Veer woke with a sharp inhale, sweat slicking his forehead. His muscles ached from last night's brutal sparring session at the dojo, bruises painting his ribs and jaw like mottled shadows.For a brief second, he lay still, letting his body sink into the soft bed… and then his mind sharpened, yesterday's conversation with Jatin replaying in his head.
"Two days," Veer muttered to himself, staring at the ceiling."Two days, and the plan begins to move."
He sat up, stretching stiff shoulders, already calculating his next moves. By this time tomorrow, Arjun's men would be sharpening knives and loading guns, Jatin would be pacing with suspicion burning in his gut, and Radhe would be embedded deeper into Dilip Topi's circle.
Domestic contrast moment:
A soft knock broke through his thoughts."Veer, are you awake?" Sonia's teasing voice filtered through the door."You're going to be late for breakfast again, hero."
Veer rubbed his temples, forcing a normal tone. "I'm up. Don't break the door."
When he stepped into the kitchen, Sheena immediately noticed his state."Veer, what on earth happened to you?" she said, narrowing her eyes at the faint swelling on his jaw.Sonia gasped dramatically, circling him like a detective. "Did you fight a tiger, or did you lose a dance battle?"
Veer smirked faintly. "Training got rough. That's all."
Sonia narrowed her eyes playfully. "Uh-huh. And the training involves you sneaking back late at night, looking like you went twelve rounds with an elephant?"
He ignored her, calmly grabbing toast.Inside, his mind was a storm.Every innocent joke, every laugh at the table, reminded him how fragile this peace was. Tomorrow, people would bleed. Cities didn't burn overnight, but they cracked when no one was watching.
As he left for school, he glanced back at Sheena and Sonia."I have to end this before it reaches them," he thought, his jaw setting like stone
............
Arjun sat on a cracked wooden chair in the center of the warehouse, the dim light catching the snakes etched into his forearms.Around him, his crew moved like silent shadows, loading crates of rifles, machetes, and Molotov cocktails into hidden compartments of vans.
The room smelled of rust, oil, and tension.His closest lieutenant, a wiry man with scars along his jawline, approached cautiously."Bhai, our police contact confirmed the route. Dilip's trucks will pass near the circle at the rally before heading deeper into the city."
Arjun nodded slowly, his gaze sharp."And Jatin? Where is he?"
"He's laying low like you told him, bhai. But…" The man hesitated, lowering his voice. "The boys don't trust him. Too clean. Too sudden."
Arjun didn't answer right away. He rose to his full height, towering over everyone.His voice came out calm, but it carried the weight of barely contained violence:"Trust is a fool's game. I don't need to trust him. I just need him to lead me to Dilip."
He grabbed a knife from a crate and slammed it into a wooden map table."But while he thinks he's leading me, I will be ready to turn the tables."
........................
The day arrived at last. Baba Sakti's party was buzzing with a fevered, almost holy excitement — especially the sub-leader, who was due to speak at the neighborhood rally. For him, the day wasn't about service or duty; it felt like coronation. He moved among the workers, checking banners, urging drivers, smiling with the practiced fervor of a man who believed the microphone would make him king.
Paresh Rana had spent his whole life shadowing Baba Sakti, doing the dirty work nobody else would, all in the hope that one day the leader would hand him a seat in government. To Paresh, that seat meant power, a crown of the city's rewards — not public service, but dominion.
While party volunteers fussed with bunting and speakers, the police worked their own choreography — cordoning roads, briefing officers, and positioning barricades to keep traffic orderly and the rally route clear of nuisances.
On another side of the city, four vans roared through narrow streets toward the very same rally. From a distance they looked like latecomers wearing the party's white shirts, caps, and mufflers — ordinary foot soldiers hurrying to join the crowd. Up close, the men inside were not rally workers at all. They were Arjun and his crew: muscular, hard-eyed, each with a machete and a bat in the back of the van, knives tucked at their belts, a few with pistols hidden under their shirts. They moved like men carrying a plan.
And not far from them, Dilip Topi directed another operation. He stood amid stacks of crates while his men loaded four large trucks. The air around him smelled of oil and rope, of hurried labor. He was on the phone, voice sharp and low.
"Did you check properly?" he demanded. "If some mashup or stray cop or ruckus gets in my way, you'll be paying dearly."
He listened, then nodded to himself as his contact confirmed the route's safety. The men kept loading, ropes snapping, tarpaulins flapped down over the crates until the trucks crouched heavy and ready.
So the city readied itself in two different rhythms: one of speeches, flags, and staged smiles; the other of men with hidden weapons and trucks full of secrets. Both moved toward the same square, and the air hummed with the danger of what might happen when they finally met.