Arjun was sitting there in his battered one-room apartment, legs all folded up, probably half asleep from the flickering yellow bulb dangling overhead. The walls—hey, they'd seen better days, patched up and paint peeling like some tragic art piece no one ever asked for. His notebook? Chaos. Numbers, wild arrows, coffee rings, whatever stray thoughts he could fit between margins. Not that he could pay it any proper attention right then; his gaze kept snagging on the living, breathing mass of data floating above it all. Trust me, this System overlay was more of a headache than your nosy aunt at a family function.
So picture this: lines, numbers, glowing colors zipping all over, straight up Minority Report-style, only dustier and with worse WiFi. Each delivery line shimmered—red for "someone's definitely getting fired," orange for "eh, keep an eye," and green for "yo, grab it before the universe changes its mind." And Arjun, being both exhausted and a little reckless, was just slicing through the air, muttering, "Show me Khanna's routes." Probably glad no one was there to see him essentially poking ghosts.
Now, System didn't even take a second. Boom. Khanna's entire delivery empire, plain as day. It actually spelled it out right there: 37% of those packages were dodgy. We're talking about 2.4 million rupees every single month draining away. Like, who even needs drama TV with shady stuff like this going down before breakfast? Arjun actually swallowed back some dread. Petty theft my foot—this was an operation. Owner probably thought Khanna was just a little "creative" about inventory.
But no, System had to make things worse. Just drops the bomb: "78% probability of external involvement. Local mafia influence detected." Some people get parking tickets or bad Tinder dates—Arjun gets straight-up gangsters. The word "mafia" hit him so hard he almost tipped backward. Now he's tangled up in something way bigger than Uncle Khanna's side hustle. His own heart was doing jumping jacks and for a second, he remembered that tiny jade fragment on his desk, pulsing at him from under a mess of receipts and old pens. If movies have taught us anything, magical artifacts rarely mean "hey, your life's about to get easier," right?
So, Arjun, being not just broke but now also maybe clinically insane, whispers to the empty room, "System, I push this, I'm toast, right?" Can you imagine that? Talking to your invisible robot pal while your whole world tilts? System just lists out the odds like it's giving cricket scores: "62% chance you get exposed. 45% you get your face rearranged. Buuuut, the rewards though… knowledge, cash, status, you name it."
Honestly most people would nope right out. Go home, forget about it, let Khanna keep his sticky fingers busy, focus on paying rent and getting their mom her medicine. But Arjun? Something in him was burning too hot, especially with that jade thing glowing like it'd just heard his thoughts.
Now, the hub the next morning feels like it's being slowly microwaved. Everyone's twitchy. Khanna's blowing up left and right, his face all blotchy, probably popping stress pills between threats. You could almost taste the tension. Arjun kept quiet, blending into the chaos. But his brain? Running hotter than a street food cart in May.
Around noon, System picked up another "interesting" parcel. Ostensibly medical supplies, but seriously—at that weight and routing? Buddy, you ain't hiding anything. System flagged it bright, practically waving a little digital flag. Arjun could have chosen the boring road—look away, keep the gig, don't rock the boat. But he remembered Mom, hacking up a lung, scrimping on medicine because some bossman needed a third cell phone. Nope. He rerouted, System guiding him like Waze for criminal avoidance.
Checkpoint. All official. System logged it, Khanna's cut went poof. Not even a trace. Hey, who says you need to work your way up in corporate?
And then—look, you can't write drama like this. Khanna bursts out, wild-eyed, spitting venom. He grabs Arjun by the collar, practically foaming: "You think I'm blind?!" Theatrical, this guy. Arjun's heart's got other plans—like leaping straight out of his ribcage—but System is all Zen. "Want to activate Negotiation Aura Lv.1? Might save your skin." Who says no to virtual superpowers? Warmth rushes in, and suddenly Arjun's stringing sentences together like he's never told a lie in his life.
"Sir, I just do what's on the record. Not my circus, not my monkeys—if there's games afoot, someone's changing the paperwork." He even managed a metaphor or two. Khanna hesitated, grip faltered. System must've been laughing—first digital charm, now Jedi mind tricks.
"You've always been straight, sir. We all know. If someone's cheating, it ain't you." It was like deadlifting a lie, coated in System polish. Khanna didn't buy it, but he didn't NOT buy it either. In the end, shoved Arjun away and reassigned him, like any manager who's just gotten his mind scrambled but doesn't want to admit it.
Out by the rusty cycles, Arjun heard the telltale "ding!"—System ping: third scam blocked, ₹130,000 shut down, negotiation skills upgraded, something fancy called Deception Detection unlocked. Arjun grinned for the first time all week. Not dead yet, and maybe—just maybe—a little tougher than the world expected.
Fast forward to sunset, chai stall, usual place. Riya, because of course it's always Riya, finds him mid-brood, staring into his tea like it might start giving answers.
"You're different," she says, real gentle, as if the words might break if she spoke louder.
He tries to deflect, but Riya doesn't let go. "Don't bottle up, yaar. I know you. You're looking heavier—like you're constantly wrestling some monster, but too stubborn to admit you ever get tired." It stings more because she's right.
And he wants to spill—the mafia, the System, the danger, the jade, this whole cosmic joke. But he just shrugs, flashing that dopey grin he practiced in college. "I'll make it through. Give me a bit—then it'll all make sense."
She sees right through him. Maybe that's love, maybe that's just old friendship. Either way, Arjun sits there, palms sticky, tea cooling, and a tomorrow that's loaded with all kinds of trouble. But deep down? He's kinda ready for it.
That's the thing about being ordinary. Sooner or later, ordinary people start bending. Then—if they're lucky—something in them breaks just enough to let the light in.