The Next Day – 8:30 AM
Metrospore City – Former Gang Nagas Warehouse
The sun had risen, but for the police… no light came.
Joseph Fernandez sat in the back of a surveillance van parked two blocks away, his eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched tight.
Another sleepless night.
Another day watching shadows gather.
Around him, officers murmured nervously while drones circled overhead. Every street camera within a 5km radius was active.
"Over 3,000 confirmed," whispered one officer.
"And more still arriving."
Joseph said nothing. His gaze was fixed on the screen.
Inside the warehouse—a storm was waiting.
Walls stripped bare. Floor polished to concrete bone.
There was nothing inside but space—
Enough for every broken dream and every burning grudge.
Three thousand men.
Young punks with dyed hair and cheap sunglasses.
Middle-aged men with tattooed necks and knives hidden in their belts.
Ex-bosses. Street soldiers. Even teenage runners.
All gathered. All watching. All waiting.
But something was missing.
The 623 returnees.
They hadn't arrived.
And the silence was deafening.
Grumbles began spreading like infection.
"What's the delay?"
"Why are they not here yet?"
"Are they backing out?"
The crowd wasn't calm—it was hungry.
Not for leadership.
Not even for vengeance.
They were hungry to exist again.
Someone stood on a crate and shouted.
"My turf in Jaya Perdana is gone! They took everything! We got no control now!"
Another joined in.
"Damn Garudas burned down our stash house! No one dares say our name anymore!"
Another:
"We haven't received protection money in 6 weeks! Everyone turned to those Garuda rats!"
The crowd swelled with noise.
Anger. Loss. Desperation.
These weren't just gangsters.
They were orphans of an empire.
One man near the front clenched his fists. His voice shook.
"Three generations… Three! My grandfather served Nagas. My father bled for it. And now it's gone?"
Another man beside him snarled.
"We need a new leader. Someone to take the throne. To bring back Gang Nagas!"
Cheers exploded.
"Bring back the Nagas!"
"Rebuild the legacy!"
"Claim our streets!"
It was no longer just a meeting.
It was becoming a riot of memories.
But above it all… one question echoed in every mind:
Where are the 623?
Because if they didn't come…
Then the crowd would crown someone else.
The loudest noise in the warehouse just moments ago… was now a dead silence.
And then—
The warehouse doors creaked open.
From the blinding morning light outside, they entered.
All 623.
Not one missing.
Not one out of place.
They weren't dressed like gangsters.
No flashy chains. No ripped jeans. No swagger.
They wore black collared T-shirts, fitted and clean—
Each stamped with a subtle but powerful emblem on the left chest:
A golden wheel.
Simple. Elegant. Ominous.
The symbol meant nothing to most of the crowd…
But the way it glinted in the light—
They knew one thing:
It meant everything.
And they didn't walk.
They marched.
In sync.
In rhythm.
Even their breathing seemed calculated.
No idle talk.
No phone scrolling.
No twitchy, drug-fueled stares.
Their hair was uniformly cut.
Beards—trimmed or clean-shaven.
Faces—focused. Calm. Dangerous.
"What the hell…?" someone whispered.
"They're not gangsters anymore…"
The crowd parted without being told.
No orders were given.
But somehow, everyone knew—
You don't block the path of these men.
Ten of them peeled off from the group and walked toward the stage.
The other 613 split into silent formation, surrounding the perimeter of the warehouse.
It wasn't a crowd anymore.
It was a ring.
A cage.
And then…
Time stopped.
No music.
No cheers.
No movement.
Thousands of men stood still, staring—
At the ten men climbing the stage, and the silent army locking them in.
"They've been turned into something else."
The old Gang Nagas?
Dead.
What had returned…
Was something new.
Among the ten who stood on stage, one stepped forward.
Gajendran.
A towering figure with a granite-carved frame—broad chest, arms thick with years of street war and weight training. His movements were slow. Controlled. Unshaken.
Gajendran had once been the rising star of the new generation—
A storm of raw power and aggression.
A name whispered with respect… and fear.
But today?
He was still, like a mountain.
The other nine behind him stood in soldier formation—hands behind their backs, legs shoulder-width apart. Not flinching. Not blinking.
They simply stood like statues.
Soldiers of a new order.
Gajendran's eyes swept across the warehouse.
Three thousand men.
And yet, it felt like he saw each one individually.
He raised his hand once—fingers slightly flicking—and one of the original prep team runners, a younger ex-Nagas member, hurried up with a mic.
His hands trembled as he held it out.
But when Gajendran took the mic—he didn't snatch it.
He didn't grunt.
He didn't glare.
He simply looked him in the eyes…
And nodded once.
"Thank you."
The boy froze.
The entire warehouse stiffened.
"He said thank you?"
And that one word hit harder than any threat.
It wasn't kindness.
It wasn't weakness.
It was unnatural.
And terrifying.
Gajendran raised the mic again.
His tone was calm.
But his words carried the weight of a thousand unspoken deaths.
"I know why all of you are here."
"You're hoping for a revival."
"You think this is the beginning of Gang Nagas' return."
He looked around. Slowly.
Not with anger.
Not with pity.
But with a finality that felt heavier than steel.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you."
"Gang Nagas... is dead."
"This three-generation legacy ends here."
"From today—this second onwards—Gang Nagas... no more."
He stepped forward and barked with thunder:
"Are. We. Clear?!"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
A pause.
A beat.
And then—
Chaos erupted.
"Traitor!"
"You sold us out!"
"You coward!"
"Who do you think you are?!"
Men screamed.
Fists slammed crates.
Some began pushing forward—shoving each other to get to the stage.
It was about to turn violent.
"You think you can just erase it?!"
"My grandfather died under that name!"
"It's who we are!"
Gang Nagas wasn't a gang.
It was a religion.
And now, Gajendran had declared it dead.
Then—
One word.
"QUIET!"
Spoken with a thunder that shook the air.
Gajendran's voice cracked through the chaos like a war drum from hell.
Every man flinched.
And then—in perfect, terrifying unison:
"QUIET!"
622 voices.
Same pitch. Same power. Same rhythm.
The warehouse fell silent.
Because in that moment, even the most hardened thug in the room realized—
These weren't their old brothers anymore.
Inside a surveillance van, Joseph wore headphones—eyes wide.
Commissioner Syed Sulaiman sat beside him, arms folded.
Joseph translated from Tamil:
"He just told them… Gang Nagas is dead."
Sulaiman blinked.
"What?"
Joseph nodded.
"This isn't a revival. This is a reconstruction."
Sulaiman muttered:
"We might be witnessing the birth of something worse. Something trained. Disciplined. Obedient."
Joseph clenched his fists, remembering Athavan's words:
'Once the 623 return… they'll help you keep the city clean.'
"What the hell are you really planning, Athavan…"This question kept haunting his mind!
Gajendran raised the mic again.
"From today onwards—"
"Anyone who dares to utter the name Gang Nagas... or call themselves a gang member—we will break your jaw."
"I promise you that."
"Today, I gathered all of you here for one thing."
"From this moment forward—every one of you will stop being a gangster."
"No more smugglers. No more drug dealers. No more criminals."
"I don't care what you've done in the past. That's over. Forgotten."
"But from this second onward… there will be no more drug trading. No more protection money. No more snatch thefts. No more robberies. No more fighting for territories like animals."
"Across every state and every district—we will set up a Foundation Office. Through that—we will build clean businesses and create jobs for the jobless."
"But don't expect free money. Don't expect handouts."
"Everyone works. Everyone earns."
"You want to eat? You want to feed your family?"
"Then work. Like the rest of us."
He pointed.
"If you disagree—go to the left."
"If you agree—move to the right."
And then… he waited.
The choice was theirs, to choose which side they plan to stand!
The End.