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DARKNET
an AV experience
FADE IN:
INT. JAY ROOM - EARLY MORNING
The digital clock on the cracked wall reads 4:17 in hard
red numbers. Jay's eyes are already open. They have been
open for a long time.
The room is small and dark. It smells of old paint, dust,
and the faint ghost of incense from years ago. A single
ceiling fan turns slowly, making a soft, regular click
every few seconds — the only reliable clock he has ever
trusted.
On the wall opposite the bed hangs a faded photograph of a
young couple — his father and mother, smiling at a camera
that no longer exists. The colours have washed into soft
browns. Next to the photo sits a neatly folded old shawl
and a steel tumbler with a dried tea stain at the bottom.
These are the last physical things his grandmother left
behind when she died.
Jay stares at the photograph and the shawl without
blinking. His face does not change. No visible sadness. No
anger. No moisture in the eyes. Just the same flat,
unreadable expression he wakes up with every morning of his
adult life.
He sits up slowly. For half a second his hands tremble on
the edge of the mattress. He ignores the tremor the way he
ignores most signals from his body. He reaches for the
half-empty water bottle on the floor and drinks. The water
is warm and tastes faintly of plastic.
JAY (V.O.)
Four seventeen. Again. Sleep is a
privilege I lost years ago. They
called my father a traitor. Shot him
while I was still learning how to
cry. My mother went with him in the
same operation. The system stamped
the word on our family and moved on
like nothing happened. Avva raised
me on tea and old stories. Every
single morning she used to say the
same thing in the same quiet voice.
'Nee nanna desham kosam poradadu.
Nuvvu prove chey.' Prove what? To
the same system that erased him? I
tried the official route. Civil
services. Background check came back
red because of a name I never chose.
Rejected. Of course it was. So I
stopped asking for permission. I
started taking what I needed.
Quietly. Efficiently. Without the
performance of emotion. Emotion is
noise. I prefer signal.
Jay picks up his phone from the floor. The screen lights
his face in the dark. Still no expression. He stands, pulls
on the same worn black hoodie he has worn for three years,
and leaves the room. As he passes the shawl he glances at
it once more — a fraction longer than necessary — then
walks out into the pre-dawn corridor.
INT. CORRIDOR / STAIRWELL - CONTINUOUS
The corridor is narrow and poorly lit. Paint peels in long
strips near the ceiling. Jay moves without sound. He knows
which steps creak and which ones do not. He takes the ones
that do not.
JAY (V.O.)
Even the building has a pattern.
Everything does if you watch long
enough. Most people never watch long
enough.
EXT. HYDERABAD STREETS - MORNING
Hyderabad is still half-asleep. A few street lights flicker
on their last hours of power. Early workers move like
ghosts along the edges of the roads, carrying tiffin
carriers and rolled-up newspapers. Distant temple bells mix
with the first auto-rickshaw horns. The air is cool and
carries the smell of wet concrete and frying oil from a
far-off cart.
Jay begins to jog. His body is stiff at first — the
stiffness of someone who sleeps in short, broken segments.
He forces it to loosen through pure repetition. Footsteps
find a steady rhythm on the uneven pavement. Breathing
stays controlled, counted.
JAY (V.O.)
Jogging. The only time of day the
city does not demand anything from
me. No background checks. No stares
that linger a second too long when
someone recognises the shape of my
face from an old news story. Just
concrete and rhythm. People are
still sleeping, dreaming about
promotions and marriages and the
next EMI payment. I run and
calculate the next hole in the
system. The body is a tool. I
maintain it the way I maintain code.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Sweat appears on his forehead and begins to run. He does
not wipe it away. He simply keeps moving forward through
the thinning dark. His face remains completely blank. A
stray dog watches him pass from the mouth of an alley and
then looks away, uninterested.
EXT. STREETS - CONTINUOUS
Jay slows without fully stopping. He takes out his phone
with one hand while still moving. The tracker app is
already open — it never fully closes. A red dot moves
steadily across the digital map of the city. He stops under
a flickering street light and studies the movement for
several seconds. The light above him flickers once, twice,
then steadies.
JAY (V.O.)
Red dot. Predictable. This city runs
on invisible exchanges — drugs,
money, information, favours. I do
not judge the product. I judge the
pattern. Patterns are honest. People
are not. I follow patterns the way
other people follow gods.
JAY
(almost to himself, dry)
Idhi chudali.
He changes direction and begins to follow the signal,
matching his pace to the morning crowd that is just
beginning to form. Expression still empty. A vegetable
vendor starts setting up his cart nearby, shouting the
day's prices to no one in particular. Jay moves past him
without a glance.
EXT. JUNCTION - CONTINUOUS
Traffic begins to thicken. Jay keeps the red dot in his
peripheral attention while his body navigates the flow of
people and vehicles automatically. A traffic policeman
blows a whistle. Jay adjusts course without looking
directly at him.
JAY (V.O.)
Authority is just another pattern.
Loud, slow, and usually late. I have
learned to move around it the way
water moves around a stone.
EXT. BUS STOP - MORNING
A regular city bus stop near a junction. Faded plastic
seats with cracked edges and graffiti in three languages.
Torn advertisements for coaching centres, mobile plans, and
a political candidate who lost two elections ago. School
children with oversized bags stand in a loose, noisy group.
Office workers check their phones and adjust their shirts
and ties. The air smells of diesel and jasmine from a
nearby flower seller.
Jay stands slightly apart from everyone, hands in the
pockets of his hoodie, weight balanced, eyes on the road.
He looks like someone waiting for a bus he has no intention
of boarding.
JAY (V.O.)
Normal people waiting for normal
buses. I used to want that life once
— the simple version where you wait
and something arrives. Then the
system told me I was the son of a
traitor and closed every official
door that mattered. So I stopped
waiting. Waiting is for people who
still believe the bus will come for
them.
His eyes never stop scanning the junction, the parked cars,
the approaching vehicles. Body language is casual. Internal
state is pure, cold focus. A bus arrives with a hiss of
brakes, loads passengers, and leaves. He does not board.
EXT. BUS STOP - CONTINUOUS
A motorcycle approaches from the distance, the engine sound
distinct in the early quiet before the full traffic roar.
It slows near a parked white car and comes to a precise
stop. The rider's posture is professional, not casual —
back straight, head scanning once. Jay's shoulders tighten
almost invisibly under the hoodie. His face does not change
at all.
JAY (V.O.)
Motorcycle. Car. Timing too clean to
be random. This is choreography.
Someone already wrote this scene and
rehearsed it. Right now I am only
the audience. For now.
EXT. BUS STOP - CONTINUOUS
The rider removes his helmet with one hand and climbs into
the passenger seat of the car. The window stays down. A
short conversation happens that Jay cannot hear over the
growing traffic noise. He watches without blinking,
counting the seconds of the exchange.
JAY (V.O.)
Exchange about to happen. Cash for
package. The oldest protocol in this
city. Officials write long reports
about it with charts and
recommendations. I just watch it
happen in real time. The only
difference is speed — and the fact
that no one is writing a report
about me watching.
EXT. BUS STOP - CONTINUOUS
A small package changes hands through the open window.
Money is counted carefully, note by note, under the
dashboard light. School children stand only a few metres
away, laughing about something completely unrelated, bags
bumping against each other. Jay's fists close slowly inside
his pockets until the knuckles are white. His face remains
completely blank.
JAY (V.O.)
Children. Right there. And they
still complete the deal without
hesitation or even a glance in that
direction. The system is not broken.
It is working exactly as designed.
Protect the powerful. Ignore
everyone else. They ignored me when
I was a name on a background check.
Now I ignore their rules. Fair
trade.
He does not move. He does not speak. He only observes. The
package disappears into the car. The money disappears into
the rider's jacket.
EXT. BUS STOP - CONTINUOUS
The man returns to the motorcycle, puts the helmet back on
with the same economical motion, and rides away into the
thickening traffic. The car pulls out and vanishes around a
corner. Jay opens the tracker again. The red dot is still
live and moving. He starts walking after it immediately,
matching pace with the morning crowd so he becomes part of
the flow.
JAY (V.O.)
Follow the signal. Always. People
disappear. Money changes accounts.
Data remains until someone decides
it should not. Today that someone is
me.
EXT. CITY LANES - MORNING
Narrow residential lanes with peeling paint, hanging
electrical wires, and the smell of breakfast cooking behind
closed doors. The morning rush is beginning in earnest —
students, office-goers, delivery boys on bikes. Jay moves
through the crowd without touching anyone, a skill
practiced over years. He adjusts his pace so he stays just
far enough behind the target to keep visual contact without
becoming obvious.
JAY (V.O.)
Crowd is the best camouflage.
Everyone is busy performing their
own small drama of getting to work
or school on time. No one looks at
the person who is not performing. I
perfected the art of not performing
a long time ago. It is my only real
talent besides code — and even the
code is just another way of not
being seen.
EXT. TEA STALL OPPOSITE SAM'S APARTMENT - LATER
Jay sits on a wooden bench at a small roadside tea stall.
The owner, an old man with a stained apron, pours chai into
a glass without asking questions — he has seen this face
before and knows better than to talk. The apartment
building across the street looks completely ordinary: three
floors, faded blue paint, a few wilting plants on the
balconies, a broken letterbox.
Jay watches the entrance without appearing to watch it,
eyes half-lidded, posture loose.
JAY (V.O.)
Tea. Waiting. Most people hate
waiting. I use it. Patience is the
only weapon that does not need a
license or a background check. The
system already denied me every
license that mattered. So I work
with what is left — time, silence,
and the ability to stay still longer
than the other person.
He drinks the tea slowly, scalding the tongue on purpose to
stay sharp. His eyes never leave the door. His face stays
unreadable. Time passes. A second glass of chai appears on
the bench beside him. He ignores it.
EXT. TEA STALL - CONTINUOUS
A woman walks past with a child. The child looks at Jay for
a second too long. Jay does not look back. The woman pulls
the child along. The moment passes.
JAY (V.O.)
Children still look directly. Adults
have already learned not to. One of
the few honest differences left.
EXT. / INT. SAM'S APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
Sam steps out of the apartment. He is thinner than the
photos suggested, with a nervous habit of checking the lock
twice. He locks the door carefully, tests it, and walks
away down the lane with a slight limp. Jay counts exactly
ten seconds under his breath — one-Mississippi through ten.
Then he stands, crosses the road in the gap between two
autos, and approaches the door.
Three seconds with the lock pick. The mechanism yields with
a soft click. The door opens inward. He steps inside and
closes it silently behind him, engaging the latch. His
heart rate is elevated. His expression has not changed at
all.
JAY (V.O.)
Ten seconds. Enough gap for a man
who is not expecting company. Lock
is average — not cheap, not
professional. Inside. Laptop already
open and glowing. Careless. Or
arrogant. Either way, useful.
INT. SAM'S APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
The apartment is sparse to the point of emptiness. One
narrow bed with a thin mattress. One folding table. One
plastic chair. The laptop sits open on the table, screen
bright in the dim room. Jay plugs a small, unlabelled
device into the USB port. Folders appear almost
immediately: 'Hyderabad Drop', 'Fake Notes Plan', 'Cell
Contacts'. His eyes move across the names. No visible
reaction beyond a slight pause that lasts less than a
second.
JAY (V.O.)
Fake Notes Plan. Not bombs. Not
guns. Currency. Economy. Quiet
violence that does not make the
evening news until it is already too
late. Smarter than most of the
people who call themselves
terrorists. Or more cowardly — I
have not decided yet. First, copy
everything. The progress bar is the
only honest clock in this room.
While the files transfer he keeps checking the door and the
single window in a steady, practiced rhythm. Tension lives
in his shoulders and the set of his jaw, not in his face.
The progress bar crawls from left to right.
INT. SAM'S APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
A crypto wallet interface is open on one of the browser
tabs. Jay navigates to it with a few keystrokes and
initiates a transfer to a clean address he prepared weeks
ago and has never used. He watches the confirmation appear
line by line, the numbers ticking down to zero on one side
and up on the other. The amount is significant. He does not
smile.
JAY (V.O.)
Anonymous money for anonymous work.
I do not keep it. I redirect it into
accounts that will fund the next set
of tools and the next set of clean
machines. The story I tell myself is
that this makes it moral. The story
may be a lie I need in order to
continue. The money still moves.
INT. SAM'S APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
Jay starts the wipe sequence. Full format. The screen goes
black in stages as directories and partitions disappear. He
removes the device, packs it carefully into an inner pocket
of the hoodie, and scans the room one last time for any
trace of himself — a fingerprint on the table edge, a fibre
from the hoodie, a misplaced object that was not there
before.
JAY (V.O.)
Wipe. Clean slate. As if I was never
here. The system tried to wipe me
from every official list the day I
was born with the wrong last name. I
simply returned the favour to one
laptop. Reciprocity is underrated.
EXT. SAM'S APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
A police siren rises in the distance, thin at first. Then
it grows closer, cutting through the morning traffic noise
with increasing urgency. Jay freezes for one full second,
listening. He grabs the small bag, relocks the door from
the inside with the same pick, and moves to the window.
JAY (V.O.)
Siren. Timing is always someone
else's. Police arrive late for the
actual crime and early for the
inconvenience of someone cleaning up
after it. Today the inconvenience is
me.
EXT. BUILDINGS - CONTINUOUS
From the window Jay sees Raj dragging Sam by the collar
toward the building entrance. Two constables follow with
the bored efficiency of men who have done this before.
There is no time left for the stairs. He steps onto the
narrow ledge outside the window, runs three steps along the
concrete edge, and jumps the gap to the next building's
terrace. The landing is hard — knees, palms, the impact
travelling up into his shoulders. Pain shoots through his
ankle and up his leg. He keeps moving without stopping or
looking back.
JAY (V.O.)
Jump. Body calculated the distance.
Mind approved the risk. Pain is just
data arriving late. Data says keep
running. So I keep running. Escape
is always temporary. The only
question is how temporary.
INT. SAM'S APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
Raj forces Sam inside the apartment. Sam protests loudly,
voice cracking with fear and anger. Raj does not listen. He
scans the room with professional speed — bed, table,
corners, bathroom — and goes straight to the laptop as if
pulled by a magnet.
INT. SAM'S APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
Raj opens the laptop. Completely blank. No files. No recent
history. A professional wipe that left nothing recoverable
on the surface. His jaw tightens until a muscle jumps in
his cheek.
RAJ
Data anni poyayi. Exact time ki wipe
chesadu.
Frustration is clear and personal on his face. He expected
evidence that would justify the raid and the paperwork. He
found nothing. He stares at the empty screen as if it has
personally insulted him and everything he stands for.
INT. SAM'S APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
Raj turns on Sam hard. Accusations. Denial. The two
constables stand near the door, uncomfortable. Raj's phone
comes out. He reports in controlled sentences. The superior
orders him back to the station. Hot-headed. Follow
procedure. Raj's jaw locks. He says yes.
INT. POLICE STATION - DAY
Public scolding in the superior's office. Other officers
listen while pretending not to. Raj stands still, fists
clenched, face neutral. Afterward, alone in the corridor,
he stops in front of a faded group photograph — his
father's old batch. He stares for three full seconds. Then
walks away.
RAJ (V.O.)
Perfect student. Perfect son.
Perfect SI. Naa nanna ee system ni
sacred ani nammadu. System athanini
destroy chesindi when it became
inconvenient. Nenu inka serve
chestunnanu. Box lo unnanu. Ippudu
box break cheyali.
INT. CYBER WING - DAY
Raj returns to his desk. Opens the dark-net tracking
software. Types trigger words: fake currency, economy hit,
Hyderabad cell. Hits appear. His eyes sharpen. This time
the search feels personal.
EXT. DESERT - DAY
Jabran walks miles under the hard sun. GPS checks are rare.
Sand. Heat. No shade.
A memory hits without warning — grenade sound, white flash,
father's voice cut off. Jabran's hand goes to the scar near
his left eye. He stops for four full seconds. Forces the
memory down. Continues.
JABRAN (V.O.)
Naa nanna team ni wipe chesaru.
Athanu eyes poyayi na mundu. System
'operation' ani call chesindi and
filed the paperwork. Nenu inka
training lo unnanu. Ippudu nenu
parallel force create chestunnanu.
Identity confused Indians. Vaalle
tama desham ni nunchi tear chestaru.
Mirror.
EXT. DESERT LOCATION - DAY
Marked coordinates reached. Airdrop request sent. While
waiting, Jabran takes out a damaged photograph of his
father and the old team. Cleans the glass with his thumb,
almost tenderly. Puts it away. No tears. Only ritual.
INT. JAY ROOM - NIGHT
Weekly system clean-up. Routine bugs only. Then the device
from Sam's laptop. Jay connects it.
JAY (V.O.)
Weekly ritual. Clean the machine.
Clean the noise. The device from Sam
is still here. Curiosity is a
controlled virus. I let it run.
INT. JAY ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Files open. Extreme content first. Then extremist articles
with a clear watermark. Jay's face stays almost still. Only
a slight tightening around the eyes.
JAY (V.O.)
Not drugs. Ideology with
attachments. Watermark. Someone
either wants to be found or does not
care if they are. I found them. Now
the file has my name on it too.
INT. JAY ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Watermark search leads to a closed extremist forum. Jay
creates a random username and enters carefully.
JAY (V.O.)
New name. New skin. The system gave
me one identity and then punished me
for it. I make my own now. Fair.
INT. JAY ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Coded chat. One hundred twenty-one members. Twenty active.
List saved. Most active user: z@k!r786. Cross-search yields
an address. Decision already made.
JAY (V.O.)
Username becomes address. Digital
becomes physical. Most people stop
at the screen. I do not. That is
either my strength or my next
problem.
EXT. ZAKIR'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Jay reaches the rooftop through practiced routes and climbs
down the service stairs. Freezes. Raj is already there with
the man.
JAY (V.O.)
Raj. Same officer from the
apartment. Now here. Mutual wrong
assumptions are about to happen.
Comedy of errors with higher stakes.
EXT. ROOFTOPS - CONTINUOUS
Eyes lock. Both assume the other is the enemy. Raj shouts.
Jay runs. Chase across rooftops. Jay is faster and knows
the terrain. Raj loses him among hanging laundry.
JAY (V.O.)
He is trained. I am adapted.
Rooftops do not respect badges.
Gravity does. I respect gravity
more.
INT. HACKER DEN - NIGHT
Jay tells the group everything. They scold him — terror
leads are too dangerous. He remains silent, eyes down.
JAY (V.O.)
They care. Care is warm. Care is
also a limiter. I cannot afford
limiters today. Terror is not a
hobby. It is an open file that needs
closing.
EXT. STREET - NIGHT
Jay approaches the next address. Four men appear from the
crowd with professional speed. Short struggle. He is forced
into a van. Doors close. Darkness.
JAY (V.O.)
Four men. Efficient. I
miscalculated. Or they calculated
better. Van. Dark. Classic bad day.
I have had worse.
INT. CYBER WING INTERROGATION ROOM - NIGHT
Harsh light. Jay handcuffed to a bolted chair. Raj
opposite. Long silence. Then questions.
JAY (V.O.)
Interrogation room. Bright light.
Classic design. They believe
pressure produces truth. Pressure is
just another input. I process
inputs. I do not break from them.
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Jay explains everything calmly — vigilante work, Sam's
files, fake currency, the copy and wipe. Raj listens. Doubt
and possibility fight on his face.
JAY
Nenu society ni protect cheyali ani
try chestunnanu. Sam computer lo
fake currency plan undi. Nenu copy
chesi wipe chesa. System already na
nanna ni erase chesindi. Ippudu
nannu kuda theeyali ani chusthundi.
Raj's expression shifts. Something personal lands.
RAJ
(quiet, almost to himself)
System na nanna ni kuda fail ayindi.
Silence. Both men look at each other differently. The seed
of something else has been planted.
JAY (V.O.)
Truth is simple. Institutions prefer
complicated. Complicated keeps the
lights on and the jobs safe. But
right now one crack is visible.
INT. JAY'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Jay enters. Defeat sits on him. Boxes that were not there
before. He opens them. Weapons. Missile components. Fake
IDs with his face. Ammunition. US dollars. Credit cards.
JAY (V.O.)
Frame job. Professional grade. They
gave me weapons, money, and my own
face on false papers. Efficient. The
system learns. Or someone taught it
well.
EXT. STREETS - NIGHT
Every television shows his face with the word TERRORIST. A
mob forms. Someone grabs at him. He climbs. On one screen
his own face stares back. His hand tightens hard on the
railing — just one second — then he forces it open and
keeps climbing.
JAY (V.O.)
Mob. Television. My face. The word.
Public is just another system —
faster, louder, less accurate.
Height is still an advantage. But
this time the system took my name
and turned the entire city against
me. The cost is finally visible.
EXT. ROOFTOPS - NIGHT
Drones and police converge. Jay runs. Wide gap. He jumps.
Landing brutal. Drones lose the angle. He is gone.
JAY (V.O.)
Calculated risk. Body complied.
Machines did not. Sometimes gravity
is the only honest ally left.
INTERVAL
INTERVAL
FADE IN:
INT. RAJ'S OFFICE - DAY
The glass meeting room still carries the smell of strong
coffee and printer ink. Raj sits through another formal
scolding, spine straight, hands flat on the table. The
superior's voice is measured and public. Hot-headed.
Procedure exists for a reason. The system does not run on
individual urgency.
Raj accepts every word in silence. His eyes stay on a fixed
point on the table surface. When the meeting ends he
returns to his desk without speaking to anyone. The fire
under the surface has not gone out; it has only been
banked.
In the top drawer, face-down, lies the old group photograph
of his father's police batch. He does not open the drawer.
He does not need to. The weight of it is already in the
room.
INT. CYBER WING - DAY
The monitors are already alive when Raj sits. He does not
waste time on the routine queue. He opens the dark-net
tracking interface and begins a wider sweep than the system
officially authorises.
A user has triggered every single watch word in the last
six hours. A new post appears while he is watching. He
leans in, shoulders blocking the screen from the rest of
the room.
The attached document is long, technical, and cold. It
describes a coordinated plan to flood the country with
high-quality fake currency, targeting supply chains, ATMs,
and cash-intensive sectors until confidence collapses. A
colleague leans over, sees the header, and mutters that it
could be a hacker spreading panic for attention. Raj does
not look away from the screen. He reads the document twice.
INT. HACKER DEN - DAY
Jay reaches the den after a long, indirect route that
doubled back twice through markets and side lanes. The room
smells of solder, cold coffee, and the particular dust that
settles on machines left running for days.
His friends are already deep in the same case. Screens glow
with overlapping windows of forum dumps, transaction maps,
and partially decoded chat logs. The team is still intact,
though the edges of fatigue are visible around their eyes.
They show him the new evidence without ceremony. A parallel
mission designed to weaken the Indian economy through
coordinated financial attacks rather than bombs. A new kind
of warfare that does not need martyrs, only printers and
distribution networks. Jay absorbs the information without
any visible reaction. He sits, opens a machine, and begins
cross-checking timestamps.
INT. SECLUDED SYSTEM - DAY
In a corner of the den, behind a partial wall of old server
racks, Jay finds an isolated terminal that is not logged
into the main mesh. He works quickly and cleanly.
He leaves a digital breadcrumb — a trail of innocuous-
looking packets and a single deliberately malformed header
— designed only for Raj's tracking software to notice and
flag.
JAY (V.O.)
Breadcrumb. For the only officer who
might actually listen instead of
filing. Trust is a dangerous
install. It can open ports you did
not mean to open. I am pushing it
anyway. Calculated risk. The same
category as the jump between
buildings.
EXT. ABANDONED AREA - NIGHT
The area is a stretch of unfinished construction and empty
lots on the edge of the city, lit only by distant sodium
lamps and the glow of the highway. Raj arrives with a small
force — two vehicles, four men.
Jay is already there, a silhouette against broken concrete.
He draws Raj away from the team with a single gesture,
leading him into a private space between two unfinished
walls where the wind covers low voices.
EXT. ISOLATED SPACE - CONTINUOUS
Jay holds out a cracked secondary phone. On the screen:
matching data. Same red-tagged forum. Same whistleblower
handle. Same timestamps that Raj saw in the office and
dismissed as possible noise.
Raj's expression shifts as the pieces align in front of him
in a place with no superiors and no procedure.
JAY
Same data nuvvu office lo chusav.
money69money. Pakistani link. Fake
currency nationwide. System blind ga
undi because blindness is easier
than paperwork. Nuvvu chudali.
RAJ
Nenu chustunnanu. Ippudu.
The words are simple. The shift behind them is not. Jay
studies Raj's face for a second longer than necessary, then
turns and disappears into the dark without waiting for
further discussion.
Raj stands alone between the unfinished walls, processing.
The data is too clean, too consistent, too urgent to
ignore. For the first time he looks like a man who has
chosen a side rather than a procedure.
INT. RAJ'S OFFICE - NIGHT
Raj delivers the full report in a closed room with the
blinds down. He names the whistleblower. He attaches the
matching data trails. He does not raise his voice. The file
begins to move upward through the chain of command with
unusual speed — the kind of speed that only appears when
someone higher up has already been made nervous.
INT. CYBER WING - NIGHT
Raj opens an encrypted chat window with the handle
money69money. The connection is slow and layered. He types
carefully, each word weighed. He asks what is required in
exchange for the complete information package.
The answer comes back after a long pause that feels longer
than the clock shows: three thousand four hundred bitcoins
and Indian amnesty. Raj stares at the numbers. He opens a
second window and checks current exchange rates. The real-
world value is large enough to make official approval
politically impossible. He searches for another path.
Frustration builds behind his eyes but does not reach his
hands.
INT. CYBER WING - CONTINUOUS
Raj opens a second encrypted channel — this one to Jay. The
request is quiet, direct, and contains no rank and no
official language. He asks for help. He does not order it.
INT. ENCRYPTED CHAT - NIGHT
Jay reads the request on a secure machine in the den. The
cursor blinks. He types a single condition: every false
charge against his name must be cleared completely, on
record, with no quiet footnotes.
JAY (V.O.)
Deal. My name back. Their
information. Fair is a story people
tell children and journalists. This
is an exchange. I can live with
exchanges. I have lived with worse.
INT. HACKER DEN - NIGHT
The group works through the night. They create a clean
bitcoin account through multiple layered wallets and
mixers. They send the address to the whistleblower with a
base amount large enough to show seriousness and small
enough not to look like a trap. No one speaks more than
necessary. The only sound is keys and the occasional click
of a mouse.
INT. CYBER WING - DAY
Raj spends hours in meetings and corridors arguing for a
court order. Whistleblower amnesty. The language is
careful, the resistance is institutional, but the threat
level has become impossible to ignore. The order is signed.
He forwards it through official channels before the ink is
fully dry. The official path is now open.
INT. ENCRYPTED CHAT - DAY
Money69money confirms. Demands will be met. The information
begins to flow in carefully packaged segments — partial at
first, then larger, then complete. Raj and the team watch
it assemble on the main screen like a map being drawn in
real time.
INT. CYBER WING - DAY
Raj receives the full package over several hours. He begins
mapping the entire network on the large display wall.
Nodes. Cut-outs. Distribution points. Print locations. The
scale is national. Urgency rises sharply with every new
connection that lights up. People stop leaving the room for
tea.
INT. CYBER WING - DAY
He briefs his superiors with a level of detail that leaves
little room for dismissal. Within the hour they contact the
National Security Advisor. The chain moves to the very top
with the particular silence that accompanies decisions no
one wants to own alone.
INT. PMO OFFICE - DAY
The information reaches the Prime Minister's Office through
the National Security Advisor. The room is quiet and
extremely serious. Maps, printouts, and redacted intercepts
cover the long table. No one raises their voice. The weight
of the material does the work.
INT. PMO / RBI DISCUSSION - DAY
The RBI is contacted via secure line. They acknowledge,
after careful language, the circulation of high-quality
fake currency in volumes that are no longer theoretical.
They strongly advise against demonetisation. The economic
shock, the political cost, the disruption to the informal
sector — all of it is laid out. The conflict is clear and
unresolved for several hours of back-and-forth.
INT. PMO OFFICE - DAY
The final decision is made after a long closed session.
Demonetisation will go forward. The threat level overrides
the advice. A historic step is taken with full knowledge of
the political and human cost. The room does not celebrate.
It simply moves to implementation.
INT. CYBER WING - DAY
The team watches the announcement on multiple news channels
at once. Quiet, almost reluctant applause fills the room.
Raj allows himself a small sense of completion that lasts
less than a minute. He looks at an empty chair where a
colleague who transferred out six months ago used to sit.
The system is still incomplete. The win is real and also
temporary.
INT. HACKER DEN - NIGHT
Jay's secondary phone vibrates once. Anonymous number. He
answers. The voice on the other end speaks in Urdu, calm
and almost amused, about a magic trick performed in three
easy steps. Then it tells him he has made a very large
mistake. The line goes dead.
JAY (V.O.)
Theatrical. I prefer silence and
clean logs. Threat received and
logged. The next move will not be
mine alone. That is either a comfort
or a new vulnerability. I have not
decided yet.
INT. HACKER DEN - CONTINUOUS
A hard, deliberate knock on the door. Three knocks, evenly
spaced. Jay and his friends freeze mid-motion. The sound is
wrong — too confident, too clean. Danger has arrived at the
one place that was supposed to be outside the map.
INT. HACKER DEN - CONTINUOUS
The door gives. Two unknown men enter. Violence is
immediate and professional. They strike to kill without
warning or speech. The room becomes chaos of broken
equipment, overturned chairs, and bodies in motion.
The group fights back with whatever is at hand — a
keyboard, a metal stool, bare hands. One of Jay's friends
takes a hard, deliberate hit while putting himself between
Jay and the second attacker. Real cost is suddenly visible
on the floor in the form of blood that does not belong in a
room full of machines.
EXT. STREETS - NIGHT
They escape into the narrow lanes behind the building,
moving in a broken group. One of them calls Raj while
running, voice raw and short of breath. The assassins stay
close behind, adjusting routes with the confidence of
people who have done this before. Breath is short. Hope is
thinner than the distance to the next corner.
EXT. STREETS - CONTINUOUS
Raj's jeep cuts across the path at exactly the right
moment, lights off until the last possible second. He
arrives while the chase is still live, door already
opening.
EXT. STREETS - CONTINUOUS
Raj engages the first assassin in close combat, using the
vehicle and the wall, and locks him down hard enough to end
the fight. As the second closes in with a blade he draws
his weapon without flourish.
EXT. STREETS - CONTINUOUS
One clean shot. The second man falls. The sound is louder
than it should be in the narrow lane. The remaining hackers
are safe, breathing hard against a wall, one of them
holding the injured friend upright.
They are taken to a secure government facility — the kind
of place Jay once only imagined working in from the
outside, looking in through glass and procedure. Jay looks
at the injured friend being helped into a vehicle. For a
fraction of a second guilt crosses his face, unhidden. Then
the flat mask returns, but the crack has been seen.
INT. SECURE FACILITY - DAWN
The room is clean, windowless, and lit with the particular
neutrality of government spaces. Jay and Raj sit across
from each other, both exhausted past the point of posture.
Jay lays out the remaining pieces of the puzzle in short,
precise sentences. Raj explains the legal path that has
been opened — name clearance, temporary associate status,
the paperwork already in motion.
JAY (V.O.)
Facility. Official walls. Records to
be cleaned by people who still do
not fully understand what they are
cleaning. New label: associate. The
system finally accepts a version of
me. Progress, or simply a better-
designed cage. I will use it either
way. The only question left is how
far inside I am willing to stand.
RAJ
Nuvvu outside nundi fight
chesthunnav. Nenu inside nundi.
Ippudu okate side.
Jay does not smile. But he does not look away either.
Something has shifted between them that does not require
further language.
INT. SOCIAL MEDIA / NEWS - DAY
Photos of Jay begin circulating widely across platforms and
news channels. Captions call him India's cyber soldier.
Public opinion starts to shift in real time as the old
terrorist label is overwritten by a new, simpler story. The
speed of the change is almost as violent as the original
framing.
INT. FACILITY - DAY
Jay agrees, after a short discussion with no raised voices,
to remain the public face of the operation so that Jabran
is not alerted by a sudden disappearance. Low profile.
Clear role. The terms are set without sentiment and without
the illusion of friendship.
INT. JOINT OPS ROOM - DAY
The cyber wing and the ethical hackers begin working side
by side for the first time. Systems that were never
designed to talk to each other are made to share data.
Capability multiplies. The room feels different — less
purely official, more purposeful, the air thick with the
particular concentration of people who know the clock is no
longer theoretical.
INT. JOINT OPS ROOM - DAY
A quiet stretch arrives without warning. Systems idle at
low activity. Everyone waits for the next signal. Tension
sits under the silence like a held breath that no one wants
to be the first to release. Someone pours tea and does not
drink it.
INT. JOINT OPS ROOM - NIGHT
Screens light up hard across the room in a cascading wave.
New dark-net marketplaces appear in clusters that did not
exist twelve hours earlier. Extremist posts begin going
viral in coordinated waves across platforms that do not
usually share audiences. Activity spikes. Red alerts
cascade across every monitor. The quiet is over.
INT. JOINT OPS ROOM - NIGHT
A full ghost identity is built for Jay layer by layer —
documents, digital footprints, a version of a life that
will hold under moderate scrutiny. It will last until the
financial terrorist is caught or the arrangement collapses.
Temporary armour against a system that still does not fully
trust the man it has just hired.
INT. JOINT OPS ROOM - NIGHT
The exact same message posts across multiple forums at the
exact same second, down to the timestamp: 'Fireworks today
at 4:00.' The room goes completely still. No one speaks for
several seconds. The only sound is the cooling fans of the
machines.
INT. JOINT OPS ROOM - NIGHT
Every available network resource is thrown at the problem
without further discussion. Intel remains incomplete. The
clock is visible on every screen and in every peripheral
glance. Urgency is absolute. People stop leaving their
stations. Tea goes cold.
EXT. HYDERABAD CITY - 4:00 PM
The clock hits 4:00 across the city in a staggered wave of
public displays and phone screens. Multiple low-intensity
blasts detonate in different zones within a ninety-second
window. Panic spreads faster than the smoke. Screams.
Running. The particular chaos of a city that has rehearsed
disaster without believing it would arrive. News cameras
are already moving before the dust settles.
Inside the joint ops room Jay types without pause across
three machines, routing and counter-routing. Raj
coordinates ground units on multiple channels, voice
steady. Both men know the explosions are only the
distraction. The real payload — the financial one — is
still in motion somewhere under the noise.
EXT. UNDER-CONSTRUCTION BUILDING - EVENING
The building is a skeleton of concrete and rebar on the
edge of a developing area, open to the wind on three sides.
Jay and Raj enter with a small tactical team. Concrete
dust. The smell of unfinished cement. The sound of the city
distant and distorted below.
Parkour and controlled gunfire through unfinished floors.
Jabran's men fall one by one with the efficiency of people
who were not expecting this level of coordination or this
particular combination of skills.
On the exposed rooftop Jabran stands with a laptop open on
a makeshift table of crates and a tarpaulin. A countdown
runs on the screen in large red numbers that reflect in his
eyes. The wind moves his shirt. He does not look surprised.
He looks like a man who has already accepted the shape of
the ending and is only interested in the final variable.
JABRAN
Nee nanna traitor. Nee blood same.
Nenu India ni reward chestha —
destruction tho. Parallel force.
Identity confused Indians who will
not know which flag they are burning
until the fire is already inside the
house. Vaalle tama desham ni nunchi
tear chestharu. Mirror of what your
system did to my father when it
called him collateral and filed the
report.
JAY
Nee nanna Lashkar. Nee ideology.
Nenu orphan. Kani nenu desham kosam.
System nannu reject chesindi the day
I was born with the wrong name on
the wrong side of a background
check. Ippudu nene system ni correct
chestunnanu — not because I trust
it, but because pure outsider status
is no longer enough to stop what you
built.
Brutal hand-to-hand combat on the unfinished concrete. Jay
uses the environment — hanging pipes, scaffolding, open
edges — with the same precision he uses when he writes an
exploit.
He finally pins Jabran against a low wall and drives a
prepared drive into the laptop's open port. The kill-switch
floods the network in cascading waves of white packets. The
countdown freezes at 00:00:03. Across the country the fake-
currency print servers brick themselves one after another,
their screens going dark in a sequence that no one outside
this rooftop will ever fully map.
Police storm the rooftop from two stairwells in a
coordinated rush. Jabran is cuffed and pulled away, still
trying to speak, the last of his ideology leaving his mouth
as the system finally closes a hand around him.
Jay sits on the unfinished concrete, breathing hard, hands
on his knees, head down. For the first time in the entire
film he allows himself one long, visible exhale that is
almost a sound. Not triumph. Not relief. Just the cost
finally landing in a body that has refused to feel it for
years.
JAY (V.O.)
Four o'clock. Fireworks. Distraction
by design. The real work was still
running underneath the noise the
whole time. Late or exactly on time
— the difference is usually measured
in body count. Today the count is
zero. The system is still flawed.
The same system that erased my
father and tried to erase me with a
single background check and a single
news cycle. But I am no longer a
pure outsider. Associate. Better
cage or real change — I will decide
later. For the first time the
decision feels like it belongs to me
instead of to the people who wrote
my name in the wrong column.
ACT THREE
FADE IN:
INT. SECURE FACILITY - MEDICAL BAY - NIGHT
Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic and metal.
Jay's friend — the one who took the hit during the den
attack — lies on a narrow bed with a bandage around his
ribs and a drip in his arm. He is awake.
Jay stands at the foot of the bed, hands in the pockets of
a clean but ill-fitting government-issue hoodie. He does
not sit. The friend studies Jay's face for a long moment.
There is no accusation in the look. Only a tired
recognition.
FRIEND
Nuvvu inka same ga unnav. Face meeda
emi change ledu.
JAY
Change ante slow process. Nenu
update cheyanu overnight.
A small, almost invisible shift at the corner of Jay's
mouth. Not a smile. Something adjacent to one. The friend
closes his eyes. Jay remains standing for another thirty
seconds, then leaves without further words.
INT. SECURE FACILITY - CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS
Raj is waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall
with a file under one arm. He pushes off when Jay appears.
The two men walk side by side without speaking until they
reach a quiet alcove near a vending machine that no longer
works.
RAJ
Medical team chepthunnaru. Full
recovery. Two weeks rest.
JAY
Rest ante luxury. Vaadu afford
cheyalemu.
RAJ
Ippudu afford cheyachu. System pay
chesthundi.
Jay looks at Raj. The words land differently than they
would have a week ago. He does not argue.
INT. CYBER WING - BRIEFING ROOM - DAY
A formal debrief. Senior officers, two civilians from the
Ministry, and a woman from the National Security apparatus
who does not introduce herself beyond a surname. Jay sits
at the end of the table, posture correct, expression flat.
Raj sits two seats away, close enough to intervene if
needed.
They walk through the timeline. The framing. The
whistleblower. The kill-switch. The rooftop. Questions are
precise and largely unsurprised. This room has seen
stranger things.
When they reach the subject of Jay's legal status, the
woman from National Security slides a thin folder across
the table.
NS OFFICIAL
Temporary associate clearance.
Renewable in six months subject to
review. You will report to SI Raj
for operational purposes. You will
not freelance. You will not discuss
the operation outside authorised
channels. Clear?
JAY
Clear.
He signs where indicated. The pen feels heavier than it
should. When the meeting ends, the others leave in small
groups. Jay remains seated until the room is empty except
for Raj.
INT. CYBER WING - BRIEFING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
RAJ
Six months. Tarvata malli review.
System inka full trust cheyadu.
JAY
Nenu kuda full trust cheyanu. Fair.
Raj almost smiles. He stops it before it fully forms. The
two men leave together.
EXT. HYDERABAD STREETS - DAY
The city has returned to its usual volume. Traffic. Horns.
The particular chaos that never fully stopped even during
the alerts. Jay walks through a market area with Raj a few
steps behind, not as a guard, more as a reluctant
companion.
On a shop television, a news anchor is still discussing the
'cyber soldier' narrative. Jay's face appears for a second
in a still frame. He does not look at it.
JAY (V.O.)
Public memory is short and hungry.
Yesterday I was a terrorist. Today I
am a soldier. Tomorrow I will be a
footnote if I am lucky. The system
needs simple stories. I am learning
to live inside one without believing
it.
INT. JAY'S TEMPORARY QUARTERS - NIGHT
A small, clean government flat. Thin mattress. Empty
cupboards. A single window that looks onto a compound wall.
Jay sits on the edge of the bed with his old phone in his
hands — the one that survived the framing.
He scrolls through the few contacts that still matter.
Stops on the digitised photograph of his parents. Looks at
it for a long time without expression.
JAY (V.O.)
Avva used to say prove it. I still
do not know to whom. The system that
erased them is the same system that
now pays for this room. Irony is
free. Everything else has a cost. I
am still calculating the exchange
rate.
He places the phone face-down on the thin pillow. Lies
back. Stares at the ceiling. Sleep does not come quickly.
When it does, it is shallow.
INT. CYBER WING - DAY (ONE WEEK LATER)
Jay has a desk now. It is at the edge of the main floor,
near a pillar, with a clear line of sight to the exits. The
arrangement is not accidental. He works through residual
threads from the Jabran network — secondary accounts, money
trails that did not die with the main servers, quiet names
that still need matching to real faces.
Raj appears at the edge of the desk with two steel glasses
of tea. Places one down without asking. Jay accepts it.
They drink in silence for a while.
RAJ
Dark net lo new chatter start
ayyindi. Different board. Different
language. Same smell.
JAY
Round two. Expected.
RAJ
Nuvvu ready ga unnava?
JAY
Nenu eppudu ready ga undanu. Nenu
just show up avuthanu.
Raj nods once. Leaves the second glass and returns to his
own station. Jay watches him go, then turns back to the
screen. The new chatter is already open in a background
window.
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY
Jabran sits across the table in restraints. He has lost
weight. The scar near his eye is more visible under the
hard light. A senior interrogator and a translator are
present. Jay watches from behind the one-way glass with
Raj. He does not enter the room. He does not need to.
Jabran speaks when he speaks, which is not often. Ideology.
Betrayal. The long arc of grievance that began with a
grenade and a father who did not come home. The
interrogator takes notes. Jay listens without moving.
JAY (V.O.)
He still believes the story he told
himself on the desert road. Belief
is harder to kill than servers. We
stopped the attack. We did not stop
the reason the attack existed. That
work is slower. Less cinematic.
Still necessary.
INT. CYBER WING - EVENING
Most of the floor has emptied. Jay remains at his desk. On
one monitor: residual network maps. On another: open-source
chatter that may or may not connect. On a third, muted: a
news segment about the economic stabilisation measures that
followed demonetisation. The official story is clean. The
real story is still being written in rooms like this one.
Raj approaches with his jacket already on. Stops at the
desk.
RAJ
Tinnava?
JAY
Tarvata.
RAJ
Tarvata ante never. Ra. Simple food.
No discussion of work for thirty
minutes.
Jay looks at the screens. Closes two of them. Leaves the
third running. Stands. Follows Raj toward the exit. At the
door he pauses and looks back once at the desk that is now,
for the moment, his. Then he leaves with Raj.
EXT. TEA STALL - NIGHT
A small, ordinary tea stall on a quiet lane. Plastic
chairs. The owner does not recognise either of them and
does not care. They sit with tea and a single plate of
samosas between them. For several minutes neither speaks.
The silence is not uncomfortable.
RAJ
Naa nanna eppudu cheppevadini.
System ni namma. System ninnu
protect chesthundi. Athanu die ayye
varaku ade nammadu.
JAY
Naa nanna system ni serve
cheyalanukunnadu. System athanini
traitor ani brand chesindi.
RAJ
Same system. Different damage.
JAY
Damage same category. Repair
different tools.
Raj raises his glass a fraction. Jay does the same. They do
not toast. They simply acknowledge. The tea is too sweet.
Neither complains.
INT. JAY'S TEMPORARY QUARTERS - LATE NIGHT
Jay sits on the floor with his back against the bed, laptop
open on his knees. The government machine is locked and
logged. This is a personal, air-gapped device he was not
supposed to bring.
On the screen: a quiet, unindexed forum that did not die
with Jabran's network. New posts. New handles. A different
language of grievance, but the same underlying architecture
of anger looking for a target.
JAY (V.O.)
The system wants me to wait for
official tasking. Waiting is how the
first attack almost succeeded. I can
work inside the perimeter. I can
also keep one eye outside it. The
associate badge does not come with a
clause that erases the rest of me.
Not yet.
He bookmarks three threads. Closes the machine. Lies down
on the thin mattress fully clothed. Stares at the ceiling
until the ceiling becomes abstract.
INT. CYBER WING - MORNING (TWO WEEKS LATER)
A new alert package lands on the shared system. Different
city. Different entry points. Similar financial signature
buried under three layers of obfuscation. Raj pulls it up
on the main screen. Jay is already standing beside him
before the first sentence of the briefing is finished.
RAJ
Pattern match sixty percent. Could
be residual. Could be successor.
JAY
Successor. Residual does not learn
from the previous failure this
cleanly.
RAJ
Official tasking yet raaledu.
JAY
Official tasking wait cheste second
blast ki time ivvalemu. Nenu start
chestha. Nuvvu cover ivvu.
Raj holds Jay's gaze for a full three seconds. Then he nods
once, small and decisive. The perimeter of what is allowed
has just expanded by a quiet, mutual decision.
EXT. CITY OVERLOOK - EVENING
A high point on the edge of the old city. Jay stands alone
at a low wall, looking out over the sprawl of lights that
is Hyderabad at dusk. Wind moves the edge of his hoodie. He
does not look like a man who has won. He looks like a man
who has survived the first round and is already calculating
the second.
JAY (V.O.)
They gave me a desk. A badge that
expires. A story the public can
digest. None of that is the work.
The work is still the same: find the
pattern before the pattern finds the
next soft target. Avva wanted proof.
I still do not know if this counts.
I know it is the only version of
proof I am equipped to offer.
His phone vibrates once. A secure message from Raj.
Coordinates. A time. A single word: MOVE. Jay reads it.
Puts the phone away. Stays at the wall for another ten
seconds, letting the city breathe under him. Then he turns
and walks back toward the stairs, already moving like a man
who has somewhere he needs to be.
INT. CYBER WING - NIGHT
The floor is reduced to a skeleton crew. Jay and Raj work
adjacent stations, not speaking much, the particular
communication of people who have already agreed on the
direction. On the main wall: a growing map of the new
network. Nodes lighting up in a different city. Money
trails that have learned from the previous failure and
adapted.
Jay pauses. Looks at the digitised photograph of his
parents that he has quietly pinned to the edge of his
monitor with a piece of official tape. The only personal
object on the desk.
JAY (V.O.)
Round two is not a sequel. It is the
same war with better camouflage. I
am still an orphan with a borrowed
desk and a name the system has only
temporarily agreed to stop erasing.
That is enough to begin. It has to
be.
He turns back to the screen. Types. The map updates.
Somewhere in another city, a pattern that thought it was
invisible acquires its first observer.
EXT. HYDERABAD - DAWN
The city begins again. Light rises over the same streets,
the same junctions, the same ordinary machinery of a place
that does not know how close it came. Jay walks through the
early quiet toward the cyber wing compound.
His posture is the same. His face is the same. Something in
the way he carries the shoulder bag is fractionally
different — the weight of a person who has decided to
remain inside the perimeter without surrendering the part
of himself that still watches from outside it.
JAY (V.O.)
Four seventeen used to be the hour I
owned alone. Now it is just another
timestamp in a shared log. I still
prefer signal to noise. I still do
not trust the system that pays for
the lights in this building. But I
no longer work only against it. That
is not redemption. That is
adaptation. For now, adaptation is
the most honest word I have.
He badges through the gate. The guard nods without
recognition or interest. Jay crosses the compound toward
the entrance, already compiling the next set of queries in
his head. The door closes behind him. The city continues.
FADE OUT.
THE END
TO BE CONTINUED

INT. JAY ROOM - NIGHT

The same room. The same clock, now reading 4:17 again. Jay sits on the edge of the mattress with his phone dark in his hand.

He does not look at the photograph. He looks at the shawl.

After a long moment he reaches over and unfolds it. Refolds it. The crease is wrong. He unfolds it again, slower this time, and folds it the way Avva did, corner to corner. His hands are steady until the last fold. Then they are not.

He leaves the shawl on the bed and lies down beside it, facing the wall. The fan clicks. No voiceover.

FADE OUT.

INT. HACKER DEN - NIGHT

Later. The others have gone. Raj lingers at the door, jacket half on.

RAJ
You didn't answer him. About your grandmother.

Jay keeps typing. Raj waits. The cursor blinks eleven times.

RAJ (CONT'D)
Okay.

He leaves. Jay stops typing only when the door has fully closed.

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