"Power doesn't corrupt.
It reveals who never saw others as human."
The television flickered.
Arjun Vale sat on a plastic chair with tape still tight around his hands, sweat cooling on his back.
The underground gym behind him was emptying out—boots scraping, a shutter rolling down, money already forgotten.
On the screen, a reporter stood beside a blurred wreck.
"…authorities have confirmed the deceased was a senior government official," she said. "The assault appears targeted."
The image cut to a car folded inward, its front crushed like it had met something heavier than steel.
Arjun leaned back, eyes half-lidded. He didn't look surprised. Just… tired.
Someone nearby snorted. "Third one this month."
No one argued.
Arjun stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out.
⸻
Outside, the street was loud and narrow, clogged with vendors and honking cars squeezing through gaps too small for patience.
Arjun waited at the curb, rolling his shoulder, testing the ache from the match.
An engine roared.
A black sedan surged toward him, too fast, too close. Arjun stepped back on instinct. Wind slapped his jacket. The car missed him by inches and tore past without slowing.
No brake lights.
No apology.
A gold government sticker flashed on the door before it vanished into traffic.
Arjun stood still for a moment, heart steady, eyes tracking the empty road.
A vendor cursed at the disappearing car.
Arjun looked down at his taped hands. The knuckles were split. Blood had soaked through.
He exhaled through his nose.
"Yeah," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
"Figures."
He adjusted the strap on his bag and started walking—toward the hospital, toward his mother, toward a city that never noticed who it almost ran over.
How close could someone come to dying before the city cared?