Chapter 9 : Where We Stand

“I did,” Netra repeated, louder this time. “I called the police.”

Silence swallowed the room whole.

No one moved. No one spoke. Every eye turned to her.

She stood in the center, alone, spine stiff but hands trembling slightly. The crowd parted slowly like a wave pulling away from the shore. Whispers died on tongues. Disbelief hung in the air like thick smoke.

Neil froze, hockey stick still pressed against Amit’s neck.

Sam, with one hand tangled in Sulekha’s hair, blinked at Netra, lips slightly parted.

Figo stood back, arms crossed—his amused smirk faltered, twitching into something unreadable.

Then, with mock astonishment, Figo broke the silence: “This bloody behenjii.”

Neil stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. His voice was low and lethal. “So it was you.”

Netra swallowed, trying to anchor herself. “I’ve told the truth you wanted. So now let’s end this tamasha—this spectacle you’re orchestrating.”

Neil chuckled darkly. Behind him, Figo burst into a laugh like it was the funniest joke he'd heard all year.

“She’s calling this a tamasha?” Neil mocked. “No, darling... this is where the spectacle begins.”

In one sweeping motion, he hurled the hockey stick into the air and smashed it down on the table. Cups shattered. The coffee machine crumpled in one brutal hit. He swung again, breaking lights, chairs, and anything within reach. Figo and Sam joined him in the chaos—turning MAD’s glossy lounge into a scene of pure destruction.

Sam lunged at Netra, grabbing for her hair.

But this time, Netra didn’t flinch. She shoved her—hard. Sam stumbled backward and fell.

Netra didn’t wait. She rushed to Sulekha, fumbling with the ropes.

“These people won’t stop, Netra,” Sulekha whispered as Netra’s fingers worked furiously. “They’ll screw us over.”

Once Sulekha was free, Amit broke his ropes quickly.

Neil was a whirlwind of fury—tossing cupboards, smashing glass. The once-luxurious MAD lounge now looked like a slum.

Netra ducked into a corner and pulled out her phone.

That’s when it happened.

Neil saw her.

He charged from behind, hockey stick raised high, ready to strike.

But just before the blow could land—someone caught it mid-air.

Neil froze.

His hand still gripping the stick, he turned slowly.

Malang stood behind him, breath shallow, his grip tight around the other end.

Sweat trickled down his temple. His heart thudded in his ears. He didn’t know everything that had happened—but when he saw Neil about to hit Netra, he moved without thinking.

This moment—it wasn’t about what his father expected or what he was supposed to be.

It was about doing the right thing.

Neil stared at him. His eyes searched Malang’s face like he was seeing him for the first time.

Then—with a sharp yank—he pulled the hockey stick free, jerking Malang off balance. Malang stumbled and let go.

The stick hit the floor with a dull thud.

Before Malang could recover, Neil lunged forward.

Neil stepped in close. Too close.

In one violent motion, he grabbed Malang by the collar—hard, cruel—, and started dragging him across the shattered lounge. Malang’s feet scrambled against the polished floor, unable to resist the pull. Neil shoved open the balcony doors and slammed Malang against the railing. Malang’s upper body tipped dangerously over the edge. Just one slip and he’d fall.

Neil’s knuckles were white around Malang’s collar, the veins in his neck throbbing.

“You bloody freak,” he shouted in his face. "How dare you?!"

Malang winced. His back ached from the impact, and the cold metal bit into his ribs. His hair stuck to his sweaty face, chest heaving. But even through the pain, he found the courage to speak.

Still coughing, he rasped,

“There’s no solution in fighting.”

There was no anger in his voice—only something raw and pleading.

His eyes met Neil’s. Wide, hurt, confused—but steady. There was a kind of pleading in them that made Neil flinch.

Neil’s grip didn’t move.

Then, very slowly, his fingers loosened.

For a second, just one, Neil didn’t know who he was anymore.

He let go.

Malang collapsed onto the floor, curling in pain.

Netra rushed in, stepping between them.

“Stop,” she said, voice unwavering. “Or I’ll call the police again.”

This time she wasn’t bluffing.

She wasn’t scared.

Behind her, Malang sank to the floor, holding his ribs, still coughing. The wind from the balcony rustled his curls. He looked like a mess.

Neil looked at her—then back at Malang.

Neil took a step back. Still staring at Malang.

Something in him shifted. His voice was quieter now. “Calling the police wasn’t right.”

Netra didn’t hesitate. “And what’s happening here is? The humiliation during orientation—was that right?”

A voice from the crowd cut through the tension. Smooth. Cold. Familiar.

“Yes. It was.”

Everyone turned.

Rihanna stood there, wrapped in her usual aura of arrogance and perfume laced with alcohol and cigars.

And just like that, all the doubt in Neil’s eyes vanished.

He straightened. His mask snapped back on.

Rihanna strode forward, eyes on Netra. “So this little mediocre talent wants to play savior for the backgrounders? Wow.”

Figo snorted. “Bloody clowns. We’re the OGs. You’re the BGs.”

“No comparison,” Rihanna said. “Between the originals and the backgrounders.”

Neil laughed coldly, turning to Sulekha and Amit, still bruised and silent.

“And you,” he sneered, “really think you deserve anything other than insults? You’re failures. Messes on stage.”

“A shit show,” Sam added.

“You can’t rag us like this,” Netra snapped.

Rihanna tilted her head. “Yes, we can. And if you keep challenging us—you’ll find out.”

She paused, then added, “This isn't some typical ragging situation. We're not some bullies. This is about talent. About being the best. About being US.”

Neil turned to the crowd. “You were born in the background. That’s where you’ll stay. Not a single BG has reached the pro level in the last ten years.”

Netra stepped forward. “Yes, because—”

“Because you don’t have it,” Rihanna cut in. “MAD is about quality. You’re turning it into a gutter. Because of you backgrounders, we’re losing.”

Netra’s jaw clenched. “It’s easy to talk when you’ve never had to struggle.”

Rihanna laughed. “Please. Don’t steal the limelight with speeches. If you’ve got real talent…”

She leaned in.

“…then show me. Let's Battle it out.”

The crowd erupted. Cheers rang through the air like thunder.

Sulekha’s face fell. She tugged Netra aside. “Don’t even think about it,” she hissed.

“Why? What’s wrong with a dance battle?” Netra whispered, confused.

Sulekha’s voice was tight. “Because there are no rules. They may be monsters—but they’re monstrous dancers. No one beats them. You go against them—you don’t just lose. You’re destroyed. It's like a public execution.”

But it was too late.

Netra’s nerves were gone. Fury burned in her now.

She stepped forward and faced Rihanna, eyes fierce.

“Okay. Let’s battle.”

The crowd roared.

For a second, even Rihanna’s smile faltered—just slightly.

Then she laughed. Not loud, not wild. Just enough to slice.

"Your funeral," she whispered.

Neil, Sam, and Figo stepped behind her like shadows ready to pounce. Neil cracked his knuckles. Figo rolled his neck and grinned like he smelled blood.

Malang, still coughing from the balcony scuffle, straightened up. His steps were wobbly, but his voice was steady when he walked to Netra’s side.

"You’re not doing this alone," he said.

One by one, Sulekha, Amit, and Kiran joined them.

They lined up behind her. No words—just the silent pact of the bruised, the underestimated.

From the crowd, someone whispered, "This is MAD’s death match…"

Sam cracked her knuckles and muttered with a smirk “Let’s go, then. Freeloaders versus the real talent.”

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