Gurkram—a rising titan of steel and glass, sprouting just outside the congested veins of the capital city, Del. Born from the overflow of a bursting metropolis, Gurkram had become the southern counterpart to Banglara. Where Banglara thrived on tech, Gurkram was built on ambition—raw, unapologetic, and vertical.
Rohit stared out the dusty window of the rickety public transport, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. The hum of the engine vibrated through the metal seat. Outside, the farmland slowly gave way to the skeletons of half-built towers, cranes hovering like praying mantises. The city was still in flux, still shaping itself.
After an hour and a half of swaying, jolting, and the occasional curse muttered by the driver when a bike cut across their path, the vehicle wheezed to a halt. Gurkram.
Rohit stepped off the bus, adjusting the strap of his worn-out sling bag. He took a slow breath—industrial air, tinged with progress and concrete. He pulled out his phone and texted:
Rohit: "Hey Sathya, I'm here."
A reply came a moment later.
Sathya: "Sorry. Would've come to pick you up, but I gotta finish one thing. Just reach this spot."
A pin dropped on the screen—location received.
Rohit hailed an auto, climbed in, and showed the location to the driver without a word. The auto gave a jolt and roared to life, buzzing into the heart of the city.
Rohit leaned his head slightly against the metal bar of the auto, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the floorboard. Each tap coincided with a thought.
Tap... "I'm here."
Tap... "But I've got nothing."
Outside, high-rise buildings clawed at the sky—glass walls glinting under the midday sun. Rooftop gardens. Balconies with tiny windchimes. People who had made it, or at least pretended well.
Rohit's eyes lingered on one such tower. He could almost imagine the people inside, sipping coffee, sitting by tall windows, checking stocks, writing code, living lives wrapped in comfort.
"And here I am, jobless, leaning out of a three-wheeled tin can."
Then—whoosh.
A blur shot overhead. A human figure. Moving too fast for the eyes to track properly. No cape, no theatrics—just speed and gravity defied.
The auto jerked slightly as the driver hit the brakes out of instinct.
"Damn those gifted!" the driver barked, twisting his head upward. "They think they own the skies now! No sense of rules or roads!"
Rohit smirked, straightening up. "I heard the government's planning a registration bill. For all the gifted."
The driver spat sideways, missing a crack in the road by an inch. "Should've done it months ago. You know, the USA passed theirs within a month of their first case!"
Rohit raised an eyebrow. "Well, to be fair, they also give cash incentives to those who register."
The driver let out a harsh chuckle. "Our goddamn politicians wouldn't hand out water in a drought without a photo op."
Rohit nodded, amused. "That's the price of being right in the wrong country."
The driver slapped the steering bar lightly. "I tell you, son, our leaders? Lazy buggers. Just waiting for someone else to fix it all."
They chatted as the auto weaved through tighter roads now, closer to the city's commercial hub. Billboards towered over them—ads for coaching centres, housing schemes, and fitness clubs promising transformation in 30 days.
Then, the landscape changed again.
Before them stood the largest mall in Gurkram—a glass-and-steel behemoth with chrome embellishments and digital boards playing muted ads on loop. Flags fluttered atop its entrance like some modern castle.
The auto slowed to a halt near the mall's side gate.
Rohit reached into his wallet, handed the fare, and stepped out, his eyes scanning the crowd.
But before he could take a proper step forward, a black SUV blazed past, its tinted windows catching the sun. Music thumped from inside—something bass-heavy and Gangster.
The auto driver jumped slightly, then stepped out and shouted at the SUV's trail, "Oye! Slow down, you sons of—!"
The SUV screeched to a sudden halt near the mall parking.
The rear window rolled down, and a young man poked his head out—early twenties, gold chain hanging over a designer shirt, sunglasses perched arrogantly on his nose. He looked directly at the auto driver, his mouth curled into a smug grin.
The driver's voice caught in his throat.
He lowered his head, turned slightly away from the SUV, and muttered under his breath, "Bloody rowdies…"
The SUV guy watched him for a second longer, then sank back inside, and the vehicle rolled smoothly into the parking garage.
The driver looked back at Rohit, his expression now sober.
"Listen, son," he said, placing a hand briefly on the side of the auto. "Be careful out here. Gurkram... it used to just have rowdies. But ever since this 'gifted' thing started? Now it's worse. People with power don't care for rules."
Rohit nodded, absorbing the weight of the warning. "I'll keep that in mind."
The driver gave him one last look, then climbed back into his auto and drove off without another word.
Rohit turned towards the mall's entrance, adjusting the collar of his shirt and slinging the bag across his back. He moved forward, weaving through the early shoppers and food delivery boys loitering near the gate.
The city buzzed around him—loud, fast, untamed.