No one moved.
The silence was louder than any riot.
Gajendran's command still echoed in the air, hanging like a blade mid-swing.
"If you disagree—go to the left."
"If you agree—move to the right."
But no one moved.
And then—
One man took a step.
Just one.
He was in his thirties. Scar above his eyebrow. Burn marks down one arm.
His name was Sethu—once a rising enforcer in the Batu Kali district.
He'd done time. He'd done worse.
He looked down at his hands.
Calloused. Blood-stained. Knuckles never fully healed from the beatings he'd given out.
How many people had he robbed? Hurt? Left broken?
How many mothers had cried because of his work?
He looked up at the stage.
At Gajendran.
His elder brother.
The man who once taught him how to gut a rival without blinking…
Now speaking of reform. Clean business. Discipline.
It felt like betrayal.
But if it's betrayal…
Why does it feel like relief?
His legs felt heavy.
His chest tight.
Everyone around him was waiting for someone else to move first.
No one dared.
But he owed Gajendran his life.
So he walked.
Step by step.
As he crossed to the right, the space felt like a battlefield.
Eyes stabbed him from all directions.
"Traitor."
"Weakling."
"Bootlicker."
But he didn't stop.
Not until he reached the man with the duffel bag.
The bag opened.
A red headband was held out toward him.
Sethu stared at it like it was poison.
Bright red.
Too clean.
Too loud.
Am I really going to wear this?
From gang flags to this? Like some fool in a parade?
His hand trembled as he reached for it.
And in that moment, doubt clawed up his throat like a scream.
Is this really the right choice?
Did I just throw away my identity?
He looked back—at the hundreds behind him.
None had moved.
And then he looked forward.
At Gajendran.
Still standing.
Still unmoved.
Still waiting.
And that's when he tied the headband.
One knot.
Then another.
He pulled it tight—not because he believed in it…
But because he believed in the man who stood on that stage.
Sethu stood at the back now.
His head slightly bowed.
Red headband tight around his forehead.
His hands clenched into trembling fists.
He could hear the whispers behind him.
The jeers. The curses.
"Enjoy your 9-to-5, traitor."
"He sold his soul for a lunchbox."
"You used to lead men. Now you're wearing cloth like a schoolboy."
He didn't respond.
He couldn't.
Because if he opened his mouth—he might scream.
So he swallowed the shame.
He swallowed the heat crawling up his throat.
And he stood.
One man.
Alone.
And then…
A second man stepped forward.
Then a third.
Then a fourth.
Not all at once.
They came like broken wolves returning to a forgotten pack.
Heads low.
Jaws tight.
Some walked fast—just to get it over with.
Others dragged their feet like every step scraped across their own pride.
One man smacked his own forehead halfway through.
Hard. Twice.
As if trying to slap the gangster out of himself.
Another clenched his teeth so hard his jaw shook.
You could almost hear the bones grind.
But still… they walked.
They didn't talk.
They didn't explain.
They didn't ask for understanding.
They just accepted the red.
Tied it on.
Some too tight.
Some with shaking hands.
They wore it like a curse…
Because deep down, they hoped it would one day feel like forgiveness.
Behind them, the crowd roared louder.
"Go on, puppets!"
"Enjoy scrubbing floors!"
"Make sure to bow to your new gods!"
But the men didn't turn back.
They turned their hearts to stone.
Because sometimes…
Choosing peace feels more violent than choosing war.
Inside a surveillance van, Joseph wore headphones—eyes wide.
Commissioner Syed Sulaiman sat beside him, arms folded.
Joseph translated from Tamil:
"He just told them… Gang Nagas is dead."
Sulaiman blinked.
"What?"
Joseph nodded.
"This isn't a revival. This is a reconstruction."
Sulaiman muttered:
"They're not forming a new gang. They're asking for reform."
"Are they really doing this… or is this some elaborate ploy?"
"Do you really believe 600+ missing gangsters just found enlightenment?"
Joseph didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because deep down—he didn't know.
And that terrified him.
Scene 4 – Bring Them Back
The shouting started again.
Louder. Crueler.
Fifteen minutes had passed.
The red-banded men stood still, but inside—they were crumbling.
Every minute on the right side felt like a year in exile.
"You're finished!"
"Look at you—cowards in red!"
One man threw a broken crate piece.
Another spit near their feet.
And no one else crossed over.
Not a single one.
The line had been drawn.
And then—
Gajendran shouted.
"QUIET!"
Echoed immediately by the 622:
"QUIET!"
The silence slammed down like a falling blade.
Gajendran lifted the mic once more.
"As I said before…"
"Anyone who speaks the old name will lose their jaw."
"Now… let us help our lost brothers find the right path."
The 613 moved.
Synchronized. Clean. Precise.
The monsters awoke.
And hell broke loose.
The crowd didn't stand a chance.
Screams erupted instantly.
Fists collided with faces.
Bones snapped.
Some men vomited.
Others pissed themselves in fear.
It wasn't a brawl.
It was an execution.
And the red-banded men—
They watched in stunned realization.
The red band… had saved them.
The red band wasn't just a symbol.
It was a shield.
The only thing that kept them safe from the storm.
The only thing between them and hell.
The violence was endless.
Men crawled. Sobbed. Screamed for mercy.
But the returnees didn't stop.
Because this was more than revenge.
This was purification.
Despite their numbers, the crowd was no match for the returnees. It was like trying to fight a tsunami with fists. These 600+ men didn't fight like thugs—they struck like trained monsters. Cold. Precise. Unstoppable. And this was what it meant to burn the disease out.
One bloodied gangster crawled to the duffel bag.
He didn't speak at first. He just wept.
Then he whispered:
"Please… give me one…"
"The red band… please… I want to change…"
The man at the bag handed him one.
He tied it with shaking hands.
The returnee who had just been whacking him stood still for a beat—then gave him a small nod. No words. No smile. Just silent acknowledgment.
Then, without hesitation, the returnee turned and launched himself at another target nearby.
The man who tied the red band blinked. His heart thudded in confusion.
He… spared me?
Just seconds ago, he was about to lose consciousness.
Now, he stood untouched.
He looked down at the red cloth wrapped around his forehead.
This thing… it saved me.
Someone else in the corner had seen the exchange.
He stumbled forward, dragging his injured leg, eyes wild.
"Give me one!" he shouted. "Let me wear it—please!"
Like it was holy.
Then came another.
And another.
And then—the dam broke.
They came in floods.
Some limping. Some dragging their own blood across the floor.
They cried. They begged. They screamed:
"I'll reform!"
"Please—let me change!"
"Give me the band!"
The duffel bag emptied fast.
New bags appeared.
Hands trembled as red cloths were handed out like lifelines.
And one by one, every man tied it on.
By the end of 1 hour and 30 minutes—
Over 3,000 men stood in silence.
All wearing bright red headbands.
No one spoke.
Because they no longer had to.
They had already made their choice.
The End.