As soon as Jatin left the garage, the room changed. The faint laughter and cigarette smoke dissolved into murmurs of distrust.
One of Arjun's men leaned forward, his face pockmarked and hardened from years of street wars.
"Bhai… who is this Jatin, really? We've never heard of him outside the underground pit fights. He's no informer, no fixer. Just a brawler who bleeds for money. Suddenly he knows Dilip's movements like he's got eyes inside the man's house? Doesn't add up."
Another spat on the floor, voice low with suspicion.
"He could be bait. Maybe Dilip sent him. Maybe the cops. Too clean, too sudden."
The rest nodded, their unease heavy in the damp air. But Arjun didn't flinch. He sat there, still as a statue, his forearms resting on his knees, tattoos coiled like serpents in the dim light. His eyes weren't just cold—they burned with something sharper: old hatred.
"Who says," Arjun said at last, voice like a knife's edge, "we are going to do exactly what he planned?"
The men fell silent, listening.
Arjun's mouth twisted into a smile that wasn't really a smile at all. "I've been through hell because of Dilip Topi. Years of bleeding men, years of losing ground. That dog humiliated me, took pieces of my empire. You think I'll sit here and do nothing because some underground fighter shows up talking sweet? No. He gave me a window, that's all. Whether his information is truth or trap doesn't matter. What matters is opportunity."
He stood, towering over them, his voice harder now, each word dripping with vengeance.
"I want our contact in the police department ready. Eyes in the rally. Our men in the crowd. Nobody moves before I give the signal. If this blows sideways, I won't run. I'll drag Dilip, his men, and every last bastard with me into the fire."
A hush followed. His crew looked at each other, unsettled but convinced. Arjun's hate was sharper than any doubt they carried.
.........................
The sun had barely set when Jatin's phone buzzed. He picked it up, pacing inside his cramped room, still tasting the stale smoke of Arjun's garage in his lungs.
"It's me," Veer's calm voice flowed through.
"I spoke to him," Jatin said without delay. "He bought it. Or at least, he acted like it. But I can feel it—he'll be cooking something behind my back. That man doesn't follow anyone's script."
There was a pause on the line before Jatin continued, his frustration breaking through.
"Veer… I can see Radhe already got what he wanted from this mission. He's getting closer to his revenge, his chance. But what about me, huh? What about what I want? Or am I just bait until I'm burned?"
Veer's reply came steady, deliberate. "You need to be patient, Jatin. Your situation… it's complicated. I'm not saying it's impossible, but Radhe will be more helpful to you once this mission is done. You'll get your opening."
Jatin clenched his fist, pacing faster. "Patience doesn't kill enemies."
"No," Veer said, "but timing does. And I've got information that will help you get closer to one of your targets. You'll see soon."
There was silence, Jatin waiting for more, but Veer's tone sharpened as he added, almost as a reminder:
"Also, did you forget whose rally this is? Think about it, Jatin. That rally is going to take a drastic turn. Nothing about it will go as people expect."
Something clicked in Jatin's mind, a realization that hit like a hammer. His throat dried.
"Baba Shakti…" he muttered, his face darkening as the name of his arch enemy surfaced like poison from the past.
Veer didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was colder than ever.
"Now you understand why patience matters."
The line went dead.
Veer's POV
Veer slipped the phone into his pocket as he walked through the dim lanes, his mind buzzing with pieces of the larger puzzle. Plans, betrayals, shadows inside shadows. But as the dojo came into view, the noise of the underworld faded just enough for him to breathe differently.
The building wasn't like his polished school halls—it smelled of sweat, discipline, and hard wood beaten raw by years of training.
"Veer."
Mr. Rao's voice greeted him before he even stepped onto the mat. The old martial artist stood firm, his spine straight despite the years of fights that had carved stories into his body. His eyes glinted with something Veer had come to respect: the quiet pride of a man who knew violence, but even more, knew control.
Tonight was different. The group gathered wasn't kids his age. These were older boys, most already hardened by the strict life of army schools. Some had been raised in orphanages, molded from young age to fight. Others carried the weight of family legacies—sons of soldiers, grandsons of veterans, their bodies already trained into weapons.
Veer tied his belt tighter, stepping into their circle. He wasn't nervous. He was hungry.
"Today," Rao said, his voice echoing off the walls, "we break illusions. No mercy. If you can't take pain, you don't deserve strength."
The first spar came hard and fast. A tall boy with a shaved head lunged at Veer, his stance military sharp. Veer slipped, countered, but the boy's knee drove into his ribs. Pain blossomed. Veer gritted his teeth, twisting into a sweep that sent the boy crashing to the mat. Gasps filled the room.
Another came at him immediately, fists like hammers. This one was faster, precise. Veer blocked one, two, three strikes, but the fourth slipped past, cracking his jaw. Blood tasted metallic in his mouth. His vision blurred for half a second—then clarity rushed in. He ducked low, slammed his shoulder into the boy's gut, and drove him back hard.
"Again!" Rao barked.
It didn't stop. They came one after another, like waves testing a rock. Veer's arms ached, his chest burned, his legs screamed for rest. But each strike he absorbed, each fall he took, sharpened him further. The dojo echoed with the sound of flesh hitting flesh, bodies thudding against mats, breaths ragged and fierce.
Finally, Rao raised his hand. Silence fell. Veer stood there, bruised, blood at the corner of his mouth, chest heaving—but still standing. The older boys, once sneering at the younger outsider, now looked at him with something closer to respect.
Rao's gaze lingered on Veer, unreadable, but proud in his own silent way.
"You learn fast," Rao said quietly. "Faster than most. Remember this—strength without patience is chaos. Patience without strength is weakness. You'll need both."
Veer bowed slightly, his mind flashing back to Jatin's desperate voice, to Arjun's looming anger, to Baba Shakti's shadow rising in the rally.
Patience and strength.
The two edges of the same blade.
And he was going to need them both.
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