He emerged from the white smoke, stepping out like a man carved from fire and silence. His boots echoed across the hollow warehouse floor. The dim lights above flickered, making his shadow dance behind him like a restless ghost.
His eyes gleamed—sharp, intelligent, dangerous.
A cigarette hung from the corner of his lips. He struck a lighter with a single flick, almost lazy, but with the confidence of a man who had once controlled entire streets. The flame touched the cigarette, he inhaled deeply, and then exhaled a slow, curling cloud of smoke.
"*Radhe*," he said.
The name rolled from his tongue like both a greeting and a threat.
"*Radhe*," he repeated, smirking.
Then, as if claiming the entire empty hall, he said again—
"*Radhe.*"
The word echoed through the warehouse, bouncing off rusted metal and forgotten machines. It was half introduction… half warning.
He leaned against an old engine block, the cigarette tip glowing like a dying star.
"You want to know who I am?" he said to no one, or maybe to the ghosts of his past. "I was a man of machines once."
He brushed his fingers across the engine, like touching an old friend.
"Cars, engines, gears—my world used to spin on their rhythm. I could take a broken engine and make it sing. I could tune a machine till it purred like thunder. People came to me from far away just to fix what they thought was impossible."
He smiled faintly—half pride, half pain.
"Speed was my language. Every night, I raced through the streets. Not for money. Not for fame. Just to feel alive."
He looked down, letting the memories settle inside the smoke around him.
But that was then.
This was now.
Radhe flicked the ash off his cigarette and stepped out of the warehouse. The cold evening wind hit his face. A stray dog barked from somewhere far away. A train horn screamed in the distance.
His life had changed.
Completely.
He was *broke*.
Not just "little money broke"—he was "counting coins to buy bread" He is broke as fu*k.
All his friends—the same guys who once raced beside him, who cheered his victories, who called him "brother"—they were settled now. Good jobs. Good wives. Good cars. Good families.
Everyone had moved forward.
Except him.
Radhe was alone. Single as hell, with no money, no job, and no plan. It was like life had taken him on a long race track, then suddenly cut his brakes and laughed while he crashed.
And now, if he didn't find a job soon… he would starve.
Literally.
But he wasn't stupid. He wasn't worthless. He had a PhD in Mechanics and Engineering*—something his mother used to be so proud of.
He decided, finally, that he would go out tomorrow and find a job. Any job. As long as he could pay rent and buy food.
Now he lives in His rented apartment which was small—one room, cracked walls, a flickering fan, and a bed that complained every time he sat on it. But it was home. Or at least, the closest thing he had.
Just as he sat down, tired from walking the city searching for opportunities, he heard loud banging on his door.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
He flinched.
No one visited him.
Ever.
He opened the door.