The rhythmic drumming of rain against the windowpane was the only sound that filled the small Mumbai apartment, a stark contrast to the violent chaos that had unfolded hours earlier at the docks. Raj sat on the edge of the worn-out sofa, his book forgotten in his lap as he stared at the front door. The air was thick with a heavy, damp chill that seemed to seep through the walls, matching the uneasy feeling in his gut.
When the door finally creaked open, Raj stood up instantly, a sigh of relief already forming in his throat. "You guys finally made it back—"
The words died in the air.
Rudra and Arjun practically collapsed into the room, leaning on each other for support. They were a harrowing sight; their clothes were torn and soaked through with a mixture of rainwater and drying blood. Rudra's charcoal hoodie was shredded at the shoulder, and Arjun looked like he was barely holding onto consciousness, his face a roadmap of fresh bruises and deep cuts.
"Hey! What the hell happened to you two?!" Raj shouted, rushing forward to help Rudra guide Arjun toward the couch.
Rudra let out a pained hiss as he eased Arjun down, clutching his own bruised ribs. "Ask him," he managed to grunt, nodding toward the silent, battered man now slumped against the cushions.
Raj turned his wide eyes to Arjun. "Okay, what happened? Who did this?".
"Fuck off," Arjun rasped, his voice like grinding stones. He turned his head away, closing his eyes as if the light in the room were a physical assault.
"Is anyone going to tell me what's going on in my own house?!" Raj exploded, his worry finally turning into a desperate frustration. "I'm sitting here worrying while you two are out there getting half-killed!".
Rudra sank onto a wooden chair, his breath hitching. "We got into a fight, Raj. A real one".
"Fight with who?".
"I don't even know who they were," Rudra admitted, looking down at his raw, scraped knuckles. "All I know is they were Arjun's enemies. They were looking for him".
Raj paced the small living room, his hands over his head. "What?! Arjun's enemies? What the hell is going on in this house?". He stopped and gestured wildly at the three of them. "Am I even a member of this team or not? I'm the only one here who doesn't know what the hell we're actually fighting!".
Despite the pain, Rudra gave a dry, weary chuckle. He looked at Arjun, who was still motionless on the sofa. "Hey, is he a member? Do we count him?".
Arjun opened one eye, looking at Raj's frantic expression. "Can he even fight?".
"I'm not sure," Rudra replied, playing along with the grim humor. "He can't really fight, and he mostly just complains about the food—".
"Enough with the comedy!" Raj snapped, though the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
The room went quiet again, save for the rain. Rudra looked at Arjun, his expression turning serious. The image of the man with horns—Aagni—was burned into his mind. "By the way, I want to know too," Rudra said quietly. "What's your story, Arjun? Who were those people, and why are they hunting you?".
Arjun stared at the ceiling for a long time, the silence stretching until it felt like it might snap. "I don't know if I should tell you," he finally said.
"Why not?" Raj asked.
"Because I don't want you two to get involved in this," Arjun replied, his voice heavy with a dark warning. "This isn't like fighting those brainless monsters in the street. These people… they don't stop".
Rudra leaned forward, his purple stone glinting in the dim lamplight. "Bro, look at us. We're already too deep inside this". He gestured to their injuries. "You're living in our house, and your enemies are nearly killing us. There's no 'not involved' anymore".
Arjun let out a long, ragged sigh, realizing Rudra was right. The secret was already bleeding into their lives. "Can't argue that," he muttered. "So… where should I even start?".
He closed his eyes, and the sounds of the rain seemed to transform into the sounds of a crowded, dusty street from a lifetime ago.
*****
Sixteen Years Ago
The oldest memory Arjun could recall wasn't the warmth of a home or the voice of a mother. It was the smell of diesel fumes, the burning heat of the sun on asphalt, and the constant, hollow ache of hunger in his stomach.
"I was a beggar," Arjun said, his voice echoing in the quiet apartment. "That's my first memory. Sitting on a piece of cardboard near the train station, holding out a dirty plastic cup". He didn't know who his parents were or how he had ended up abandoned in the sprawling labyrinth of Mumbai. He was just another ghost in a city of millions.
But even as a child, Arjun had a fire in him that wouldn't let him just fade away. He hated the cup. He hated the pity in people's eyes—or worse, the way they looked right through him as if he weren't there. He wanted out.
For a kid with nothing, there was only one open door to a better life: the crime world.
He started small. Stealing fruit from vendors, then moving on to picking pockets in the crowded bazaars. It was incredibly risky for a boy his size. He had been caught and beaten more times than he could count; his body was covered in scars before he hit his tenth birthday. But stealing was more profitable than begging, so he kept doing it. He was becoming fast, lean, and utterly cold.
That was until he met him.
It had been a particularly desperate day in one of the city's roughest slums. Arjun had spotted a group of men walking through an alley—they were dressed in expensive silk shirts, looking completely out of place in the dirt and grime. To a young Arjun, they looked like walking treasure chests.
He had moved like a shadow, slipping through the crowd and neatly lifting a thick leather wallet from the pocket of one of the men. He thought he was clear. He was already turning to vanish into a side street when a hand like a vice clamped onto his shoulder.
"Got you, you little rat," the man growled.
Arjun didn't panic. He bit the man's hand with everything he had, twisting his small frame and sliding out of the man's grip. He bolted, darting between stalls and under carts, his heart hammering against his ribs. But these weren't normal street thugs. They moved with a terrifying coordination. Eventually, they cornered him in a dead-end alley.
The group fell on him without mercy. They beat him until his vision went blurry, and he was coughing up blood onto the dusty ground.
Just as the world was starting to fade to black, the beating stopped. A man stepped forward from the back of the group—a leader-like figure who radiated a calm, dangerous authority.
"It looks very bad," the man said, looking down at the broken boy with a strange sort of pity. "These guys of mine… they don't know where to stop once they get started".
Arjun could only stare up at him through one swollen eye, his teeth bared in a silent snarl.
"But now, you'll never think of stealing from us again, will you?" the man said, turning to walk away.
In that moment, something snapped in Arjun. He didn't care about the pain or the odds. He reached out, his trembling fingers closing around a jagged rock. With a roar of pure defiance, he lunged forward and struck the leader across the back of the head.
The other men gasped, immediately lunging to finish the boy off. They started beating him again, even more violently than before, but to their shock, Arjun fought back. He kicked, he bit, he scratched—he was a cornered animal refusing to die.
The leader, rubbing the back of his bloodied head, suddenly started to laugh. It was a loud, booming sound that echoed off the alley walls.
"Stop!" the man commanded, and his men immediately froze. He walked back to Arjun and knelt in the dirt. "Hahaha… you are strong. I like that spirit".
He reached out a hand, not to strike, but to help. "Now… how would you like to work for me instead of stealing from me?".
Arjun looked at the hand, then at the man's eyes. "Who are you?".
The man smiled. "I'm Maari. And this…" he gestured to the men behind him, "this is the Silverhound family".
Back in the apartment, the rain continued to fall, but the room was silent. Rudra and Raj sat captivated, the image of a young, defiant Arjun lingering in their minds. The man on their couch wasn't just a "ninja" or an "assassin"—he was a survivor of a world they had only read about in textbooks.
"That was the beginning," Arjun said, his voice fading as he looked at his scarred hands. "The beginning of everything."