Bharat woke up to the smell of blood.
Not real blood.
Memory blood.
The kind that lived in your nostrils from too many nights watching your mother cough red into tissues she hid under the pillow because she thought you wouldn't notice.
You always noticed.
He sat up. 3:47 AM. The apartment was dark except for the machines—glowing green, counting heartbeats, measuring breaths like accountants auditing a life.
His phone lit up.
No caller ID.
Just text:
"TASK INITIATED."
"Objective: Obtain compromising material on Rajan Malhotra within 24 hours."
"Failure penalty: -10 years lifespan."
"Current remaining: 29 days, 16 hours, 13 minutes."
"Accept? Y/N"
Bharat stared at the screen.
The system.
The thing that lived in his veins now, counting down like a bomb with a personality disorder.
It hadn't contacted him since the wedding night.
And now—
Now it wanted him to blackmail a man who could make people disappear with a phone call.
In twenty-four hours.
Or lose ten years.
Bharat's thumb hovered over the screen.
Math was simple:
Refuse = lose a decade.
Accept = probably die trying.
Either way, he was fucked.
But—
One option let him choosehowhe died.
He pressed Y.
The screen flickered.
New message:
"TARGET LOCATION: The Lotus Club, Bandra West."
"INTEL: Rajan Malhotra hosts private meetings every Thursday, 11 PM."
"WEAKNESS: Overconfidence. Believes walls keep secrets."
"HINT: Delivery men are invisible."
"Good luck, proxy. Try not to bleed on the marble."
The text vanished.
Bharat sat there, heart hammering.
The Lotus Club.
He'd heard of it. Everyone had. Private members' club for the kind of people who owned buildings, not apartments. Actors. Politicians. Crime lords who'd laundered their reputations until they smelled like jasmine and old money.
Getting in required either a bloodline or a bribe so large it had its own zip code.
Bharat had neither.
But—
He had desperation.
And apparently, a system with a sick sense of humor.
By 9 PM, Bharat was wearing someone else's life.
Red polo shirt. Company logo stitched across the chest: "FastBite Delivery." Helmet. Insulated bag that smelled like old biryani and broken dreams.
He'd stolen it.
Not stolen-stolen. Borrowed. From Arjun, his neighbor's cousin who worked the night shift and owed Bharat for tutoring his kid through tenth-grade math.
"Just don't get me fired," Arjun had muttered, handing over the gear. "And if you die, I'm keeping your deposit."
Fair.
Bharat checked his reflection in a shop window.
He looked exactly like what he was:
Nobody.
Perfect.
The Lotus Club didn't look like a club.
It looked like a temple designed by someone who'd sold their soul and gotten a bulk discount.
White marble facade. Gold trim. Fountains that probably ran on imported mineral water. Doormen in suits that cost more than Bharat's annual salary, standing like statues guarding the gates to a heaven he'd never be allowed into.
Bharat pulled up on the borrowed scooter.
Engine coughing.
Bag slung over shoulder.
One of the doormen stepped forward—tall, broad, face like a concrete wall that had learned to frown.
"Deliveries go to the back."
"First time here," Bharat said, pitching his voice higher, dumber. "Boss just sent the address, didn't say—"
"Back. Alley. Service entrance."
"Right, yeah, sorry—"
"Move."
Bharat moved.
The service entrance was exactly what you'd expect:
The glamorous front's ugly twin.
Dumpsters. Cigarette butts. Kitchen staff on smoke breaks, looking tired in the way that came from serving people who'd never looked them in the eye.
Bharat parked. Grabbed the bag.
Walked toward the door like he belonged.
Confidence was a costume.
Wear it right, and people stopped asking questions.
He pushed through.
Inside was heat and noise and chaos.
Kitchen in full swing. Chefs barking orders. Servers rushing past with trays loaded with food that looked like it had been photographed for a magazine.
Nobody looked at Bharat.
Delivery guy = furniture.
You noticed when it was missing, but never when it was there.
He scanned the room.
Looking for:
Hallways that led deeper.Doors marked "Private."Any route to where powerful men made terrible decisions and assumed nobody was listening.
There.
Far end of the kitchen. Narrow corridor. Sign: "Staff Only - Upper Floors."
Bharat headed toward it.
"Hey!"
He froze.
Turned.
Cook. Fifties. Stained apron. Face like a thunderstorm looking for someone to rain on.
"You new?"
"Yeah," Bharat said. "First week."
"Order for table seven came in wrong. Manager's going to have my ass. You carrying extra samosas?"
"Uh—"
"Never mind. Get upstairs. VIP lounge. Mr. Kapoor ordered caviar twenty minutes ago. Move."
The cook shoved a small box into Bharat's hands.
Expensive box.
The kind that held food you ate to prove you could afford to waste money.
"Go. Third floor. Knock twice. Don't stare at anyone. Don't speak unless spoken to. Got it?"
"Got it."
The cook waved him off.
Bharat walked toward the corridor.
Heart hammering.
Hands steady.
Because if they shook, someone would notice.
And if someone noticed—
This ended badly.
The third floor was different.
Quieter.
Carpeted.
Walls lined with art that looked like it had been stolen from museums and rebranded as "private collection." Soft lighting. The kind of silence that came from soundproofing and secrets.
Bharat walked slowly.
Listening.
Doors—
Most closed. Some ajar.
Voices drifting out:
Laughter. Clinking glasses. Conversations in English, Hindi, languages Bharat didn't recognize.
He passed one door—
Stopped.
Voice inside.
Familiar.
"...blood samples came back clean. The woman's viable."
Rajan's voice.
Unmistakable.
Bharat's pulse spiked.
This was it.
He glanced around. Hallway empty. Security camera at the far end, angled away.
Now or never.
He set the box down carefully.
Pulled out his phone.
Hit record.
Pressed it against the door.
"How many do we have on the list this quarter?"
Different voice. Older. Wet-sounding, like something rotting.
"Twelve confirmed. Three backups in case primaries fail screening."
Rajan. Calm. Clinical.
Like discussing stock portfolios.
"And the temple's approved?"
"The priestess signed off yesterday. Ritual's scheduled for the New Moon."
"收割日."
Harvest Day.
Bharat's blood went cold.
"Any complications?"
"One. The proxy."
Pause.
"Mira's husband?"
"Yes. He's... problematic. Refused to kneel. Made a scene at the banquet. The girl's protecting him."
"Then remove him."
"Easier said than done. Contract binds them. If he dies prematurely, she follows. System rules."
"Then make it look natural. Accident. Illness. Use your imagination, Rajan."
Laughter. Cold.
"Already in motion. I've got men watching his building. Mother's in hospice care, yes?"
"Yes."
"Leverage. We lean on the hospital. Cut her medication supply. He'll crumble within days."
Bharat's hand tightened on the phone.
Hard enough the case creaked.
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we escalate. There's always the list."
Pause.
"You're suggesting we add the mother?"
"Why not? She's terminal anyway. Dying woman. No family except the son. Nobody will ask questions."
Rustling. Papers.
"Put her name down. प्रिया राव. Priya Rao."
"Backup candidate. Harvest Day."
No.
No no no—
"Done. I'll notify the temple."
"Good. Now, about the primary targets..."
Bharat stopped listening.
Couldn't.
The world had shrunk to four words:
प्रिया राव.
Priya Rao.
His mother.
On a list.
Aharvestlist.
They were going to—
What?
Kill her?
Sacrifice her?
Towhat?
His vision blurred. Rage. Terror. Something older and sharper—survival instinct kicking in like a engine roaring to life.
He had to—
Footsteps.
Down the hall.
Getting closer.
Shit.
Bharat grabbed the box. Shoved the phone in his pocket.
Turned—
Too fast.
Knocked over a vase.
Crash.
Loud.
Impossibly loud.
The door opened.
Rajan stood there.
Staring.
Recognition flickering across his face—slow, then fast, then certain.
"You."
Bharat ran.
"STOP HIM!"
Rajan's voice—sharp, commanding, echoing down the hallway like a gunshot.
Doors opened. Men emerged. Security. Built like walls, moving like wolves.
Bharat sprinted.
Helmet bouncing.
Bag swinging.
Phone a burning weight in his pocket—evidence, death sentence, the only thing that mattered.
Behind him—
Footsteps. Heavy. Fast.
"LOCK THE EXITS!"
Stairs—
He hit them running. Two at a time. Down. Down.
Second floor—
Guard coming up.
Bharat didn't think.
Swung the delivery bag.
Hit him across the face.
Man stumbled.
Bharat kept running.
First floor.
Kitchen.
Staff screaming. Chefs diving out of the way.
"STOP THAT MAN!"
Bharat crashed through.
Out the service door.
Into the alley.
Scooter—
He jumped on.
Kicked the starter.
Once.
Twice.
Engine sputtering—
"COME ON—"
Third kick.
It caught.
Roared to life.
Bharat twisted the throttle.
Shot forward—
Just as hands grabbed at him.
Missed.
By centimeters.
He flew through the streets.
Heart in his throat.
Recording in his pocket.
Mother's name ringing in his skull like a scream.
प्रिया राव.
Harvest Day.
Twenty-eight days left.
And now he knew:
The contract wasn't just killing him.
It was hunting everyone he loved.
His phone buzzed.
System:
"TASK COMPLETE."
"Evidence acquired: Audio recording, 47 minutes."
"Bonus: Intel on 'Harvest Day.'"
"Penalty waived."
"Congratulations, proxy. You're still breathing."
"For now."
Bharat didn't feel like celebrating.
He felt like screaming.
But screaming didn't save anyone.
So he rode.
Into the night.
With his mother's name burning in his ears.
And twenty-eight days to stop whatever Harvest Day meant.