Chapter 7 - Day 2

Dawn broke over the pind estate in quiet shades of indigo and pale amber. Cool morning breeze rustled through the dense guava orchards, carrying the damp scent of dew-soaked earth across the manicured lawns. Inside the wide master suite, a steady digital alarm chime echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

A broad hand reached out from beneath the sheets, thick fingers tapping the glass face of the clock to silence the tone. Broad limbs uncoiled from the mattress as the large frame sat upright. Feet settled onto the cool marble floor with a quiet acoustic weight.

Stepping into the adjoining bathroom, cold water splashed over his face, clearing the last remnants of sleep. A long length of black cotton fabric was gathered in his hands, wound expertly around his joora into a neat, firm parna. Returning to the main room, athletic gear was pulled from the wardrobe: a dark stringer vest clinging to a dense, corded torso, paired with gray training shorts and thick-soled sports trainers. Heavy leather duffel bag handles were caught in his calloused palm, the brass zippers jingling as he slung the strap over his broad shoulder.

Striding through the oversized doorframe of his suite, broad steps carried him down the silent marble staircase. The grand ground floor lay still under the soft morning light filtering through the high archways.

The main kitchen was quiet and empty, the stainless steel counters reflecting the grey dawn. Opening the tall refrigerator door, a broad hand retrieved a chilled glass jug of milk. Two massive scoops of chocolate protein powder were measured into a shaker bottle, followed by a thick pour of fresh milk. The lid clicked tight. A few vigorous shakes of his wrist blended the mixture completely before he tipped his head back, gulping down the entire contents in long, steady swallows.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the empty bottle was rinsed and slipped into the side pocket of the duffel bag. Iron keys jingled in his right hand as he pushed through the rear verandah doors.

The black Royal Enfield Bullet 500 rested on its center stand under the stone porch. Swung a long leg over the wide saddle, compressing the heavy rear suspension. The key clicked into the ignition. His right foot came down hard on the kick-starter, waking the engine with a deep, thunderous exhaust pulse that vibrated through the quiet stone courtyard.

Gear lever engaged down into first position. The heavy motorcycle rolled past the open Haveli gates, turning onto the paved lane that cut through the sleeping pind.

Early morning mist clung low over the open fields. A short ride brought the bike to the commercial block near the central bazaar, where the bright red vinyl sign of the village gym hung above a reinforced steel door. The motorcycle coasted to a halt against the curb, the kickstand biting into the concrete with a solid metallic click.

Heaving the duffel strap over his shoulder, broad strides pushed through the heavy glass door of the facility. The hum of industrial floor fans and the metallic clinking of iron plates filled the ambient air, smelling of chalk powder, rubber mats, and fresh sweat.