Chapter 39: The Iron Grip
Raghav's room was dark, but not silent.
From the living room, he could hear the scrape of a chair, followed by a long, quiet, broken sigh from his father. It was the sound of a man hollowed out.
That sigh became the metronome for his task.
Squeeze.
His forearm, pale and thin from weeks in a cast, erupted in a sharp, fiery protest. The muscles, atrophied and weak, felt like they were being torn.
Release.
His fingers, slick with sweat, uncurled.
Squeeze.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw aching.
[Rep Count: 247 / 1000]
He wasn't thinking about his uncle. He wasn't thinking about his father's shame. He had processed that.
The 42-year-old mind had analyzed the data—the humiliation, the anger, the fifty-thousand-rupee gap between his family and "power"—and had converted it all into a single, cold, efficient fuel.
This was just work.
Squeeze.
