IT AL STARTED WITH A MANGO

Rino Malhotra sat in the flickering yellow light of his cockroach-infested apartment, staring at the last mango on his chipped IKEA table. It was overripe, its skin bruised and sagging—like a tropical fruit going through a midlife crisis.

"This is it," he muttered, poking it with a plastic fork that had survived a thousand instant noodles. "The final act of the tragicomedy that is my existence."

Three years ago, he'd been Rino Malhotra, heir to the Malhotra fortune and the second son of Rajesh Malhotra—the kind of man who wore Rolexes to bed and wrestled his problems with money until they cried uncle.

Now? Rino was living in a shithole that smelled like expired dreams and bug spray.

His father had died in what CNN described as a “wild boat attack,” which was media-speak for “mauled to death by a rogue kangaroo on a luxury yacht.”

His brother, Rick—whose idea of a startup was a scented NFT line called SniffT—tanked the company within two years.

And then there was Naina.

Oh, Naina.

His beloved. His soulmate. His walking IRS audit in six-inch heels.

She drained his accounts, torched his credit, and dumped him in true Bollywood fashion—with backup dancers, confetti cannons, and a slap that echoed like poetic justice in surround sound.

Now, here he was. Broke. Alone. Digesting regret and mangoes.

"Screw it," Rino said, grabbing the fruit like it owed him money. "If this is how I die, at least it’s poetic. Tragic. Mangoes were my mother's favorite."

He took a massive bite.

And instantly choked.

The mango pit jammed itself into his throat like karma’s middle finger.

He gasped, wheezed, flailed. His vision tunneled. The last thing he saw before the darkness closed in was a rat—a smug, plump little bastard—sitting on the counter, giving him a thumbs up.

"You… tiny… fuck..."

Darkness.

---

When Rino opened his eyes, he wasn’t dead.

Unless Hell had a linen thread count of 1200.

He blinked. Sat up. Stared.

Gold-plated walls. Oversized bed. Family portrait of his father posing proudly next to a kangaroo in a bow tie.

"What the—?"

His phone buzzed. A message.

From Naina.

> "Babe, your card just declined at Gucci. Are you poor now? 😘"

The date on the screen hit him like a slap from the past.

Three years ago.

The day before the yacht.

The day everything went to hell.

"No. Freaking. Way."

His lips curled into a slow, manic grin.

"Oh, this is gold."

---

He threw off the covers and jumped out of bed, immediately tripping over a stack of Rick’s “business plans,” which appeared to be NFTs of ferrets wearing monocles.

He had two options:

Save his father.

Let the kangaroo do its thing—and cash in on the chaos.

Option 2 was clearly the morally bankrupt choice. Which made it very on-brand.

But first: Naina. Then Rick. Then... maybe track down the kangaroo and offer it a sponsorship deal.

He grabbed a mango from the fruit bowl. It looked fresher than he remembered.

"This time," he said, juice dripping from his chin, "I’m not choking on anything but success."

He paused.

Then casually spat the pit into a nearby vase.

Just to be safe.

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