30-01-2026, 06:46 PM
Chapter 12: The Driver Who Became the Orchestrator & The Return of Malar
Age 23–26: Three Years of Forging
Vikram started as a driver — nothing more, nothing less. Sekaran’s black Innova became his world. He drove the bigshot everywhere: Trichy deals, Madurai meetings, Coimbatore warehouses. He never spoke unless spoken to. But he always listened.
Sekaran trained him personally — not with books or lectures, but with life. "You listen, you remember," he said on the first long drive. "Words are weapons. Silence is armor." Vikram learned the routes, the shortcuts, the places to avoid. He learned which politicians smiled while sharpening knives, which cops took bribes with a handshake and which with a threat. Most of all, he learned Sekaran’s voice — every tone, every pause, every hidden meaning.
Driver became informer without anyone noticing. He overheard rival calls on speakerphone. He saw meetings from the car window — who shook hands too long, who avoided eye contact.
He learned who owed Sekaran money, who cheated on weights in sand trucks, who could be bought with a bottle or a girl. Sekaran taught him to read people: "Eyes lie less than mouths. Watch the hands — they betray first."
Informer became a deal closer. Sekaran started sending him alone to small jobs: collect protection money from a bar owner, negotiate a land grab with a reluctant farmer, close a deal with a corrupt sub-registrar. Vikram learned to speak softly but carry a knife. One night in a dark godown, a man pulled a blade. Vikram disarmed him — clean, cold, no rage. Sekaran heard about it and nodded. "Good. You're learning."
Learning to fight came next. Sekaran’s men took him to empty warehouses and back alleys. Street fights, knife defense, how to take a punch and give worse. One evening in a bar brawl, three men jumped him over a spilled drink. They beat him bloody. Next time the same men came looking for trouble, Vikram won — precise, ruthless, no emotion. He walked away without a word. Sekaran heard and smiled. "You’re not the boy who got framed anymore."
Business acumen grew quietly. He cracked Sekaran’s network — saw the real money flow: sand mafia cuts, real estate scams, politician bribes. He suggested small improvements: "If we route through this village, we save 20% on bribes." Sekaran started listening. The world still thought Sekaran was king — but Vikram was the brain behind many wins. He never took credit. He just watched, learned, and waited.
No more liquor. The hate for women hardened into cold pragmatism:
"They cheat, so I’ll never let one close enough to hurt me again." The voyeur scar deepened.
He witnessed betrayals in Sekaran’s deals — wives of close subordinates cheating with rivals, partners selling out secrets their husbands blabbered in bed.
One time he imposed the same trick on a rival’s partner's wife — used his men to seduce her, recorded it, used it to blackmail the rival into backing off. It worked in one go. Vikram watched the video once, felt nothing. "If I ever marry, I’ll control it."
End of 3rd year..: Trichy Deal Gone Wrong
Sekaran entered Trichy for a big sand deal — opponents, a rival gang backed by a politico faction, cornered him in an abandoned godown. Vikram was driving. He spotted the ambush — five men with machetes, two with guns. He didn’t hesitate.
He fought single-handedly. Took the knife from the car’s glove box, defended Sekaran. Brutal, bloody — he slashed one man’s arm, broke another’s wrist, took a cut to his side but kept going. Sekaran fired two shots, wounded one, but caught a blade to the shoulder. Vikram dragged him to the Scorpio, drove at breakneck speed to the hospital, blood soaking the seats.
Sekaran, bleeding, gripped his hand. "You saved me, boy."
Hospital Encounter with Malar
At the hospital, Vikram waited downstairs near the Scorpio — blood on his shirt, knife in his pocket, calm but alert. He leaned against the car, breathing steady, eyes scanning the entrance.
Malar was there — visiting her father, who had been admitted after a wound by falling from bike.
She spotted him from a window on the second floor.
Froze. Then came down.
She walked directly toward him, steps hesitant. As she neared, she saw the blood, the knife handle peeking from his pocket, the hardened lines on his face.
She realised this is not the Vikram she wanted to see.
"Maama… what have you become?"
Vikram met her gaze. No rage. No disgust. Just calm clarity — something cold, confident, unbothered. The boy she betrayed was gone. In his place stood a man who had bled, fought, and learned to take control.
Malar stopped a few feet away. "You look… different and scarier. she let the fear in her out in her words
Age 23–26: Three Years of Forging
Vikram started as a driver — nothing more, nothing less. Sekaran’s black Innova became his world. He drove the bigshot everywhere: Trichy deals, Madurai meetings, Coimbatore warehouses. He never spoke unless spoken to. But he always listened.
Sekaran trained him personally — not with books or lectures, but with life. "You listen, you remember," he said on the first long drive. "Words are weapons. Silence is armor." Vikram learned the routes, the shortcuts, the places to avoid. He learned which politicians smiled while sharpening knives, which cops took bribes with a handshake and which with a threat. Most of all, he learned Sekaran’s voice — every tone, every pause, every hidden meaning.
Driver became informer without anyone noticing. He overheard rival calls on speakerphone. He saw meetings from the car window — who shook hands too long, who avoided eye contact.
He learned who owed Sekaran money, who cheated on weights in sand trucks, who could be bought with a bottle or a girl. Sekaran taught him to read people: "Eyes lie less than mouths. Watch the hands — they betray first."
Informer became a deal closer. Sekaran started sending him alone to small jobs: collect protection money from a bar owner, negotiate a land grab with a reluctant farmer, close a deal with a corrupt sub-registrar. Vikram learned to speak softly but carry a knife. One night in a dark godown, a man pulled a blade. Vikram disarmed him — clean, cold, no rage. Sekaran heard about it and nodded. "Good. You're learning."
Learning to fight came next. Sekaran’s men took him to empty warehouses and back alleys. Street fights, knife defense, how to take a punch and give worse. One evening in a bar brawl, three men jumped him over a spilled drink. They beat him bloody. Next time the same men came looking for trouble, Vikram won — precise, ruthless, no emotion. He walked away without a word. Sekaran heard and smiled. "You’re not the boy who got framed anymore."
Business acumen grew quietly. He cracked Sekaran’s network — saw the real money flow: sand mafia cuts, real estate scams, politician bribes. He suggested small improvements: "If we route through this village, we save 20% on bribes." Sekaran started listening. The world still thought Sekaran was king — but Vikram was the brain behind many wins. He never took credit. He just watched, learned, and waited.
No more liquor. The hate for women hardened into cold pragmatism:
"They cheat, so I’ll never let one close enough to hurt me again." The voyeur scar deepened.
He witnessed betrayals in Sekaran’s deals — wives of close subordinates cheating with rivals, partners selling out secrets their husbands blabbered in bed.
One time he imposed the same trick on a rival’s partner's wife — used his men to seduce her, recorded it, used it to blackmail the rival into backing off. It worked in one go. Vikram watched the video once, felt nothing. "If I ever marry, I’ll control it."
End of 3rd year..: Trichy Deal Gone Wrong
Sekaran entered Trichy for a big sand deal — opponents, a rival gang backed by a politico faction, cornered him in an abandoned godown. Vikram was driving. He spotted the ambush — five men with machetes, two with guns. He didn’t hesitate.
He fought single-handedly. Took the knife from the car’s glove box, defended Sekaran. Brutal, bloody — he slashed one man’s arm, broke another’s wrist, took a cut to his side but kept going. Sekaran fired two shots, wounded one, but caught a blade to the shoulder. Vikram dragged him to the Scorpio, drove at breakneck speed to the hospital, blood soaking the seats.
Sekaran, bleeding, gripped his hand. "You saved me, boy."
Hospital Encounter with Malar
At the hospital, Vikram waited downstairs near the Scorpio — blood on his shirt, knife in his pocket, calm but alert. He leaned against the car, breathing steady, eyes scanning the entrance.
Malar was there — visiting her father, who had been admitted after a wound by falling from bike.
She spotted him from a window on the second floor.
Froze. Then came down.
She walked directly toward him, steps hesitant. As she neared, she saw the blood, the knife handle peeking from his pocket, the hardened lines on his face.
She realised this is not the Vikram she wanted to see.
"Maama… what have you become?"
Vikram met her gaze. No rage. No disgust. Just calm clarity — something cold, confident, unbothered. The boy she betrayed was gone. In his place stood a man who had bled, fought, and learned to take control.
Malar stopped a few feet away. "You look… different and scarier. she let the fear in her out in her words
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