Jimmy Sheirgill plays a Delhi cop with a mustache that looks glued on by someone who had already given up on the afternoon shift, and honestly, that’s the most honest thing in this entire production. You sit there in the dark waiting for Kabir Sadanand’s picture to figure out if it’s a gritty urban thriller or a PSA about police brutality that somehow wandered onto a college campus by mistake, and instead you get about two hours of people shouting at each other in parking lots.

The screenplay by Arfi Lamba and Sumit Arora wants to be this sharp look at generational panic, the kind where young middle-class kids in Delhi get squeezed between their own dumb choices and a corrupt system that smells fear like stale cigarette smoke. But the construction is so loose that scenes just happen because the schedule demanded them, not because anyone on screen had a reason to walk through that door. You have four friends—played by Mohit Marwah, Kiara Advani, Vijender Singh, and Lamba himself—hanging out in damp bars and talking in that strained, writerly slang that nobody has ever used in an actual Gurgaon pub, let alone Lajpat Nagar. They are supposed to represent the bright-eyed face of modern Hindi films, but they spend most of their screen time looking like they’re waiting for an Uber that’s five minutes away.

Mohit Marwah makes his debut here with the heavy-lidded intensity of a guy who was told brooding is a full-time job, delivering his lines with a stiffness that makes you wonder if his leather jacket was two sizes too small. He has this one reaction shot after a confrontation where the camera just holds on his face for an extra three seconds, and in that dead air you can practically hear the clapperboard snapping shut. Kiara Advani has very little to do besides look concerned under various lighting setups, though she manages to anchor the emotional wreckage of the second half with a kind of quiet persistence that the rest of the script doesn't deserve. Vijender Singh brings his actual boxing background to a few altercations, which means when he throws a punch, it actually looks like it hurts instead of those floppy movie slaps we usually get in Bollywood movies.

There is a specific establishing shot of a flyover near Nehru Place that recurs at least four times in the first forty minutes, and every single time it appears, the color grade shifts just enough to make you think you’ve accidentally changed inputs on your remote. The soundtrack leans heavily on these bass-heavy electronic tracks that thunder through the dialogue scenes like an uninvited neighbor, drowning out the quieter line readings where the actors might have accidentally found something real. It’s loud in that particular way digital cameras used to be around 2014, where everything looks slightly over-sharpened and every interior has the fluorescent green cast of a municipal office after hours.

The film wants to talk about morality in a surveillance state, how a single mistake on a dark street can spiral into an extortion racket run by men with badges and empty eyes. You can see the ghost of Dibakar Banerjee’s *Khosla Ka Ghosla* hovering around the edges of the narrative, especially when the characters are navigating the bureaucratic smallness of local law enforcement, but Kabir Sadanand lacks that movie’s ear for how ordinary people actually talk around a kitchen table when things go sideways. Instead, the social commentary gets buried under endless chases through construction sites and monologues about youth culture that sound like they were written by someone who read a single op-ed in an inflight magazine.

Whenever the plot corners itself, Sheirgill’s character shows up to smoke another cigarette and remind everyone that he’s the law, which he does with a wonderful, weary contempt that almost saves the third act from its own internal logic. It’s a performance that belongs in a much better, sharper picture, one that didn't feel the need to underline every moral dilemma with heavy percussion and slo-mo camera pans of motorcycle tires kicking up dust.

By the time the credits start rolling over a remix that nobody asked for, you realize the picture never really figured out who it was talking to, caught somewhere between a youthful rebellion drama and a tired procedural about bad cops. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon in the multiplex, but there is also a persistent flatness to the whole enterprise that makes it hard to remember any single image five minutes after you step out into the parking lot glare.