SHADOWS IN THE WIRES

### **Chapter 1: The Dark Spot** **Arjun Rao** sat hunched in his tiny apartment in Visakhapatnam. The old fan spun lazily overhead, pushing around the thick, salty air from the nearby Bay of Bengal. It was **2:17 AM**, and the monsoon rain hammered the tin roof like angry fists. On his laptop screen glowed his college project: a **smart bridge** design with built-in alarms to warn of danger. He had spent weeks on it, dreaming it could save lives in crowded cities like Mumbai. Suddenly, a **dark spot** appeared right in the middle of the bridge diagram. It wasn't there before. **Arjun** leaned closer, his eyes burning from hours of staring. The power flickered—typical for this coastal town. He hadn't drawn that spot. His roommate was out partying, and the door was locked tight. A chill of **fear** ran down his spine. He had heard stories from classmates about companies stealing student ideas. He clicked save. The screen flashed: ***Access blocked. Secret mode engaged.*** **What the hell?** He slammed the laptop shut. The rain outside seemed louder now, like it was laughing at him. **Arjun** paced the small room, his shoulder aching from a recent volleyball game. **Three sharp knocks** echoed on the door. "Who's there?" he called, voice shaky. "**Delivery package** for **Arjun Rao**," came a low voice. No one delivers at this hour. He peeked through the peephole: empty corridor, buzzing tube light. Then, a wet **brown envelope** slid under the door. Inside was a single **USB stick** labeled ***See the truth.*** Heart pounding, he plugged it in. A grainy video played: the college computer lab. It showed **him** working late, then a **hooded man** sneaking up to tamper with his file. But **Arjun** hadn't been there that night. Fake evidence? Attached files revealed his bridge plan twisted into **bomb instructions**. His phone buzzed. Unknown number: ***You created it. Now it's ours. Bring to Warehouse 7 tomorrow, or the shadow falls.*** **Arjun** barricaded the door with a chair. Sleep was impossible. By morning, he skipped class and biked through pouring rain to the foggy docks. **Warehouse 7** loomed rusty and silent. "**Arjun Rao**," a voice said from the shadows. Out stepped **Broker**, a slick man in his 30s with a gold chain. "Smart design. Sell it to us." "**Never**," **Arjun** spat. Broker showed a live feed of his apartment ransacked. Two **hooded thugs** lunged with knives. **Arjun** ran, knocking crates, splashing into cold water. His phone showed the **real Vizag bridge** in danger—his design hacked live. He snatched Broker's phone and hit **stop**. A bullet grazed his arm. He threw the phone into the sea and escaped as sirens wailed. News called him a hero that night. But a new text came: ***This is just the start.***