The Royal Enfield purred smoothly through Mumbai's morning traffic as Ishaan dropped Ari directly at her office gate, the bike's chrome catching the sun. "See you this evening," he said, steadying it for her dismount.
"Drive safe," Ari replied, her hand lingering on his shoulder. She headed inside, and Ishaan revved away, the warehouse address burning in his mind—Basu Bhai's domain, a confrontation he'd face head-on.
The warehouse loomed on the city's outskirts, a relic of forgotten industry—old and dusty, shuttered for years. Scattered machinery lay scrapped and tossed aside like broken bones, rust eating at what remained. The center stretched empty, a vast concrete void echoing with silence. Ishaan parked his bike and stepped inside, the air thick with decay and faint oil. He stood in the middle, arms crossed, waiting.
Fifteen minutes dragged into twenty, the quiet broken only by distant traffic. Then, a black Fortuner rumbled up outside, tires crunching gravel. The driver emerged first—a towering, bulky muscular man, dressed like a bodyguard in a tight shirt and pants that strained against his frame. He circled to the side door, pulling it open with a grunt.
Out stepped Basu Bhai: short at 5.5 feet, fat and bald, his very fair skin gleaming under the dim light. Gold draped him like chains—1-2 kilos of thick necklace, huge diamond rings flashing on every finger, catching stray beams. He wore a crisp white shirt, white pants, and white shoes, striding forward with a waddle that belied his menace.
He eyed Ishaan, sizing him up. "So you're the one who beat my men? They came back crawling—said you took them down in minutes. Who are you?"
Ishaan met his gaze evenly. "Does it matter who I am? The main thing is, you came after me, and I did nothing to you. There was no reason."
Basu Bhai chuckled, a low rumble. "There was one reason, boy. I was paid to do it. Simple job—complete it, get the cash. If I'd known the kind of person you are, how strong, I'd have charged not one lakh but ten. Wouldn't send 12 men, but 50—with weapons. Alas, what's done is done."
He stepped closer, gold glinting. "Now, that 1,00,000 won't even cover the hospitalization and recovery for my 12 boys. So what should I do now?"
Ishaan's stance didn't waver. "That's not my problem."
Basu Bhai's laugh turned cold. "Then the problem you have is how you're going to walk out of here on your own legs." He nodded to his driver, who reached into his jacket and pulled a gleaming pistol, leveling it at Ishaan.
"Though you're strong," Basu Bhai said, smirking, "you can't be stronger than a gun." "Then try it," Ishaan said, his voice steady, standing 20 steps away like a statue carved from unyielding stone.
The warehouse's empty expanse amplified the metallic click as Basu Bhai snatched the gun from his driver's hand, his face hardening into a mask of cold resolve.
Basu Bhai's eyes narrowed, the weight of the moment sinking in. "There's no coming back after this gun," he warned, finger tightening on the trigger.
Ishaan didn't flinch. "It's fine. Try."
The shot cracked like thunder, a sure hit aimed at Ishaan's chest. But in a blur of motion, Ishaan sidestepped, the bullet whizzing past into the dusty wall. Basu Bhai's face drained of color, sweat beading on his bald pate. He fired again, the barrel barking—another miss, Ishaan twisting aside with impossible grace.
Before Basu could squeeze the third trigger, Ishaan was there—in a blink, closing the gap, his hand clamping the gun's barrel, wrenching it away from the man's face. The weapon twisted in Basu's grip, smoke curling from the muzzle. "Do you still think your gun is stronger?" Ishaan asked, his tone even, eyes locked like a predator's.
Basu Bhai staggered back, the pistol trembling in his hand, but before he could react, his bodyguard—the towering driver—lunged. His huge, muscular frame barreled forward, fists like hammers, an intimidating wall of bulk. Ishaan, one hand still pinning the gun, pivoted and unleashed a precise kick to the man's midsection. The impact echoed like a cannon, sending the bodyguard flying back, crashing into the Fortuner with bone-jarring force. The car's side dented inward, metal groaning as the vehicle slid several feet across the gravel.
Basu Bhai had seen it all—years ago, he'd worked for bosses who made him kill and plunder, stepping over bodies to climb the underworld ladder. Nothing shocked him anymore: stabbings in alleys, shootouts in bars, betrayals that left rivers of blood. But this? A lone man dodging bullets like rain, crumpling his best fighter without breaking a sweat? For the first time in years, Basu Bhai had no words, no play. He eased his finger from the trigger, then released the gun entirely. Taking two steps back, he met Ishaan's gaze, his posture slumping—not in defeat, but surrender, as if ready to embrace death.
Ishaan tossed the pistol aside, the metal skittering across the floor. "Stay away from me," he said, voice low and final. "There's no need to take your life."
Basu Bhai blinked, the words hanging between them. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, grabbing Ishaan's hand in a grip of ironclad respect. "I am a Man who does dirty things, who climbed to the top by stepping on people's bodies…But I've never been indebted to another." His voice roughened with emotion. "By not taking my life, you've indebted me. So now, I place my loyalty to you. I'll do whatever you say—to repay this grace."
The warehouse fell silent, the dust settling like a pact sealed in shadow.