CHAPTER 43

Flames.

Screams.

Gunshots.

The smell of kerosene and burning flesh.

Jatin Malik's eyes snapped open, breath ragged, heart punching against his ribs. He could still hear it—the crackling of fire devouring everything he loved. His village. His mother. Gone in one night.

Even now, years later, the nightmare clung to him like a parasite.

He remembered the look on his mother's face the moment the corrupt officer shot her. She wasn't scared. She was angry. Eyes wide, lips trembling—not from fear, but from the injustice of it.

He was just a kid back then. Powerless. Weak. Hidden under the floorboards as his mother whispered her last words:

"Live, Jatin. No matter what happens… live."

And he had.

But this? This wasn't living.

...................

The basement air reeked of sweat, blood, and cheap gutka. Rusted steel cages boxed in a screaming crowd. Cracked neon lights flickered overhead, their stutter-sync making it feel like a nightmare reel on loop.

A man in a bloodstained referee shirt grabbed the mic, his gold teeth flashing under bad lighting.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!"His voice bounced off the wet walls. "In the RED corner, from the streets of Dharavi, the man who once bit a guy's ear clean off—RAKESH 'THE DOG' PANDEY!"

The crowd roared as Rakesh cracked his knuckles, spit on the floor, and slammed his forehead into the chain link. His face was a roadmap of scars, eyes wild with fight drugs.

The announcer switched tones, dropping into something more mocking.

"And in the BLUE corner…"A pause. A smirk."The half-dead monkey who refuses to quit—MONKEY MAN!"

Booing. Laughter. A few scattered cheers from the regulars who loved underdogs.Jatin rolled his neck, his hoodie still on. His lips pressed together, jaw locked, breath steady.

Don't think. Just move.

Behind him, Tiger barked orders from the side of the cage. Grease-slick hair. Gold chain clinking against his sweaty chest. Eyes like a rat's—narrow, twitchy, always calculating.

"Oi, Monkey!" Tiger growled, voice cutting through the noise. "Don't make this fight short, samjha? We need long rounds, more bets! Get your ass kicked a little first, then win. Stretch it out!"

Jatin flexed his fingers. His ribs ached from the last fight two days ago, but he didn't care. Pain was background noise now.

The bell rang.

Rakesh lunged first—a brawler's charge, fists like bricks.Jatin ducked low, weaving under a wild hook. His left leg coiled like a spring—then snapped out.

Crack.Heel to the jaw. Rakesh stumbled back, blinking.

Tiger screamed from outside the cage. "ARE YOU CRAZY?! SLOW DOWN, MONKEY! MAKE IT LAST!"

Jatin tasted iron in his mouth. Ignored it.

Rakesh recovered fast, spitting blood on the floor. He grinned like a rabid dog and came in swinging again.This time, one of his fists connected—a sledgehammer to Jatin's ribs.

White pain.Something popped.

Tiger slammed his palm against the cage wall. "GOOD! Get up, idiot! I need at least three rounds! Keep getting hit if you have to!"

Jatin gasped, eyes narrowing. His body wanted to fold, but his mind refused.He ducked another blow. Then another. His feet moved fast, almost too fast for the human eye.

That's why they called him Monkey Man.

From the rafters above, dirty rainwater dripped onto the mat. Jatin let his mind go blank. No thinking. Just instincts. Just survival.

One step forward—Elbow to the throat.Knee to the liver.Leg sweep.

Rakesh hit the ground, gasping like a fish out of water.

The crowd howled, half of them disappointed. They'd wanted more blood, longer pain. Tiger roared from the sidelines, veins popping in his neck.

"IDIOT! I TOLD YOU TO DRAG IT OUT! You think you're some hero, huh?!"

Jatin didn't answer. His shoulders rose and fell with silent breaths.He won, but winning wasn't the point. For Tiger, the fight was just business. Pain equaled profit.

Tonight, his body was a patchwork of bruises and torn skin. His ribs screamed with each breath as he stumbled through the back alleys of Mumbai, rain pounding against his battered frame. The underground fights had been rougher than usual. No rules. No mercy. Just fists and survival.

Jatin spat blood onto the pavement and kept walking. Home, if you could call it that—a rented room above a mechanic's shop, smelling of petrol and damp walls.

The city didn't care about his pain. Mumbai kept moving. Taxis splashed through puddles. Neon signs flickered. Somewhere, a drunk man laughed too loudly.

Then he heard it.

A song.

Soft, almost ghostly, barely audible over the rain. At first, he ignored it. His ears rang from the fight, and his mind was too fogged with exhaustion. But then he realized—the sound was close. Too close.

Confused, he glanced around.

His heart dropped when he noticed the noise was coming from his own bag.

Jatin froze.

He unzipped the bag, hands trembling—not from fear, but from something colder. Something ancient that lived under his skin.

Inside, he found a rusted, half-broken keypad phone. Not his.

The screen blinked.

No caller ID. No name. Just an incoming call.

For a moment, Jatin thought about throwing it away. He hesitated. But then, something in his gut told him to pick it up.

He pressed the green button.

"Hello, Jatin," a deep voice said, smooth and steady.

The kind of voice that didn't belong in this world.

Jatin's mouth went dry. "Who are you?"

The voice replied, calm as death.

"I am opportunity."

A cold shiver ran down Jatin's spine.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Do you want revenge?"

His heart stopped for half a second.

His mind exploded with questions. Who is this? How do they know? Did Rana Singh find out? Is this a setup?

Jatin's eyes darted left and right, searching the rain-slicked streets like the caller might be hiding nearby. His body tensed, ready to sprint or fight—whichever came first.

"Don't bother looking around, Jatin," the voice said, almost amused.

"I'm not there. You won't find me that way."

Jatin clenched his jaw, forcing his breath to slow. His fists were still tight, but he stopped searching shadows.

"Okay," he said, voice low. "What do you mean… revenge?"

The caller's tone sharpened.

"Let's not waste each other's time. You're bleeding. You're tired. So here's the rule: you answer me with yes or no. If you say anything else, pretend this call never happened. Understood?"

Jatin's throat tightened. His pride hated this. His rage hated this.

But he whispered, "Okay."

The voice asked the question that sliced straight through him:

"Do you want to kill Rana Singh and Baba Shakti?"

Time slowed.

Jatin swallowed hard.

Now he knew for sure—the person on the other end knew everything. His past. His enemies. His deepest, blackest thoughts.

He said the word out loud, like a promise.

"Yes."

The voice smiled—not audibly, but Jatin could feel it in his bones.

"Good. Then I'll make sure you do. With your own hands. But before that, you'll have to do something for me."

Jatin's pulse raced. "What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you later. For now, rest. Don't go back to the fights this week. Heal. Prepare. I'll be in touch."

The line clicked dead.

Jatin stared at the phone in his hand, the rain washing over his face, mixing with sweat and blood.

His entire life had been pain, violence, and loneliness.

But tonight, for the first time in years, his heart beat with something else:

Purpose.

And purpose, he realized, was more dangerous than hate.