The first light of dawn stretched lazily across the horizon, painting the sky in slow gradients of orange and gray. The morning air was thick with the smell of oil, smoke, and wet pavement.
Rahul stirred awake, his neck sore from the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in. The old bus had long stopped moving. The engine was off, the driver gone, and all the passengers had left hours ago. He was alone now, seated on the cracked leather of the last row, a faint layer of dew clinging to the windows beside him.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
The city lay outside—massive, unfamiliar, cold.
Towers loomed like metal skeletons, blanketed in the haze of early traffic and smog. Honks echoed through the streets, and neon signs blinked half-asleep. People were already rushing to work, wearing bags under their eyes and stress on their shoulders. It wasn't like the village. Not even close.
Rahul's stomach growled loudly.
"Right," he muttered to himself. "Food first."
His hand reached into his pocket, wrapping around the soft leather pouch his father had shoved into his hands the night before. Inside were crumpled notes—a total of 20,600 rp. It felt like a treasure. But in a city like this, it wouldn't last long.
He got off the bus with a sigh and the weight of reality settling onto his back like a sack of stones.
---
He walked for nearly twenty minutes before finding a rundown tea stall with a bread rack on the side. It was cheap stuff—half stale, but edible.
"One bread," Rahul told the vendor.
The man barely looked at him. "Five."
He handed the note and took the bread, biting into it without sitting down. It was dry, but the hunger numbed all complaints.
As he chewed, he looked around. So many people. So many lives in motion. And he was just… one of them.
Where do I even begin? he thought.
He hadn't worked a single day in his past life. He hated taking orders. Feared rejection. Feared responsibilities. Feared becoming a cog in the machine.
But now…
Now I don't have a choice, do I?
---
That day, Rahul roamed.
Shop to shop. Stall to stall. He walked into small restaurants, local markets, garages, and even construction sites. Everywhere he went, the answer was the same.
"No vacancy."
"We need someone experienced."
"Try again later."
"Too young."
"Come with ID."
"Not hiring."
"Sorry, kid."
Hours passed. His legs ached. His stomach growled again by noon, but he ignored it. By evening, he was back to square one—except more tired, more desperate, and more bitter.
As the sky dimmed, the city lit up—but not for people like him.
He found himself under a cracked concrete bridge where some beggars and homeless people had set up shelter using old tarpaulins and cardboard. A small fire flickered in the center. No one spoke to him. He didn't speak either.
He sat on the edge, hugging his knees, the marble his father gave him hidden deep in his inner shirt pocket like a buried heart.
The city's wind bit through his clothes. But sleep still came, broken and restless.
---
The next morning, he woke up to shouting.
Two men were arguing about food. Someone stole from someone else. Another woman cried in the corner.
Rahul stood up, brushed the dirt from his jeans, and walked out with slumped shoulders.
He bought another bread. Five more rp gone. His balance: 20,590 rp.
No spending. Not until I get a job. he reminded himself.
The search resumed. He checked newspaper listings at a stand but couldn't buy one. He took photos of job boards outside stores with his cracked phone. He even considered working as a cleaner or delivery boy.
He was walking past a crowded street, eyes darting between small businesses, when he felt it—
A hand.
Light. Quick. Sneaky.
Moving straight into the pocket with the money.
Without hesitation, Rahul's hand shot out and caught the wrist. His eyes snapped toward the thief—a skinny man in ragged jeans and a hoodie with a mocking grin.
"Oh?" the thief chuckled, "You caught me? Lucky brat."
People nearby glanced over, but most looked away again. Petty crime was normal here.
But Rahul was not in the mood.
The thief tried to yank his hand away.
"Don't test me," Rahul warned quietly.
"What are you gonna do, chubby?" the man laughed, pushing him with the other hand.
Rahul's eyes narrowed.
He didn't think. He just punched.
A clean, direct hook to the jaw.
The thug's smirk froze—then his legs buckled.
He collapsed like a sack of flour.
The crowd gasped.
Rahul stood there, breathing heavily, shaking slightly—not from fear, but from the thrill.
It had been years—maybe lifetimes—since he hit anyone. His body remembered something. That moment in the river. That Avtar. That power.
For a second, he felt like something surged beneath his skin.
---
But he didn't stay to find out.
He picked up his pouch, stuffed it into the deepest part of his pants pocket, and walked away like nothing happened.
Unseen by him, across the street, a man holding a phone was recording.
"Yo, this kid just one-punched a pickpocket! Live!" the man whispered excitedly to his stream. "This is gold!"
He uploaded the video immediately.
In the next ten minutes, it got hundreds of views.
In twenty minutes, thousands.
Then suddenly—deleted.
The uploader frowned as a pop-up appeared on his screen.
> "This video violates multiple clauses under Urban Privacy Protection. Cease and desist. Legal notice issued. Further infractions will result in court summons."
His face turned white.
He deleted the original. Deleted the backup. Deleted everything.
"What the hell was that?" he muttered.
---
Back in the street, Rahul was walking toward another lane.
Unaware of what almost became of him.
Unaware of how close he came to going viral.
Unaware of the system watching.
He sighed.
His knuckles still ached from the punch, but the thief's laughter still echoed in his mind.
He didn't want to fight. He didn't want trouble.
He wanted peace. He wanted lazy power. He wanted everything with nothing.
But the world had other plans.
And now, he had just punched fate in the face.