As the rain began to fall in earnest, Ceres set out to do a good deed.

Udit had sought refuge at her parents’ place for the night, wisely avoiding the aftermath of Ceres and Mohan’s tense exchange. She hadn’t pressed for details about Ceres’s plans, and he hadn’t offered any. Instead, he’d simply told her that he’d see her in the morning, leaving her to grapple with her thoughts alone. She needed time to decide what she wanted, for herself, without the added pressure of his sitting there and staring at her. Moreover, facing another round of interrogation with Mohan was about as appealing as a leisurely stroll through a field of landmines.

She undoubtedly thought that he’d vanished to exact revenge upon Dharun, and while that was indeed on his agenda, he had his own timetable. Dharun, aware that a fellow brother was here and on the hunt, would grow increasingly jittery with each passing moment of anticipation. It was this state of heightened anxiety that he aimed to exploit, waiting until Dharun’s nerves were so taut that even the faintest sound would send him spiraling into panic. But, before that fateful encounter, there remained another pressing issue: the three rapists.

Ceres knew their type: in lawless slums all over the universe, self-proclaimed “alphas” roamed like misguided kings in their crumbling kingdoms. These were not men of true strength or wisdom, but rather self-aggrandizing braggarts who mistook arrogance for strength and ignorance for intelligence. Pompous blowhards, they strutted around with the mistaken belief that rudeness equated to confidence and bullying to leadership. Overcompensating egotists, they masked their insecurities with a façade of bravado and condescension, preying on the vulnerable to prop up their fragile egos. They were narcissistic charlatans, peddling outdated notions of dominance and control under the guise of masculinity, unable to grasp that true strength lay in empathy, respect, and humility—qualities they sorely lacked. In their delusions of grandeur, they proclaimed themselves leaders, oblivious to the fact that true leadership was not self-appointed but earned through genuine character and deeds.

Men like that deserved to be taught a lesson.

After giving Udit a kiss goodbye, much to her father’s ire, Ceres had indulged in a bit of detective work. The names Antap, Rocana, and Lamar floated ominously in his mind, each one dripping with the essence of trouble. Antap and Rocana were hometown troublemakers, while Lamar hailed from Namiri, a distant speck in the Outer Rim—a fitting origin for someone wreaking havoc on the margins of society. Rocana, the self-proclaimed leader, held court over this ragtag trio, though the term “leader” seemed as ill-fitting as a clown’s oversized shoes on a runway model. Together or separately, these three were infamous, known for leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. Justi’s mother, a woman with eyes like golf balls and a demeanor as bitter as a porcupine with a toothache, provided some valuable information. She managed the brothel next to her son’s café, and had no tolerance for what she called the scum of the earth. Rocana’s vicious assault on one of her girls had left her permanently disfigured.

Ceres had paid Radha for her help, feeling like he was appeasing a cranky genie, then interviewed the sex workers themselves. Amidst their jibes and embellishments, a recurring theme emerged: the trio, when not terrorizing the neighborhood, liked boasting of their exploits at The Camel Driver. That was a tavern so desolate and decrepit that even the rats avoided it, a place where darkness itself seemed to have taken up permanent residence.

Better than The Camel Toe, he supposed, eyeing the place from behind an overflowing dumpster. The shack seemed to mock him, its garish neon sign flickering like a beacon for the lost and lecherous. From this vangage point, he could hear the cacaphony within—a symphony of drunken laughter and slurred speech that echoed into the night. As the minutes dragged on, he contemplated whether he should venture into this den of debauchery or let fate to deliver his targets into his hands.

After what felt like an eternity, the men stumbled into view, their drunken antics a spectacle of absurdity. It was a comedy of errors as they struggled to navigate the door, their inebriation turning even the simplest tasks into feats of ridiculousness. Ceres recognized the men from the descriptions he’d received and as he watched, he put names to faces. Antap, the short one, careened straight into the doorframe with a resounding thud, eliciting raucous laughter from his companions. Undeterred by his mishap, he sheepishly retraced his steps, determined to conquer the obstacle before him.

Lamar, his face etched with concern, caught Antap before he tumbled headfirst into a puddle. He was the dark one and, despite his position, clearly the smart one. “We should get out of here,” he muttered, casting nervous glances around the dimly lit alley.

Forgetting Lamar’s steadying grip, Antap pushed him aside and stumbled precariously. “There’s this girl at The Sticky Bun,” he whined, his voice slurring slightly. “Promised her a visit.”

“I’m sure she’s counting the minutes,” Rocana deadpanned.

He was their leader, Ceres knew, the one with the scar.

Lamar glanced at his watch, squinting through the haze of alcohol-induced fuzziness, and emitted a loud burp. “I suppose it’s not that late.”

It was for normal people, but neither Ceres nor these buffoons fit that bill.

Petulant, Antap tried again. “At The Sticky Bun—

“Someone’s been asking about us, though,” Lamar interjected, his voice tinged with concern.

Rocana pivoted sharply. “I’m aware,” he snapped, his irritation evident.

Lamar’s brow furrowed. “Aren’t you worried?”

Rocana scoffed. “Not in the slightest! Unlike you, I’m not three sheets to the wind. It’s that corpulent bloke who oversees the card games, or one of his lackeys. Who else could it be?” He spat. “Claims I owe him interest, but I’d recoup my losses in a night if he’d just let me play again.”

Antap sniffed skeptically. “You think he’s waiting at The Sticky Bun?”

Rocana threw up his hands in frustration. “Fine! Let’s just go there, then!”

“Anywhere’s better than here,” Antap muttered, squinting up at the darkened sky. “This rain’s a real buzzkill.”

Lamar’s gaze swept the narrow alley once more, passing over where Ceres lurked in the shadows. “Alright,” he conceded, his tone resigned.

As the trio staggered ahead, their arms linked, Antap launched into a tuneless rendition of a popular song. Soon, Rocana joined in, their off-key singing reverberating through the deserted streets. Meanwhile, Ceres trailed them with silent determination, his pulse quickening with a mix of fury and resolve as he scaled a nearby wall. With practiced agility, he moved across the rooftops, a ghostly figure in the night. Amidst the racket of their drunken choruses, Lamar’s voice, once tinged with paranoia, now melded seamlessly with Rocana and Antap’s raucous melodies.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Ceres bided his time, a silent sentinel in the shadows, as the trio veered down a forsaken cart track where only the bravest vermin roamed. With a swift, precise motion, he unleashed an ancient amphora hurtling towards the ground below. In that suspended moment, every heartbeat echoed louder than the impending crash. The vessel shattered upon impact, exploding into shards as muck splattered the unsuspecting men. Antap’s laughter choked off, his merriment drowned by the sudden interruption. Amidst the downpour, the remnants of the pottery lay strewn, a harbinger of the tempest to come.

“What the hell was that?” Lamar’s voice quivered with unease.

Rocana shot him a withering glare. “A pot, you fool.”

Lamar’s throat bobbed nervously. “But why did it fall?”

Rocana rolled his eyes. “Who knows. Stop overthinking it.” He pressed on, but Lamar hesitated, eyeing the ledge warily. Despite his sharper intellect, fear held him back from voicing his doubts. Meanwhile, Antap remained unfazed, lost in a haze of intoxication that extended beyond mere alcohol.

Moments later, another jug plummeted, shattering upon impact with the mire below.

“There’s something up there!” Lamar’s voice cracked with fear, his finger trembling as he pointed.

“Shut up!” Rocana snapped, cuffing him on the head. “It’s just a damn cat!”

With a sickening thud, a dead cat joined them in the mud. Ceres hadn’t killed the creature; it was just a morbid coincidence that one happened to be on the roof next to him. In Dharavi, death was as common as the dirt beneath their feet, and tonight would bring more of it. Lamar recoiled with a high-pitched shriek, resembling a terrified child. Antap, on the other hand, merely stared at the lifeless feline, as though expecting it to rise from the mud and dance. Ceres watched their reactions, a malevolent grin spreading across his features. It was a chilling sight, but fitting for the grim fate that awaited these men. He watched with growing satisfaction as the trio pressed on, their shaky steps betraying their attempts to appear brave.

“Something just chucked that thing at us,” Lamar hissed through gritted teeth.

“Oh, brilliant deduction,” Rocana retorted sarcastically, though his bravado was as flimsy as tissue. Despite his attempts to mask it, fear flickered in his eyes, betraying his mask of bravado. He couldn’t afford to show weakness to his lackeys; his fragile authority depended on intimidation. “Just the typical chaos of this godforsaken place,” he added. “Rainy days turn Dharavi into a crumbling mess. It’s held together by nothing more than twine and piss!”

The trio veered into a dark alley, seeking a shortcut to the brothel.

This time a dead raccoon plummeted from above, brushing against Antap’s arm on its descent.

Antap froze in his tracks, his eyes wide with shock.

Ceres scanned the area, his senses heightened by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This section of the slum was a labyrinth of sweatshops and warehouses, a place where the wise steered clear after nightfall. His targets, oblivious to the lurking dangers, remained undaunted. Yet, their confidence was about to be shattered. In their haste to evade him, they’d unwittingly led themselves into a trap, a dead end from which there was no escape.

A sturdy cotton rope stretched across the alley, a laundry line stripped bare of its burdens. Ceres had inspected it earlier, testing its resilience, when he’d scouted this area and planned his attack. The knots were expertly tied, capable of bearing his weight with ease. With calculated precision, he leaped into the void, seizing the rope mid-air. Swinging deftly, he executed a flawless maneuver, twisting and turning until he landed gracefully in the pitted road below.

He rose from the mud with fluid elegance, his gaze piercing through the darkness to meet theirs. The trio stood frozen, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief. “Good evening,” he said politely, as though he’d just arrived at a court function. He surveyed their surroundings with a sweeping gesture. “Quite the cozy little corner for a tête-à-tête, wouldn’t you say?”

Antap struggled to form words, but none came.

Rocana tried to muster an air of defiance. “If you’re one of Shiro’s men, we can—

Ceres raised a hand to silence him. “Alas, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Obayun Shiro,” he began, his tone measured yet firm. “I’m here, settling a different debt—one owed to someone dear to me. You see, gentlemen, assaulting a woman isn’t just a crime. It’s a violation of her dignity, her autonomy. It’s a cowardly act that exposes your own moral bankruptcy. And let me be clear, your ignorance—or indifference—to the gravity of your actions doesn’t absolve you in the slightest.”

In the midst of the driving rain, silence settled around them like a suffocating shroud.

“Maybe you were raised without the basic principles of respect and decency,” Ceres pressed on, his voice slicing through the downpour. “But rest assured, your actions have consequences. If you haven’t grasped that on your own, don’t worry.” His smile twisted into something predatory. “I'm here to enlighten you.” He watched as realization dawned on their faces, fear creeping into their eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps, they understood the gravity of their situation.

Ceres advanced towards them, that chilling smile playing on his lips. With a swift motion, he drew his gun and fired, the shot ripping through the air. Lamar’s scream pierced the night as he crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around his shattered foot. Antap lunged forward in a desperate attempt to retaliate, but Ceres swiftly countered, delivering a punishing blow to his solar plexus. Antap collapsed, gasping for air, his body writhing in agony.

With Rocana left standing, Ceres calculated his next move, weighing his options carefully. He’d had enough fun so, swiftly and decisively, he pulled the same move on Rocana that he had on Antap. With all three men now subdued, he proceeded to gag and bind them, rendering them as helpless as they’d rendered their victims. “Consider the fear and trauma you’ve inflicted, not only on her but on countless other women,” he admonished. “Imagine if it were your sister, your mother, your daughter—subjected to such cruelty.” The thought of these brutes reproducing made him shudder with disgust. “Would you remain passive if someone treated them with such disregard?” Leaning in close, he locked eyes with Rocana. “I highly doubt it.”

As Lamar groaned through the filthy rag stuffed into his mouth, Ceres offered a twisted reassurance. “Don't fret,” he encouraged, his voice laced with dark humor. “Bleeding out from a mere foot wound isn’t exactly your main concern. Besides,” he added cheerfully, “you won't have to suffer long enough for that to become an issue!”

Lamar began thrashing furiously.

“However,” Ceres continued, “as I was saying, to survive in the world, a woman has to be so focused on self-defense that she has little, if any time for anything else. It’s her job to prevent rape—which, if you think about it, is really infantilizing to men, is it not? The suggestion that we cannot be expected to control our own lusts because what—we’re so weak?”

Rocana’s eyes widened to an alarming degree, his voice reduced to unintelligible murmurs that conveyed one clear question: who are you? Ceres approached him with deliberate steps, his demeanor exuding a chilling calm. “Who I am doesn’t matter,” he declared, his tone carrying an ominous weight. “What matters is why I’m here, and why I care about who you are.” With a pensive expression, he produced a knife from the depths of his jacket, its glinting blade catching the dim light. “Let’s discuss the virtues of a system that venerates physical dominance. Are you finding it fulfilling? Does it bring satisfaction to your existence?”

Rocana shook his head, but Ceres’s frown only deepened. “Come now, let’s not deceive ourselves,” he chided, his voice dripping with scorn. “Your actions speak louder than your denials. You revel in it, don’t you? The privilege to roam the streets at night, carefree and unbothered, simply because you’re a man. How delightful! But alas, my dear acquaintance, the same cannot be said for my woman. Surely you’re familiar with her?”

Rocana’s muffled denials grew more vehement.

“Udit Mishra.” Ceres’s tone grew even colder as he uttered the name, then Antap wailed as a laugh escaped his lips, echoing like a whisper in a graveyard. “As much as she’s mine, I am also hers. And partners help each other, wouldn’t you agree?” With a deliberate motion, he tested the blade, drawing a single bead of blood that glistened ominously under the moonlight. “You might be slow pupils, gentlemen, but I am an extremely dedicated teacher.”