Rohit didn't want to argue anymore. Not now. Not after what he'd seen.
The golden light had faded. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, leaving behind a dull ache and a fog of questions in his mind. His heart was still pounding, but not from fear—from the enormity of what they'd just done.
He exhaled, long and heavy, and looked at Sathya.
"So... what happened to the guy?" Rohit asked, voice quiet but firm.
Sathya cocked an eyebrow. "The one I fought? Mohit, I think his name was."
"Yeah. Him."
Sathya shrugged, casually stretching his bruised shoulders, his body language relaxed in a way that felt wrong.
"Last I saw, I kicked him through the floor. Pretty sure with a hole in his chest."
Rohit's eyes widened. He instinctively raised a trembling hand to his forehead.
"You… killed him?"
Sathya didn't answer right away. He just looked at Rohit—expression unreadable, calm, maybe even amused.
Rohit stepped back, voice rising.
"Oh my god… you killed him!"
"I heard you the first time," Sathya .
Rohit stared at him, aghast. There was no remorse, no hesitation in Sathya's tone—only a kind of exhausted detachment. That scared him more than the violence itself.
Sathya rolled his neck with a soft crack and exhaled.
"Look, if you're done panicking, we should get the hell out of here. It's only gonna get messier from here."
But Rohit shook his head, grounding his feet where he stood.
"No. I'm not running. If I flee the scene, I become a criminal."
Sathya narrowed his eyes at him.
"You are a criminal. Just by being with me. You know how this system works. Guilt by association. The world is changing came with me ."
"I know how the system works," Rohit replied, breathing heavily. "But I still want to believe I can go back to my life someday. That I can clear my name. Running just makes it worse."
Sathya sighed, looking off to the side for a moment.
"Don't waste your life believing in a system that's already failed you. It betrayed you once. It'll do it again."
"Thanks for the sermon," Rohit muttered. "I'm still calling my dad."
Just then, Sathya turned toward the café manager—a short, sweating man who had been watching from a safe distance, hands shaking by his sides.
Sathya pulled out his wallet.
"So," he said casually, "how much for the damages?"
The manager held up both hands, taking a nervous step back.
"Sir—there's no need! Please, just… just go."
"I will. Sheesh," Sathya muttered, stuffing his wallet back.
He glanced back at Rohit one last time.
"Anyway… sorry, man. Doesn't look like my 'recommendation' is gonna help you much now."
Rohit let out a tired chuckle, running a hand through his hair.
"That much is true… you asshole."
Sathya smirked, then tilted his head slightly.
"So, what's your ability? That glow… was new."
Rohit glanced at his hands.
"I don't know the exact name. But I could feel it. It enhanced everything—strength, speed, awareness. Like something woke up inside me."
Sathya gave a low whistle.
"Cool. Useful. You'll need it."
He turned to leave, limping slightly but moving with the his head held high.
"Take care, Rohit."
Rohit called after him, voice low but firm.
"You know I'll have to give your name to the police."
Sathya paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder with a faint smile.
"Don't sweat it. Save yourself first."
And with that, he stepped out into the daylight—bloodied, bruised, and utterly unbothered.
Rohit stood there in the ruined café, surrounded by chaos and silence.
There had been thousands of calls to the police during and after the fight. The chaos had spread like wildfire—broken glass, overturned chairs, unconscious bodies, and terrified civilians all painting a picture of absolute carnage.
Sathya had already made his way out, slipping through the shadows like a man who knew the system would eat him alive. His jaw was clenched, eyes flicking over his shoulder as he vanished with his bike. He wasn't running from guilt—he was running from inevitability. Even if he'd acted in his friend's defense, the law wouldn't see it that way.
Inside the café, Rohit stood amidst the devastation, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. Panic surged in his chest like a rising tide. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching from the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
But somewhere beneath that rising wave of fear, a cold voice inside him forced its way to the surface.
Calm down. Panicking won't help now.
He drew a long breath through his nose, grounding himself. His back straightened, and his shoulders squared. His heart still pounded, but his mind began to steady. It was time to think.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, jaw tight. "The police will be here soon. And when they come... they'll arrest me on sight."
His eyes scanned the café again—bodies on the floor, witnesses staring at him like he was a monster. He knew how this would go. Indian police didn't wait to understand the situation. They saw violence, they arrested. And if, by chance, the goons he'd fought were politically connected, the cops wouldn't just arrest him. They'd make his life hell.
What can I do before they arrive?
The first thing they'd do would be to seize his phone—cut him off. Isolate him. So he had to act now.
With urgency, he yanked his phone from his pocket and dialed his father.
The line clicked.
"Hello?" his father's voice answered on the third ring.
Naveen—reliable as ever. His phone always fully charged and within arm's reach, a habit from his military days.
"Dad, it's me," Rohit said, voice low but steady.
"Rohit? What's going on? Calling in the middle of the day...?"
"I'm in trouble," Rohit said bluntly.
There was a pause, and then Naveen's voice sharpened. "What happened?"
Rohit told him everything—brief, clinical, sticking to the facts but not sugarcoating the blood and chaos. His father listened in silence, absorbing it all.
"Alright," Naveen said finally. "Stay put. I'm coming. Keep your phone on. Don't let them take it until I get there."
"Okay, Dad. Please hurry."
He ended the call and looked around. One of the thugs was groaning, curled up and holding his ribs. His breathing was shallow. Rohit strode over, crouched beside him, and grabbed his phone again.
"Calling an ambulance," he said aloud, more to himself than anyone.
He gave the operator the address, then stood again. Outside, the security guard was moving slowly, dragging a broken table aside, probably trying to clear a path or make sense of the mess.
Rohit turned to the café staff, who were huddled behind the counter like scared mice.
"Get the first-aid kit and tend to the injured," he said.
The manager, sweat beading on his forehead, stood frozen, waiting for permission—or perhaps direction.
Rohit's tone turned firm. "Now."
The manager flinched and barked orders to his staff. Two young workers hesitated, then slowly stepped out from behind the counter and scurried toward the fallen.
Rohit scanned the room again, his instincts now overriding his panic. His gaze landed on a black dome nestled in the corner near the ceiling. A security camera.
He moved quickly toward the manager, who backed away slightly as Rohit approached.
"Are those cameras working?" he asked.
The manager nodded nervously. "Y-Yes, sir. They're recording."
"Good. Take me to the footage room. I want access to those recordings ."
Without waiting for a reply, Rohit gestured sharply, and the manager started walking toward the back room, limbs stiff with fear.
Rohit followed, his hands clenched into tight fists—not from anger, but from readiness.