God, the whole place felt off that morning, you know? Like walking into a room where someone's just had an argument and nobody told you. The sweat, petrol, stress—smells you can't wash out, sunk deep into your skin. Guys are muttering, throwing nervous side-eyes, especially when Khanna's lurking behind his desk. Dude's got the kind of presence that makes you want to shrink into the wall, like maybe if you're quiet enough, he'll forget you exist. No chance of that today—he's drumming his fat fingers on the desk, loud enough to drive you nuts.
Arjun rolls his cycle through the gate, hoping his face gives nothing away. Frankly, he's a mess. Nights with no sleep, his brain just running endless replays of that damn System message—eighteen thousand rupees. Feels like getting mugged, but for Khanna? Nothing gets past him. Scratches, dents, a pebble out of place—he's on it.
"Mehra!" Khanna barks, already scowling like he expects trouble. The man drags himself up, stomach practically bulldozing the desk. "Yesterday you got lucky. Malad today. No messing around." He tosses the manifest right at Arjun, like it's a test and he knows you haven't studied.
Arjun just nods, stomach twisted up. But get this—as soon as he steps away, the System pings. Glowing text in his vision like he's living in some weird sci-fi flick.
System Notification:
Manifest anomalies detected. Four flagged. Estimated value—seventy-two K.
He nearly drops the papers. Four! It's not just a crack in the system, it's a busted pipeline. He's gripping that manifest tight enough to wrinkle the pages.
By midday, Arjun's shirt's gross with sweat—sun's baking him, but it's the stress that's melting him. There's no way to sneak off with four packages. Khanna's on his case already, like a dog that smells bacon in your pocket.
So Arjun does what guys like us do: hides out at a chai stall in the city's chaos, cycle propped up barely staying upright. He cracks open the manifest, trying to match it up with the System's red highlights. His eyes lock onto this one package—plastic components, it says, but it weighs three times heavier than listed. System's painting it crimson, flashing 'Caution' in his brain.
Smuggled electronics. Bit of a jackpot, bit of a death wish.
He sips the chai, tongue stinging—how are these roadside teas always molten? He closes his eyes, and the only picture that jumps in is his mom. Sick, fragile, pretending there's nothing wrong. Then Riya's voice, soft in his memory: "You don't have to do everything solo." Like he could quit now.
He makes his decision. He'll reroute the high-risk package, just that one. Not greedy. Just bold enough to maybe do some good—tighten the rope a little, but not enough to hang himself.
Evening now. Sun's almost down. The workday's a blur—three packages drop into the hands Khanna expects. The "special" one? Logged officially. System gets it. That's one point for Arjun, and a headache coming for the boss man.
Rolling back into the hub, Arjun barely has time to unclip his helmet before Khanna's on him, jaw grinding, jawline streaked red from the gutka. "Mehra. Something's off. You got something you wanna say about that?"
Arjun wipes his forehead, playing it cool—honestly, he deserves an Oscar. "Manifest was followed, sir. Everything signed, stamped. Maybe the back office muddled things?"
Khanna's looking at him like he wants to reach across and throttle him, eyes all narrowed slits. The guy spits, classic tough-guy move. If you tried that in a movie, people would say it's cliché.
"Don't get clever. Clever people don't last, hear me?"
Arjun drops his head, nods. "Yes, sir," playing the part.
But hey, inside, System's already flashing again.
System Notification:
Second irregularity intercepted. Total blocked – ninety grand. Level up: Market Analysis. New toy unlocked: Predictive Risk Model.
And it's bananas—charts, bars, little data fireworks sparking in the corner of his vision. For a second, he feels like he's not just dodging Khanna's kicks—he might actually get ahead, like maybe even pull the rug from under this whole skeevy operation.
Back home in his sad excuse for an apartment, Arjun's surrounded by open notebooks, loose paper, cheap LED light barely cutting through the jade-green glow that pulses from the artifact in his pocket. Numbers everywhere—routes, scribbled weights, code names, all connected by lines and ghostly overlays. It's not just a chart, it's a spider web. Dead center: corruption that goes way past Khanna. Suppliers, distributors, probably a crooked official or two. Maybe more.
System voice rolls in, calm as ever—seriously, it probably wouldn't lose its cool if the world was ending.
"Warning—High risk, high reward. Exposure = game over. Continue?"
Arjun studies the network mapped over his floor, heart thumping. He's scared, no doubt. This is some big-league stuff. But he's sick of hiding, sick of being squeezed.
"I don't have a choice," he says into the shadows. Powerless isn't on the menu anymore.
Next day, walking out, who's waiting by the tea stall but Riya. She spots him and flashes that half-smile that used to mean everything's okay—but now, worry wrinkles her brow.
"Arjun," she calls, hurrying up. "You've gone all MIA lately. Spill, what's up with you? Seriously, you look… different."
She looks him straight on, like she can see through every lie he's got loaded up. He wants to let her in, really, but he can't drag her into this mess. One wrong word and Riya's in as much danger as he is.
He tries a smile—yeah, it's weak, but it's the best he's got. "Just working harder, that's all."
Some lies are for love, right?