An alternate world, unrelated to real history and figures. Any similarities are purely coincidental.
It was night in Dharavi.
Humid, sweltering, making it hard to breathe.
The night wind couldn't disperse the turbid air of Dharavi; instead, it carried more of the rot from the depths of the alley into the room.
This was a hovel barely cobbled together from rusty tin sheets and dilapidated wooden boards. Arian Choudhary leaned against the dirty mattress.
The only light bulb in the room cast a dim yellow glow, barely illuminating the cramped space.
He was shirtless, revealing a lean but sturdy chest, with several old scars faintly visible in the gloom.
He had just finished an act of intimacy and was now slowly lighting a beedi.
The pungent, low-quality tobacco smell quickly overshadowed other odors in the room.
Aryan's thoughts drifted back to a year ago.
He had once been a powerful and ruthless figure, with connections everywhere.
Times changed, his backer fell, he was brought to the execution ground, a single bullet.
He thought that was the end.
However, when he opened his eyes again, a pungent, strange smell and a completely unfamiliar language instantly overwhelmed him.
He lay beside a pile of foul-smelling garbage, his body aching, his bones feeling as if they had come apart.
But strangely, the fatal bullet wound was gone, replaced by this thin but young body.
Memories flooded in, and he became Arian Choudhary.
An eighteen-year-old Indian youth living in 1992.
A maggot whose parents died young, struggling at the bottom of the Dharavi Slum.
The inherent ruthlessness and survival instinct within him allowed him to overcome the initial confusion.
He began to struggle anew with this unfamiliar body in this even more brutal and chaotic hell.
For a whole year, he was like a wild dog, enduring, observing, and biding his time.
He had starved, been humiliated, and even fought bloody battles for half a piece of moldy naan.
Using his past life's experience and methods far more ruthless than his age suggested, he slowly accumulated insignificant capital and reputation.
Theft, extortion, fighting... as long as it meant survival and climbing up, he would do anything.
Two young men, also struggling at the bottom, became his right-hand men.
One was Raji, taciturn but ruthless in action.
The other was Shane, nimble and cunning, with a good network of information.
There were also several women who depended on him; they made a living by petty theft in the Slum, and Aryan provided them protection in this chaotic place.
Now, in this chaotic land, Aryan had barely propped up a precarious, tiny faction.
Beside Aryan, Aisha was curled up.
Her naked skin was exposed to the stuffy air, the sticky feeling making her a little uncomfortable.
She pulled a worn blanket, whose original color was indiscernible, to barely cover herself, secretly glancing at the man beside her.
"Boss's skin is so fair; he must be a fallen young master."
Recalling their recent intimacy, Aisha instinctively squeezed the blanket between her legs.
"Boss looks so relaxed when he smokes; he must... be quite satisfied with his performance just now, right?"
Aisha's heart began to beat faster, against her will.
She licked her dry lips, "Aryan... Boss..."
Aryan didn't look at her; he just grunted through his nose as a response.
The red glow of the cigarette tip flickered on and off on his face.
Aisha mustered a tiny bit of courage and continued, "Boss... The protection money I've been paying recently, could it... could it be a little less?
Outside... it's been unsafe lately, sometimes I don't manage to get anything all day."
As soon as she finished speaking, Aryan suddenly turned his head.
That brief moment of relaxation vanished without a trace.
He didn't speak, just stared at Aisha, his gaze much like the fiercest wild dog in the Slum.
Aisha instantly regretted it.
How dared she make a request?
What was she?
She was just someone Boss picked up.
"You think, lying here, you can negotiate with me?"
He raised his hand, and by its posture, it seemed he intended to slap Aisha's face directly.
Aisha shivered in fright, closed her eyes, and tensed her facial muscles, preparing for the slap.
However, Aryan's hand paused in mid-air.
He glanced at Aisha's face, which was still somewhat attractive.
With a change of mind, his hand changed direction and slapped Aisha's bare bottom hard.
"Thwack!"
A crisp sound echoed in the tin shack.
Aisha cried out "Ah" in pain, tears instantly welling up, not so much from pain, but more from fear.
She scrambled and crawled to Aryan's feet, hugging his calf.
"Boss, I was wrong! I was wrong! I won't dare again! I'll listen to everything you say! Please don't be angry, don't hit me..."
She knew Aryan's methods.
Making him unhappy was not as simple as just getting a slap.
Previously, a disobedient sister of hers had her leg broken by him, and now no one knew which gutter she was waiting to die in.
Aryan kicked her hand away in disgust and blew out a smoke ring.
"Get lost, don't bother me."
Aisha, as if granted a great pardon, quickly retreated to the corner of the mattress, wrapping herself tightly in the blanket, even breathing cautiously, fearing to anger this devil again.
Just then, a timid voice came from outside the tin shack.
"Boss... Aryan Boss... Are you there?"
It was Shane.
Aryan frowned and yelled outside, "Spit it out if you have something to say!"
The door was carefully pushed open a crack, and Shane poked half his head in, "Boss, there's something... I'd like to report to you."
Aryan pinched out the nearly burnt-down beedi with his hand and tossed it on the ground.
"Speak!"
Shane then squeezed in sideways. He glanced at the trembling Aisha, quickly lowered his head, and leaned closer to Aryan.
"Boss... Sangeeta, she... she didn't pay."