The heavy oak doors of the Lord's dressing room swung shut, sealing the Indian team inside. The roar of the fans outside was muffled to a dull, rhythmic thrum, but inside, the volume spiked to deafening levels.
The professionalism that had defined their campaign—the tactical meetings, the diet plans, the curfews—evaporated in a mist of sheer, unadulterated euphoria.
"POP!"
The sound of the first champagne cork hitting the ceiling was the starting gun.
Yuvraj Singh, the ringleader of chaos, was armed with a magnum-sized bottle. He didn't pour it; he sprayed it. A jet of fizzy foam arched across the room, drenching Harbhajan Singh, who roared and retaliated with a bottle of sparkling apple juice.
"CHAMPIONS!" Zaheer Khan bellowed, hugging Ishant Sharma so hard he lifted the lanky pacer off the ground.
Someone—probably Suresh Raina—plugged an iPod into the docking station. The bass kicked in. It wasn't the polite pop music of the English charts; it was the thumping, heart-pounding beat of Daler Mehndi.
"Tunak Tunak Tun" blasted through the historic room, vibrating the wood-panelled walls that had once housed Grace and Bradman.
Siddanth stood near his locker, soaking it in. He was sticky with champagne and sweat, his hair matted, his body aching from the intensity of the game, but he felt lighter than air.
He watched Yuvraj and Harbhajan start the Bhangra. It wasn't a performance; it was an explosion of joy. Shoulders bouncing, hands in the air, legs kicking out. Even Zaheer Khan, usually the cool uncle of the group, threw his head back and joined the circle, his movements loose and rhythmic.
Siddanth dropped his kit bag. He felt the beat. He jumped into the fray, matching Yuvraj step for step, laughing as Bhajji tried to wrap a towel around his head like a turban.
Then, Siddanth spotted him.
Rohit Sharma.
The Hitman was sitting on the physio's table on the far side of the room, a bottle of water in his hand, tapping his foot but looking decidedly glued to his seat. He was smiling, watching the madness, but he was hesitating. The shyness that sometimes gripped him off the field was holding him back.
Siddanth wiped the sweat from his eyes. Not today, Ro. Nobody sits today.
He broke away from the Bhangra circle and sprinted across the room.
"Oh no," Rohit said, seeing him coming. "Sid, don't. I'm tired. My legs..."
"Your legs are fine!" Siddanth yelled over the music. "You're a World Champion! Champions don't sit!"
He grabbed Rohit's hand. Rohit resisted for a second, gripping the table.
"Sid, I can't dance! You know this!"
"I don't care if you dance like an uncle at a wedding! You're coming!"
Siddanth yanked him. Rohit slid off the table, stumbling.
"Okay! Okay! I'm coming!"
Siddanth dragged him into the centre of the circle. Yuvraj saw fresh meat. He grabbed Rohit's other arm.
"Arey! Shanna wants to dance!" Yuvraj cheered.
The song changed. Mauja Hi Mauja from Jab We Met.
The beat dropped.
Siddanth pushed Rohit into the middle. "Go!"
Rohit looked around at the circle of his teammates—Jadeja clapping, Raina whistling, Dhoni watching from the corner with a grin.
He shrugged, let out a laugh, and just went for it. He did a move that was half-Bhangra, half-cover drive.
The room cheered.
"Shanna! Shanna! Shanna!"
For the next thirty minutes, the Indian dressing room was a nightclub. Siddanth, Rohit, Yuvraj, Jadeja, Raina, Harbhajan, RP Singh, and Zaheer formed a mosh pit of blue jerseys. They jumped until the floorboards creaked. They sang until their voices were hoarse. They danced out the stress of the Pakistan match, the pressure of the expectations, and the sheer physical toll of the tournament.
It was a moment of pure brotherhood. No seniors, no juniors. Just fifteen men who had conquered the world.
---
By the time they showered, changed into their team tracksuits, and boarded the bus back to the St. James' Court, it was nearly midnight. But the night was young.
The hotel had prepared a private function room. The food was laid out—kebabs, biryani, everything the dieticians usually forbade.
The celebrations continued, but the tempo shifted. It was less frantic, more sentimental.
Siddanth sat with MS Dhoni for a while.
"188 runs," Dhoni said quietly, shaking his head as he nursed a drink. "I still don't know how you did it, Sid."
"Just one of those days, Mahi-bhai," Siddanth said, swirling his glass of juice. "Everything hit the middle."
"Enjoy it," Dhoni said, clinking his glass against Siddanth's. "These days don't come often. You keep this feeling. You bottle it. And when things get tough... you take a sip."
Siddanth stayed until 2:00 AM. He watched as the team slowly dwindled. Yuvraj and Harbhajan were the last ones on the dance floor, still going strong. Rohit had fallen asleep on a sofa in the corner.
Siddanth felt the pull of sleep. The after-effects were finally catching up. His muscles felt heavy, his eyelids drooping.
"Night, guys," he waved to the survivors.
"Night, Legend!" Jadeja called out from the buffet table where he was eating dessert.
Siddanth walked up to his room. The corridor was quiet. He entered Room 402. And fell on the Bed.
He didn't even dream. It was a black, deep, restorative sleep.
---
The morning sun filtered through the heavy curtains of the hotel room. Siddanth's internal clock, honed by years of discipline, woke him at 7:30 AM sharp.
He blinked, disoriented for a second. Then he saw the gold medal hanging on the lamp shade.
World Champions.
A smile touched his lips.
He looked over at the other bed. Jadeja was out cold, snoring softly, an arm hanging off the side of the mattress.
Siddanth sat up. He stretched. His body felt stiff, but good. The ache of victory.
He closed his eyes. He needed to check.
He focused his mind.
DING.
The familiar blue interface shimmered into existence behind his eyelids.
[SYSTEM STATUS REPORT]
[EVENT: T20 WORLD CUP 2009]
[STATUS: COMPLETED]
[RESULT: VICTORY]
[TEMPLATE INTEGRATION UPDATE]
AB de Villiers: 80%
Brett Lee: 80%
Jacques Kallis: 30%
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: "THE PERFECT STORM"]
(Description: Win the World Cup, Man of the Match in Final, Player of the Series, and score a Century in the Final)
[REWARD: GOLDEN TIER REWARD (ITEM)]
Siddanth's heart beat faster. A Golden Reward.
He mentally pressed the [CLAIM] button.
The interface swirled, gold light pulsing. It wasn't a wheel this time. It was a chest, opening slowly.
A beam of light shot out.
An icon appeared. It looked like a stylized, glowing human eye with a target reticle over it.
[REWARD ACQUIRED: "CHRONOS PERCEPTION" (PASSIVE/ACTIVE - GOLDEN TIER)]
[Description:]
Passive Effect: The Host's visual processing speed is permanently increased by 25%. Fast bowling appears slower; spin rotations are visible earlier.
Active Effect (The Zone Switch): The Host can voluntarily trigger a state of Dilated Time Perception for a duration of 5 seconds.
Utility: During this window, time appears to move at 50% speed for the Host, allowing for hyper-precise shot selection (batting) or last-microsecond wrist adjustments (bowling).
Cooldown: 20 minutes.
Cost: Moderate mental fatigue with overuse.
Siddanth gasped, his eyes snapping open in the dim hotel room.
Chronos Perception.
Bullet time.
He could slow down time.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. This was it. This was the difference between a great player and a god.
With Predator's Focus, he could block out distractions.
With Chronos Perception, he could literally buy more time.
Facing a 155kph bowler? Activate. The ball would look like 130kph.
Needing to bowl a yorker when the batsman charged? Activate. Adjust the wrist at the last millisecond.
"Golden Reward," he whispered. "No kidding."
He checked his stats one last time.
Stamina: S-Rank.
Endurance: S-Rank.
Reflexes: S++ (With Chronos).
He was a weapon. A fully upgraded, gold-plated weapon.
He stood up, feeling a surge of energy. He needed to test the body. He needed to move.
The discipline kicked in.
You celebrated. You slept. Now, you work.
He grabbed his gym gear.
He looked at Jadeja one last time—still snoring—and quietly slipped out of the room.
---
The hotel gym was empty, save for a lone cleaner vacuuming the carpet. It smelled of lemon polish and cold metal.
Siddanth stepped onto the treadmill.
He thought about the champagne. The cake. The heavy, rich food at the party.
Calories savoured, he thought. Calories to burn.
He set the treadmill to a steep incline.
He started to run.
As his heart rate climbed, he tested the Passive Effect of his new reward.
He looked at the digital numbers on the treadmill console, counting up the seconds.
00:45... 00:46...
He focused.
The numbers seemed to tick over... slightly slower?
He looked at the fan spinning in the corner. The blades, usually a blur, seemed to define themselves for a split second.
It was subtle. But it was there. His brain was processing visual information faster than before.
He finished the run—5 kilometres at a blistering pace. Sweat poured off him, cleansing the toxins of the celebration.
He moved to the weights.
He loaded the bar for deadlifts. 140kg.
He gripped the bar.
He activated Chronos Perception (Active).
Click.
The world didn't stop, but it turned into syrup.
The hum of the treadmill in the background dropped an octave. The dust motes dancing in the light from the window seemed to float in suspended animation.
He felt every fiber of his muscle contract. He felt the weight of the bar, the balance of his feet. He had time to adjust his grip by a millimeter to make it perfect.
He lifted.
The bar came up. In his mind, it took five seconds. In reality, it was an explosive, one-second lift.
The effect faded. Time snapped back to normal speed.
He exhaled sharply.
Incredible.
He could use this to adjust to a googly after the ball had left the hand. He could use this to change his bowling line mid-air.
He finished his workout with a renewed intensity. He wasn't just burning calories; he was calibrating his new engine.
By the time he racked the final weight, he was drenched, exhausted, and absolutely euphoric.
The World Cup was in his bag. The Golden Reward was in his brain.
He walked back to the room, the adrenaline fading into a calm, powerful hum.
---
He showered, the hot water washing away the last of the sweat. He dressed in fresh clothes—jeans and a hoodie.
He ordered breakfast.
Egg whites. Fruit. Coffee.
He sat by the window, eating, looking out at the London rain that had started to fall.
His phone buzzed.
It was a message from Virender Sehwag (who was back in India).
"Saw the innings. 188. You are mad. Come home quickly. I need to see if you are actually human."
Siddanth smiled.
He typed back. "Human enough, Viru-pa. Just lucky."
He put the phone down.
The tour was over.
He had conquered the world.
Now, it was time to go home. To Hyderabad.
And to 2011.
He took a sip of coffee.
The game had changed. And he was the one holding the controller.