CHAPTER 11: "THE SECOND STRIKE"

  Ten days after Bunty died, the moon over GB Road was hidden by a thick layer of smog.

  The red-light district was winding down at 3 AM.

  The neon signs flickered and buzzed, casting sordid shadows on the wet pavement.

  Vikram sat in his car, parked two streets away in a dark alley.

  He was wearing a hoodie, gloves, and a mask—common enough in Delhi's pollution not to draw immediate attention.

  He had been watching for two hours. He knew the routine.

  At 3:15 AM, Salim emerged from a narrow doorway, zipping up his leather jacket.

  He looked satisfied, arrogant. He lit a cigarette, the flare illuminating his pockmarked face.

  Vikram felt his pulse slow down. This was it. The simulation was over.

  Execution phase.

  He got out of the car. He didn't take the gun.

  The gun was loud. The gun was unreliable.

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  Instead, he gripped the handle of a long, serrated kitchen knife he had sharpened on a whetstone for three hours yesterday.

  It was silent.

  It was certain.

  He followed Salim. The enforcer walked with a swagger, heading toward his motorcycle parked in a side lane.

  The lane was dark, piled with garbage.

  Vikram quickened his pace. His sneakers made no sound on the damp asphalt.

  Salim reached his bike, dug into his pocket for keys. He sensed something—an instinct honed on the streets.

  He started to turn.

  "Who's th."

  Vikram didn't hesitate.

  He didn't speak.

  He lunge

  He drove the knife into Salim’s lower back, aiming for the kidney, just as he had researched on anatomy chart

  Salim grunted—a wet, shocked sound. His knees buckled. Vikram twisted the blade

  It was brutal. It was intimate.

  He could feel the resistance of muscle, the scrape against bone.

  Salim tried to shout, but Vikram clamped a gloved hand over his mouth, pushing him into the pile of garbage bags

  They struggled for a moment in the filth. Salim’s eyes were wide, staring at Vikram with confusion and terror.

  He couldn't process this.

  This wasn't a gang hit. This was a man in a hoodie who smelled of office air conditioning and fear

  Vikram pulled the knife out and stabbed again.

  And again.

  Efficient

  Mechanical

  Salim went limp. The blood pooled black on the asphal

  Vikram stood up. He was panting, but he wasn't vomiting this tim

  He wasn't crying

  He looked down at the body.

  "That's for the women," he whispered.

  It was a rationalization, he knew.

  He didn't do it for the women.

  He did it to survive.

  He frisked the body quickly.

  Wallet,

  phone,

  a small diary. He took them all

  He walked back to his car.

  He didn't run.

  Running attracted attention.

  He walked with purpose

  He drove to a different construction site this time, in Dwarka.

  He burned the gloves, the hoodie, and the stolen items, except the phone and the diary.

  Those were intelligence.

  As he watched the fire, he realized he felt... lighter.

  The crushing weight of fear was gone, replaced by a cold, dark void.

  He checked his reflection in the car window.

  The man staring back looked the same, but his eyes were different.

  They were flat.

  Dead.

  He was becoming something else.

  A predator.