27-01-2026, 10:40 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-02-2026, 07:15 AM by heygiwriter. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
Chapter 1: The Pull
Vikram knew the stakes. Every time he had pulled a string in this long game, Bharath had somehow scored ahead. This time he could not afford to lose.
The highway shimmered under the bright midday sun, heat rippling off the asphalt. Vikram’s sedan tailed the Thar Jeep at a careful distance for ten long minutes, engine steady, staying just out of easy sight.
Inside the Jeep, Bharath’s eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. His jaw clenched. “Looks like it’s Vikram.”
Mirna twisted in her seat, looking back through the glass. Her face paled as she recognized the sedan closing in. “How does he know we’re going here? How did he follow us?”
The question hung there, heavy with sudden realization—they had been unaware until that very moment.
The instant her gaze locked on his car, Vikram felt the shift. He knew she knew.
He accelerated hard.
The sedan surged forward. He could have signaled, flashed lights, forced them to pull over. But that was never going to settle this.
He mimicked the hit.
The front bumper came close—dangerously close—to the Thar’s rear, a feint so sharp and sudden that Bharath instinctively slammed the brakes. Tires screeched. The Jeep lurched to a stop on the shoulder, dust kicking up in a thick cloud.
Vikram didn’t slow. He cut past, drifted the sedan in a tight arc that smashed through the rusted chain-link gate of the abandoned mill. The car spun once and stopped in the shadowed yard, engine still growling.
Vikram threw the door open and ran into the mill block—boots pounding cracked concrete.
The air inside was thick with rust and old machinery. He found the person he came for: wrists bound with rough rope, slumped against a pillar. One firm yank and the rope gave way. He dragged them toward the exit.
Two figures stepped from the shadows—enemies... A wooden bat swung fast. It connected solidly with the side of Vikram’s head.
Pain flared sharp and bright. He staggered, knees buckling, collapsing to the ground as blood trickled warm from a gash above his ear.
He still managed to shove the bound person toward the sedan. “Go!”
The person scrambled inside. Engine roared. Gravel spat as the car tore away.
Vikram remained on his knees, vision blurring at the edges. Footsteps approached.
Then her voice cut through the dust and chaos.
“Vikram!”
The Thar—having recovered from the feint—skidded to a halt at the broken gate.
Passenger door flew open. Mirna leapt out—saree fluttering in the hot wind—and ran toward him, bare feet slapping the dirt, face pale with raw fear.
Bharath was out an instant later. He lunged forward, thick arm hooking around Mirna’s waist and yanking her back hard against his chest.
His hand clamped down on her hip—firm, protective—lifting her slightly off the ground to shield her body with his own, keeping her clear of the approaching rowdies who might turn on her next. She gasped once, sharp and startled.
His other palm pressed over her mouth, muffling any sound that could draw their attention.
Through the haze of pain, Vikram watched. Bharath’s lips moved close to Mirna’s ear—whispering something low, urgent. Her body jerked once in his grip, a small, helpless shudder.
Vikram’s mouth curved into a slow, bloody smile.
He was ahead in the game now.
His vision tunneled. Darkness crept in.
Then—an explosion tore through the old mill building behind him. A deep, rolling boom shook the ground, flames bursting suddenly into the bright sky.
Mirna’s muffled cry broke free—“Vikram!”—raw, desperate, piercing.
His eyes snapped open again.
Mirna was still pinned against Bharath’s chest, his massive arm locked around her waist. In the sudden chaos of the explosion, his one hand had shifted higher—pressed firmly along the side of her breast, fingers splayed wide in that same protective hold, body shielding hers from the heat and falling debris.
His other hand had drawn a pistol, arm extended, barrel aimed steady at the rowdies still advancing through the smoke.
Then the sedan—the one Vikram had freed—screeched back into the yard. The person inside leaned across, flung the passenger door open, and shouted at Mirna to get in.
Mirna’s eyes stayed locked on Vikram—wide, fixed, full of fear and something unspoken.
Bharath’s gaze flicked between the approaching rowdies and the waiting car. He released her in one swift motion, his arm loosening. With a firm push, he guided her toward the open door.
Mirna stumbled forward, scrambling inside. The door slammed shut. The engine revved hard. The car peeled out again, carrying her away to safety.
Bharath lowered the pistol slowly, eyes turning back to Vikram.
Vikram smiled again—faint, bloody, triumphant.
I win.
It’s my fucking game.
His eyes dropped shut once more as the darkness finally took him.
He had been here before.
Twenty years ago.
He was twelve. The courtyard behind their slum shack reeked of diesel and open drains. His father—thin, stubborn, a mechanic who never backed down—had been dragged out by rowdies demanding money they could not pay.
Fists. Boots. A metal rod. Skull split open. Blood pooling black in the dirt. One of them laughed and pissed on the dying man—hot stream soaking cloth and skin while his father twitched once and stilled.
Vikram had screamed and charged. A backhand flung him into the mud. A kick folded him double. He lay there, tasting blood and tears, watching his father die while the rowdies wiped their hands and walked away.
No one came.
He stayed curled beside the body until dawn, the stink of piss and blood burning into him forever.
That night something shifted inside. Rage rooted deep. And beneath it, unnamed at twelve, a darker hunger stirred.
Now, twenty-five years later, the same darkness closed around him again.
Eyes dropping. Smile fading. Mirna’s cry—“Vikram!”—echoing one final time as the void swallowed him.
The story begins at 12 years of age, travel with Vikram to learn about betrayals he faced, friendship, love, marriage, business and the pleasure of taking, sharing and preserving
Vikram knew the stakes. Every time he had pulled a string in this long game, Bharath had somehow scored ahead. This time he could not afford to lose.
The highway shimmered under the bright midday sun, heat rippling off the asphalt. Vikram’s sedan tailed the Thar Jeep at a careful distance for ten long minutes, engine steady, staying just out of easy sight.
Inside the Jeep, Bharath’s eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. His jaw clenched. “Looks like it’s Vikram.”
Mirna twisted in her seat, looking back through the glass. Her face paled as she recognized the sedan closing in. “How does he know we’re going here? How did he follow us?”
The question hung there, heavy with sudden realization—they had been unaware until that very moment.
The instant her gaze locked on his car, Vikram felt the shift. He knew she knew.
He accelerated hard.
The sedan surged forward. He could have signaled, flashed lights, forced them to pull over. But that was never going to settle this.
He mimicked the hit.
The front bumper came close—dangerously close—to the Thar’s rear, a feint so sharp and sudden that Bharath instinctively slammed the brakes. Tires screeched. The Jeep lurched to a stop on the shoulder, dust kicking up in a thick cloud.
Vikram didn’t slow. He cut past, drifted the sedan in a tight arc that smashed through the rusted chain-link gate of the abandoned mill. The car spun once and stopped in the shadowed yard, engine still growling.
Vikram threw the door open and ran into the mill block—boots pounding cracked concrete.
The air inside was thick with rust and old machinery. He found the person he came for: wrists bound with rough rope, slumped against a pillar. One firm yank and the rope gave way. He dragged them toward the exit.
Two figures stepped from the shadows—enemies... A wooden bat swung fast. It connected solidly with the side of Vikram’s head.
Pain flared sharp and bright. He staggered, knees buckling, collapsing to the ground as blood trickled warm from a gash above his ear.
He still managed to shove the bound person toward the sedan. “Go!”
The person scrambled inside. Engine roared. Gravel spat as the car tore away.
Vikram remained on his knees, vision blurring at the edges. Footsteps approached.
Then her voice cut through the dust and chaos.
“Vikram!”
The Thar—having recovered from the feint—skidded to a halt at the broken gate.
Passenger door flew open. Mirna leapt out—saree fluttering in the hot wind—and ran toward him, bare feet slapping the dirt, face pale with raw fear.
Bharath was out an instant later. He lunged forward, thick arm hooking around Mirna’s waist and yanking her back hard against his chest.
His hand clamped down on her hip—firm, protective—lifting her slightly off the ground to shield her body with his own, keeping her clear of the approaching rowdies who might turn on her next. She gasped once, sharp and startled.
His other palm pressed over her mouth, muffling any sound that could draw their attention.
Through the haze of pain, Vikram watched. Bharath’s lips moved close to Mirna’s ear—whispering something low, urgent. Her body jerked once in his grip, a small, helpless shudder.
Vikram’s mouth curved into a slow, bloody smile.
He was ahead in the game now.
His vision tunneled. Darkness crept in.
Then—an explosion tore through the old mill building behind him. A deep, rolling boom shook the ground, flames bursting suddenly into the bright sky.
Mirna’s muffled cry broke free—“Vikram!”—raw, desperate, piercing.
His eyes snapped open again.
Mirna was still pinned against Bharath’s chest, his massive arm locked around her waist. In the sudden chaos of the explosion, his one hand had shifted higher—pressed firmly along the side of her breast, fingers splayed wide in that same protective hold, body shielding hers from the heat and falling debris.
His other hand had drawn a pistol, arm extended, barrel aimed steady at the rowdies still advancing through the smoke.
Then the sedan—the one Vikram had freed—screeched back into the yard. The person inside leaned across, flung the passenger door open, and shouted at Mirna to get in.
Mirna’s eyes stayed locked on Vikram—wide, fixed, full of fear and something unspoken.
Bharath’s gaze flicked between the approaching rowdies and the waiting car. He released her in one swift motion, his arm loosening. With a firm push, he guided her toward the open door.
Mirna stumbled forward, scrambling inside. The door slammed shut. The engine revved hard. The car peeled out again, carrying her away to safety.
Bharath lowered the pistol slowly, eyes turning back to Vikram.
Vikram smiled again—faint, bloody, triumphant.
I win.
It’s my fucking game.
His eyes dropped shut once more as the darkness finally took him.
He had been here before.
Twenty years ago.
He was twelve. The courtyard behind their slum shack reeked of diesel and open drains. His father—thin, stubborn, a mechanic who never backed down—had been dragged out by rowdies demanding money they could not pay.
Fists. Boots. A metal rod. Skull split open. Blood pooling black in the dirt. One of them laughed and pissed on the dying man—hot stream soaking cloth and skin while his father twitched once and stilled.
Vikram had screamed and charged. A backhand flung him into the mud. A kick folded him double. He lay there, tasting blood and tears, watching his father die while the rowdies wiped their hands and walked away.
No one came.
He stayed curled beside the body until dawn, the stink of piss and blood burning into him forever.
That night something shifted inside. Rage rooted deep. And beneath it, unnamed at twelve, a darker hunger stirred.
Now, twenty-five years later, the same darkness closed around him again.
Eyes dropping. Smile fading. Mirna’s cry—“Vikram!”—echoing one final time as the void swallowed him.
The story begins at 12 years of age, travel with Vikram to learn about betrayals he faced, friendship, love, marriage, business and the pleasure of taking, sharing and preserving
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