The ceiling fan above Arjun's bed? It didn't even bother pretending it could handle the Mumbai heat. Thing just wobbled and wheezed, trying to chop through the sticky air, but honestly—it cooled about as well as waving a newspaper at the sun. But hey, at least it made noise, that low drone underneath everything else, including his mom's hacking cough. That cough—damn. It sounded like someone crumbling dried leaves, only sharper somehow, and every time she did it, he just felt smaller and more pissed off.
You ever tried to sleep when your thoughts are spinning even faster than your broken fan? That was Arjun—just lying there, staring into the gloom, except for the System interface floating above his bed. Little red lines—creeping, twitching, pulsing. It's like the world's worst warning light, telling him: "Hey, kid, something's rotten again. Surprise surprise." Every anomaly, every crime, every scam pulled by guys like Khanna—right there in flashing neon, like the world's most depressing video game HUD.
He kept his voice just above breath-level—sounds dramatic, but trust, you did not want to wake his mom for this. "System," he said, "what if I actually want to fight back? Not just duck and cover—how do I go for the jugular?"
Bam. System basically threw a digital menu in his face. Wild how your worst problems can be reduced to three unhelpful options, right?
Option A: Go on the offensive, full Rambo, guns blazing (metaphorically—he had a hard enough time keeping his shoes together, forget weapons). Odds? Let's just say Vegas wouldn't give you good rates. Way too easy to wind up in a hospital, or worse.
Option B: Quiet sabotage. Think classic schoolyard revenge—cut the guy's shoelaces, but hope he doesn't catch you. Better odds, but still a good way to get clobbered if the wrong person finds out.
Option C? That's the one that didn't immediately reek of disaster. Economic leverage. Playing the long, patient game. Money, not muscle. Outthink the hyenas instead of trying to outbite them.
Arjun locked onto that third option. Some people get the fighting spirit, others get the schemes. He was somewhere in between, but damn if all those nights getting steamrolled by life hadn't taught him to value a stacked deck. Khanna's gold chain, his bribes, his king-of-the-jungle attitude—all built on dirty cash. No reason a skinny kid couldn't start stacking chips of his own.
So he goes, "System, lay it out for me. How do I play this?"
The machine actually rewarded him—a rare win!—unlocking something called a Market Analysis Tool, which sounded like something a boring uncle would talk about but, turns out, was pretty baller. The screen exploded with stats and graphs—supply chains, black market spikes, stuff most people couldn't read even if they had the cheat codes. But the System? It pointed his shaky focus right to the juicy part.
"Local demand for generic medicines exploding. Black market guys running the show. Profit margin: 143%."
Okay, if Arjun's heart had a gear-shift, it went straight into turbo. This wasn't just stealing back from Khanna. This was about all the people being squeezed by the same mafia that made his mom cough and his neighbors skip meals. Khanna and his boys were ticks on a bigger beast.
For the first time, it clicked: He could actually build something. Not just break Khanna's little scam. Maybe steer things the other direction, just a little.
Dawn hits, and the hub feels like someone left the pressure cooker on too long. Khanna's there, barking—red-eyed, twitchy, practically vibrating with stress. He glared at everyone, like he expected a knife in the back at any minute. And honestly, he probably should.
The delivery boys had it worse. Word was two of them got roughed up over a missing package. So much for brotherhood, huh? Arjun kept his head down, but every whisper, every side-eye? He clocked it all—fed it into the System. Knowledge is leverage, even if it's just a bunch of angry grumbling.
Sitting outside for a break, Arjun shared his lukewarm water with Javed. Poor guy looked like he aged a decade overnight. "Yaar," Javed muttered, eyes dead tired, "Khanna's lost the plot. We take the hits, he drives home in air conditioning."
Arjun put on his best "yeah bro, tough for all of us" face. But deep inside? He was already turning every complaint, every rumor, into a little weapon. Fear makes men sloppy. And sloppy left openings, if you were quick.
He told Javed, "Just watch yourself, man. Bosses like him, all they know is payback."
Javed spit, utterly disgusted. "As if we're the problem. Wish there was a way to punch back, y'know? But what can we do?"
And this is where Arjun actually started to feel something weird—like hope, maybe. Because there kinda was a way. But he'd need eyes, ears, and a little data. Not just some late-night revenge fantasy.
Later, at Riya's family pharmacy, the vibe was rough. Her father looked exactly how you'd expect a man blockaded by ten price hikes to look: lost, frustrated, a little angry. Arjun picked up his mom's meds, but he lingered. "Sir, are these shortages everywhere, or just here?"
Riya's dad just—man, he just slumped. "Beta, everywhere. Rich suppliers playing God, poor people going without. Even buying bread is easier than getting insulin now. All controlled, all fixed."
The System's stats flared. Insulin. Antibiotics. Monopoly. Sounded like the world's most evil game of Monopoly, yeah? Except here, losing meant watching people suffer.
Arjun walked out, pulse thumping. He realized—Khanna's scams weren't even the tip of the iceberg. The whole damn city was getting squeezed.
Back home, Arjun turned his room into a command center: notes all over the bed, diagrams, ripped receipts—chaos unless you knew what you were looking for. But he saw it: every theft was tied to something bigger. The city's medicine supply was the real bottleneck.
Every cough from his mom bled together with every memory of missing meals, of pinching pennies so she could get pills. He'd had enough. And for the first time, the anger was sharper than the fear.
So as Mumbai howled outside and his crummy fan did nothing, Arjun set his jaw. No more ducking, no more scraps. He'd claw his way into that foul machine—bend it, break it if he had to. Maybe get even, maybe make life a fraction less grim for people like him.
And Khanna? Khanna wouldn't even know what hit him. Because this fight? It was only getting started.
---
Honestly, you've gotta cheer for a kid who figures out where the cracks are, right? Feels good rooting for the underdog who can actually smell a shot at something bigger than his problems. Sometimes you don't need to punch back—you just gotta out-think the crooks and play their game better.