Not a Hero

PLACE : CITY SQUARE

The city buzzed with the sounds of rush hour, but a gunshot pierced through the chaos. People scattered as a masked man darted through the narrow alleys, clutching a duffle bag stuffed with stolen cash. Behind him, Mayank, a young and unassuming policeman, sprinted with all the determination of a hero—but none of the grace.

"**Stop! Police!**" Mayank's voice cracked as he dodged a trash can knocked over by the robber. His breaths were heavy, his uniform drenched in sweat. The robber turned, wildly firing his handgun. The shots went wide, shattering a streetlight instead of his pursuer.

Despite the adrenaline pumping through him, Mayank wasn’t a runner. His stamina wavered, and his legs felt like jelly. Spotting a cycle parked near a tea stall, he yelled, "Borrowing this!" without waiting for the owner’s consent. Mounting the rickety bike, he pedaled furiously, closing the distance.

The robber, realizing he had run into a dead-end alley, spun around, gasping for breath. He raised his trembling hands, his desperation written all over his face. Mayank skidded to a stop, dismounting the bike with a clumsy flair.

“End of the line!” Mayank declared, trying to catch his breath while fumbling for his baton.

But confidence was not his strong suit. As Mayank approached, the robber, realizing the officer’s physical awkwardness, saw an opportunity. He lunged forward, his desperation turning into aggression.

The fight wasn’t a heroic clash. It was ugly. Mayank swung his baton but missed. The robber delivered a series of blows, leaving Mayank crumpled on the ground with a busted nose and bruised pride. The duffle bag lay forgotten as the amateur robber stumbled away.

(Think of an awesome transition to next scene)

Place : POLICESTATION

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Mayank sat at his desk, his nose bandaged and his eye a dark shade of blue. Around him, officers exchanged smirks and muffled laughter.

Across the desk stood Inspector Sharma, his towering figure casting a shadow over Mayank. His voice was sharp and condescending.

"Let me get this straight," Sharma began. "You borrowed a cycle, got into a fistfight with a scrawny robber, and still let him get away?"

Mayank opened his mouth to protest, but Sharma cut him off.

"Save it! You're an embarrassment to that badge. Next time, maybe try hitting the gym before you hit the streets."

Mayank squirmed under the weight of the scolding. His colleagues offered no solace, their whispered jokes adding salt to his wounds. Sharma’s voice softened, his frustration giving way to a hint of pity.

"You're lucky the guy was an amateur. If he’d been a pro, we’d be attending your funeral right now."

As Sharma walked away, Mayank caught his reflection in the glass panel of a filing cabinet. For a moment, he didn’t recognize himself. There was something unsettling in his gaze—a shadow of something darker, something primal. But the moment passed, and he shook it off as exhaustion.

A faint, nagging thought lingered in the back of his mind:

"I look indistinguishable for myself......"

That night, in a dimly lit apartment, a bloodied and shaken robber slumped against a wall. He fumbled to light a cigarette but froze when he heard the creak of a door behind him.

“Who’s there?” he whispered.

The shadows shifted, and a figure stepped forward—a man with an unsettling calmness in his eyes. The last thing the robber saw was the glint of a knife before the darkness consumed him.

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