"I know I said no hostels," Anay muttered, glancing down the dim hallway, "but this one doesn't do bedtime or rules."
Rahul followed him up the narrow stairwell of a three-storey PG in Gandhinagar. The building looked innocent enough from the outside—chipped paint, faded signage, a lone security guard half-asleep near the door. But the tension shifted with every step they climbed.
By the time they reached the top floor, Rahul could feel it in the air—the hush before the play.
The "casino" was spread across three adjoining rooms. It wasn't glitz and glamour—it was signal strength and cash. Phones in every hand, tablet screens glowing under tube lights. A local server quietly pinged from behind a curtain in the corner, syncing bets and issuing digital chips. It was sleek, quiet, and deeply illegal.
The buy-in was ₹50,000. Anay stepped forward.
"I can vouch for him," he said, nodding to Rahul.
The organizer—bald, stocky, with a small Bluetooth earbud nestled in one ear—gave Anay a dry look. "I know you're good for it, Anay. But just your word's not enough for a newbie. What if he loses and runs?"
Rahul hesitated. He had ₹1,800 in cash. Not nearly enough. Then he reached into his shirt and pulled out the coin, flipping it once before offering it forward.
"This is all I've got. Temporarily. Just to hold."
The man took it, felt its weight, and squinted. "You serious? What is this? Some fake from Commercial Street? Looks like something a street vendor would palm off for ₹100."
Anay winced. "Come on—"
The organizer cut him off. "It's a joke. Not even silver."
Anay turned to Rahul. "Forget it, man. Let's just go."
Rahul didn't move. "Wait. What about Bullet Raani?"
Anay froze.
The organizer raised an eyebrow. "Bullet what?"
Anay turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "How do you know that name?"
Rahul shrugged. "Well, I know a lot more. I know about a private collection of tasteful Shokushu Zeme hosted on a locked .onion address—encrypted, hidden, immaculate folder structure. But your public key leaked. I could share the IP if you like."
Anay stared at him, mortified.
"You wouldn't…"
Rahul smiled. "I would. For Raani."
Anay looked like the soul had drained from his body. Like a broken husk, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the old leather keychain. The metal key jingled faintly.
"She's a 2008 Bullet 350. Cast iron engine, right shift gear. No push start. You need real legs. You need love."
Rahul blinked. He could've sworn Anay always said it was a Bullet 500. But he wouldn't put it past the Anay he knew to boastfully and meaninglessly exaggerate.
Anay held the key out like he was handing over a piece of his heart.
The organizer let out a low whistle. "You sure?"
Anay nodded, lips pressed in a grim line.
The organizer grinned. "Alright. I'll take it. If the kid answers one question."
He leaned forward.
"Are you… a tits man or an ass man?"
Anay nearly blurted out, "Of course ti—"
Rahul raised a hand. "Let me take this one."
The room went quiet.
In Rahul's mind, thoughts spun in chaos. On one hand, the soft curve of the chest, timeless and classically adored. On the other—the intricate musculature, the balance, the power behind the glutes. Aesthetically, evolutionarily, functionally—it wasn't easy.
He remembered the Sphinx's riddle. What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening? Man. The answer was man. Because humans evolved. Adapted. Changed.
Just like preferences.
As his mind raced, he remembered seeing the organizer's phone earlier—Sophie Choudry in a bikini, glancing back over her shoulder, curve of her hips front and center.
But… what if it was misdirection?
His heart pounded. His throat dry. He flipped the coin under the table, hidden.
Heads.
A breath. Then he spoke.
"Ass man."
The organizer stared. "Why?"
Rahul stood straighter.
"Because while breasts are given by genetics—pure chance—the ass is sculpted. It's built. It's earned. Every curve is the result of discipline, intent, structure—symmetry and strength. It's engineering and art. It's resilience."
The organizer's mouth twitched. Then he laughed. Long, loud, honest.
"You know your shit, kid." He tossed the keys back to Anay. "Keep your damn bike."
Anay caught them midair, blinking. Then turned to Rahul with a look of awe.
"Who are you?"
Rahul smiled. "Let's just say… an ass man."
The organizer turned to his men and grinned. "Let them in, boys. He's one of us."
Now, the real game could begin.