The number stayed with him longer than it should have.
Not because it was large.
But because it was exact.
The doctor hadn't rounded it. Hadn't softened it. He'd said it the way accountants did—precise enough to feel inevitable.
Arjun replayed it in his head as he walked.
That amount meant:
– Rent for eight months, gone.
– Food reduced to whatever didn't argue back.
– No fights scheduled for the next four weeks. Maybe five.
– And him, almost thirty, still timing his life in purses and injuries instead of plans.
No savings.
No partner to split the weight.
No one waiting at home except a woman whose body was quietly giving up.
He almost laughed.
Champion underground fighter, he thought.
Can't even afford to lose a month.
He rolled his shoulder. It protested. Everything did these days.
The street narrowed the farther Arjun walked.
Warehouses pressed in on both sides, their shutters half-lowered like tired eyelids. Sodium lamps buzzed overhead, throwing uneven pools of yellow across broken asphalt. Somewhere, a radio played too loud. Somewhere else, glass shattered and no one reacted.
Arjun adjusted the strap on his bag and kept moving.
No girlfriend, he thought suddenly, without bitterness. Just inventory.
Hard to explain bruises when you don't even know where you'll sleep next year.
That's when the sound changed.
Not a crash.
A compression—metal folding inward with a deep, protesting groan, like something alive being forced into a shape it was never meant to take.
Arjun stopped.
A black sedan sat in the middle of the road.
Not parked.
Not crashed.
Crushed.
The hood had buckled upward, windshield spiderwebbed, the front end compacted so tightly the headlights pointed at the ground. The engine ticked, hot and confused.
A man lay on the asphalt near the driver's door, gasping. His hands clawed at nothing. Blood ran from his mouth in thin, dark strings.
A figure stood over him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hood up.
The man lifted his foot and brought it down once—clean, controlled—into the driver's thigh.
The scream cut short.
Arjun's stomach tightened.
Fear came first. Not panic. Assessment. The kind that crawled up the spine and settled behind the eyes.
That wasn't rage, he thought.
That was discipline.
The hooded figure turned to the back seat.
For the first time, Arjun noticed the government insignia on the door. Polished. Untouched by the wreck around it.
The same car.
The hooded man reached in.
What came out barely looked human.
The official hit the ground hard, breath knocked clean out of him. He tried to scramble backward, palms slipping on oil and blood, dignity abandoning him before his body did.
"Please," the man choked. "This isn't what you think—"
The hooded figure crouched to his level.
"It never is," he said calmly. "You always think there's a reason. An exception. A delay."
The official shook his head wildly. "I have authority. Protection. Law—"
"Law?" The hooded man tilted his head. "You mean the permission slip you use to ignore people."
He gestured down the road. Empty. Unconcerned.
"You drove through here tonight," he continued. "Didn't slow down. Didn't look. Because nothing on this road mattered to you."
He leaned closer.
"That's not power. That's habit."
Arjun felt something twist in his chest.
A memory surfaced—too sharp, too quick. A black car. A raised hand. A driver who never even glanced back.
They don't see us, he thought.
Not until we're in the way.
The official's voice dropped to a whisper. "You touch me and you're dead."
The hooded man smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "I touch you and nothing happens. That's the part that scares you."
Arjun studied him—the width of his stance, the stillness between movements, the way the chaos bent around him instead of touching him.
I couldn't take him head-on, Arjun realized.
Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
The hooded figure gripped the official by the collar and lifted him.
The sound that came out wasn't a scream. It was a broken inhale, like the body forgetting how to obey.
Arjun's heart hammered.
Do they deserve it?
And even if they do… does this fix anything?
If this was justice, it didn't leave room for tomorrow.
If it wasn't, then why did it feel so clean?
The hooded figure drew his arm back.
Arjun stepped forward before the question could finish forming.
"Hey," he called.
The word echoed louder than it should have.
The hooded figure paused. Slowly, he turned.
Up close, he was even bigger. Not bulky. Dense. Like every movement had been paid for in advance.
Arjun raised his hands slightly, palms open. Not surrender. Positioning.
"Strong man," Arjun said, forcing his voice steady. "Raising a hand on an old man and calling it order."
The hooded figure watched him. Measured him.
"Bit ironic," Arjun finished.
The punch came fast.
Too fast.
Arjun barely brought his forearm up in time.
Impact detonated through his bones. The force drove him back a step, shoes scraping, teeth rattling. Pain flared—but underneath it, something sharper sparked.
Heavy, he thought.
But controlled.
Arjun set his feet.
And pushed back.