POV: Ishaan Malhotra
The court was different.
Not the Midnight Court.
Not the broken asphalt, the buzzing streetlamp, or the echoes of boys playing for survival.
This one was… perfect.
Polished wood. Blinding lights. Rows of empty seats waiting to be filled with people who didn't care who you were—only what you could deliver.
I bounced the ball once.
The sound echoed.
Too clean.
Too controlled.
I hated it.
---
"Malhotra!"
Coach's voice cut through the silence.
"Again. From the top."
I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders.
This was it.
National Sports Academy.
The "dream."
The place where talent wasn't enough.
You needed… approval.
---
I drove forward.
One step. Two.
Pivot. Fake. Jump.
The ball left my hands in a perfect arc—
Swish.
Net.
Clean.
Too clean.
---
"Good," Coach said.
But his voice didn't sound impressed.
It sounded… expected.
---
Practice ended early.
That was the first red flag.
No academy ends practice early.
Not unless something else is happening.
---
I was heading to the locker room when I heard it.
Voices.
Low. Careful.
Not meant to be heard.
---
"—He's the one?"
"Yeah. Delhi case. Media kid. Big noise."
A pause.
"He'll attract attention."
Another voice. Colder.
"That's the point."
---
I stopped.
Just outside the door.
My fingers tightening into fists.
---
"Keep him in the lineup for now," the cold voice continued.
"Build his name. Let him win a few matches."
"Then?"
A chuckle.
Not amused.
Planned.
---
"Then we decide when he loses."
---
Silence.
---
My heartbeat didn't speed up.
It slowed down.
Dangerously calm.
---
I pushed the door open.
The voices stopped instantly.
Three men turned.
Coach.
An assistant.
And someone I had never seen before.
Suit. Watch. Eyes that didn't blink enough.
---
"You need something, Malhotra?" Coach asked.
Normal tone.
Too normal.
---
I looked at them.
One by one.
Then smiled.
---
"No, sir," I said.
"I just came to get my things."
---
I walked in.
Grabbed my bag.
Didn't look back.
---
But I heard it.
Just before I stepped out.
---
"Keep an eye on him."
---
Outside, the air felt heavier.
Like Delhi.
Like the night everything burned.
---
I pulled out my phone.
One contact.
Only one.
---
Chennai.
---
She picked up on the second ring.
"Ishaan?"
Her voice.
Soft.
Real.
The only thing in my life that wasn't a lie.
---
"I think…" I said slowly, staring at the court through the glass,
"…we didn't escape anything."
---
A pause.
Then—
"What happened?"
---
I smiled.
But there was no humor in it.
---
"They fix the games here."
---
Silence.
---
Then her voice.
Stronger now.
Sharper.
---
"Good."
---
I blinked.
"What?"
---
"If the system is bigger," she said,
"then we break a bigger system."
---
For a second…
I saw her.
Not the girl from the Audi.
Not the girl from the scooty.
---
The girl who burned Delhi.
---
And suddenly—
I wasn't alone in this war.
---
"Once in a day?" I asked quietly.
---
She laughed softly.
---
"No, Ishaan."
A pause.
---
"Now we don't wait for 'once'."
---
Another pause.
---
"We take every minute."
---
Call ended.
---
I looked back at the court.
At the lights.
At the game they thought they controlled.
---
And for the first time since I got here—
I smiled.
"Try fixing this one."