Across the city, the last truck rolled forward, boxed in by police cars, blue lights washing over its steel sides.
Everything was secure.
Unless someone decided otherwise. And that someone has really had something in mind.
The call came through clean.
The Commissioner's voice was calm. Almost proud.
"We have the situation under control, Mr. Singhania. Half of the Mumbai Police is deployed at my residence. The cargo is safe. No one would dare attack it."
Roy listened. Didn't interrupt. Didn't react.
"Yes," the Commissioner continued, "we'll have the murderer in custody soon."
The line went dead.
Roy lowered the phone slowly and cut the call himself. He walked to the window and looked out at the city, lights flickering like nothing was wrong. His secretary stood a little behind him, waiting for instructions that didn't come.
Roy smiled thinly.
The convoy rolled through the city like a parade of paranoia. Three trucks, surrounded by cars of various types.
Money truck in the middle.
Police cars front and back.
Decoys maybe in the front maybe in the back.
Troop carrier to the side.
Two helicopters circling above, blades thumping the night.
Inside one of the police cars, the same two cops sat stiffly.
"This is still overkill," the first one muttered, shifting in his seat. "Seriously. What's in that trucks anyway?"
His partner shrugged. "Black money, probably. Or someone's dirty secret."
"Really?"
The other smirked. "Relax. I'm kidding."
He looked ahead at the wall of blue lights. "No one's stupid enough to attack this."
"Yeah," the first cop nodded. "It's impossible to do any—"
The sound cut him off..
A deep, violent roar.
Not close. Not far. Everywhere.
Engines revved instinctively. Radios crackled. Guns came up.
"Your tongue's cursed," his partner hissed, grabbing his rifle.
Helicopters swung wide, spotlights slicing through the streets.
Nothing.
Just the sound.
Then silence.
People shifted. Uneasy. Fingers loosened.
"False alarm?" someone said over the radio.
That's when the small cars came.
Low. Quiet. Remote-controlled.
They slipped between tires, shadows hugging the road.
The joking cop frowned. "Hey… what the hell is that?"
He leaned forward and saw it.
The symbol.
His eyes widened. "Wait—"
A spike snapped out.
Tires burst in a chain reaction.
Cars tilted. Metal screamed. One hit another.
Another spun sideways.
"Contact! Contact!" radios exploded.
The little cars kept moving, stabbing, weaving, ruthless.
Half the convoy slammed to a stop, trapped in wreckage.
The rest surged forward, tightening around the truck that was last.
"Reform! Reform around the cargo!" someone yelled.
Then the small cars darted ahead, soon reaching the first truck, blast in his tires on making it skid on the road, blocking the way ahead. The remote cars didn't stop and headed toward the second truck in v line.
Guns came up.
Before anyone fired, the cars split open and dumped thick gray smoke into the air.
Instant blindness.
Drivers swore. Horns blared. Metal crunched.
The truck didn't stop.
"Don't brake!" the passenger shouted. "Go!"
They plowed through the smoke, clipping police cars, pushing forward on momentum alone.
Behind them, chaos.
"Convoy moving!"
"We're blocked!"
"Visibility zero!"
" The second truck is still there."
Orders overlapped. Half the force was stuck.
The rest chased blind.
Further back, the two cops from earlier were crawling out of their wrecked car.
The first one groaned, clutching his side.
"That was a hard hit…"
"Not your fault," the other said, teeth clenched. "Tire just gave in."
He spat. "Masked bastard. If I see him again, I'll—"
A bike passed them.
Slow. Close. Close enough to feel the wind.
Blue eyes glowing in the smoke.
Both cops froze.
"That's him," the first whispered.
The bike was already gone.
"CONTACT IN THE SMOKE!" someone screamed.
"No blind fire!" another voice shouted.
A few shots cracked anyway.
DJ slipped through, bumping mirrors, scraping doors, steady hands, steady breath.
Out of the smoke.
Ahead—roadblock.
Cars locked tight.
Gunfire erupted.
DJ leaned forward and hit them head-on.
Metal flew. Cars slid aside like toys.
Bullets rained down.
None of them mattered.
Police cars broke formation and chased him.
"He's not slowing!"
"Bullets aren't working!"
Frustration turned to panic.
The report reached Roy seconds later.
He didn't blink.
"Use firepower," he said calmly.
On the road, security guards pulled open compartments.
RPGs came out.
Grenades clicked into hands.
The night held its breath.
Things were about to get very messy.
The rotors chopped the air above him.
Two helicopters. Low. Mean.
Rounds stitched the road in front of DJ like someone drawing dotted lines just to mess with him.
"What's your plan for that?" DJ shouted, swerving.
"Avoid the bullets," Rony said instantly.
DJ laughed sarcastically "Helpful. Really helpful."
"They're rescue choppers," Rony added, calm like he was ordering food. "They'll run out of ammo. It'll be fine."
"Yeah, because that always happens before I die."
DJ glanced ahead—and froze.
"There," he said, breath hitching. "I see the money truck."
For half a second, hope flared.
Then he saw what the men hanging out the side were holding.
"…are those RPGs?"
"Yep," Rony said. "That's totally legal in populated cities."
The first rocket screamed past him.
DJ twisted hard. The road behind him exploded, asphalt flipping like paper. One rocket went wide, tore through a divider. Another slammed ahead, blowing the street open.
"What the hell!" DJ yelled. "In the middle of the city?"
"More coming," Rony said.
As if summoned, three more RPGs streaked in.
DJ ducked, jumped, barely scraped through. One he caught—bare hand closing around the warhead—spun with it, redirected it sideways. It detonated against a building, windows raining down.
The impact shoved him off balance. His bike fishtailed.
"Careful!" Rony snapped.
"Oh, I'm trying—"
"Remote Reds, go."
From a side alley, tiny cars shot out. Fast. Low. Angry.
The shooters panicked. Gunfire ripped into the street. Some of the cars were shredded instantly. Others slipped through, slammed into tires—
BOOM.
BOOM.
Two vehicles flipped. One truck lurched, sparks screaming.
"Noted," Rony muttered. "Need long-range, mid-lethal next time."
"Glad you're taking notes," DJ said, breathing hard.
The last mini-car detonated. Silence, except for sirens.
DJ pushed forward—but it was getting harder.
Traffic boxed him in. His speed dropped.
"Why not EMP?" DJ asked.
"City grid, they all are connected in a way or another," Rony replied. "You want hospitals dark too?"
Police cars flooded in. This time they got close. Too close.
Bullets bounced off DJ's suit, annoying more than painful, but constant. One guy with an RPG broke formation, advancing.
"Rony," DJ said, teeth clenched. "I'm getting boxed."
"I see that."
His bike coughed. Slowed.
"Any ideas?"
"Blast them."
"No."
"…Fair."
Sirens wailed louder.
"Security vehicles incoming, the one with RPG," Rony warned.
DJ looked around. Cars everywhere. No gaps.
"Well," DJ said, oddly calm, "this is very Dominic Toretto."
"Surrounded by cars," Rony agreed.
"Plan B."
"Plan B."
Two cars suddenly swerved, crashing into a V-shape barricade.
DJ didn't even hesitate.
He jumped.
Left the bike. Flew.
Landed on a car roof—metal caved under his weight. He leapt again, feet crackling blue. Electricity surged through the security car as he landed, bodies slumping instantly.
Another jump. Another shock.
He cleared a parked truck, hit the overbridge, sprinted, then launched himself off—
CRASH.
He slammed onto a hood below. The car crumpled.
DJ straightened, chest heaving. The second truck was still moving.
Behind him, police regrouped.
"Nope," DJ muttered.
He tapped his boots together.
The soles shifted. Split. Wheels dropped.
Roller skates.
He shot forward.
Gunfire chased him. He didn't slow.
"Anything to boost this?" he yelled.
"…Emergency only," Rony said.
"Rony."
"…Okay."
DJ felt the surge. Speed doubled. Tripled.
A police car lunged. DJ veered, flicked his wrist—
a small disc shot out, slapped onto the hood.
The car went dead. Skidded sideways.
"Anything else?" DJ asked.
"Try the option menu."
DJ swiped it open mid-skate.
Red skulls.
So many red skulls.
"What's with all the skulls?" DJ said. "That's not comforting."
Rony sighed. "Those are for very serious circumstances."
"Define serious." Rony didn't answer that, instead said something else.
"…Most of them aren't ready," Rony added.
DJ let out a half-panicked, half-done laugh. "Cool. Love that for us."
He ducked an RPG, felt the heat kiss his back. "Then what needs a proton blast? And why is there so much anti-everything in here?"
"Forget those," Rony said quickly. "Focus. Cars are closing again. Use stun blast."
A blink. A sharp whump.
Light exploded from DJ's shoulder, white and ugly. Police cars swerved. Horns screamed. Someone yelled something that vanished into chaos.
DJ squinted, aimed forward. The truck was still there. Still moving.
"I've got visual."
"Bad news," Rony said. Too calm. "It's about to get support."
DJ felt his stomach drop. "Support how."
"Army."
"What?" DJ snapped. "No. No, we can't fight the army. They are the army."
A car slammed him from behind. Metal screamed. He staggered, barely stayed up.
"Rony—do something. Now."
Silence. Then: "Okay."
The panel flashed. Every icon bled red.
DJ swallowed. "Why did everything just turn red?"
"Danger tab."
"That's not an answer."
"Use Heat Death."
A click behind him. Something shifted. A small disk slid out of the pack and clinked against his spine.
DJ glanced back while skating. "What's that. And why is it called Heat Death."
"I'll explain later," Rony said quickly. "Throw it on the ground. Not on a car. Not on anything, on the road OK!."
"Rony—"
"Now."
DJ dropped it.
The disk bounced once. Twice. Rolled.
A countdown flared in his HUD. 6…5…4…
A warning voice echoed inside the suit.
WARNING. HEAT DEATH EVENT IMMINENT. PLEASE RETRIEVE THE DISK.
It repeated. Louder.
DJ's heart kicked. "WHY would it ask me to pick it back up?"
"That's a safety thing, that's not build from attack yet," Rony said, suddenly awkward. "If the core—"
The countdown hit zero.
The disk snapped white.
Frost burst outward like a scream. The road turned glass in a breath. Ice raced under cars, climbed tires, crawled up doors. Engines screamed, then slid. Metal kissed metal. One car spun, another flipped, another just gave up and shattered against a pole.
The cold didn't stop.
Light poles cracked. Windows bloomed white, then exploded. The street became a frozen river.
DJ skidded to a halt, staring. "It said heat death," he yelled. "WHY IS EVERYTHING FROZEN."
"That's the scientific name for it," Rony said looking at the results. " It means when an object or a body loses heat so fast that it turn into ice. It's loss of heat. Rapidly. I use to cool my PC. This is Just…little bigger."
DJ looked down at the ice swallowing a police car. "You had that on my back."
"It's not dangerous."
"It froze the street solid."
"It was necessary," Rony said, defensive now. "The Pullwater was overheating. You'd have been cooked. Focus."
DJ clenched his fists, breath fogging inside the helmet.
The truck was still moving. Past the ice. Almost clear.
"…We're talking about this later," DJ said, pushing off. "A lot."
"Deal," Rony said. "Now go.