Vikramaditya—or Vikram, as he liked to call himself because Vikramaditya sounded way too majestic for someone with his track record—he always believed he was destined for greatness. He had no evidence to back this up, of course. But why let facts ruin a perfectly good delusion?
On this fateful night, Vikram was trudging home from his office, cursing the government job he never wanted but somehow ended up with. Life, he thought, was like an unexpected rainstorm—wet, annoying, and mostly out of his control.
As he passed through a narrow alley notorious for petty crimes, he spotted a cat. Not just any cat—a particularly judgmental-looking one perched atop a garbage bin, staring at him as if it could see right through his "self-proclaimed genius" act.
"Don't look at me like that," Vikram grumbled. "At least I have a job."
The cat blinked lazily. Clearly unimpressed.
Before he could continue his one-sided argument, a sudden voice rang out. "Hey, you!"
Vikram turned to see a man sprinting toward him, arms flailing. "What in the—"
The man crashed into him, and they both tumbled onto the pavement. "Sorry, sorry!" the stranger gasped, scrambling to his feet. "They're after me!"
"Who's after—"
Before Vikram could finish, three burly men rounded the corner, glaring daggers at the stranger. One of them pointed. "There he is! And… oh great, he brought a friend."
"Friend?!" Vikram spluttered, still sprawled on the ground. "I don't even know this guy!"
The stranger didn't stick around to clarify. He bolted, leaving Vikram to face the trio alone.
"Now, hold on," Vikram said, raising his hands. "This is clearly a misunderstanding. I'm just an innocent bystander!"
The leader of the group cracked his knuckles. "Innocent? Sure. But bystander? Not anymore."
What followed was a chaotic, slapstick brawl that looked less like a fight and more like a badly choreographed comedy skit. Vikram, fueled by sheer adrenaline and a healthy dose of panic, managed to evade most of their attacks by sheer luck—or, as he liked to think, his latent martial arts genius.
At one point, he grabbed a discarded trash can lid and used it as a shield, much to the annoyance of his attackers. "Is this what Captain America felt like?!" he muttered, deflecting a punch.
But alas, his heroic streak came to an abrupt end when he tripped over the very cat he'd been arguing with earlier. The lid went flying, and he landed face-first on the pavement.
The attackers, clearly more confused than angry at this point, decided to cut their losses and leave. "Not worth it," one of them muttered as they disappeared into the night.
Vikram groaned, rolling onto his back. "Great. Just great. I survive that nonsense, and now my dignity's in shambles."
He sat up, only to notice the cat staring at him again, its judgmental expression somehow more intense than before. "Oh, shut up," he snapped.
As if on cue, a loud rumble echoed from above. Vikram looked up just in time to see a giant flowerpot hurtling toward him.
"Are you serious?!" he yelled at the universe.
The pot hit its mark, and everything went dark.
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