Bhairav doesn't answer my calls.
That's not unusual. He trains with everything muted. But today, the silence stretches longer than it should.
I leave my apartment before sunrise.
If the system moves, it leaves marks.You just have to look where effort was spent.
The gym near the eastern canal opens early for private bookings. No signboard. No public registry. It runs on referrals and cash. Bhairav likes it because no one asks questions.
Today, the street outside is blocked.
Two transport vans. Civilian plates. Too clean.
I don't cross the barrier. I don't need to.
I watch.
Bhairav stands inside the open shutter, towel over his shoulder, posture relaxed. He's laughing at something one of the men says. They're not fighters. Their shoulders are wrong for that. Too still. Too balanced.
Selectors don't threaten first.They measure.
One of them hands Bhairav a slate.
Bhairav reads it, then looks up, grin fading just a little.
I can't hear the words.I don't need to.
I know the structure.
Offer.Test.Compliance window.
I step back into the alley before anyone notices me.
Interference now would confirm relevance.That would accelerate things.
I won't give them that.
Bhairav finishes his session an hour later.
He walks alone this time. No laughter. No music in his ears. His hands flex unconsciously, like his body is already preparing for something it hasn't accepted yet.
I fall into step beside him.
"You're late," he says, without looking.
"They came," I reply.
He exhales slowly. "Yeah."
We walk in silence for half a block.
"They didn't threaten," he adds. "That's new."
"It's efficient," I say. "Threats waste time."
We stop near the canal bridge.
Bhairav leans on the railing, staring at the water below.
"They offered me a fast track," he says. "No qualifiers. No open circuit. Straight into the proving tier."
"That means they expect you to survive," I reply.
He nods. "Or die spectacularly."
I don't tell him to refuse.
That choice has already been engineered.
"You know what this is," I say instead.
Bhairav looks at me then. Really looks.
"I know what it becomes," he says. "And I know why you hate it."
"Then don't go," I say.
He smiles, small and tired. "That's not how shields work."
That word lands heavier than a threat.
Shield.
I turn away before he can read my face.
"If you accept," I say, "they'll adjust my file."
"They already did," he answers quietly.
I stop.
He pulls the slate from his pocket and turns it so I can see.
Two names.
His.
And mine.
Mine is greyed out. Marked UNAFFILIATED.
Pending.
"They said you don't fight," Bhairav continues. "They said that makes you dangerous."
I close my eyes for half a second.
That's enough.
"Listen carefully," I say. "You do nothing extra. No statements. No challenges. You survive. That's it."
Bhairav laughs once. "That simple?"
"For now," I reply.
He nods. "Then I'm in."
Not for glory.Not for power.
For proximity.
The system didn't pick him by accident.
They picked leverage.
We part ways without saying goodbye.
That's how you keep things clean.
That night, I open the drawer.
I take out the metal card.
Vikram Rathore.
I don't think about the man.
I think about the mistake he made—believing control was the same as peace.
I place the card on the table and set my phone beside it.
Then I turn the phone back on.
If they're watching, I let them.
Because now, they've shown their hand.
And I finally have a reason to move.