The warehouse on Shivaji Freight Block is sealed by morning.
Yesterday, it was abandoned.Today, it hums.
New surveillance pylons rise along the outer fence—black, angular, military-grade. They aren't government issue. I know the difference. My father taught me that too.
I slow my steps but don't stop.
Stopping draws attention.
At the transit terminal, workers gather in small knots, pretending not to stare.
"Private contract," someone mutters."No company name," another replies.
No one asks questions.
They never do when the money is quiet.
I clock in, complete my audit route, and log out early. The system doesn't protest. That alone tells me something has changed.
I circle back after dark.
Not to investigate.To confirm.
A temporary operations hub has been installed inside the warehouse. Modular walls. Signal dampeners. Power drawn directly from the city's emergency grid.
This isn't a fight venue.This is observation infrastructure.
Someone paid a lot to look at something specific.
I already know what that something is.
My phone vibrates once.
This time, there is a message.
No greeting.No threat.
Just coordinates and a timestamp.
Location: Rohini Service UnderpassTime: 21:00Condition: Attendance confirms relevance
I read it twice.
This isn't an invitation.
It's a filter.
I arrive early.
The underpass is wide, clean, and intentionally empty. Traffic has been redirected above. The city does that sometimes—quietly, efficiently—when paid well.
A single light strip flickers on as I step beneath it.
A man stands near the central pillar.
Late thirties.Neutral posture.Old scars, carefully hidden.
He doesn't approach.
He waits.
"You're not here to fight," I say.
He nods once.
"Good," he replies. "Neither are you."
That confirms enough.
"State your purpose," I say.
"My assignment," he corrects. "Not my choice."
He slides a thin slate across the concrete. I don't pick it up.
"I don't participate," I say.
"You already did," he answers calmly. "By existing."
On the slate, I see a single word:
RATHORE
Below it, a classification code.
LEGACY RISK — ACTIVE
"I'm not my grandfather," I say.
The man doesn't smile.
"That's why you matter," he replies.
I turn to leave.
He doesn't stop me.
"Your friend will be selected within thirty days," he adds, voice steady."Strength profiles are easy."
I pause.
That's the mistake.
He sees it and nods.
"Bhairav Singh," he says. "High survivability. High compliance probability."
I turn back.
"This conversation is over," I say.
"For you," he agrees. "Not for the system."
I walk away.
No chase.No threats.
That's worse.
Because systems that chase can be fought.
Systems that wait are already confident.
Back at my apartment, I lock every door and sit in the dark.
They didn't come for me first.
They went for my bloodline.Then my proximity.Then my leverage.
That's how organized violence works.
I stare at the metal card in my drawer without opening it.
Vikram Rathore.
A man who tried to control power.
And failed.
If they select Bhairav, the choice won't be his.
And if I step in—
I stop that thought.
Not yet.
But the board has been set.
And for the first time, I know the name of the game.