The neon lights of Mumbai’s Colaba flickered like a dying pulse, casting jagged shadows on the rain-slicked streets. Arjun Shinde, a small-time cardsharp with a crooked smile and a heart heavier than his debts, leaned against the wall of The Black Ace, a seedy gambling den tucked behind a fish market. His fingers twitched, craving the shuffle of cards, but tonight wasn’t about poker. Tonight was about survival.

Three months ago, Arjun had been a nobody, hustling tourists in dive bars, his quick hands dealing aces from the bottom of the deck. But a single bad bet had landed him in the crosshairs of Vikram Seth, the kingpin of Mumbai’s underworld. Vikram wasn’t just a gangster; he was a myth, a shadow who controlled the city’s vices—drugs, guns, and girls—with a velvet glove and an iron fist. Arjun owed him fifty lakhs, a debt ballooned by interest and desperation. Vikram’s offer was simple: work for him, or die.

Inside The Black Ace, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and whispered deals. Arjun adjusted his worn leather jacket, the weight of a stolen .45 pistol pressing against his ribs. Vikram had summoned him for a job, a “one-time deal” to clear his slate. The task: infiltrate a rival syndicate’s high-stakes poker game, steal a flash drive containing details of their smuggling routes, and deliver it to Vikram by dawn. Simple, except the game was guarded by men who’d kill for a sideways glance.

Arjun’s contact was Meera, a lounge singer with eyes like monsoon clouds and a voice that could make angels weep. She performed at The Black Ace, her sultry rendition of old Bollywood songs masking her role as Vikram’s eyes and ears. Arjun had met her a month ago, when she’d slipped him a drink and a warning: “Trust no one, not even me.” Yet, something in her gaze—fleeting, vulnerable—made him want to believe she was different.

“Ready, hero?” Meera whispered, brushing past him in a red saree that shimmered like blood under the dim lights. She slipped a keycard into his pocket, her fingers lingering a moment too long. “Table five. The drive’s with a man named Khalid. Don’t screw this up.”

Arjun nodded, his throat dry. He crossed the crowded room, weaving through drunks and hustlers, and slid into the poker game. The players were a rogue’s gallery: a scar-faced smuggler, a politician’s son with cocaine-dusted nostrils, and Khalid, a wiry man with a gold tooth and a stare that could cut glass. The stakes were obscene—cash, diamonds, and secrets. Arjun played his part, losing just enough to blend in, his hands steady despite the sweat prickling his spine.

As the night wore on, the game grew tense. Khalid was cautious, his fingers never straying far from the bulge under his jacket. Arjun caught Meera’s eye across the room; she nodded subtly, her song never faltering. He upped the ante, bluffing with a pair of twos, forcing Khalid to go all-in. The smuggler cursed, tossing the flash drive onto the pile like it was pocket change. Arjun’s heart raced. One more hand, and it’d be his.

But fate’s a cruel dealer. A shout erupted from the bar—cops. The room exploded into chaos. Tables flipped, bottles shattered, and men scrambled like rats. Arjun lunged for the drive, but Khalid was faster, snatching it and bolting for the back exit. Arjun gave chase, the pistol heavy in his hand. The alley outside was a maze of shadows, the stench of rotting fish choking the air. He cornered Khalid near a dumpster, gun raised.

“Hand it over,” Arjun growled.

Khalid sneered, blood trickling from a split lip. “You’re Vikram’s dog now, huh? You think he’ll let you walk after this?”

Arjun’s finger tightened on the trigger, but before he could fire, a blade flashed. Khalid crumpled, a knife buried in his chest. Meera stood behind him, her face unreadable, the blade dripping in her hand.

“You…?” Arjun stammered, the drive now in her grasp.

“Vikram’s not the only one playing this game,” she said, her voice cold. “Come with me, or you’re next.”

She led him to a warehouse by the docks, where Vikram waited, his silk suit pristine amidst the grime. But something was off. Meera tossed the drive to Vikram, then drew a second knife, her eyes locked on Arjun. “He’s a loose end, boss.”

Vikram laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “You’re too soft, Meera. He’s useful. For now.”

Arjun’s mind raced. Meera wasn’t just Vikram’s spy—she was his enforcer, playing both sides. The drive wasn’t about smuggling routes; it was leverage, proof of Vikram’s deals with corrupt cops. Arjun was a pawn, meant to take the fall when the law came knocking.

He acted on instinct, tackling Meera as she lunged. The knife grazed his arm, pain searing through him. He wrestled the drive from her, bolting for the exit as Vikram’s goons opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off steel beams, and Arjun dove behind a crate, his breath ragged. Meera’s betrayal stung worse than the wound. He’d trusted her, maybe even loved her.

The warehouse doors burst open—cops, real ones this time, tipped off by an anonymous call. Arjun slipped the drive into his pocket and ran, weaving through the chaos as Vikram’s empire crumbled. Dawn broke over Mumbai, painting the sky crimson. Arjun vanished into the city’s veins, the drive his only bargaining chip. Days later, he sat in a cheap hotel, the drive plugged into a burner laptop.

The data was explosive—names, dates, payoffs. Enough to bury Vikram and half the city’s elite. But Meera’s face haunted him, her final words echoing: “Trust no one.” Was she playing him to the end, or was there truth in her fleeting glances?. Arjun made his choice. He leaked the drive’s contents to a journalist, then boarded a train to nowhere, the city’s lights fading behind him. Mumbai didn’t forgive, and neither did he. But for the first time, he was free—until the next game began.