Rahul sat in a small internet café tucked behind a row of paan shops and photocopy centers just outside the IISc main gate. The air smelled of stale chips, sanitizer, and the faint oiliness of overheated CPUs. A noisy pedestal fan clattered in the corner. He could have used the lab systems back inside campus, but anonymity mattered now.
He glanced at the wall clock. 6:52 PM. March 11, 2013.
The blockchain incident would occur sometime tomorrow. The network would split. Prices would crash. Then they'd rebound faster than anyone expected. It wasn't just the event that mattered—it was that no one had anticipated the recovery. Except Rahul.
A chat window blinked open on LocalBitcoins. Rahul had created a burner email, posed as a college student (not entirely a lie), and found a seller—"Udaan_Fox"—willing to meet near Malleswaram Circle that evening. The rate was ₹2,850 for 1 BTC.
They agreed on a public place. A coffee stall just past 8th Cross. Rahul would bring cash. The seller would generate a wallet on-site and transfer ownership immediately.
He checked his wallet again. ₹3,000 in carefully folded notes. A one-month stipend.
—
Malleswaram buzzed with its usual evening rhythm—scooters weaving between honking cars, streetlights flickering to life, the aroma of chaat stalls blending with roasting peanuts and incense from roadside shrines. Rahul navigated through the chaos with ease. The coffee stall was just ahead—a steel cart parked near a shuttered tailoring shop. A man in a grey hoodie and mirrored sunglasses stood nearby, sipping from a paper cup.
"Fox?" Rahul asked softly.
The man gave a curt nod. "Cash?"
Rahul reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. The ₹3,000 felt absurdly light in his hand. As he extended it, something in his brain clicked—the slow-motion awareness of a man who had seen this scene before.
What would this ₹3,000 become? At $47 per BTC, that was one coin. If he sold at the April spike—$260—that was about ₹14,000. If he waited until November—maybe ₹60,000. Respectable. But not enough. Not by a long shot.
His hand stopped mid-air.
He flipped the coin.
Heads.
Something about the way it landed—it wasn't warning or confirmation. Just an edge of discomfort. Like the air pressure had changed.
Fox narrowed his eyes. "What now?"
Rahul looked at him, then slowly grinned.
"Okay," he said quietly, "if you had one shot, or one opportunity…"
Fox frowned, confused.
"To seize everything you ever wanted," Rahul continued, voice steady, "in one moment…"
"Would you capture it?" he added, his grin widening, "or just let it slip?"
There was a pause. Then the man's expression shifted. His annoyance faded. He tilted his head slightly.
"Yo," he said, low and easy. "His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy…"
And just like that, they were off—trading bars, lines snapping back and forth across the quiet street like they had done it a hundred times before. A perfect sync of rhythm, cadence, and cultural shorthand.
By the time they hit "lose yourself in the music, the moment," both were laughing.
Fox shook his head. "I don't know what you're thinking, man. But you're alright."
Rahul lowered the envelope of cash. "Apologies for wasting your time. Coffee's on me?"
Fox smirked. "Only because you're a man of culture." He removed his sunglasses and pulled off his cap.
Rahul's heart stuttered.
The sharp nose. The faint scar over his eyebrow. That crooked grin.
Anay.
He didn't say it aloud. Didn't let it register beyond the flicker of recognition behind his eyes.
"Name's Anay," the man offered casually, extending a hand.
"Rahul," he replied. "So… you play poker?"