The notification pulsed across Arjun's vision, a red halo against the calm blue of the Equalizer's interface:
"Multi-front suppression detected. Entities: Telecom Cartel, Utility Syndicates, Foreign Security Agencies. Suppression Index: 17%… climbing."
Arjun read it in silence.
He knew this was no ordinary corporate maneuver. It was war in a new form — not with guns or tanks, but with cables, signals, and bills. A chokehold dressed in the uniform of "market reform."
Equalizer's voice was calm, as always:
"Countermeasures available: direct override, shadow bandwidth, subsidy injection."
Arjun leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Observe. Do not interfere."
"Confirm order: passive observation only?"
"Confirmed."
The system dimmed into quiet observation mode, but its pulse carried tension, as though it too knew silence came at a cost.
II. The Telecom Shock
The first blow landed at dawn.
Across India's cities, ordinary people woke to messages from their telecom providers. The words were polite, almost apologetic: "Due to unavoidable adjustments, your tariff has changed."
The reality was blunt: prices doubled overnight.
Data packages that had once cost a day's wage now demanded a week's. Calling plans that kept families stitched together across states were gutted. Messaging apps slowed unless routed through the cartel's premium bundles.
In Delhi, a shopkeeper named Harish stared at his bill in disbelief. His son had exams next week, online. "We cannot afford this," he muttered. His wife nodded, tears pooling.
In Chennai, an elderly widow tried to call her daughter abroad, only to hear a robotic voice: "Your account balance is insufficient. Please recharge using our approved app."
Everywhere, phones fell silent.
And silence, in the age of constant connection, was not peace. It was suffocation.
III. Utilities Locked
By noon, the second blow followed.
Water bills, once payable in cash or bank, now required the cartel's apps — with hidden service charges. Electricity bills were rerouted into "exclusive digital wallets," with inflated meter fees.
In Mumbai, commuters swiped their metro passes and met flashing red crosses. An officer barked: "Recharge through our partner app!" The crowd groaned. Some turned back; others shoved forward in rage.
Life's basics — water, light, transport — had become toll gates guarded by invisible hands.
For the wealthy, the hikes were an inconvenience. For the poor and middle class, they were shackles.
The city streets filled with noise.
Students cursed as online classes flickered out mid-lecture. Farmers grumbled, their weather apps now hidden behind paywalls. Small shops found digital payment systems suspended unless routed through cartel services.
And the youth — those addicted to endless feeds of reels, memes, and status updates — twitched with withdrawal. In neighborhoods across the country, arguments boiled into fights. Teenagers smashed phones against walls. Angry crowds gathered at telecom offices, hurling stones and shouting slogans.
The newspapers carried a different story. Editorials framed it as "inevitable modernization." Anchors wagged fingers: "If citizens embraced digital responsibility earlier, they wouldn't struggle now." The pundits shifted blame toward Aequalis, weaving the narrative that Arjun had destabilized the system, and the cartel was only restoring balance.
The Council's propaganda was working.
V. Shadow Council in DALL·E
Far away, in a guarded compound known only as DALL·E, the Shadow Council gathered.
A tycoon in a navy suit raised a glass. "He lifted them with cheap connectivity. Now we choke them with it. They will beg for his fall."
A minister sneered. "The streets are restless already. They scream at our offices, but soon they will scream his name — as a curse."
A foreign operative leaned forward, eyes cold. "This tactic broke reformers in South America, in Africa. Starve the people of air, and they will strangle their savior with their own hands."
The council nodded. For once, they felt confident.
At the lodge, Priya slammed her fist on the table. "Arjun, you cannot stay silent! People are hurting. Every hour you wait, trust slips."
Anil paced furiously. "This is coordinated. If we don't act, we'll look powerless."
Bridge Fellows spoke up, one after another, demanding permission to counter, to fight, to override the cartel systems.
Arjun listened. His face was unreadable.
Finally, he spoke, voice low but sharp. "Not yet."
Priya's eyes widened. "Not yet? Arjun, they are suffering. Children are crying. Businesses collapsing. Families torn apart."
Arjun's gaze was steady. "The higher they build the wall, the harder it will fall. Let them build it higher."
Equalizer pulsed in his vision:
"Suppression Index: 62%… 70%… climbing."
Arjun whispered: "Let it climb."
The StudentA girl in Lucknow pawned her mother's gold bangles to recharge enough data to sit her final exam. Her eyes were swollen with shame as she clicked through questions, praying the connection wouldn't cut out.
The FarmerIn Gujarat, a farmer stared at the sky, helpless. His weather app was locked behind a premium wall he couldn't afford. The monsoon came early, drowning his fields. His year's work vanished in hours.
The GrandmotherIn Kolkata, an old woman sat in her dark home, phone pressed to her ear. She dialed her migrant son again and again. Each attempt ended with the same cold message: "Insufficient balance." Tears slipped down her cheeks.
The ProtestIn Delhi, a mob smashed a telecom office's windows. "Down with the thieves!" they roared. Police swung lathis, scattering the crowd. Smoke curled into the night sky.
The ShopkeeperHarish, the shopkeeper, closed his shutters. Digital payments had been blocked unless he paid cartel fees. "Cash only," he told customers. Few came. His shelves gathered dust.
Late one night, Arjun walked alone through a crowded street, disguised in plain clothes. The air was thick with sweat, diesel, and despair. Vendors sat idle. Young men shouted angrily at silent phones. Mothers tried to soothe crying children who wanted screens they could no longer afford.
He clenched his fist in his pocket.
Equalizer pulsed:
"Public trust declining. Hostile systems entrenched. Do you wish to deploy countermeasure?"
Arjun stopped beneath a flickering streetlight, his face half in shadow.
"No," he whispered. "Not yet."
The system dimmed, silent.
And in the city around him, despair deepened, suffocation tightened, and the world waited for a savior who remained utterly still.