Part : 2
Tittle : focal siezer
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26 January, 1966
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The air in the grand room felt heavy, like a storm was brewing but hadn't broken. A man, his head bowed low as if carrying a great weight, stared intently at the shiny floor. Around him stood a crowd of people, all dressed smartly in black tuxedos, their jackets folded neatly over their arms. A few women were among them, their faces just as still and unreadable as the men's. You could feel the tension in the room, a quiet fear that everyone seemed to be holding inside, their expressions carefully blank and cold.
Slowly, the man with his head down finally looked up. His dark eyes scanned the room until they rested on a fancy throne at the far end. Standing near it was another man, but his face was hidden. Bright sunlight poured in from behind him, through thick red curtains that covered a window. This strong light made it hard to see who he was, but his outline looked powerful and important.
The man in the tuxedo started walking silently towards the throne. He went behind it, his hand lightly touching the golden carvings on its frame as he passed. Then, he stepped in front of it. Instead of sitting down like you'd expect, he stopped. He then placed his polished black shoe right on the soft red cushion of the throne. It was a bold move, as if he was saying he was even more powerful than whoever was supposed to sit there.
He held a thin iron stick tightly in his hand. You could see the anger in the way he gripped it, his knuckles white. His jaw was clenched, and you could just sense that he was really mad at everyone in the room. The silence became even heavier, filled with a feeling that something bad was about to happen. Everyone watched him, a hidden fear in their eyes despite their cold expressions.
Suddenly, the man holding the iron stick let out a furious roar that echoed through the tense room. "WHO WENT TO DEAL WITH THE VIPs?!" His voice was raw with anger. "I know the deal is ruined! Badly!"
Just as the person who had actually messed things up was about to step forward, another man moved quickly, placing himself in front. "My Lord," he said, his voice steady despite the obvious fear in the room, "it was my mistake."
Everyone present knew the truth. They knew who had truly been responsible for the failed deal. But the air was thick with unspoken rules and the fear of crossing the man with the stick. No one dared to contradict the lie.
The "Lord," the man standing near the throne, didn't say a word. His silence was more terrifying than any shout. He simply raised the iron stick in his hand. The heavy metal descended with brutal force onto the back of the man who had taken the blame. A sharp crack echoed through the room, followed by a gasp of pain that was quickly stifled.
Again and again, the Lord brought the stick down. Each blow landed with sickening thuds, the sound reverberating in the horrified silence. The man who had confessed took the punishment without uttering a single word of protest. His body flinched with each strike, but he remained standing, his head bowed in grim acceptance.
Finally, his knees buckled. He crumpled to the floor, his body shaking with weakness, unable to support himself any longer. Even as the brutal blows continued to rain down, a low groan was the only sound he made. The others watched, their faces still masks of cold indifference, though a flicker of something else – perhaps fear, perhaps pity – might have been visible if one looked closely enough. The Lord finally stopped, the iron stick still held loosely in his hand, the message clear: failure would be met with swift and merciless punishment.
Finally, breaking the oppressive silence, one of the other men spoke. His voice was low and even, yet it carried a weight that drew attention. "I am sorry to interfere, my Lord," he said, his gaze steady as he looked towards the man with the iron stick, "but I think that is enough."
Everyone in the room knew this man held a certain favor with the Lord. He was always composed, his demeanor cool and collected. There was a firmness in his eyes as he watched the Lord turn and walk away, the iron stick still in his grip. It was a silent challenge, a quiet assertion of his own standing.
Without waiting for a response, the man stepped forward and gently helped the injured man to his feet. "Sid, you okay?" he asked, his voice carrying genuine concern.
Sid, despite the brutal beating, nodded weakly. He was known within the group for his kindness, a stark contrast to the ruthlessness that permeated their world. It was a wonder how someone like him had found himself in such a cruel gang, surrounded by selfish individuals.
The man who had allowed Sid to take the fall, a younger man named Luke, stood nearby, avoiding eye contact. He offered no word of thanks to Sid for taking the punishment, nor did he acknowledge the help he was now receiving. The calm man who had intervened turned his gaze towards Luke, a flicker of disappointment in his usually impassive eyes.
"I never expected you to be this ungrateful, Luke," he said, his voice laced with a hint of disdain. "You are surely a shame for 'Cosa Nostra'." With that, he offered Sid a supporting arm and walked him away, leaving Luke standing alone in the tense aftermath.
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17 February, 2025
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The muffled sound of her mother's raised voice filtered through the bedroom door, sharp and insistent. "Come out of the bathroom, now!" she heard her mom yell at her sister. Sarah groaned, pulling the pillow over her ears in a futile attempt to block out the morning commotion. Eventually, the house settled back into a relative quiet, and Sarah drifted back to sleep.
The digital numbers on her alarm clock glowed a quarter past ten when she finally woke again, the morning sun now casting warm rectangles on her bedroom floor in their Jaipur home. She dragged herself out of bed, the lingering sleepiness still clinging to her. After a quick brush of her teeth and a bracingly cold shower, she pulled on some comfortable clothes, ready to embrace the quiet of the late morning.
Settling at her desk, she opened her laptop, the blank document for her new book staring back at her. She'd been toying with the idea of a mafia story, something gritty and intense, a world far removed from her own quiet life in Jaipur. To get her creative juices flowing, she opened Pinterest, scrolling through images and snippets of information related to organized crime.
Then, she saw it. A simple pin, stark against the usual dramatic imagery. It read: 'rule no. 1 - respect others'. A jolt, sharp and unexpected, shot through Sarah. It wasn't just a feeling of familiarity; it was a hard, visceral deja-vu, so intense it made her vision swim. Her body reacted before her mind could process it. She lost her balance, the chair tipping precariously, and she tumbled to the floor with a thud.
As she lay there, a fragmented image flashed behind her eyelids. A voice, loud and commanding, echoing in her mind: "Rule number one - respect others!" The words resonated deep within her, feeling strangely significant. She whispered it aloud, her own voice a shaky echo of the memory. "Rule number one... respect others..."
Then, another phrase surfaced, unbidden, as if unlocked by the first. "Rule number two - never salivate over what's other's." The words felt equally weighty, carrying a sense of ingrained understanding. She repeated it, her voice barely audible, "Rule number two... never salivate over what's other's..."
Just as another phrase, another rule perhaps, began to form in her mind, the bedroom door swung open abruptly. "Sarah? What are you doing on the floor?" Her mother's voice, sharp with concern, jolted Sarah back to the present with a sudden, jarring force.
Her eyes blinked rapidly, the strange afterimages of the flashback fading. She stared up at her mother, a wave of confusion washing over her. Her heart was pounding, her breath coming in short gasps. Oh god, what was happening to her? These sudden, intense flashes, these rules that felt so deeply ingrained.
"Nothing, Mom! I was just... doing pushups?" Sarah blurted out, quickly dropping into a clumsy imitation of the exercise. She pushed herself up and down a few times, hoping to look convincing.
Her mother gave her a light slap on the back of her head, a mixture of exasperation and affection on her face. "God knows what's happening with this girl," she muttered, shaking her head as she placed a plate of paranthas and pickle on Sarah's desk. "Eat something. And don't do pushups on the floor." With that, she went back out, closing the door behind her.
Sarah slumped back onto her chair, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. Thank God her mother hadn't pressed further. She rubbed her temples, the lingering strangeness of the deja-vu still unsettling her. That was the fourth time it had happened now, these sudden, vivid flashes accompanied by those strange, ingrained rules. A knot of worry tightened in her stomach. Was something wrong with her? Was she losing her mind?
She tried to shake off the disturbing thoughts, focusing on the blank document on her laptop screen. Just then, a message notification popped up in the corner. It was from Raj.
Raj: 'hey sarah, remember the 19th date? It's a Hindi test, I wonder if you have studied enough 😉'
Sarah quickly typed back a reply.
Sarah: 'Hey Raj! Yeah, I remember. And yes, I have studied! You?'
Almost instantly, another message came through.
Raj: 'Haha, barely touched the books. But listen to what happened last night! We went to that old haveli near the outskirts of Jaipur, you know, the one everyone says is haunted?'
Sarah raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself.
Sarah: 'Seriously? You guys went there at night? Were you scared?'
Raj: 'Scared? Nah! It was hilarious. We ended up scaring the living daylights out of Rohan. He actually fainted! It was quite a scene 😂 We were telling him some ghost stories, and then Varun jumped out from behind a pillar... man, his face was priceless!'
Hours melted away as they exchanged messages, teasing each other about the upcoming Hindi test, sharing funny anecdotes about their friends, and making plans for after their exams. The digital glow of the laptop screen illuminated her face as she laughed at Raj's exaggerated retelling of Rohan's dramatic fainting spell.
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