30-01-2026, 09:57 PM
Chapter 17: The Pawn's First Blood
The gates of the sprawling bungalow clanged shut behind the black sedan as Vikram killed the engine. Dawn light was just bleeding into the sky, pale and thin, the way it always looked after a long night on the hills. He stepped out, opened the rear door for Swathi.
She didn’t thank him. Not with words. Instead, as she passed, her fingers brushed the back of his hand—light, deliberate, gone in a second. Then she walked up the marble steps without looking back.
Vikram stood by the car a moment longer, watching the front door swallow her. The house felt heavier now, like it had grown teeth overnight.
Inside the study, the air was thick with old sandalwood and cigar smoke. The politician—, and the kind of man who owned half the city’s shadows—sat behind a teak desk the size of a small bed. Two plainclothes men stood behind him, arms folded, faces blank as stone.
Vikram entered without knocking. The door clicked shut.
“Sit,” father in law said. Not a request.
Vikram sat. The chair was low, forcing him to look up. Classic power move.
Father in law leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. “Tell me again. Exactly.”
Vikram kept his voice even. “Car broke down near Kodaikanal side road. Remote stretch—maybe ten kilometers past the last tea stall. No signal. No lights. Locals—two mechanics from a roadside shed—came after an hour, towed us to their place, fixed the fuel line by morning. Madam was scared, but safe. We left as soon as it was light.”
“Which village?”
“Didn’t catch the name. Just a cluster of houses, one small temple .”
“Who helped?”
“Two men. One older, beard, lungi. Younger one handled the tools. Didn’t ask names.”
Father in law eyes narrowed, searching for the lie like a blade testing skin. “And you didn’t think to call me? Not once?”
why you went to hill without asking me
whom they met
He lied she said she wanted to have a darshan somewherein that hill temple..
“No towers. No bars. Phone was useless.”
Silence stretched. One of the plainclothes men shifted his weight; the leather of his belt creaked.
father in law exxhaled through his nose. “Swathi said the same. Almost word for word.” He paused. “Convenient.”
Vikram didn’t flinch. “Truth usually is, sir.”
Another long look. Then father in law leaned back. “If anything smells wrong later, boy, you’ll regret ever touching that wheel. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Vikram stood. As he turned to leave, he caught movement in the doorway. Swathi stood there, half-hidden by the frame, pallu drawn across her chest. Her eyes met his for one second—soft, grateful, almost sorry. She gave the smallest nod, then disappeared down the corridor.
He walked out to the car feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes on his back.
The next morning came with sirens.
Vikram was boiling water for tea in the single-room kitchenette when the jeep screeched to a halt outside. Doors slammed. Boots pounded up the narrow stairs. Before he could set the vessel down, the door burst open—wood splintering at the latch.
Four uniforms filled the space. One grabbed his collar, another twisted his arm behind him. A third kicked the chair aside.
“Thief,” the inspector barked. “Cash missing from politcians’s house. You were the last one near the safe after the trip. Hands where I can see them.”
Vikram didn’t resist. They shoved him against the wall, patted him down roughly. One of them reached into Vikram’s own travel bag—already open on the floor—and pulled out a wad of notes, still in the politician’s office band.
“See? Caught red-handed.”
Vikram’s laugh was short, bitter. “Planted. You know it.”
The inspector smiled. “We’ll let the magistrate decide.”
They cuffed him, dragged him down the stairs like a sack of rice. Neighbors watched from windows, silent. No one spoke up. In this city, silence was survival.
At the station it wasn’t the front desk. They took him straight to a back room—windowless, single bulb swinging from the ceiling, concrete floor stained dark in places. No camera. No record.
The questioning began without questions.
First came the open-hand slaps—sharp, ringing, turning his cheek hot. Then fists, low and hard, into the ribs. One cracked; he felt it give. Air rushed out in a wheeze. A lathi next—thick bamboo, swinging low against his shins, then the small of his back. Each blow landed with practiced rhythm.
“Confess,” the inspector said between swings. “You stole the money. And while you were driving madam alone in the hills, you touched her. Molested her. Say it. Make it easy.”
Or just let me know what you hide there. the entire story the politician want not this..
Vikram curled on the floor, arms wrapped around his middle. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, warm and coppery. His mind flickered—Malavika’s mocking smile, Malar’s cold threat, Swathi’s whispered promise in the car. Women accuse. Men bleed. Same cycle, different faces.
But something had changed.
Swathi is not making him bleed for her fantasy or thrill..
He did it for her safety.
He did it for her future.
He did it because he know sekaran somewhere trusted him here.. as his daughters friend he had to save her..
He just breathed—slow, ragged—and stared at the stained concrete inches from his face. Each time a boot connected, each time the lathi whistled, the anger inside him hardened, layer by layer, like cooling steel.
Not this time.
The inspector crouched, grabbed Vikram’s hair, yanked his head back. “Still nothing? We have all day.”
Vikram met his eyes. Blood smeared his teeth when he spoke.
“Then use it.”
The next blow came faster.
But Vikram didn’t break.
Somewhere far away, in another part of the city, Swathi’s phone buzzed once—Krish’s number. She stared at the screen, heart hammering.
The game had moved again.
And this time, the pawn was bleeding—but still on the board.
The gates of the sprawling bungalow clanged shut behind the black sedan as Vikram killed the engine. Dawn light was just bleeding into the sky, pale and thin, the way it always looked after a long night on the hills. He stepped out, opened the rear door for Swathi.
She didn’t thank him. Not with words. Instead, as she passed, her fingers brushed the back of his hand—light, deliberate, gone in a second. Then she walked up the marble steps without looking back.
Vikram stood by the car a moment longer, watching the front door swallow her. The house felt heavier now, like it had grown teeth overnight.
Inside the study, the air was thick with old sandalwood and cigar smoke. The politician—, and the kind of man who owned half the city’s shadows—sat behind a teak desk the size of a small bed. Two plainclothes men stood behind him, arms folded, faces blank as stone.
Vikram entered without knocking. The door clicked shut.
“Sit,” father in law said. Not a request.
Vikram sat. The chair was low, forcing him to look up. Classic power move.
Father in law leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. “Tell me again. Exactly.”
Vikram kept his voice even. “Car broke down near Kodaikanal side road. Remote stretch—maybe ten kilometers past the last tea stall. No signal. No lights. Locals—two mechanics from a roadside shed—came after an hour, towed us to their place, fixed the fuel line by morning. Madam was scared, but safe. We left as soon as it was light.”
“Which village?”
“Didn’t catch the name. Just a cluster of houses, one small temple .”
“Who helped?”
“Two men. One older, beard, lungi. Younger one handled the tools. Didn’t ask names.”
Father in law eyes narrowed, searching for the lie like a blade testing skin. “And you didn’t think to call me? Not once?”
why you went to hill without asking me
whom they met
He lied she said she wanted to have a darshan somewherein that hill temple..
“No towers. No bars. Phone was useless.”
Silence stretched. One of the plainclothes men shifted his weight; the leather of his belt creaked.
father in law exxhaled through his nose. “Swathi said the same. Almost word for word.” He paused. “Convenient.”
Vikram didn’t flinch. “Truth usually is, sir.”
Another long look. Then father in law leaned back. “If anything smells wrong later, boy, you’ll regret ever touching that wheel. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Vikram stood. As he turned to leave, he caught movement in the doorway. Swathi stood there, half-hidden by the frame, pallu drawn across her chest. Her eyes met his for one second—soft, grateful, almost sorry. She gave the smallest nod, then disappeared down the corridor.
He walked out to the car feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes on his back.
The next morning came with sirens.
Vikram was boiling water for tea in the single-room kitchenette when the jeep screeched to a halt outside. Doors slammed. Boots pounded up the narrow stairs. Before he could set the vessel down, the door burst open—wood splintering at the latch.
Four uniforms filled the space. One grabbed his collar, another twisted his arm behind him. A third kicked the chair aside.
“Thief,” the inspector barked. “Cash missing from politcians’s house. You were the last one near the safe after the trip. Hands where I can see them.”
Vikram didn’t resist. They shoved him against the wall, patted him down roughly. One of them reached into Vikram’s own travel bag—already open on the floor—and pulled out a wad of notes, still in the politician’s office band.
“See? Caught red-handed.”
Vikram’s laugh was short, bitter. “Planted. You know it.”
The inspector smiled. “We’ll let the magistrate decide.”
They cuffed him, dragged him down the stairs like a sack of rice. Neighbors watched from windows, silent. No one spoke up. In this city, silence was survival.
At the station it wasn’t the front desk. They took him straight to a back room—windowless, single bulb swinging from the ceiling, concrete floor stained dark in places. No camera. No record.
The questioning began without questions.
First came the open-hand slaps—sharp, ringing, turning his cheek hot. Then fists, low and hard, into the ribs. One cracked; he felt it give. Air rushed out in a wheeze. A lathi next—thick bamboo, swinging low against his shins, then the small of his back. Each blow landed with practiced rhythm.
“Confess,” the inspector said between swings. “You stole the money. And while you were driving madam alone in the hills, you touched her. Molested her. Say it. Make it easy.”
Or just let me know what you hide there. the entire story the politician want not this..
Vikram curled on the floor, arms wrapped around his middle. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, warm and coppery. His mind flickered—Malavika’s mocking smile, Malar’s cold threat, Swathi’s whispered promise in the car. Women accuse. Men bleed. Same cycle, different faces.
But something had changed.
Swathi is not making him bleed for her fantasy or thrill..
He did it for her safety.
He did it for her future.
He did it because he know sekaran somewhere trusted him here.. as his daughters friend he had to save her..
He just breathed—slow, ragged—and stared at the stained concrete inches from his face. Each time a boot connected, each time the lathi whistled, the anger inside him hardened, layer by layer, like cooling steel.
Not this time.
The inspector crouched, grabbed Vikram’s hair, yanked his head back. “Still nothing? We have all day.”
Vikram met his eyes. Blood smeared his teeth when he spoke.
“Then use it.”
The next blow came faster.
But Vikram didn’t break.
Somewhere far away, in another part of the city, Swathi’s phone buzzed once—Krish’s number. She stared at the screen, heart hammering.
The game had moved again.
And this time, the pawn was bleeding—but still on the board.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)