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Chapter 1: The Price of a Second Chance
Mumbai, 2024
The honking never stopped. Arjun Mehta leaned his forehead against the grimy Uber window, watching the monsoon rain slide like tears down the glass. His phone buzzed—another Slack notification from his startup's crumbling team. *"Investors pulling out,"* the message read. *"Meeting tomorrow?"* He typed *"We'll fix this"* with fingers calloused from 18-hour days, his third vada pav of the night sitting like a stone in his gut.
He never saw the truck.
One moment, the smell of wet asphalt and fried street food filled his nostrils. The next—screaming metal, a kaleidoscope of shattered glass, and the bitter taste of blood. His last coherent thought wasn't of his failed app or unpaid loans.
*I should've called Ma this week.*
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Patna, 1990
*Slap.*
"Arjun! Beta, get up or you'll shame us both!"
The sting on his cheek felt real. Too real. Arjun's eyes flew open to a ceiling fan wobbling like a drunkard above him, its blades streaked with decades of dust. The smell of coal smoke and turmeric punched him in the throat.
"Ma…?" His voice cracked. *Since when did I sound like a boy?*
His mother—*young*, her hair still jet-black, her cotton sari frayed at the hem—hovered over him. Behind her, a cracked mirror reflected a face he hadn't seen since old Facebook photos: acne-dotted, round-cheeked, 14 years old.
"Your final exams start today!" She thrust a steel tiffin box into his hands. "Your father didn't work night shifts at the railway office for you to sleep like a zamindar!"
Arjun's fingers brushed hers—rough from scrubbing laundry, warm and alive. His throat tightened. *She died in 2008. Cancer we couldn't afford.*
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--- The Walk to School ---
Arjun's leather school shoes pinched his toes as he shuffled past the neighborhood's chai stalls, their aluminum kettles whistling like tired train engines. The system's interface flickered at the edge of his vision, stubborn as a stubborn mosquito:
**[OPPORTUNITY DETECTED: CRICKET BETTING POOL. 1990 WORLD CUP. ODDS: 22:1.]**
*Kapil Dev's miracle match.* The memory hit him like monsoon rain—his uncle's drunken rants about the 1990 World Cup, the regret in his voice when he'd mutter, *"Put my whole salary on England like a fool."*
Arjun's grip tightened on his tiffin box. Inside, two aloo parathas. Ma had skipped breakfast again.
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**Rajendra High School**
The essay topic glared from the chalkboard: *"India's Future in the Global Economy."*
Snickers rippled through the class. "As if any of us will see London or America!" his seatmate Rakesh whispered, folding a paper airplane from his notebook.
Arjun stared at his textbook—a smudged chapter on Nehru's Five-Year Plans. Outside, the *chaiwallah's* cry—"*Garam chai!*"—drifted through barred windows.
**[SYSTEM ALERT: BETTING POOL CLOSES IN 27 MINUTES.]**
The bell rang. Arjun bolted, tiffin box forgotten.
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**Ramnaresh Paan Shop**
Men clustered around a crackling Phillips radio, eyes glued to the scorecard chalkboard. Betting slips littered the floor like fallen leaves.
"Last over! India needs 4 runs!" the commentator rasped.
Arjun's school uniform stuck to his back. He clutched the ₹5 note Ma had given him—meant for lunch.
"Eh, chhokra!" A bettor with gold-capped teeth grinned. "Put your pocket money on England? Double it!"
Arjun swallowed. *Five rupees. Ma skipped meals for this.*
"India," he said, louder. "Twenty-to-one odds."
Laughter erupted. "Deal! Enjoy your khoka-khoka!"
The radio hissed.
*"Kapil Dev swings—SIX! INDIA WINS BY 9 RUNS!"*
The shop exploded. Men howled, tearing betting slips. Gold-Teeth stared at Arjun like he'd grown fangs.
"L-lucky bastard," he stammered, thrusting ₹120 into Arjun's palm.
**[TASK COMPLETED: ₹100 ACQUIRED.]**
**[UNLOCKED: SONY WALKMAN TECHNICAL SCHEMATICS (1987).]**
Arjun's fingers trembled. *Walkmans. Basic now, revolutionary here. But how to—*
"Arjun?!"
He turned. His father stood frozen across the street, lunch tiffin in hand.
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**Nightfall**
The kerosene lantern hissed. Arjun hunched over the family's wobbly dining table, sketching posters: *"WORLD CUP CHAMPIONS! KAPIL DEV & TEAM — ₹50 EACH!"*
Papa's shadow loomed over him. "Gambling. *Gambling*, you shameful boy!"
"It's for us! I can—"
"Us?" His father slammed a fist on the table. "Your mother hasn't bought new bangles since our wedding! And you waste money on… on *nonsense*?"
Arjun's chest ached. *He reeks of the railway yard's grease. Works 16 hours so I can eat.*
"I'll fix it," Arjun whispered. "I'll make us rich. Make *India* rich."
Papa laughed bitterly. "Rich? We're clerks and maids. Know your place."
The lantern flickered out. In the dark, Arjun's system screen pulsed:
**[WARNING: HOSTILE ENTITY 'SYNDICATE' AWARE OF YOUR ACTIVITY. ASSET SEIZURE RISK: 87%]**
Outside, a motorcycle growled. Headlights swept the alley.
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