Krishna walked out of the cabin slowly, his steps heavy and his eyes blank.
It felt like the whole building was closing in on him — the same walls, same people, but everything looked different now. Lifeless. Cold.
He clutched the file tightly in his hand, the manager's harsh words still echoing in his head.
"Tumhe ye sab aane se pehle soch lena chahiye tha."
No matter how much he tried, those words wouldn't stop replaying.
He had tried explaining. He had tried apologizing.
But the manager didn't want to listen. It was already decided — Krishna had to go.
By the time he reached his desk, the strength in his legs was gone. He placed the file down slowly, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.
For a few seconds, he just sat there, staring at nothing. The sound of ringing phones, people laughing, typing — all felt distant.
"Ab kya bacha hai…?" he whispered under his breath.
He took a deep breath, grabbed the file again, and stood up. His chest felt tight — he just wanted a moment to breathe.
He walked toward the cafeteria.
The cafeteria was quiet, only a few employees sitting in small groups. The smell of coffee and hot samosas filled the air.
Krishna entered silently, not looking at anyone. He didn't even go near the counter.
Instead, he walked to the farthest corner near the window and sat down.
He placed the file beside him and leaned back, staring blankly at the tabletop.
He didn't order anything — not tea, not coffee.
He just sat there, lost in thought.
"Ab main kya karoon…?"
He had to find another job quickly. Rent was due next week. His savings were nearly gone. The thought of calling home and telling the truth made his stomach twist.
He didn't even notice when someone sat beside him. Only when he heard a young, cheerful voice did he blink and come back to reality.
"Are bhaiya, kya ho gaya? Manager ne fir daant di kya?"
Krishna turned his head, and his tired eyes softened instantly. Sitting beside him was a familiar face — short hair, half-tucked shirt, a cup of coffee in hand.
"Vivek!" Krishna said, surprised but relieved. "Arre yaar, kaise ho tu? Itne din baad dikha… lagta hai tera chehra bhool gaya tha main."
Vivek grinned. "Bhaiya, tu toh full serious mood mein lag raha hai. Bata na, kya scene hai?"
Krishna sighed and shook his head. "Kya bataoon, yaar… manager ne nikaal diya mujhe."
Vivek's eyes widened. "Kya? Sach mein?"
Krishna nodded slowly. "Haan… kuch bhi bolta hoon, sunta hi nahi. Pura din barbaad kar diya."
For a second, Vivek didn't say anything. Then he leaned back, blew on his coffee, and said lightly,
"Arre chhodo bhai… job gaya toh kya hua, duniya khatam thodi ho gayi. Tu tension mat le, main hoon na. Kuch jugad karte hain, dekhte hain kahin opening mile."
Krishna looked at him, the corner of his lips lifting slightly. "Tu toh abhi bachcha hai, Vivek… har problem ka solution itna easy lagta hai tujhe."
Vivek laughed. "Bachcha hoon bhai, par dimag bada hai!"
Krishna couldn't help but smile — for the first time that day.
Vivek always had that effect — a mix of innocence and confidence that somehow made even the worst situations feel lighter.
And today, maybe for the first time, Krishna really needed that.
Vivek stirred his coffee absent-mindedly, still thinking about what Krishna had said. Then, suddenly, his hand slipped — thak! — the cup tilted, and a little coffee spilled across the table.
"Arre yaar!" Vivek quickly grabbed a few tissues and started wiping the mess, mumbling, "Mujhse na har baar yehi hota hai..."
Krishna smiled faintly, the small accident breaking the heavy silence for a moment. But as Vivek cleaned up, his expression changed — a thought had just struck him.
He looked up at Krishna and said quietly,
"Waise bhaiya… mujhe lagta hai, aapko job se nikaala gaya na… ye sab office politics ka result hai."
Krishna raised his eyebrows, confused. "Office politics?"
Vivek nodded seriously, lowering his voice a little. "Haan bhaiya, socho na. Aap toh theek kaam karte ho, punctual ho, koi bada issue bhi nahi tha. Phir aise hi kaise nikaal diya aapko?"
Krishna frowned slightly, trying to follow what he was saying. He gestured with his hand for Vivek to be clearer.
Vivek understood the hint and leaned in closer, speaking softly,
"Mera matlab ye hai… shayad aapke manager ne jaan-bujhkar nikaala ho. Ho sakta hai uske paas koi apna banda ho, jise woh aapki jagah lana chahta ho. Isiliye usne aapko target kiya."
Krishna stayed quiet for a few seconds. His eyes shifted to the window, watching the people outside — laughing, chatting, drinking tea. His thoughts were scattered.
"Manager ka apna banda…?" he murmured, half to himself.
The idea sounded possible — but he didn't want to believe it. It was easier to blame fate than people.
He shook his head slightly and said in a calm voice,
"Vivek, chhodo yaar. Mujhe lagta hai, main hi kismet ka maara hoon. Ab uske bare mein sochke kya fayda?"
Vivek sighed. He knew Krishna wouldn't believe him. Krishna was too straightforward, too trusting to think that someone could plan against him.
"Thik hai bhaiya," Vivek said softly, "par mujhe lagta hai, jo hua woh simple nahi tha."
Krishna stood up slowly, picking up his file from the table. He adjusted his glasses and looked at Vivek with a faint smile.
"Chalo, ab niklte hain. Zyada der yahan rukenge toh dikkat ho jaayegi. Manager ne dekha toh aur scene banega."
Vivek looked at him for a moment, wanting to say more — to explain why he really thought Krishna was being targeted. But seeing the tired look on Krishna's face, he just nodded.
"Thik hai bhaiya," he said quietly, "aap chalo… main bas coffee finish karke aata hoon."
Krishna nodded, gave a small pat on Vivek's shoulder, and walked toward the cafeteria door.
Vivek watched him go — a worried look settling in his young eyes. He took a slow sip of his coffee and muttered to himself,
"Ye baat aise khatam nahi ho sakti… kuch toh gadbad zaroor hai."
4:00 p.m. — Evening
The office was quieter than usual. Most people were wrapping up their tasks, waiting for the clock to hit the end of shift. Krishna, on the other hand, had already finished everything hours ago. He had spent the day trying to look busy, but deep down, he knew — there was nothing left for him to do.
With nothing on his desk and no new assignments coming his way, he finally rested his head on his folded arms and drifted off to sleep for about an hour.
He knew no one would notice — or even care.
Not far from him, his manager stood beside another employee, helping him with some files. When his eyes caught Krishna sleeping, a flicker of anger crossed his face. His jaw tightened, and his voice became sharper as he continued explaining something to the employee.
Inside, he wanted to lash out. "So this is what he does all day? Sleeping on company time?" he thought bitterly. He had even planned to give Krishna a pile of last-minute work and make him stay late — just to prove a point.
But the office policy didn't allow extra work allocation after shift hours. So, despite his anger, he couldn't do anything about it.
As the clock finally touched 4:00 p.m., Krishna got up, stretched a little, and packed his bag quietly. He didn't look at anyone, just wanted to leave peacefully.
His footsteps echoed softly on the floor as he walked toward the door — and right past his manager.
Just then, a voice behind him said something that froze him in place.
"Dekho is anath ko," the manager muttered casually to the employee beside him, pretending to joke. "Apne maa-baap ke liye bhi bojh raha hoga. Pata nahi kaise maa-baap ne paal liya isse."
The words cut through the air like a knife.
Krishna stopped mid-step. For a moment, everything went silent around him. His heart sank — not out of anger, but disbelief.
He slowly turned his head, looking over his shoulder. His eyes met the manager's for half a second — and instantly, the man started pretending as if nothing had happened. He kept pointing at the file, acting busy, his face blank and innocent.
Krishna didn't say a word. He just stared for a moment, then turned his face away.
His expression was calm, but inside, a storm was brewing — not of rage, but of realization.
He took a deep breath, tightened his grip on his bag strap, and kept walking — his mind far from that office, staring into a place only he could see.
Krishna's eyes were still fixed in one direction — blank, unblinking. It was as if his mind had frozen on one single thought, one single pain that wouldn't leave him.
After a few seconds, he blinked slowly, turned around, and began walking toward the exit of his floor. His footsteps echoed softly on the empty tiles.
Just as he stepped past the last row of cubicles, a faint "tch… tch…" sound rippled through the air. It was strange — almost like a short, sharp hiss of electricity. The hum of machines changed, becoming uneven.
Within moments, the sound grew — tchhhh… crack… tch-tch-tch!
Then a sudden flicker — the ceiling lights blinked twice and dimmed.
Krishna didn't stop. He kept walking calmly, stepping out of the floor as the faint smell of something burning began to fill the corridor. Behind him, the noise continued to rise — the familiar crackle of electricity and the whirring of overworked cooling fans.
Inside the floor, tension spread fast. Employees who were still working looked up from their desks.
"Yeh kya sound aa raha hai?" someone asked nervously.
Another voice replied, "Lagta hai short circuit hua hai… server room ke taraf se aa raha hoga."
And then — pop!
A small flash of light burst somewhere inside the server room, followed by a puff of smoke that began to seep out through the vents. The red warning lights on the server door started blinking rapidly.
Within seconds, the IT department jumped into action. Three technicians rushed in, pulling out the keys from their lanyards and unlocking the server room door.
"System shutdown karo! Jaldi!" one of them shouted, his voice sharp and urgent.
The moment they opened the door, hot air rushed out — the temperature inside had spiked due to overheating. The humming of cooling units had gone wild, fans spinning at full speed while sparks danced across a cluster of tangled cables.
One of the technicians grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall, spraying short bursts near the floor panels where the smoke was thickest. Another crouched down, trying to disconnect the main power lines.
But it wasn't just the third floor.
The same crack-crack-pop sounds started echoing from below — second floor, first floor, and even the ground floor. Each level had its own small server section, and chaos had begun everywhere.
On the ground floor, a security guard shouted, "Server room se dhuaan nikal raha hai!" while two IT staff ran past him, dragging power cables and trying to pull the main breakers.
Inside the building, lights flickered continuously — white, then dim yellow, then off for a second, and back again. Alarm beeps began to overlap, a chorus of urgent sounds echoing through every corridor.
By the time Krishna stepped out of the main door of the building, the faint smell of burnt circuits and the sound of sparks still followed him.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
Even though everything behind him was chaos — people running, wires sparking, alarms beeping — inside him, there was only silence.
For him, this noise was nothing compared to the one he carried inside his heart for years.
The words of his manager had hurt, yes — but they weren't new.
He had heard worse from life itself.
And as he walked down the steps, the noise behind him slowly faded, replaced by the sound of his own quiet footsteps in the evening air.
Meanwhile, in another part of the city — far away from the noise and chaos spreading through Krishna's office building — the Mayor of Mumbai, Mr. Rajiv Saxena, sat comfortably in his lavish living room, reading the evening newspaper.
Rajiv Saxena was a man in his late forties — sharp-featured, neatly dressed even at home, with a calm but calculating expression that revealed years of experience in both politics and business.
His bungalow stood proudly on a quiet road in South Mumbai, facing west toward the Arabian Sea. The large glass windows behind him were open, letting in a soft orange glow from the setting sun. The sound of gentle waves and distant horns mixed faintly with the rustle of the newspaper in his hands.
The room itself reflected his personality — elegant, organized, and powerful. A long beige sofa stretched along one wall, decorated with dark brown cushions. On the side table sat a glass of water, a half-empty cup of tea, and a small bronze model of a steel furnace — a reminder of his other identity, the owner of Saxena Steel Industries, one of Mumbai's well-known metal factories.
He had just returned from an important meeting at the municipal headquarters and was now relaxing, scanning through the headlines of the day. His reading glasses rested low on his nose as his eyes moved across the page.
A few minutes later, a soft knock came at the door.
"Sir…" came a polite voice. It was his secretary, Meera, who had been working with him for years.
Rajiv didn't look up immediately. "Haan Meera, bolo," he said calmly, still flipping through the newspaper.
"Sir, koi aapse milne aaye hain," Meera said softly.
Rajiv looked up, a slight frown forming. "Itni shaam ko? Kaun hai?"
"Sir, unhone apna naam nahi bataya," Meera replied, standing straight with a file in her hand. "Bas kaha ki aapse milna zaroori hai."
Rajiv leaned back slightly, removing his glasses. "Hmm…" he muttered thoughtfully. After a short pause, he said,
"Thik hai Meera, unhe andar bhejo."
"Ji sir," Meera nodded, and quietly turned to leave.
Rajiv placed the folded newspaper on the table, leaned back in his chair, and adjusted his cufflinks calmly. A faint, curious smile appeared on his face.
He murmured to himself, "Dekhte hain, ab shaam ke waqt kaunsa mehmaan aa gaya hai…"
He had no idea that the person about to enter his living room would soon pull him into something far beyond politics or business — something that would change the city forever.
The quietness of the living room broke as the sound of a walking stick echoed softly against the marble floor — thak… thak… thak…
Rajiv's eyes shifted toward the main entrance. Someone was walking in slowly, each step firm yet slightly uneven, like the rhythm of a person who had fought through pain but refused to show weakness.
Rajiv stood up, curiosity flickering in his eyes. As the figure came closer, the light from the chandelier fell across his face — and Rajiv's expression completely changed.
For a moment, he froze. His newspaper slipped slightly from his hand.
It was Kabir Rathore — one of Mumbai's most powerful and respected businessmen.
A man whose name itself was enough to make headlines. The owner of Rathore Enterprise, a company that ruled not just in Mumbai but across the country.
Kabir walked with a slight limp, his right leg stiff, but his presence carried such authority that the imperfection only made him seem stronger — like a warrior who had survived too many battles and still stood tall.
He was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark blue suit, the kind that looked simple but screamed power. A silver watch gleamed faintly on his wrist. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair combed back with effortless style, and his sharp jawline added to his striking looks.
Even with the walking stick in his hand, there was something commanding about him — a man used to control, to being obeyed.
Rajiv immediately stood straighter, not out of fear, but pure respect. "Mr. Kabir Rathore…" he said, still surprised. "Aap… aap yahaan?"
Kabir's piercing eyes met his, calm but unblinking. He raised one hand slightly — a simple gesture that told Rajiv to relax.
"Baith jaaiye, Mr. Saxena," Kabir said in a deep, composed voice. "Main itna bhi bada aadmi nahi hoon ke aap khade ho jaayein."
His tone carried quiet arrogance — not the arrogance of pride, but of power that didn't need to be proven.
Rajiv gave a small, respectful nod and sat back slowly, still processing what he was seeing.
Kabir, meanwhile, took the nearest sofa seat with deliberate grace. He placed his stick beside him, adjusted his sleeve slightly, and leaned back, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if reading every corner of it.
Rajiv finally spoke, still amazed.
"Main toh soch bhi nahi sakta tha, Kabir ji, ke aap khud yahaan aayenge. Agar koi message bhej dete, toh main khud aapke paas aa jaata."
Kabir gave a faint smile — a half-smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"Main jaanta hoon, Rajiv," he said slowly. "Par kuch baatein… aise logon ke saamne nahi hoti jo beech mein sun lein."
For a few moments, there was complete silence in the room. The only sound was the faint ticking of the wall clock and the soft rustle of the sea breeze slipping through the curtains.
Kabir sat there quietly, his fingers tapping lightly on the handle of his walking stick. His eyes, usually sharp and full of confidence, now seemed distant — lost in thoughts that weighed heavily on him.
Rajiv noticed it immediately. The Kabir Rathore sitting in front of him wasn't the same man he had known for years — the one whose voice could make even the richest businessmen fall silent. Today, Kabir looked… tired. Not physically, but somewhere deep inside.
Rajiv leaned forward slightly and said in a calm voice,
"Kahiye Kabir ji, kya baat hai? Aap itne pareshaan kyun lag rahe hain? Aapko mujhe kuch kehna tha na?"
Kabir didn't answer right away. He exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor for a second before he looked up again.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low but steady.
"Rajiv… main yahaan aapke paas ek aisi baat lekar aaya hoon, jo main kisi aur se keh bhi nahi sakta. Ye sirf business nahi hai… ye mere liye personal bhi hai."
Rajiv frowned slightly. "Aap khul kar batayiye Kabir ji, yahan koi teesra nahi hai. Aap apna dil halka kijiye."
Kabir nodded slowly, took a deep breath, and began to speak — his words coming out with a mix of hesitation and pain. He spoke for a long minute, explaining something that made even the calm, composed Rajiv go still.
As Kabir's voice trailed off, silence filled the room again. The tension was heavy — the kind that settles after hearing something you wish wasn't true.
Rajiv just stared at him for a moment, unable to believe what he'd heard. His brows furrowed, his fingers clenched the edge of the sofa slightly.
Finally, he spoke — his tone quiet but serious.
"Kabir ji, aap is baare mein ek baar phir sochiye… us ghatna ko hue ab 16 saal beet chuke hain."
Kabir's eyes shifted slowly toward him, his expression unreadable. For a brief moment, it seemed like he was remembering something long buried — something he could never forget.
END OF THE CHAPTER