The next morning, Arjun and Radha Varma arrived at Akbar Towers. The building, which had seemed so imposing yesterday, now just looked old. Arjun had ₹500 in his pocket. He'd used the [Scan] ability on his mother's finances.
[Name: Radha Varma]
[Status: Anxious, Hopeful]
[Finances: ₹1,240 (Total Savings)]
They were risking everything they had on this S-Rank lawyer.
When they reached Suite #214, the door was already open. The office was the same—cramped, peeling, and hot—but the woman inside was completely different.
The frustrated, weary idealist was gone. In her place sat Advocate Aisha Siddiqui, a queen on a broken throne.
She was sharp, focused, and electric with a dangerous energy. Her desk was immaculate, save for two things: the law firm's thick, bound contract, and her own yellow legal pad, covered in precise, aggressive handwriting. She hadn't slept. Her eyes were bloodshot, but they were alive.
"Radha-ji. Arjun," she said, her voice crisp and formal. She didn't smile. This was a war room. "Please, sit. Would you like some water? The filter is... not great."
"We're fine, thank you, Advocate Siddiqui," Arjun said, taking a seat before his mother even could. He recognized this energy. It was the "hunt."
Aisha's eyes locked onto Arjun, bypassing Radha completely. She was no longer speaking to the mother. She was addressing the real client.
"You were right, Arjun," she said, her voice flat. "It's a trap. A beautifully constructed, deeply predatory trap. Prakash Murthy's lawyers are very, very good."
Radha Varma, who had just been processing the fact that this was real, tensed. "A trap? But... he agreed..."
Aisha held up a hand. "He agreed to nothing." She slid the legal pad across the desk. "Here is what he offered."
She began to dissect the contract, not for Radha, but for Arjun.
"First, the 'Liability Clause.' He's making your mother, as a 30% shareholder, personally liable for 30% of the company's existing debt. I checked their public filings. Bharat-Tech is leveraged to the hilt. This clause doesn't give her equity; it makes her a co-debtor in a bankruptcy. They're not giving you a lifeboat; they're chaining you to their anchor."
Radha's face went white. She looked at Arjun, horrified.
Arjun didn't flinch. He just nodded. "And the exit?"
Aisha's respect for him visibly grew. He hadn't panicked at the word "debt." He'd asked about the next trap.
"The 'Right of First Refusal.' If you ever want to sell, you must sell back to Prakash. At a fixed valuation of..." she tapped the page, "...the company's current book value. Which is, as we all know, negative. He's giving you 30% of nothing and ensuring it can never be worth anything."
"So he gets my work," Arjun stated, his voice cold. "He uses it to make the company worth crores, and then buys me out for pennies. A legal theft."
"Exactly," Aisha said, leaning forward, her eyes blazing. "And finally, the 'Performance Clause.' Vague, undefined 'milestones' that your 'consultant'—that's you, kid—must meet. The moment you fail to meet any one of them, at the board's (his) sole discretion, your shares are revoked. He gives you nothing, you save his company, and then he takes it all back. It's brilliant. And it's disgusting."
Radha looked like she was going to be sick. "Then... then it's over," she whispered. "We can't sign this."
"No," Arjun said, his voice so sharp it made both women jump.
He looked at Aisha, and for the first time, he let a small, cold smile touch his lips. "It's not over. It's just begun. You've found the traps. Now, we send them our real terms."
Aisha's own lips twitched. This was what she had been waiting for. "I've already drafted a counter-offer," she said, picking up another set of papers. "I've struck the liability clause, demanded proportional board representation, and rewrote the valuation clause to be based on future earnings, not current book value. It's aggressive. They'll fight it."
"It's not aggressive enough," Arjun said.
Aisha froze. "What?"
"Your counter is good, Advocate," Arjun said, standing up from his chair. He began to pace the tiny office, his mind working with the speed of the [Bodhi System]. "You're fighting over the 30% he already agreed to. You're playing defense. I'm going to play offense."
He turned to her, his 12-year-old eyes lit with a genius that was truly terrifying.
"I don't just want 30% of Bharat-Tech as it exists now," he said. "The company is worthless. I want 30% of what it will be."
Aisha was confused. "My clauses already address future value..."
"No, you don't understand," Arjun said. "Prakash thinks his company is his 'Data Management Suite.' He's wrong. That's a dying product. His real asset... is his government contract. The one he lost."
Aisha's S-Rank mind instantly caught up. "The one from Dataquest magazine... the one that almost bankrupted him?"
"The very same," Arjun said, a predatory glint in his eye. "It was a contract to digitize land records for the Karnataka state government. He failed because his tech was too slow. But my tech... my compression algorithm... makes it possible."
He looked at Aisha. "That contract is still open. The government is desperate. I don't just want 30% of his company. I want a new clause. I want 51% of all net profits from a new, joint 'Special Purpose Vehicle' created specifically to win and service that government land records contract. We'll call it 'Bharat-Digital.'"
Aisha's jaw dropped. It was a "Krishna" move of breathtaking brilliance.
Prakash, obsessed with his failing software, would see the government contract as a failure, a dead asset. He'd gladly give away a piece of a "failed" project in exchange for concessions on his main company.
But Arjun, with his 2025 knowledge, knew that in the 1990s, the real money wasn't in software. It was in government digitization contracts. It was a multi-crore-rupee goldmine.
"He... he might actually agree to that," Aisha whispered, her mind racing. "He'll see it as giving up 51% of nothing to protect 70% of something."
"Exactly," Arjun said. "He'll think he's winning the negotiation."
Aisha looked at the 12-year-old boy. He wasn't just a client. He wasn't a prodigy. He was a monster. And he was her monster.
She grabbed her pen. "Let's get to work."