30-01-2026, 10:24 PM
(This post was last modified: 30-01-2026, 10:26 PM by heygiwriter. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 19: The Name That Stops the Lathi - Bharath [Bharath's Cameo]
The line connected to a quiet study in a modest flat on the city's outskirts. Swathi's father—Ramanathan, retired Additional Director General of security officer, a man whose name still opened doors in every station—listened without interrupting.
When she finished—the threats, the house arrest, Vikram's custody, Krish's rescue—his voice was steady, laced with old authority.
"You're safe?"
"Yes. With... a friend."
A pause. "Krish."
She didn't deny it.
Ramanathan sighed. "Your father-in-law's playing dirty. But influence cuts both ways. I'll make calls. Get the boy out. No charges. But Swathi—end this soon. Before it swallows you all."
"Thank you, Appa."
"Be careful. And tell that driver... he owes me nothing. But you do."
The call ended. Swathi stared at the phone, relief mixing with guilt. Vikram's silence had bought her this. Now her father's pull would free him.
Krish caught her eye in the mirror. "Your old man?"
She nodded. "He's stepping in."
"Good. But next time, we don't run. We fight."
The SUV vanished into the night traffic, leaving the bungalow's shadows behind.
But in the station, the beatings paused—for now. A phone rang in the inspector's pocket. A voice from higher up. Influence stirring.
The game twisted again.
The inspector’s phone rang again—sharp, insistent, cutting through the wet slap of fists on flesh. He stepped away from Vikram’s slumped form, wiping sweat and a smear of blood from his knuckles onto his khaki shirt. The room stank of copper, sweat, and fear that had nowhere to go.
He answered on the third ring, voice dropping low.
“Yes, sir?”
A pause. Then his face changed—eyes widening, mouth tightening into a thin line.
“Bharath? On his way now?”
The name landed like a stone in still water. The two constables froze mid-motion, one with lathi raised, the other holding Vikram’s arm twisted behind the chair. Even the bulb seemed to dim for a second.
Bharath.
Twenty-seven years old, same age as the broken man on the floor, but already a legend in the wrong circles. Ramanathan’s star pupil back in the academy—top of every class, fastest draw, coldest stare. Then something shifted. Personal grudges became professional vendettas. Accused didn’t just confess under Bharath; they shattered. Stories circulated in hushed canteen whispers: a man who once beat a suspect until the ribs caved just because the guy had looked at his sister wrong years ago. Department brass turned a blind eye—results were results. But the name alone could empty a room.
The inspector swallowed. “Understood, sir. We’ll wait.”
He hung up, stared at Vikram for a long beat, then barked at the constables.
“Stop. Clean him up a little. Bharath is coming.”
They moved fast—unlocked the cuffs, dragged Vikram to a plastic chair, splashed water from a bucket on his face. Blood diluted to pink rivulets ran down his neck. He coughed once, weakly, but his eyes stayed open, fixed on nothing.
Minutes crawled. Then the door opened.
Bharath stepped in alone—no entourage, no uniform, just dark jeans, black T-shirt stretched over a fighter’s build, and eyes that didn’t blink enough. He looked younger than the stories made him sound, almost boyish—until you met the gaze.
He didn’t speak at first. Just walked to Vikram, crouched, pressed two fingers to the side of his neck.
“Pulse is there,” Bharath said, almost to himself. “Better. Still holding.”
The inspector shifted. “Sir, he’s—”
Fir written
Inspector: No sir but..
Bharath : what ? no fir and you guys beaten him like this...?
Bharath stood without looking at him. “Department has ruthless cases piling up. Real ones. We don’t need this burden. Politicians say a lot of holy words. Doesn’t make them gospel.”
He turned to the inspector, voice flat.
“Throw him somewhere. dont let him struggle here. and i myself has to write memo on you guys....
The constables got ready to dismiss and take away virkram from there..
The line connected to a quiet study in a modest flat on the city's outskirts. Swathi's father—Ramanathan, retired Additional Director General of security officer, a man whose name still opened doors in every station—listened without interrupting.
When she finished—the threats, the house arrest, Vikram's custody, Krish's rescue—his voice was steady, laced with old authority.
"You're safe?"
"Yes. With... a friend."
A pause. "Krish."
She didn't deny it.
Ramanathan sighed. "Your father-in-law's playing dirty. But influence cuts both ways. I'll make calls. Get the boy out. No charges. But Swathi—end this soon. Before it swallows you all."
"Thank you, Appa."
"Be careful. And tell that driver... he owes me nothing. But you do."
The call ended. Swathi stared at the phone, relief mixing with guilt. Vikram's silence had bought her this. Now her father's pull would free him.
Krish caught her eye in the mirror. "Your old man?"
She nodded. "He's stepping in."
"Good. But next time, we don't run. We fight."
The SUV vanished into the night traffic, leaving the bungalow's shadows behind.
But in the station, the beatings paused—for now. A phone rang in the inspector's pocket. A voice from higher up. Influence stirring.
The game twisted again.
The inspector’s phone rang again—sharp, insistent, cutting through the wet slap of fists on flesh. He stepped away from Vikram’s slumped form, wiping sweat and a smear of blood from his knuckles onto his khaki shirt. The room stank of copper, sweat, and fear that had nowhere to go.
He answered on the third ring, voice dropping low.
“Yes, sir?”
A pause. Then his face changed—eyes widening, mouth tightening into a thin line.
“Bharath? On his way now?”
The name landed like a stone in still water. The two constables froze mid-motion, one with lathi raised, the other holding Vikram’s arm twisted behind the chair. Even the bulb seemed to dim for a second.
Bharath.
Twenty-seven years old, same age as the broken man on the floor, but already a legend in the wrong circles. Ramanathan’s star pupil back in the academy—top of every class, fastest draw, coldest stare. Then something shifted. Personal grudges became professional vendettas. Accused didn’t just confess under Bharath; they shattered. Stories circulated in hushed canteen whispers: a man who once beat a suspect until the ribs caved just because the guy had looked at his sister wrong years ago. Department brass turned a blind eye—results were results. But the name alone could empty a room.
The inspector swallowed. “Understood, sir. We’ll wait.”
He hung up, stared at Vikram for a long beat, then barked at the constables.
“Stop. Clean him up a little. Bharath is coming.”
They moved fast—unlocked the cuffs, dragged Vikram to a plastic chair, splashed water from a bucket on his face. Blood diluted to pink rivulets ran down his neck. He coughed once, weakly, but his eyes stayed open, fixed on nothing.
Minutes crawled. Then the door opened.
Bharath stepped in alone—no entourage, no uniform, just dark jeans, black T-shirt stretched over a fighter’s build, and eyes that didn’t blink enough. He looked younger than the stories made him sound, almost boyish—until you met the gaze.
He didn’t speak at first. Just walked to Vikram, crouched, pressed two fingers to the side of his neck.
“Pulse is there,” Bharath said, almost to himself. “Better. Still holding.”
The inspector shifted. “Sir, he’s—”
Fir written
Inspector: No sir but..
Bharath : what ? no fir and you guys beaten him like this...?
Bharath stood without looking at him. “Department has ruthless cases piling up. Real ones. We don’t need this burden. Politicians say a lot of holy words. Doesn’t make them gospel.”
He turned to the inspector, voice flat.
“Throw him somewhere. dont let him struggle here. and i myself has to write memo on you guys....
The constables got ready to dismiss and take away virkram from there..
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