The Arrival
Rain came like a curtain that day — sudden, dark, relentless. A black sedan sliced through Jaunpur's wet streets, its headlights catching puddles and the shuttered faces of tea-stalls. Vikram Singh sat in the back, hands clasped, not looking at the city. The car's engine hummed; outside, thunder answered in low, impatient rolls.
He wore a plain charcoal suit, nothing flashy. People who didn't know him would call it restraint. People who knew him called it steel.
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