge is a dish best served cold—and calculated.
Tonight, calculation began.
The penthouse was a statement—floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist décor, and a private elevator that opened into opulence. But for Vicky, it was more than luxury; it was a vantage point. From here, he could see the arteries of power—the golf courses where deals were struck, the towers where fortunes were minted, and the shadows where secrets festered. He poured another drink, watching raindrops race down the glass like rival ambitions. His phone buzzed. A single message: "Welcome home, Vicky. Cyber City missed you." No name. Just a number he didn't recognize. He smiled faintly. The game had already begun.
Later that night, Vicky walked into a private lounge tucked inside one of Gurgaon's elite hotels. The air was thick with cigar smoke and old money. Conversations hummed in low tones—politicians, builders, media moguls, all orbiting around invisible suns of influence. Vicky moved like he belonged, his charm effortless, his handshake firm. He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to take inventory.
"Vikram Kapoor," a voice drawled behind him. He turned to find a man in his fifties, silver hair slicked back, eyes sharp as a hawk's. Rajiv Mehta. The kingpin himself. The man whose empire had swallowed Vicky's family whole.
"Mr. Mehta," Vicky replied, his tone smooth, betraying nothing. "I've heard Cyber City runs on your vision."
Rajiv chuckled, a sound that carried arrogance like perfume. "Vision, strategy, and… loyalty. You'll learn that if you plan to stay."
Their eyes locked—a silent duel masked by polite smiles. In that instant, Vicky felt the weight of his vow crystallize. This wasn't just business. This was war.
Hours later, back in his penthouse, Vicky stood before a wall-sized digital map glowing in the dark. Gurgaon sprawled across it like a chessboard—sectors marked, projects tagged, names highlighted in crimson. The Mehta Syndicate wasn't just a company; it was a hydra with heads in real estate, media, and politics. Cutting one wouldn't kill it. He'd need precision. Patience. And allies who didn't even know they were playing his game.
Outside, thunder cracked like a warning. Vicky raised his glass to the storm. "Let's begin," he whispered.
And somewhere in the city, the first domino trembled.