Bharat made it three blocks before he realized:
He was being followed.
Not by Rajan's men.
Not by security.
By something worse.
Silence.
The city was never silent. Mumbai at night was sirens and horns and a million lives crammed into too-small spaces, all of them screaming to be heard.
But behind him—
Nothing.
Just the hum of his scooter.
And the feeling of eyes on his back.
He checked the mirror.
Black SUV.
Tinted windows.
Following exactly two car-lengths behind.
Professional.
Patient.
Predatory.
Fuck.
Bharat twisted the throttle. Scooter whined—protesting, too old for heroics.
The SUV accelerated.
Smooth. Effortless.
Matching his speed like it was playing with him.
He cut left. Narrow alley. Too tight for cars.
The SUV stopped.
Doors opened.
Men got out.
Running.
Fast.
Bharat didn't look back.
He ditched the scooter two streets over.
Abandoned it in a temple courtyard—another gods' house, another gamble.
Ran on foot.
Through alleys that smelled like piss and garbage and desperation.
Familiar territory.
Home turf.
If you grew up poor in Mumbai, you learned the city's secret veins—the gaps between buildings, the shortcuts through markets, the places where maps gave up and only locals survived.
Bharat knew them all.
He ducked through a saree shop's back entrance. Out through a restaurant kitchen. Down a stairwell that led to a basement that led to another alley.
Behind him—
Still footsteps.
Still coming.
How—
Tracking device?
No. He'd checked the scooter.
The phone?
Maybe.
Or—
The system.
Maybe they could track the system itself.
Maybe signing that contract had turned him into a walking GPS beacon for anyone who knew how to look.
Bharat's lungs burned.
Legs screaming.
But he kept running.
Because stopping meant dying.
And dying meant his mother's name stayed on that list.
He emerged onto a main road.
Traffic. Crowds. Witnesses.
Safety in numbers.
He slowed to a walk. Trying to blend. Just another tired delivery guy heading home after a shift.
Pulled out the phone.
Recording still there.
47 minutes of Rajan's voice.
Talking about harvest lists and backup candidates and—
His mother.
Bharat's hand shook.
Not from fear.
From rage.
He needed to copy this. Upload it. Send it somewhere safe.
But where?
Cloud storage? Too traceable.
Email? They'd intercept it.
Mira?
Maybe.
If he could reach her.
If she'd even—
Someone grabbed his arm.
Bharat spun.
Fist already rising—
"Easy, hero. I'm not here to kill you."
Female voice.
Sharp. Bored-sounding.
Like violence was a chore she'd done too many times to find interesting.
Bharat blinked.
The woman was young. Mid-twenties. Dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket that looked expensive but worn—lived-in, not costume. Short hair. Nose ring. Eyes that looked like they'd seen too much and stopped caring somewhere around the third murder.
"Who—"
"Ayesha. Mira's assistant. Also her babysitter, bodyguard, and apparently nowyourcleanup crew."
She let go of his arm.
"You're welcome, by the way."
"For what?"
"Not letting Rajan's goons put a bullet in your spine three streets back."
She gestured behind him.
Bharat turned.
Two men. Suits. Standing at the far end of the street.
Watching.
Not moving.
Like dogs called to heel.
"How did you—"
"I told them if they touched you, Mira would burn their families to the ground." Ayesha shrugged. "Might be a bluff. Might not. They're not paid enough to find out."
She pulled a cigarette from her pocket. Lit it. Took a drag.
"You got the recording?"
"How do you—"
"Because I'm not stupid. And because Mira's been tracking you since you left your apartment."
She pulled out a phone. Showed him the screen.
Map. Blinking dot.
Bharat's location.
Real-time.
"She bugged you at the wedding. Tracker in your jacket lining. Don't look so offended—she bugs everyone."
Ayesha pocketed the phone.
"Now. Give me the recording."
"Why would I—"
"Because in about ninety seconds, those two polite gentlemen are going to get a call from someone higher up the food chain telling them the consequences don't matter and your corpse does."
"And when that happens, I can't stop them."
"So. Recording. Now."
Bharat stared at her.
Weighing options.
Trust her? She worked for Mira. Who'd used him. Bugged him. Married him like he was a chess piece.
Don't trust her? Die here. Recording lost. Mother still on the list.
Math was simple.
He pulled out the phone.
"I need a copy."
"Obviously."
Ayesha produced a small USB drive. Sleek. Expensive-looking.
"Plug in. Transfer. Fast."
Bharat did.
File copying.
Progress bar crawling—
40%...
60%...
Behind them—
Phones ringing.
The two men answering.
Faces changing.
80%...
One of them started walking forward.
90%...
"Ayesha—"
"I see them."
95%...
Both men moving now. Hands going inside jackets.
98%...
"Comeon—"
100%.
TRANSFER COMPLETE.
Ayesha yanked the drive out. Shoved it in her pocket.
"Run."
They ran.
Down the street. Through an arcade. Out the back.
Into a parking garage.
Ayesha pulled keys from her jacket. Clicked.
Lights flashed.
Motorcycle.
Sleek. Black. Expensive.
The kind that went from zero to illegal in under four seconds.
"Get on."
"I don't—"
"GET. ON."
Bharat got on.
Ayesha kicked the engine to life.
Sound like a panther waking up angry.
She twisted the throttle.
They shot forward.
The city blurred.
Neon. Traffic. People diving out of the way.
Ayesha drove like physics was optional. Weaving between cars. Jumping curbs. Running reds.
Behind them—
SUV. Black. Same one from before.
Gaining.
"HOLD ON!"
Ayesha yanked the bike left.
Into oncoming traffic.
Horns screaming.
Headlights rushing at them like meteors.
Bharat's fingers dug into her jacket.
"YOU'RE INSANE—"
"I'M EMPLOYED!"
She cut right. Through a gap between two trucks that Bharat would've sworn was too narrow.
It wasn't.
Barely.
The SUV tried to follow.
Didn't make it.
Crash.
Metal screaming.
Horns.
Chaos.
Ayesha didn't slow down.
Ten minutes later, they stopped.
Rooftop parking lot. Empty. City sprawling below like a circuit board of light and desperation.
Ayesha killed the engine.
Silence.
Bharat climbed off. Legs shaking.
"What the fuck—"
"You're welcome."
"I didn't ask for—"
"You didn't have to. Mira did."
Ayesha pulled out the USB drive. Examined it.
"Forty-seven minutes. Rajan's voice. Harvest Day. Your mom's name."
She looked at him.
"You got lucky."
"Lucky?"
"You're alive. That's lucky."
"Debatable."
"Not really."
She pocketed the drive.
"Mira will want to hear this. You'll come to the temple tomorrow. Noon. Don't be late."
"And if I don't?"
Ayesha smiled.
Cold.
"Then Rajan finds you first. And you don't get a motorcycle rescue. You get a shallow grave and a death certificate that says 'accidental overdose.'"
"Your choice."
She handed him something.
Keys.
Car keys.
"What—"
"Mira's car. Parked two blocks north. Silver Audi. Don't crash it. She'll bill your corpse."
"Why are you helping me?"
Ayesha's smile faded.
For a moment—
Just a flash—
Something in her eyes.
Fear.
Real. Deep. Old.
The kind that lived in your bones and came out at 3 AM when you couldn't sleep.
"I'm not helping you," she said quietly. "I'm keeping Mira alive."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're not the first proxy. And the last one?"
Pause.
"Let's just say the temple has a very efficient cleaning service."
She turned. Started walking toward the stairwell.
"Wait—"
"Noon. Temple. Don't make me come find you again."
"Ayesha—"
She stopped. Didn't turn around.
"What do you owe Mira?"
Silence.
Then:
"Everything."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I was on the list once."
"Harvest Day. Five years ago."
"Mira got me off it."
Pause.
"And I've been paying the debt ever since."
She walked away.
Disappeared into the stairwell.
Leaving Bharat alone.
On a rooftop.
With car keys in one hand.
Recording evidence in his phone.
And twenty-eight days left before—
What?
Harvest Day.
The list.
His mother's name.
Mira's secrets.
Ayesha's fear.
All of it connected.
All of it leading somewhere.
Somewhere that ended with blood.
His phone buzzed.
System:
"BONUS OBJECTIVE UNLOCKED."
"New Intel: 'Harvest Day' = ritual sacrifice. Victims selected for 'life force compatibility.'"
"Temple collects life energy. Extends contractor lifespans."
"Your mother: Backup candidate. Will be activated if primary target fails screening."
"Survival strategy: Remove her name from the list."
"Or remove the list entirely."
"Difficulty: EXTREME."
"Recommendation: Don't die trying."
"Good luck, proxy."
Bharat stared at the screen.
Then at the city below.
Millions of lights.
Millions of lives.
And somewhere down there—
A temple that ate people.
A list with his mother's name.
And a girl who'd saved his life because someone once saved hers.
Twenty-eight days.
To dismantle a system older than his bloodline.
Or die watching his mother disappear into it.
The math was clear.
The odds were impossible.
But—
Bharat was done kneeling.
To gods.
To men.
To fate.
If they wanted his mother—
They'd have to go through him first.
And he'd make ithurt.
He pocketed the phone.
Headed for the stairs.
Toward Mira's car.
Toward the temple.
Toward whatever came next.
Because if you're already in hell—
You might as well burn it down.