Laxmi stepped out of the car, the humid night air thick with tension. His eyes darted around, scanning the quiet village, but something was off. The street was deserted—too deserted. The only sounds were the faint rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets. He wiped the sweat from his brow, muttering under his breath as he returned to the car for water.
Before he could reach the door, a loud clanging sound erupted behind him. He spun around, heart racing, only to find himself face-to-face with a mob of farmers. At least a hundred of them, each holding crude weapons—sticks, shovels, rusty blades—forming a tight circle around him.
The leader, a middle-aged farmer with wild eyes and a fury that burned deep stepped forward. His grip tightened on the iron rod in his hand as he pointed it directly at Laxmi's chest.
