The question wasn't whether they'd get caught.
Was when.
Bharat stood in the alley behind the Dharavi fighting arena, Ayesha beside him in clothes that didn't fit—borrowed from Peacock's "disguise closet," which apparently meant oversized hoodies and jeans that smelled like someone else's cigarettes. The arena loomed above them: three stories of corrugated metal and graffiti, music thumping from inside like a heartbeat trying to break free.
"You sure about this?" Ayesha whispered.
"No."
"Comforting."
"Would you prefer I lie?"
"Yes, actually."
Bharat's earpiece crackled. Peacock's voice came through—distorted, mechanical, filtered through encryption software that made her sound like a ghost with a bad connection.
"Target location confirmed. Back entrance, third door from the left. Two guards. Rotation every twenty minutes. You have a fourteen-minute window."
"What happens at minute fifteen?"
"New guards arrive. These ones are younger. More aggressive. Less susceptible to bribes."
"And the bell?"
"Storage room. Second floor. Behind the fighters' prep area. Should be in a locked cabinet marked 'Temple Donations.' Ironic, considering what they're actually donating."
Ayesha glanced at Bharat. Her face was pale in the dim streetlight, shadows pooling under her eyes like bruises.
"We don't have to do this," she said quietly. "We could wait. Find another way to—"
"There is no other way. And no time."
His phone buzzed. System notification:
╔════════════════════════════════╗
║ COUNTDOWN: 46:22:17 REMAINING ║
║ STATUS: CRITICAL ║
║ RECOMMEND: IMMEDIATE ACTION ║
╚════════════════════════════════╝
Forty-six hours.
Less than two days.
The bells had been screaming for the last hour.
GONG. GONG. GONG.
Loud enough he could barely think.
Loud enough the sedatives weren't working anymore.
"Move," Peacock's voice commanded. "Window closing in thirteen minutes."
Bharat stepped forward. Ayesha followed. The alley smelled like piss and rotting vegetables, puddles reflecting neon signs from the street beyond. Above them: iron fire escapes, laundry lines, the skeletal architecture of poverty stacked on poverty.
The back door was rusted.
Chained.
Two men standing guard.
Both large.
Both armed.
Both looking very uninterested in conversation.
"Peacock, I thought you said they were bribeable?"
"I said less aggressive than the next shift. Didn't say they were friendly."
"Helpful distinction."
"I aim to please."
Bharat approached. Hands visible. Non-threatening. The guards watched him the way predators watch prey—calculating whether it's worth the effort.
"We're looking for someone," Bharat said.
"Wrong place."
"We have money."
"Still wrong place."
"A lot of money."
The taller guard smiled. It wasn't friendly.
"How much is 'a lot'?"
"Enough to make forgetting we were here worthwhile."
"You cops?"
"Do we look like cops?"
The guard's eyes flicked to Ayesha. Assessed. Dismissed.
"You look like someone who's about to get hurt."
That's when Bharat's Contract Vision activated.
Without warning.
Without asking.
The world fractured—
Layer 1: Physical reality
Two guards. Armed. Dangerous. Blocking the only entrance.
Layer 2: Binding threads
Connections spreading from the guards like roots—to the arena, to the temple, to contracts of employment and obligation and fear.
Layer 3: Vulnerability points
And there—glowing faint gold in his vision—a weak spot. A contract binding. The taller guard owed someone money. A lot of money. The debt was eating him alive, wrapped around his throat like a noose.
Bharat could feel it.
Could see the exact terms.
Could exploit it.
"I'm not here to hurt anyone," Bharat said carefully. "I'm here to make a deal."
"We don't make deals."
"You do with me."
Bharat's hand moved—almost of its own accord—tracing symbols in the air. The guard couldn't see them. But Bharat could. Contract Vision writing invisible words, building temporary bindings out of desperation and Will.
System notification:
╔════════════════════════════════╗
║ TEMPORARY CONTRACT FORMING ║
║ TYPE: EXCHANGE BINDING ║
║ COST: 500 WILL ║
║ DURATION: 30 MINUTES ║
║ ACCEPTANCE: PENDING ║
╚════════════════════════════════╝
Five hundred Will.
Nearly all he had left.
But necessary.
"What's your name?" Bharat asked the taller guard.
"What's it to you?"
"Because I'm about to clear your debt. All of it. Gone. Like it never existed."
The guard laughed.
"You don't even know how much I owe."
"Seventy-three thousand rupees. To Vikram Temple. For your daughter's medical bills six months ago. They said they'd waive it if you worked here. But the interest keeps growing. You'll never pay it off."
Silence.
The guard's smile died.
"How the fuck do you know that?"
"Because I can see it. And I can erase it. Right now. In exchange for thirty minutes of blindness."
"You're insane."
"I'm desperate. There's a difference."
Bharat extended his hand. The contract hovered in the air between them—invisible to everyone except him, but real as gravity.
"Shake my hand. Let us in. Don't ask questions. And your debt disappears."
"That's not possible."
"Try me."
The guard looked at Bharat. Really looked. Trying to find the con. The trap. The lie.
But Bharat wasn't lying.
And somehow, the guard knew it.
The handshake was firm.
System notification:
╔════════════════════════════════╗
║ CONTRACT ACCEPTED ║
║ BINDING ESTABLISHED ║
║ DEBT TRANSFER: PROCESSING... ║
║ GUARD OBLIGATION: NULLIFIED ║
╚════════════════════════════════╝
WILL: 500 → 12
The guard staggered. Like something had been cut loose inside him. His hand went to his chest—feeling for a weight that was suddenly gone.
"What did you—"
"Doesn't matter. We have thirty minutes. After that, you never saw us."
The guard stepped aside. His partner looked confused, but didn't argue. The chain came off. The door opened.
Darkness inside.
Music louder.
Bharat and Ayesha stepped through.
The backstage area was a maze.
Narrow corridors.
Flickering lights.
Smells of sweat and blood and something medicinal.
Peacock's voice crackled in Bharat's ear:
"Straight ahead. Thirty meters. Left at the junction. Storage room is the third door."
They moved quickly. Quietly. The walls were thin—voices bleeding through from adjacent rooms. Fighters warming up. Managers arguing. The wet sound of fists hitting heavy bags.
"You okay?" Ayesha whispered.
"Define okay."
"Still conscious. Still moving."
"Then yes."
"Liar."
She was right. He wasn't okay. The bells were deafening now—GONG GONG GONG—each strike feeling like something breaking inside his skull. His vision kept fracturing, Contract Vision activating randomly, showing him bindings he didn't want to see.
Twelve Will left.
Forty-six hours.
And a prayer bell that might not even work.
They reached the junction.
Turned left.
That's when they heard it.
Breathing.
Labored.
Coming from a side room.
Not on Peacock's map.
"Bharat," Peacock's voice warned. "That's not your target. Keep moving."
But Bharat had stopped.
Because his Contract Vision was showing him something.
Binding threads.
Dozens of them.
All converging on that room.
All marked with the same symbol:
祭品 - SACRIFICE
"What is that room?" Bharat asked quietly.
Silence.
Then:
"Transport holding. You don't want to know what's in there."
"Tell me anyway."
"Organ harvesting shipment. Scheduled for midnight. You have eleven minutes before guards check on it. If you go in there, you compromise the mission."
"How many people?"
"Bharat—"
"How many?"
Pause.
"Three. Maybe four. Hard to tell from thermal scans."
The breathing grew louder.
Ragged.
Desperate.
Ayesha grabbed his arm.
"We can't save them. Not now. Not without—"
"I know."
"But you're going to try anyway."
"I don't know."
He did know.
He was already moving toward the door.
The lock was simple.
Chain and padlock.
Bharat's hands shook as he pulled the lockpick set Peacock had given him.
"You have nine minutes," Peacock said. "After that, security rotation puts you in a kill zone."
"Noted."
"This is a bad idea."
"Also noted."
The lock clicked open.
The door swung inward.
And Bharat saw:
Shipping crates.
Large.
Wooden.
Marked with temple symbols.
And breathing.
Someone was breathing inside the crates.
Three of them.
Stacked against the wall like cargo.
Bharat moved closer.
Put his hand against the nearest crate.
Felt warmth.
Felt movement.
Contract Vision showed him the binding:
╔════════════════════════════════╗
║ SACRIFICE CONTRACT DETECTED ║
║ SUBJECTS: 3 ║
║ STATUS: SEDATED / BOUND ║
║ DESTINATION: TEMPLE SANCTUM ║
║ HARVEST SCHEDULE: 00:00 HOURS ║
╚════════════════════════════════╝
"They're alive," Bharat whispered.
"They won't be by morning," Peacock replied. "That's the point. Now move. You have seven minutes."
"I can't just leave them."
"You can. You have to. Saving them means triggering alarms. Means losing the bell. Means you die and Mira inherits the curse. Is that worth three lives you don't even know?"
Ayesha's hand found his shoulder.
"Bharat. She's right. We came here for the bell. If we don't get it—"
"I know what we came for."
But he didn't move.
Couldn't move.
Because inside the crate, someone was crying.
Quiet.
Broken.
The sound you make when you've given up hope.
The sound that says:
No one's coming.
No one cares.
"Bharat," Peacock's voice was sharp now. "Five minutes. Make a choice."
"How do I open them?"
"You don't. That's the choice."
"How. Do. I. Open. Them."
Silence.
Then:
"Latch on the left side. Combination lock. Four digits. But Bharat—if you do this, the mission is over. The bell becomes inaccessible. You're choosing three strangers over yourself. Over Mira. Over everyone the temple will kill after you're gone."
"Give me the combination."
"Bharat—"
"GIVE ME THE FUCKING COMBINATION."
Pause.
Long.
Heavy.
Then Peacock's voice—quiet, resigned:
"5739."
Bharat moved to the first crate.
His hands found the latch.
Found the lock.
Ayesha grabbed his wrist.
"You do this, we might not get out."
"I know."
"You do this, you're choosing them over yourself."
"I know."
"Then why?"
Bharat looked at her.
And for the first time in days—
He didn't have an answer.
Just a feeling.
That some choices aren't about logic.
About survival.
About winning.
Some choices are about whether you can live with yourself after.
"Because if I walk away now," he said quietly, "I'm already dead."
He spun the lock.
5.
7.
3.
9.
Click.
The latch released.
And behind them—
Footsteps.
Running.
Shouting.
"INTRUDERS IN SECTOR THREE!"
Peacock's voice screamed in his ear:
"ABORT! ABORT NOW!"
But Bharat's hands were already pulling the crate open.
Already seeing what was inside.
A girl.
Seventeen, maybe eighteen.
Unconscious.
Breathing shallow.
Binding marks on her wrists.
Fresh.
Still bleeding.
And behind her—
Two more crates.
Two more lives.
Two more impossible choices.
The footsteps were closer.
Ten seconds.
Maybe less.
Ayesha pulled his arm.
"BHARAT, WE HAVE TO GO!"
But he was staring at the girl.
At the marks on her skin.
At the contract bindings wrapped around her like chains.
At the countdown:
╔════════════════════════════════╗
║ HARVEST: 6 HOURS REMAINING ║
║ SUBJECT SURVIVAL: 0% IF UNSAVED║
╚════════════════════════════════╝
Six hours.
She had six hours to live.
And he had forty-six.
The question wasn't whether saving her was worth it.
Was whether he could live in a world where he chose not to.
"Help me get her out," Bharat said.
"You're insane."
"Probably."
He lifted the girl.
Light.
Too light.
Like she'd already started disappearing.
The door burst open.
Guards.
Three of them.
Armed.
"DROP HER!"
Bharat didn't drop her.
The bells screamed.
GONG. GONG. GONG.
And somewhere in the distance—
Faint.
Almost impossible to hear—
A different sound.
Bronze.
Ancient.
Calling.
The prayer bell.
Right where Peacock said it would be.
Thirty meters away.
And completely unreachable.