One by one, people began leaving.
There was no drama. No arguments. No threats.
Losses here were treated like weather—unpleasant, but accepted.
The old man calmly rearranged the chess pieces and returned to his chair, the same place he had occupied for years. Yet something was different.
He was smiling.
A real smile.
Standing beside him was a young woman wearing a mask. She stared at her grandfather in disbelief. She hadn't seen that expression on his face in years—perhaps decades. Her curiosity shifted toward one person.
PK.
Who was this boy who made her grandfather smile after ages?
Dinner was served, and the atmosphere slowly recovered. Conversations resumed. Betting restarted—this time on the cricket final.
Sora had already set a target of 200+ runs.
Now it was Ivo's turn to bat.
PK raised his hand and called a waiter.
"I want to place a bet."
The entire floor fell silent.
Every conversation stopped. Every eye turned toward him.
PK spoke calmly, clearly—
"Fifty crores. On Ivo winning today."
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
Even the old man paused mid-adjustment and looked up, as if questioning his own hearing.
Then laughter erupted across the floor.
Mocking. Disbelieving. Almost pitying.
"Has he lost his mind?"
"Does he even understand what fifty crores means?"
"If he loses, he's finished."
PK ignored every reaction.
"Make my bet," he said to the waiter, his tone unchanged.
The waiter swallowed hard and complied.
For the first time that night, PK's anonymous profile shot to the top of the betting list—not by name, but by sheer weight of money.
On the other side of the room, Selene was furious.
She pulled him aside and whispered harshly,
"Are you insane? You already won a crore! Why are you doing this? If you lose, no one will save you. Do you have a death wish?"
PK looked at the screen, not at her.
"I know what I'm doing," he replied casually.
That was all.
Two long hours passed.
More bets poured in—on Ivo, on Sora—but none crossed twenty crores. PK's bet stood alone, towering above the rest, as if money itself meant nothing to him.
Following him, Eve placed a bet too.
Fifty lakhs. On Ivo.
The exact amount she had won earlier.
She didn't hesitate.
Now the match reached its climax.
Ivo needed 4 runs from 12 balls.
At this point, everyone knew the outcome.
PK had already won.
Then—
He stood up again.
"I want to place another bet."
The floor froze.
PK continued, his voice steady.
"Next ball. Match-winning shot.
MSD will hit a six.
Ivo will win the cup."
Gasps echoed across the hall.
"Fifty crores again."
People stared at him in disbelief.
Some laughed nervously.
Some shook their heads.
"He's already winning fifty crores anyway," they reasoned.
"Even if he loses this one, he'll just pay from his winnings."
"A guaranteed win either way."
But they were wrong.
They didn't understand one thing—
PK wasn't hedging.
He wasn't gambling.
He was declaring the future.
As the bowler ran in, every eye locked onto the screen.
Not on the player.
On PK.
Because at that moment, no one was watching a cricket match anymore.
They were watching whether this boy truly controlled fate—or whether fate would finally defy him.