#07 : A STORM CALLED VIJAY
Sometimes, grief doesn't break you—it sharpens you into something else entirely.
---
Kurla West was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence you hear before a city burns.
The warehouse stood like a tombstone at the edge of the derelict textile district—rusted gates half-open, weeds growing through concrete veins. It should've been just another forgotten block in Mumbai's decaying underbelly.
But tonight, it was a battlefield.
And Vijay didn't knock.
He rode straight through the front gate.
Engine screaming.
Headlight blazing.
Eyes dead.
---
BOOM.
The bike crashed through the doors of the warehouse like a bullet through bone.
The Serpents inside barely had time to react. Four of them, sitting around a crate of AKs and liquor, jerked their heads toward the noise.
Too late.
Vijay was already airborne.
He leapt off the bike mid-motion, landing in a full sprint.
The first Serpent stood.
Crack.
Vijay's fist shattered the man's nose, then drove into his throat with a sound like snapping celery.
The second went for his belt, pulling a knife.
Too slow.
Thunk.
Vijay drove a crowbar through his knee, then whipped it across his temple.
Blood sprayed like rain.
The third tried to run.
Didn't get far.
SMASH.
Vijay hurled a hammer into his spine with inhuman strength. The man dropped like dead weight.
The fourth screamed, lifting a shotgun—
Vijay caught the barrel and broke it in half over his knee.
Then he beat the man with the broken pieces.
---
The warehouse filled with screams and gunfire.
More Serpents poured in.
Vijay didn't care.
He fought like a man with nothing left to lose.
Elbow to the jaw. Knee to the gut. Blade to the ribs.
His fists were soaked. His face was splattered with blood and ash.
And he never stopped moving.
One duck. One punch. One kill.
Each movement wasn't calculated. It was raw instinct—a machine driven by sorrow and rage.
He wasn't dodging.
He wasn't planning.
He was just destroying.
---
But rage has a price.
And it came in small ways first.
He didn't see the wire trap.
His foot caught.
Boom.
A blast went off from the ceiling, collapsing part of the scaffolding.
Metal beams rained down. Vijay shielded himself, but it slowed him.
That's when the gas began to hiss.
Not fire.
Not poison.
Chloroform mist.
From vents.
He staggered, eyes burning.
Bullets started flying—not from scared boys this time, but from trained shooters.
Tactical positioning. Shadows moving like ghosts.
Vijay dropped two of them with blind swings—but it was taking longer now. His vision blurred. His chest heaved. His rage, though powerful, was unfocused.
One of them slashed his side.
Another cracked a baton into his spine.
He roared.
And kept fighting.
But the storm was fading.
---
That's when he heard the voice.
Cold.
Amused.
"Fighting like a dog doesn't make you a wolf."
Vijay turned.
And from the shadows stepped someone new.
Not in a mask.
Not hiding.
A man in a pristine black shirt, sleeves rolled up, hands behind his back.
Slicked hair. Eyes like razors.
Confident.
Cruel.
Calculated.
"You must be the famous Vijay," the man said. "I've heard of you. The protector. The street dog with fangs."
Vijay growled. "Who the fuck are you?"
The man tilted his head. "Me? I'm just the executive of this affilate."
He smiled.
"But you can call me Raaka."
---
Raaka didn't attack first.
He didn't need to.
He waited.
Vijay charged.
Bad idea.
Raaka moved like a ghost.
One shift of weight. One redirection.
He let Vijay's punch slide past his cheek, then drove his elbow into Vijay's jaw with surgical precision.
CRACK.
Vijay stumbled.
Raaka struck again—two pressure points at the base of the ribs, followed by a palm strike to the temple.
Vijay hit the ground.
Hard.
Raaka didn't gloat.
He crouched.
"You fought well," he whispered. "But grief makes people stupid."
Vijay spat blood. Tried to rise.
Raaka kicked his knee out from under him.
"You stormed a compound with no plan, no backup, and no exit strategy. All for revenge."
He leaned in close.
"That's not justice. That's suicide."
---
Vijay's breath was ragged. His vision spun.
He reached for a broken pipe.
Raaka stepped on his hand.
"I'm not going to kill you tonight," Raaka said. "Not because I'm merciful."
He leaned in.
"But because you need to see how big this game really is."
He snapped his fingers.
Lights flickered on above.
Storage units.
Rows of them.
Each one filled with crates. Ammunition. Drugs. Maps. Names.
Raaka smiled. "You think this warehouse matters?"
He gestured around them.
"This is just one piece of an empire. The Serpents aren't just gangsters. We're infrastructure."
He knelt again.
"And the goal you're really looking for? Serpents' destruction? That's not possible even in a thousand years."
---
Vijay's eyes fluttered.
Darkness crept in.
He could barely hear Raaka's voice anymore.
Just one last whisper before everything went black.
"Go home, little wolf."
"You've already lost."
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TO BE CONTINUED
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