By nightfall, the Mazagaon warehouse was no longer empty.
More than fifty youths from the Dharavi slums, along with the remnants of Appa Gawde's gang, had gathered in the shadows. They carried steel pipes, modified stun batons, and stolen Malhotra rifles.
Vikram stood on a wooden platform, looking down at the crowd. Their faces were tired, marked by hunger and the cold of the blackout, but their eyes were bright with anger.
"Malhotra thinks he owns Mumbai," Vikram told them, his voice echoing in the rafters. "He thinks he can lock us in our homes, take our families, and plunge us into darkness. But this city belongs to us!"
The crowd let out a low, collective murmur of agreement.
"Tomorrow, when the sun goes dark, we strike," Vikram continued. "We aren't fighting for money or territory. We are fighting for the light. If we lose, this city becomes a prison. If we win, we take back our future."
Rohan raised his rifle. "For Appa! For Mumbai!"
"For Mumbai!" the crowd roared, their voices shaking the dust from the metal roof.
Rahul began distributing the modified weapons, while Rhea worked on the EMP device in the corner. Vikram stepped down, feeling the weight of fifty lives on his shoulders. He had to succeed.