Arc 1: The Wealth Momentum (2016)Part I: The Zero-Sum Game
Chapter 3 — The Flower Pot That Goes for the Kill
Mumbai at night was less forgiving than it looked.
By ten-thirty, the crowds thinned, but the city didn't soften. It only became sharper—less noise, more intent. Streetlights flickered like tired eyes, auto horns echoed longer, and shadows grew confident.
Vikram walked without direction.
After Kareena left, he hadn't gone home immediately. He didn't want his mother's questions, his sisters' looks, or his father's quiet disappointment. He didn't want explanations. He didn't want sympathy.
He just wanted the city to swallow him for a while.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
A message from Goolu.
Bhai, free hai? Aaja chai pe.
Vikram looked at the screen, then locked it.
Not tonight.
He crossed the road near a narrow lane—one of those old Dadar stretches where buildings leaned in too close, balconies stacked like tired bones. Laundry hung overhead. Flower pots sat casually on ledges, forgotten decorations in a city where gravity never forgot anything.
He stopped near a paan shop, bought a cigarette, then hesitated.
He didn't smoke.
He crushed it under his shoe instead.
"Even this feels pointless," he muttered.
The Weight of a Government Job
Kareena's words replayed in his head, sharper with every step.
IAS officer.
Stable.
Powerful.
Secure.
Not once had she said happy.
But Vikram knew better than to argue with reality.
In India, power came with protection. Protection came with peace. Peace came with money and influence.
And Vikram had… none of it.
He was tall, educated, capable—and still disposable.
Four years reduced to a designation comparison.
He laughed quietly, the sound dry and humorless.
"So this is my value," he said to the empty street. "Junior Engineer."
The city didn't respond.
It never did.
A Step Too Slow
He resumed walking, hands in pockets, head slightly lowered.
Above him, on the third floor of an aging building, a woman leaned over her balcony. She had been watering plants absentmindedly, her phone tucked between shoulder and ear.
"Yes, haan, kal aaungi," she said into the phone, shifting a large clay pot to the side to make space.
The pot had been there for years.
The ledge had weakened with monsoons.
Physics didn't care about timing.
The clay cracked.
The pot tilted.
Gravity made its decision.
Impact
Vikram heard something.
A faint scrape.
Instinct made him look up.
That was his mistake.
The flower pot fell.
It didn't shatter mid-air. It didn't slow. It didn't warn.
It came down like judgment.
CRACK.
Pain exploded behind his eyes.
The world snapped white, then violently dark.
Vikram's body collapsed forward, knees buckling first, then shoulders, then his head hitting the pavement with a dull, final sound.
The cigarette smoke from the paan shop drifted lazily over him.
The city moved on.
Thirty Minutes of Nothing
For a moment, a small crowd gathered.
"Arre, kya hua?"
"Gir gaya kya?"
"Koi ambulance bulao?"
Someone checked his pulse.
"He's breathing."
A shopkeeper shook his head. "Aaj kal log bhi ajeeb hain. Beech road pe gir jaate hain."
No one noticed the cracked remains of the flower pot above.
No one connected cause and effect.
After a few minutes, interest faded. The crowd dissolved. A stray dog sniffed Vikram's shoe, then lost interest.
Traffic flowed.
Mumbai didn't stop for unconscious men.
Inside the Darkness
Vikram floated.
There was no pain here.
No sound.
No city.
He felt weightless, suspended in something vast and quiet.
Memories drifted in fragments.
His NIT Pune convocation—parents smiling proudly.
His first job letter—modest salary, big relief.
Kareena's laugh during college days.
Her final words: "You don't move."
A strange sensation followed—like pressure behind his eyes, not painful, but intrusive.
Something was… observing.
Analyzing.
Measuring.
A faint blue glow flickered in the distance of his consciousness.
Unreadable symbols appeared, then vanished.
Calculations ran without numbers.
A neutral, emotionless presence hovered close—neither kind nor cruel.
Waiting.
The System Chooses Silence
If Vikram had been awake, he would've noticed it.
A translucent blue interface briefly forming, then dissolving—like a program booting for the first time.
If he had been conscious, he would've questioned it.
But unconsciousness was required.
No consent.
No negotiation.
Just initialization.
A soft, inaudible confirmation echoed somewhere beyond logic.
[HOST COMPATIBILITY: ACCEPTABLE]
[MENTAL RESISTANCE: LOW]
[EMOTIONAL LOAD: HIGH]
[SYSTEM SEEDING… COMPLETE]
The blue glow dimmed.
Dormant.
Waiting for a trigger.
Waiting for eyes to open.
Coming Back to Pain
Pain returned first.
A pounding ache at the back of his head.
Then sound—distant, muffled.
A horn.
Footsteps.
Someone cursing nearby.
Vikram groaned.
His eyelids fluttered open.
Streetlight glare stabbed his vision.
"Ugh…"
He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His head spun violently, nausea curling in his stomach.
"Saala…" he hissed, clutching his skull.
A man passing by paused. "Theek hai?"
"Haan," Vikram lied. "Bas… slip ho gaya."
The man shrugged and walked off.
Vikram pushed himself up slowly, leaning against a wall. His fingers came away damp.
Blood.
Not a lot. But enough.
He looked up at the building above him.
Balconies.
Plants.
Broken clay scattered on the pavement.
Understanding dawned.
"…Flower pot?" he muttered.
A laugh escaped him—short, sharp, almost hysterical.
"Perfect."
Dumped.
Humiliated.
And now assaulted by gardening equipment.
He wiped his hand on his jeans and steadied himself.
Blaming Luck
By the time Vikram reached home, it was close to midnight.
The villa was quiet. Everyone asleep.
He locked the door softly, washed the blood from his head in the bathroom sink, and stared at his reflection.
A small cut.
Red eyes.
Tired face.
"You're unbelievable," he said to himself. "Even bad luck puts effort into finding you."
He lay on his bed without changing, staring at the ceiling fan slicing the air slowly.
The events of the day replayed relentlessly.
Kareena.
IAS.
The fall.
The pot.
The road.
The darkness.
"Maybe I'm just unlucky," he whispered.
It was easier to believe that than accept responsibility.
Luck was external.
Luck was convenient.
Luck didn't demand change.
His eyes slowly closed.
Exhaustion claimed him.
The Night Before Everything Changes
As Vikram slept, the villa remained still.
The old walls absorbed the silence.
But inside him, something waited.
A system without morality.
A mechanism without sympathy.
A tool designed not to comfort—but to reward interaction.
It didn't care about ambition.
It didn't care about ethics.
It cared about triggers.
And the trigger was simple.
Awareness.
Outside, Mumbai hummed softly, unaware that one of its most indifferent sons had just been marked.
The city had taken everything from him that day.
Tomorrow, it would unknowingly give him something back.
Something far more dangerous than influence.
End of Chapter 3
Sometimes fate doesn't knock.
Sometimes it falls on your head.