"What are you doing, man? He was right in front of you — it was the easiest shot of your life!"
The guy in headphones shouted without looking away from the screen, frustration echoing through the small room.
The next match loaded in.
Taran's friend became jump leader.
"Bro… why are you dropping us into the hotspot?" Taran groaned. "We just had five matches of pure humiliation."
They dropped anyway. Somehow, miraculously, they survived.
Across the room, Taran's dad scrolled reels at full speaker volume.
A dramatic voice blasted from the phone:
"Five men beat up a Wiffy delivery boy carrying chicken! Live footage—"
"Dad! Lower the volume," Taran snapped. "I'm trying to focus. I can't hear anything but your fake reels."
"Taran," his dad replied calmly, "not everything you disagree with is fake."
But Taran removed the headphones with an irritated sigh.
"Bro, everyone is camping these days. I'm done," he muttered to his friend before turning back to his father. "And those reels? They're probably staged. That delivery guy might be a hired actor. A political stunt to get vegetarian votes."
His father shot him a tired look.
"Even if politics is involved, that doesn't magically make the delivery guy an actor."
"Fine," Taran said, shrugging. "You believe what you want. I'm going to my friend's house for chicken curry. Tell mom not to cook dinner."
He barged into his sister's room.
"Didi, why is dad watching reels in my room? And give me your metro card."
She raised an eyebrow.
"The same reason you're in my room annoying me. And no — use the app."
Taran grabbed her bag, snatched the card, and ran out.
"The card is fun, okay! The app feels boring!"
"So go buy your own card!" she shouted as he slammed the door.
His mom opened it a second later, confused, but Taran was already gone.
Outside, the Delhi sky glowed orange with evening smog.
"Why now… during peak 5–9 pm rush?" Taran muttered, noticing the endless stream of people.
The metro doors slid open, revealing a crushing wave of bodies.
He squeezed in, accidentally shoving a man.
"A55h01e!" the man snapped — then froze as Taran glared, jaw clenched.
"Sorry, brother," he corrected instantly. "I was… abusing the crowd."
Taran's build made most people reconsider their anger.
He checked his phone — red numbers everywhere.
"After COVID, everyone made money. Now even beating fixed deposits feels impossible," he thought.
At his friend's place, a toy gun caught his eye.
"When did you get this?" Taran asked.
"90% discount," his friend called out from the kitchen.
As the friend walked in with tea, Taran fired the foam gun.
The bullet hit the cup, sending tea spilling everywhere.
"I'm not sharing tea! And clean this mess!"
His friend's voice cracked between anger and disbelief.
"I'm sorry! Give me some tea, man. I'll cook chicken if you share. I aimed at your head… but the bullet dropped too soon."
"Oh wow. That makes me feel SO SAFE," his friend said. "And it's impossible to aim with that thing."
Taran stopped. Slowly turned.
"You shouldn't have said that."
"What?"
"Impossible."
His friend sighed.
"Three bottles. Five shots. Hit all three from that corner. If you do — I'll cut onions and clean the chicken."
Taran took aim.
First shot — disaster.
Second — hit.
Third — hit.
Fourth — hit.
He grinned wickedly and shot the fifth directly at his friend's forehead.
"Hehehe… go start chopping."
His friend kicked him on the shin and stomped to the kitchen.
Later, Taran walked home. Five men blocked the footpath. He nudged through.
One grabbed his arm.
"Why pushing? Just ask, bro."
Another pulled him back.
"Leave it. Let him go."
Taran looked at them — none looked strong, but there were five.
"And it was my fault. Not worth the fight," he thought, moving on.
"Dad, you want chicken curry? I learned something new."
"Sure," his dad smiled. "I'll order chicken. Fifteen minutes. Want anything else?"
"Chocolate, chicken masala, and cola."
"Cola?" his dad teased. "Your body looks like ginger. Growing without shape."
"Very funny," Taran muttered.
He yelled, "Mom, Didi! Chicken?"
His sister shouted back, "No! I'm not eating a dead animal!"
Thirty minutes later, the bell rang.
Taran's dad opened the door—
—and froze.
A man stood there, gripping the Wiffy delivery boy by the neck.
Four more men stood behind him.
"What took you so long?" the man barked. "I was teaching this guy to stop delivering non-veg."
Taran ran to the door.
He recognized them.
The same five from the footpath.
The man shoved Taran's dad backward.
As his father fell, Taran lunged, punching the man so hard he dropped unconscious instantly.
The delivery boy fled.
But the others rushed in.
Two kicked Taran in the stomach. He fell.
And then… he laughed.
A strange, unsettling laugh.
They dragged him outside.
When his dad tried to help, one punched him brutally.
Something snapped inside Taran.
He surged up with raw strength, grabbing two men by their collars, slamming their heads into the ground like weights. He lifted the man who hit his father and smashed him hard enough to crack the pavement.
The fourth man stabbed Taran in the stomach.
The fifth slammed a lug wrench onto his skull.
Taran collapsed.
A gun pointed at the family.
"If you want to live, stay still. Boss is coming."
Rain began pouring heavily.
Neighbors peeked from balconies — all silent.
Two black SUVs arrived.
Ten men stepped out, long raincoats, rudraksha beads glowing under lightning.
"Why aren't they dead yet?" one demanded.
"Someone called the police—" the gunman began.
Before he could finish—
BOOM.
A lightning strike obliterated him.
More lightning tore across houses, trees, cars… each bolt growing stronger.
Then one final bolt struck Taran.
Everything went silent.
The five attackers inside the house died instantly.
Taran's veins flickered with a faint blue glow.
The raincoat men raised their hands, chanting.
Lightning smashed into them — destroying an SUV, collapsing Taran's house, injuring three of them — but the ones holding the beads stood unharmed.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
They retreated into the storm.
High above Delhi, in a luxury hotel's penthouse, a man with long black hair soaked in a bathtub.
He rose slowly, tied his hair into a top knot, and walked into the room.
Blood covered the walls.
Ten men hung from chains, barely breathing.
He casually ripped off one man's head, spine dangling.
He tore another's jaw in half while walking toward the balcony.
"How?" he demanded of the last dying man.
"They've… finally intervened…" the man whispered.
The long-haired man threw him off the balcony.
He pulled out a phone.
"Begin phase two," he said, eyes fixed on the storm over the city.