Date: February 6, 2013
Location: Hyderabad, Telangana
The dusty silver Maruti Swift Dzire was parked inconspicuously under the flickering amber glow of a streetlight in Tarnaka. It was a remarkably ordinary car—the kind of vehicle that blended seamlessly into the chaotic, never-ending traffic of Hyderabad. It had a few scratches on the bumper, slightly faded paint, and tinted windows.
Inside the driver's seat, Siddanth Deva leaned back, tapping his fingers against the worn steering wheel to the rhythm of a faint Telugu melody playing on the FM radio.
He was wearing a plain, slightly oversized black hoodie with the hood pulled up, and a dark surgical mask resting on his chin.
The passenger door clicked and swung open. Krithika slid into the seat, bringing with her the scent of jasmine and vanilla. She was dressed casually in a comfortable, oversized flannel shirt and faded jeans, her hair tied up in a messy bun.
She slammed the door shut, immediately eyeing the dashboard, the manual gear stick, and the cramped legroom with an expression of profound amusement.
"Okay, let's go," Krithika started, buckling her seatbelt. "I bribed my sister to cover for me."
Siddanth chuckled warmly, an easy, relaxed sound that he rarely let out around anyone else. He shifted the car into first gear and smoothly pulled away from the curb.
He asks, keeping his eyes on the road. "How was the economics presentation?"
Krithika groaned, throwing her head back against the headrest. "A disaster. The professor kept asking me questions about global supply chains, and all I could think about was your stupid ₹12,999 phone ruining the market equilibrium. My friends are still obsessed with it, by the way. Riya practically prays to your launch video every morning."
Siddanth let out a rich laugh, merging onto the wider, brightly lit expanse of the Outer Ring Road (ORR). The traffic thinned out, the city lights beginning to blur into long, continuous streaks of neon.
"Speaking of people missing you," Siddanth said, his tone turning fond. "Amma was asking about you during lunch today. She wanted to know why you haven't come by the farmhouse lately."
Krithika's eyes widened, a flash of genuine panic crossing her face. "Oh my god. Does she suspect anything?"
"No, no," Siddanth assured her quickly, reaching over to briefly squeeze her hand. "She just misses your company. You should come over before I leave for Bangalore. Nanna bought a new batch of vintage Bollywood vinyl records, and he needs an audience."
"I will," Krithika smiled softly, the panic fading. "I miss them too."
They drove for another hour, leaving the dense urban sprawl of Hyderabad behind and venturing into the quieter, darker stretches of the city outskirts. Open fields and the occasional cluster of roadside businesses flanked the highway.
"I'm starving," Krithika announced suddenly, clutching her stomach. "If you don't feed me in the next ten minutes, I'm going to start eating the upholstery of this Swift."
"Your wish is my command," Siddanth grinned, already downshifting and pulling the car off the main highway onto a gravel shoulder.
He parked near a sprawling, brightly lit roadside dhaba. It wasn't a high-end restaurant; it was a rustic, authentic setup with wooden charpais (cots) laid out under strings of incandescent bulbs, the air thick with the mouth-watering aroma of roasting tandoori chicken, cumin, and burning charcoal.
Before stepping out of the car, Siddanth pulled his black surgical mask up over his nose and mouth, and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down low over his eyes.
Krithika watched him adjust his disguise, a brief look of sympathy crossing her face. "Does it ever bother you? Having to hide your face just to eat dinner?"
Siddanth paused, his hand on the door handle. He looked at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a hidden smile. "Not when I'm eating with you. Come on."
They walked into the dhaba, choosing a secluded corner charpai near the back edge of the property, far away from the main cluster of truck drivers and families. The dim lighting provided the perfect cover.
They ordered a massive spread—butter chicken, garlic naan, paneer butter masala, and tall glasses of sweet lassi. Siddanth only pulled his mask down to his chin when the waiter was out of sight, eating quickly but happily.
For the next hour, they just existed. They argued over which Bollywood movie had the best soundtrack, stole pieces of naan from each other's plates, and laughed until their sides hurt.
By the time they finished their meal and got back into the Swift, the night had fully set in.
Siddanth drove back toward the heart of the city, the radio playing a mix of 2013 chart-toppers. When Arijit Singh's "Tum Hi Ho" came on, Krithika started singing along terribly, intentionally missing the high notes just to make Siddanth wince. He retaliated by singing the chorus in a booming, overly dramatic baritone, resulting in a laughing fit that nearly made him miss a turn.
As they re-entered the bustling, brightly lit streets of the city, Krithika let out a contented sigh.
"Okay, the spicy food was amazing," she declared, looking out the window. "But now I am craving sugar. I need ice cream. It is a biological emergency."
Siddanth scanned the road ahead. "Ice cream it is."
A few minutes later, he spotted a brightly lit, standalone ice cream cart parked on the side of a relatively quiet avenue near Jubilee Hills.
He pulled the Swift over to the curb, parking about twenty meters behind the cart.
"I'll go get it," Krithika said, unbuckling her seatbelt. "You stay here. What do you want? Chocolate?"
"Vanilla. Keep it simple," Siddanth replied, keeping the engine running and the AC on.
Krithika hopped out of the car, her sneakers padding against the pavement as she walked toward the brightly lit cart.
Siddanth leaned back in his seat, watching her go. He checked his side mirrors out of sheer habit, his mind relaxed.
But a moment later, the tranquility of the night was broken.
Two loud, modified motorcycles roared down the avenue, swerving aggressively before screeching to a halt right next to the ice cream cart. Four young men, probably in their early twenties, hopped off. They were dressed in flashy, overly tight clothes, reeking of cheap cologne and the kind of arrogant, misplaced confidence.
Siddanth's internal Predator's Focus flickered to life instantly. His relaxed posture vanished. His eyes locked onto the rearview and side mirrors, analyzing the situation.
The boys weren't buying ice cream. They had surrounded Krithika.
Even from far away, Siddanth could see their body language. One of them, a guy wearing a gaudy silver chain, leaned in uncomfortably close to Krithika, saying something with a sleazy grin. The others laughed loudly, blocking her path back toward the car.
In the driver's seat, Siddanth's jaw locked. His heart rate didn't spike; it dropped into a terrifying, icy calm.
He slipped the surgical mask over his face, pulled his hood up, and stepped out of the Swift, shutting the door silently.
Krithika was standing her ground, her arms crossed, her face a mask of furious restraint. She had already grabbed two ice cream cones from the vendor.
"Just move out of the way," Krithika said sharply, trying to side-step the guy with the silver chain.
"Why so much anger, madam?" the guy mocked, stepping into her path again. "We are just asking for your name. It's dangerous for a pretty girl to be out so late alone."
"She's not alone."
The voice cut through the humid night air like a physical blade. It was deep, completely devoid of emotion, and carried an undeniable, crushing authority.
The four boys turned around.
Siddanth stood there, a towering 6'2" silhouette shrouded in a black hoodie and a mask, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the boy with the silver chain.
Krithika's eyes darted to Siddanth. She immediately recognized the shift in his posture. This wasn't the warm, joking boy she had been singing with five minutes ago. This was the apex predator.
She quickly stepped toward him, grabbing his arm tightly.
"Siddu, let's just go," Krithika said quickly, her voice low. She didn't want a fight. She knew exactly what would happen if his mask slipped and someone recorded the Vice-Captain of India in a street brawl. It would end his career. "Nothing happened. I got the ice cream. Let's leave."
The guy with the silver chain, emboldened by his friends and totally unaware of the lethal weapon standing in front of him, scoffed loudly.
"Oh, look! The hero came!" the boy mocked, gesturing to Siddanth's masked face. "What's with the mask, bhai? You think you're some kind of ninja? Why don't you take your girl and get lost before we make you—"
Siddanth felt a familiar, protective rage burning in his chest, but he felt Krithika's grip tighten on his bicep.
"Siddu, please," Krithika whispered urgently, pulling him slightly. "There is no need to hear the ramblings of a street dog. Do not make a scene."
Siddanth looked down at her. He saw the genuine concern in her eyes—not for herself, but for him.
He let out a slow, heavy breath. He gave her a tight nod, his muscles relaxing a fraction as he prepared to turn around and walk her back to the car.
But the guy with the silver chain, misinterpreting Siddanth's silence and willingness to walk away as pure cowardice, took a step closer.
"Yeah, listen to the madam, hero," the boy sneered, his eyes raking over Krithika with disgusting intent. "Run back to your little car. Leave the pretty girl here with real men. We'll show her a much better time."
That was it. The line was crossed.
Siddanth gently, but firmly, placed his hand over hers. He slowly removed her hand from his bicep.
"I will just be a second, Krithi," Siddanth said softly, his voice incredibly warm and reassuring to her. "No need to worry."
He let go of her hand and stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the guy with the silver chain.
The four boys puffed out their chests, trying to look intimidating.
"Say sorry to her," Siddanth said. The command wasn't a request; it was an absolute directive.
The guy with the chain laughed, looking at his friends. "Why? What did I do? I was just talking to her."
"I won't ask another time," Siddanth's voice dropped into a terrifying, guttural register. "Say sorry to her."
The boy sneered, stepping aggressively into Siddanth's personal space, jabbing a finger toward Siddanth's chest. "We won't say it. What will you do, huh? Hit us?"
Crack.
The sound echoed off the empty street like a gunshot.
Siddanth hadn't thrown a punch; a closed fist could break bones and cause permanent damage. Instead his right hand snapped forward in a devastating, open-handed slap across the boy's cheek.
The impact lifted the boy entirely off his feet. He spun and crashed hard onto the pavement, completely out cold before he even hit the ground. A high-pitched ringing sound was probably the only thing echoing in his skull.
For a split second, there was absolute silence. The ice cream vendor scrambled backward, hiding behind his cart.
The remaining three boys stared at their unconscious friend on the ground, their bravado instantly evaporating into shock. But the alcohol in their system overrode their survival instincts. With angry shouts, all three of them lunged at Siddanth simultaneously.
Siddanth's Chronos Perception made their uncoordinated, wild swings look like they were moving underwater. He didn't fight with rage; he fought with surgical, terrifying efficiency. He didn't want to cause major injuries or attract police attention; he just wanted to dismantle them.
The first boy threw a wild right hook. Siddanth simply leaned his head back an inch, letting the fist slice through empty air. In the same fluid motion, Siddanth swept his leg out, kicking the boy's feet out from under him. The boy hit the concrete with a heavy thud, gasping for air as the wind was knocked out of his lungs.
The second boy tried to tackle him around the waist. Siddanth sidestepped with the agility of a parkour athlete, grabbed the boy by the collar of his shirt, and used the boy's own momentum to throw him face-first into the side of the metal ice cream cart. The boy slumped to the ground, clutching his bruised forehead and groaning in pain.
The final boy froze, his fist raised halfway, staring at Siddanth in absolute, unadulterated terror. He looked at his three friends groaning on the floor, dismantled in less than five seconds.
Siddanth took one slow step toward him.
The boy dropped his hands and immediately fell to his knees, raising his palms in surrender. "Sorry bhai! Sorry, sorry, please!"
Siddanth ignored him. He turned his back on the carnage and walked calmly over to the terrified ice cream vendor.
"Bhaiyya, water bottle dena," (Brother, give me a water bottle,) Siddanth asked politely, pulling a five-hundred rupee note from his pocket and placing it on the cart to cover any trouble caused.
The vendor, shaking slightly, handed him a plastic bottle of drinking water he kept for himself.
Siddanth took it, walked over to the guy with the silver chain, who was still knocked out cold on the pavement. Siddanth poured a handful of ice-cold water into his palm and splashed it violently across the boy's face.
The boy gasped, his eyes flying open. He looked around wildly, entirely disoriented, a massive red handprint blooming across his cheek. Then, his eyes locked onto the towering, masked figure standing over him.
Panic seized him. He scrambled, practically crawling backward on his hands and knees across the pavement, trying to get away from Siddanth.
"Get up," Siddanth commanded.
The boy scrambled to his feet, trembling, joining his three battered friends who were now clustered together like frightened sheep.
Siddanth gestured toward Krithika, who was standing by the car, watching the entire spectacle with wide eyes, her ice creams slowly melting in her hands.
"Go to her," Siddanth ordered the boys. "And apologize."
The four boys didn't hesitate. They practically tripped over each other walking toward Krithika. They stood five feet away from her, heads bowed in absolute submission.
"Sorry, madam," the guy with the chain mumbled, rubbing his stinging jaw. "Very sorry. We made a mistake."
Siddanth walked up behind them. His presence alone made them flinch.
"Don't you have mothers and sisters in your own houses?" Siddanth asked, his voice laced with absolute disgust. He was the emotional pillar of his family, raised by a fiercely protective mother, and the concept of harassing a woman on the street repulsed him on a fundamental level. "How would you feel if they were walking home, and a group of cowards on bikes surrounded them? How would you feel hearing what you just did?"
The boys kept their heads down, staring at their shoes.
"If I ever see your faces on this street again, or if I ever hear that you've bothered someone else," Siddanth warned, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "a slap is going to be the least of your worries. Get on your bikes and get out of my sight."
The boys scrambled. Engines roared to life, and within seconds, they tore down the avenue, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and the masked nightmare as possible.
The street returned to silence.
Siddanth let out a slow exhale, the adrenaline bleeding from his system. He pulled down his mask, his eyes softening instantly as he looked at Krithika.
"Your ice cream is melting, Shorty," he noted softly.
Krithika didn't say a word. She grabbed his wrist, pulled open the passenger door of the Swift, shoved him toward the driver's side, and practically threw herself into the car.
Siddanth got in, shutting the door. Before he could even turn the key in the ignition, the scolding began.
"Are you completely out of your mind?!" Krithika yelled, hitting him in the shoulder with her free hand. "What if one of them had a knife? What if the police drove by? Do you have any idea what would have happened!"
Siddanth didn't argue. He just sat there, listening to her rant, analyzing her reaction.
"Krithi," Siddanth interrupted softly, turning to fully face her.
She stopped, breathing heavily, glaring at him.
"Where was your usual fieriness out there?" Siddanth asked, his voice genuinely curious and gentle. "Normally, you would start a shouting match with a guy just for cutting the line at the movie theater. You are not a quiet person. Why did you stay silent when they surrounded you? Why did you just try to walk away?"
Krithika looked down at the melting ice cream cones in her hands, the anger slowly draining from her face, replaced by a vulnerable exhaustion.
"I stood silent because I know you," she whispered, refusing to meet his eyes. "I knew that if I started fighting back, they would escalate it, and you would come out of this car to back me up. And if anyone recognized you... if someone pulled out a phone and filmed you hitting them... tomorrow morning it would be all over the news. 'Siddanth Deva Assaults Public.' I didn't want to risk your entire life, your entire career, just because some idiots were running their mouths."
Siddanth felt a tightening in his chest. She had suppressed her own fierce, independent nature entirely to protect him. She had chosen his safety over her own pride.
He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently cupping her jaw. His thumb softly rubbed her cheek, tilting her face up so she was forced to look at his dark, earnest eyes.
"Krithi, listen to me," Siddanth said, his voice stripped of any arrogance or ego, leaving only absolute sincerity. "There is no need for you to stay calm for something like that. Not ever."
He moved his hand, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"I don't care if the whole world sees me as a thug," Siddanth continued, his tone fiercely protective. "I don't care about the headlines. I had to hit them because I defend my people. You are my responsibility when you're with me. And more importantly... I hit them because I was there to stop them today. But imagine if there was another woman in your position, walking alone, with no one sitting in a car waiting for her. Guys like that need to be taught a lesson they won't forget."
Krithika stared into his eyes, completely disarmed by the raw, unwavering protective nature he carried. He wasn't acting like a superstar; he was acting like a man who genuinely cared about right and wrong.
She slowly nodded, a small, tight smile returning to her lips. "You really have a hero complex, you know that?"
"I just hate bullies," Siddanth smiled back, pulling his hand away and turning the key in the ignition. The Swift rumbled to life. "Now, eat your ice cream before it melts."
They drove the rest of the way in a comfortable, intimate silence. The tension of the incident was completely washed away, replaced by a deeper, unspoken understanding of how much they were willing to sacrifice for each other.
Siddanth pulled the car up to the end of her residential street in Tarnaka, parking in the shadows.
Krithika unbuckled her seatbelt. She turned to him, leaning across the center console. She didn't say anything. She just placed a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek, a silent thank you for everything he was.
"Goodnight, Siddu," she whispered.
"Goodnight, Krithi. Call me when you get inside."
He watched her walk down the street until she safely unlatched her front gate and disappeared into her house. Only then did he shift the car into gear and begin the long drive back to the Shamshabad farmhouse.
Siddanth was cruising down the road near the Secunderabad cantonment area, his mind drifting toward the impending NCA camp and the logistical updates Arjun had sent him regarding the Bolt 1 inventory.
As he drove past a dimly lit bus stop, his headlights caught a splash of white.
He slowed down slightly, his eyes narrowing. Walking along the empty footpath were three teenage boys, probably around fourteen or fifteen years old. They were all wearing full, dirt-stained white cricket kits, lugging massive, heavy kitbags over their shoulders. They looked absolutely exhausted, occasionally turning around to stick their thumbs out, hoping for a lift in the dead of night.
Siddanth didn't hesitate. He pulled the Swift over to the curb just ahead of them and rolled down the passenger window.
"Where to, boys?" Siddanth called out, keeping his face partially obscured by the shadows of the car interior.
The three teenagers jogged up to the window, looking relieved. "Anna, can you drop us near Paradise Circle? We missed the last bus and autos are asking for too much money."
"Throw your bags in the trunk and hop in," Siddanth said casually, popping the boot.
The boys happily obliged, shoving their heavy SS and SG kitbags into the back before piling into the backseat of the Swift.
"Thank you so much, Anna," the boy sitting in the middle said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We were walking for twenty minutes."
"No problem," Siddanth said, pulling back onto the road. He adjusted the rearview mirror to look at them. The interior cabin light flashed briefly as they passed under a bright streetlamp.
The boy sitting behind the passenger seat looked up, catching a clear glimpse of Siddanth's eyes and jawline in the mirror. The boy froze. He blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes, and looked again.
The kid's jaw hit the floor. He aggressively elbowed his friend in the ribs, pointing wildly at the rearview mirror.
"Orey... oi... look!" the boy hissed loudly.
The other two boys leaned forward. The collective realization hit them like a freight train. The exhausted silence in the backseat instantly morphed into absolute, hyperventilating shock.
"Oh my god," one of them gasped, clutching the headrest. "Deva bhai?!"
Siddanth couldn't help it; he threw his head back and laughed, a warm, booming sound that filled the small car. "Guilty as charged. Relax, boys. Put your seatbelts on."
"You... you are Siddanth Deva!" the boy in the middle exclaimed, his voice cracking an octave. "The Devil! We... we were just talking about your 145 against Pakistan! We watched the highlights before practice! Are we actually in your car right now?!"
"Unless you're hallucinating from exhaustion, yes, you are," Siddanth smiled warmly, completely shifting into his friendly, off-the-pitch persona. "Where are you coming from so late?"
"We had a local Under-16 night tournament match in Marredpally," the third boy explained, practically bouncing in his seat with excitement. "We won! But the match dragged on and we missed the bus."
"Congratulations on the win," Siddanth praised genuinely. "How's the practice going? What do you guys play as?"
For the next fifteen minutes, the drive turned into a masterclass. The boys, completely forgetting their fatigue, bombarded him with questions. Siddanth answered all of them with incredible patience. He didn't give them generic PR answers; he gave them actual, highly technical advice.
He told the opening batsman how to keep his head perfectly still when facing express pace. He told the fast bowler how to grip the seam to generate late outswing with an old ball. He acted less like a global superstar and more like an older brother who just wanted them to succeed.
As they approached Paradise Circle, the boy sitting in the middle finally voiced the question that was clearly burning in his mind.
"Bhai," the teenager started hesitantly, looking around the worn interior of the car. "I don't mean to be disrespectful... but you are the Vice-Captain of India. You own the NEXUS company. You are a billionaire. Why are you driving a Swift Dzire? You should be in a Benz or your Audi R8!"
Siddanth laughed out loud, signaling his indicator to pull over near their designated drop-off point.
"Let me ask you a question," Siddanth said, looking at them in the rearview mirror. "When you saw this car stop on the side of the road... could you have ever guessed, in a million years, that Siddanth Deva was driving it?"
The boys looked at each other and shook their heads in unison. "No, bhai. Never."
"Exactly," Siddanth smiled, putting the car in neutral and pulling the handbrake. "That is exactly why I drive it. Sometimes, it's nice just to be a normal guy giving a lift to some tired cricketers."
The boys nodded, respect replacing their initial confusion.
"Bhai," the fast bowler asked eagerly as they opened the doors to get out. "Will you ever come visit our academy? It's the St. John's Coaching Foundation. So many players there are your biggest fans. We cheer for you in every Indian match and every DC match!"
"St. John's? I know it," Siddanth said, turning in his seat. "What are your timings?"
"Evening batches, 4 PM to 7 PM!"
"Alright. No promises, but if I get some free time before I fly to Bangalore, I'll try to drop by and bowl a few overs to you guys," Siddanth promised warmly.
The boys practically squealed in delight. They grabbed their heavy kitbags from the trunk and walked up to the driver's side window.
"Bhai, please, one photo?" the opening batsman pleaded, pulling out a blocky, low-end smartphone. "No one is going to believe us. But my phone doesn't have a selfie camera."
"No problem, let's figure it out," Siddanth said. He didn't hesitate. He killed the engine and stepped out onto the empty street.
The boy set the camera timer on his phone and carefully propped it up on the roof of the Swift. He hit the button and sprinted back, throwing his arms around his two friends.
Siddanth walked up behind the three teenagers, wrapping his massive, muscular arms around their shoulders, pulling them into a tight, brotherly huddle. He flashed a wide, genuine smile right as the flash went off.
Click.
"There you go," Siddanth said, patting them on the back and stepping back toward his car door. "Train hard, boys. Listen to your coaches. And don't play cross-batted shots to straight deliveries."
"We won't, Deva bhai! Thank you so much!" they chorused, waving frantically.
Siddanth got back into the car, offering a final wave before driving away into the night.
As the taillights of the Swift disappeared down the avenue, the three teenagers stood on the empty pavement, staring at the photo on the cracked screen of the phone.
There they were, three exhausted, middle-class kids in dirty whites, being hugged by the most powerful, intimidating cricketer on the planet.
"He's not a devil," one of the boys whispered in awe, clutching his kitbag. "He's the coolest guy in the world."