《Foresight: Scorched Vision》


 Chapter 1.1

    Exiting the pleasant warmth of the cab, I stepped into the biting chill of a smoggy January morning.


    The air was thick with construction dust and the acrid tang of exhaust fumes. My eyes watered, nostrils burning.


    I shoved my numb hands into the deep pockets of my trench coat, the coarse wool a small comfort against my frozen skin.


    A jolt. My fingers grazed the flash drive in my left pocket.


    Adrenaline surged through me.


    Well, there was no turning back now. The only way out was through.


    I spared a moment of gratitude for old schoolmates ¨C much smarter than me ¨C who still came through for a friend in need.


    Of course, their help came with strings attached. What didn¡¯t? In the capital city, even oxygen came with a price tag. To say nothing of high-tech espionage gear.


    Still, that was a problem for future Lekh. Present me needn¡¯t exhaust my rapidly shrinking supply of brain cells over it.


    Inhaling a lungful of the heavy, toxic air, I made my way towards the Zintra Corp headquarters.


    The massive 15-storey structure loomed ahead, sleek and angular. Its shiny glass panels captured the murky expanse of the winter sky.


    A small group of people stood in the forecourt. They huddled close under the bright glow of advertisements ¨C featuring exuberant children gobbling multicolored snacks.


    Shivering in layers of winter wear, they clutched amateurish placards proclaiming various protests. An elderly couple, their faces worn with exhaustion, held up a photo of a laughing child, no older than five or six. Nearby, a young woman with unkempt hair clutched a placard with the image of a little boy, seemingly hospitalized and cradled in a tangle of tubes and wires.


    None of the smartly-dressed professionals entering or exiting Zintra¡¯s headquarters paid them the slightest heed. Even the bored security guards stationed at the gates barely spared them a glance.


    Following their example, I hurried past the protestors and through the glass doors. Careful not to make eye contact with any of them.


    I stepped into the temperature-controlled warmth of the lobby, exhaling in relief. At last, I could breathe without a battalion of tiny soldiers with microscopic spears assaulting my lungs.


    The lobby was a shrine to corporate opulence. Bright overhead lights cast a refined radiance over the warm woods and understated gold accents of the d¨¦cor.


    Massive screens lined one of the walls, flashing the same advertisements I¡¯d seen outside ¨C giggling children devouring Zintra¡¯s multicolored snacks or cereals. My footsteps echoed softly on the gleaming marble floor, as I made my way over to the reception area.


    A tall, middle-aged woman, impeccably dressed in a professionally pleated saree and flawless makeup, offered me a disinterested greeting. ¡°Good morning. How may I help you?¡±


    With effort, I stretched my frozen lips into something resembling a smile. ¡°I¡¯d like to request a meeting with Mr. Palika, please. At his earliest convenience.¡±


    The woman stilled, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. Then, her gaze sharpened, her former indifference replaced by a calculating scrutiny. ¡°May I have your name please, sir?¡± Her fingers hovered over the keyboard at her desk, eyes never leaving my face.


    There was that familiar flicker of hesitant recognition. I had to bite back a laugh.


    She thought she knew me, but couldn¡¯t be sure how.


    It was a reaction I was used to. One of the dubious perks of being Farida Naag¡¯s favorite fashion guinea pig.


    My face had plastered countless covers of Ammi¡¯s gaudy fashion magazines since I was nine. At times, I genuinely wondered if she¡¯d married Papa for the explicit purpose of stuffing me into her godawful neon tracksuits and bunny hoodies.


    Never ceased to amaze me how popular those things used to be. Still were, God help the terminally unfashionable citizenry of our great nation.


    Then, to make matters worse, an ill-judged bout of teenage rebellion in my first year of college. I¡¯d let my high school girlfriend talk me into partnering with her on the country¡¯s most popular dance reality show.


    We took second place. Catapulted ourselves into the national spotlight for a few months. And ended the relationship.


    It enraged Papa so much, he had the show¡¯s license revoked for three years.


    The upshot of all this was that almost seven years later, I still got randomly recognized by people ¨C especially women of a certain age ¨C at the most inopportune moments.


    The receptionist drummed her long nails impatiently against the edge of her keyboard, an eyebrow raised.


    ¡°Lekh Naag,¡± I answered, recalling her question. ¡°My name is Lekh Naag. I¡¯m here to speak with Mr. Palika about the soon-to-be-approved special economic zone in South Fagrihi.¡±


    I hesitated, bit my lip. Glanced briefly at the screens advertising Zintra¡¯s unending array of prepackaged delicacies.


    As if uncomfortable. As if searching for the right words to express my concerns without giving offense.


    ¡°And, well,¡± I continued. ¡°We also need to discuss the, uh, recent allegations. Completely unfounded, we¡¯re certain. But still, not without...repercussions for the HPA¡¯s public image. As I¡¯m sure you can understand.¡±


    ¡°I-yes, of course.¡± Taking her eyes off me, the receptionist tapped quickly on her keyboard, fingers a blur.


    She wouldn¡¯t be familiar with the finer details of the planned SEZ in Fagrihi. Perhaps not even the allegations surrounding the additives in Zintra¡¯s snacks.


    But she would, undoubtedly, recognize that name. Or rather, the surname Naag. And be keenly aware of its significance. Of what it implied.


    Darpan Naag ¨C Minister of Internal Security Affairs and current president of the HPA, the Hastinar People¡¯s Alliance. Rumored to be the frontrunner for the position of prime minister, once Parth Raina retired in three years.


    My father.


    Of course, countless others in this country shared that surname.


    But few would have the audacity to walk into the Zintra Corp headquarters on a random Tuesday morning, demanding a meeting with Sumedh Palika, the CEO. All without an appointment.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid Mr. Palika is tied up in an investor meeting at the moment. He won¡¯t be available until after 12pm. At the earliest.¡± Her eyes focused on me. ¡°Would you like me to schedule an appointment for another day? Tomorrow, perhaps?¡±


    I clicked my tongue, irritation barely concealed.


    As if I hadn¡¯t expected this. As if I hadn¡¯t picked this day, this time, for this exact reason. That Sumedh Palika would be locked in an investor meeting for at least the first three hours of the workday.


    ¡°Nah, I¡¯ll wait.¡± I pulled my phone from my pocket, giving the screen a quick glance. ¡°Got a plane to catch this evening. The Solstice concert in Mignir. You¡¯ve heard of it, right?¡± I grinned, leaning in for a conspiratorial whisper. ¡°Snagged two tickets. You wouldn¡¯t believe the strings I had to pull. You¡¯d think those prices would scare people off ¨C but nope. There¡¯s practically a riot. They even crashed the website last week.¡± I shook my head. ¡°But hey, economic slowdown, am I right? Cost-of-living crisis.¡± A strategic eyeroll. ¡°Guess someone forgot to send them the memo.¡±


    The receptionist shot me an irritated glance. ¡°Please wait in the back,¡± she said curtly. Gesturing toward the spacious, opulent waiting area at the far end of the lobby. Warm wood tones and plush chairs upholstered in rich fabric with gold detailing. ¡°I¡¯ll let you know when Mr. Palika is available.¡±


    I flashed her a grateful, oblivious smile. And strolled over to the seating area, eyes glued to my phone.


    I chose a seat directly facing the office of the vice president of operations.


    A group of young men and women in sharp suits and crisply ironed shirts sat nearby, murmuring quietly amongst themselves.


    Interviewees for the position of personal secretary to the VP of Operations, if my intel was correct.


    Not in the mood for small talk, I nodded politely at them and took my seat.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    A large television mounted on the wall to one side caught my attention. Unlike the endless ads cycling through every other screen in the building, this one was playing the news.


    Well, wasn¡¯t that a pleasant surprise.


    A generically handsome newsman in a generic gray suit spoke earnestly to the camera.


    The volume was turned down. I had to strain my ears to make out his words.


    ¡°Shaukat Awan¡¯s arrest, on charges of planning an attack on the Zhyn International Airport, has sparked widespread protests across Zilan. Notorious separatist leader Virat Barik has called on his supporters to¨C¡±


    What Virat Barik had called on his supporters to do was drowned out by the sharp, mechanical click of the VP¡¯s office door opening.


    A young woman with big, heavily lined eyes emerged, clutching a thick file.


    Behind her followed a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. ¡°Next up, Madhur Shas¡ª¡± he stopped mid-sentence as his gaze landed on me. ¡°Lekh?¡± He turned slightly to get a better look. ¡°Lekh Naag?¡± He repeated, taking a small step forward. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°Shehak!¡± I let my eyes widen in slightly exaggerated surprise as I got to my feet. ¡°Didn¡¯t expect I¡¯d run into you here. What brings you back to Darvika?¡±


    Grinning widely, Shehak strode over and clapped me on the shoulder. ¡°Good to see you, my boy. Though, as usual, you look like death warmed over. One of these days, you¡¯ll need to start taking care of yourself. Or people will say your father is running you ragged with Visions for his own political ends. Turning you into a modern Soni Vardi.¡±


    Swallowing a derisive snort, I inclined my head. Made the appropriate noises. Until the conversation eventually got back on track.


    ¡°As for why I¡¯m here, well¡­¡± He leaned in, lowering his voice so the cluster of interviewees nearby couldn¡¯t overhear. ¡°I had to come back, didn¡¯t I? This whole mess with the product tampering allegations¡­it¡¯s a disaster. Completely baseless, of course. But the regional offices are affected just as bad. Maybe worse.


    ¡°Sales are tanking everywhere. And the resignations are piling up,¡± he scoffed. ¡°Rats are the first to jump ship, as you know. But it¡¯s dragging down the overall morale. And with all these rumors, finding decent talent is becoming impossible.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m here to help poor Sai replace his secretary. She quit! Can you believe it? Claims her friend¡¯s kid got sick from our chocolate-coated nuts. As if the brat ate nothing else all day. Honestly, it¡¯s ridiculous.¡±


    I nodded, with what I hoped was an appropriate mix of concern and sympathy. ¡°I do understand. These allegations have wreaked havoc on our election campaign in Fadan. The HPA¡¯s ties to Vance Industries ¨C and to Zintra by extension ¨C are no secret. Vance has been among our party¡¯s most steadfast donors and supporters.¡±


    Shehak smiled, satisfaction evident on his face. ¡°Helping your father serve our country, in whatever small way we could, has been nothing short of an honor.¡±


    I strove to keep my own expression neutral. ¡°But Zintra is Vance¡¯s second-most profitable subsidiary. So these allegations are bound to damage the HPA¡¯s reputation, too. Erode public trust in the party leadership. The Times ran an editorial this very morning,¡± I sighed. ¡°Suggesting that the only reason the allegations against Zintra aren¡¯t making more headway in court, is because Vance has been a long-standing donor of the ruling party. So, it has the central government¡¯s backing.¡±


    Shehak cast a quick, wary glance around the waiting area.


    Abruptly, he announced a thirty-minute break, directing the remaining interviewees to the cafeteria for refreshments.


    Once they¡¯d left, he ushered me hurriedly into the VP¡¯s office.


    With its warm wood tones and gold-accented upholstery, Mithun Sai¡¯s chamber mirrored the opulence of the lobby. The only contrast lay in the lighting. Dimmer and more subdued, it gave the spacious office an almost cavernous, cave-like atmosphere.


    The VP of Operations sat behind his large oak desk. Looking, as usual, more bird than man with his hooked nose and beady eyes. Beside him sat a voluptuous, curly-haired woman who looked to be about forty.


    It seemed the three of them, including Shehak, had been conducting the interviews as a panel.


    As soon as he recognized me, Sai stood up, walked over, and enveloped me in a hug. Which I returned, with considerable awkwardness.


    Ignoring my discomfort, he sent for tea. Asked me how Papa was doing and how the Fadani campaign was coming along.


    He certainly seemed to have his finger on the pulse, more so than Shehak.


    Not that I was surprised. Sai and Shehak had both worked closely with my father during his tenure as chief minister of Zilan. Even their current roles at Zintra Corp were partially due to Papa¡¯s influence. That said, Sai had always been the shrewder of the two, by a fair margin.


    After the initial pleasantries had been exchanged, Sai introduced me to Renuka Rana, the curly-haired VP of Sales.


    The tea arrived. And steaming cups in hand, we all settled in to get down to business.


    ¡°The HPA isn¡¯t rescinding on our end of the deal,¡± I said, taking a scalding sip from my cup. ¡°If we secure a majority in Fadan with Vance¡¯s support, the SEZ will be greenlit the day our chief minister takes office. Press criticism be damned.


    ¡°But we all know that won¡¯t happen if the HNP returns to power in Fadan,¡± I continued. ¡°From the outset, they¡¯ve opposed the plans for Zintra¡¯s factory in Fagrihi. Forget about tax incentives; if the HNP forms the government, they might block the project altogether. Tossing up some bogus environmental issue, for an excuse.¡±


    Rana nodded grimly. ¡°They want their own people in Fadan. They¡¯d much rather hand that land over to Shah Construction for another residential complex, if they can get away with it.¡± She pinched the bridge of her nose. ¡°And with how things have been going recently, that might just be the final nail in our coffin.¡±


    Sai scrutinized me, his beady eyes narrowing. ¡°What is it you¡¯re after, Lekh? If it¡¯s a bigger donation for the campaign funds, you know Palika won¡¯t think twice about cutting that check.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Not that any of this makes the slightest difference to you. Leena Sen dotes on you; everyone knows that.¡±


    Shehak stiffened in his chair. Rana made a futile attempt to draw Sai¡¯s attention to a resume, from the pile on the desk.


    Sai pressed on; eyes locked on me. Heedless of the growing tension in the room.


    ¡°You¡¯re getting a slice of the pie no matter who takes control in Fadan. If it¡¯s the HPA, your father wins. If it¡¯s the HNP,¡± he sipped his tea. ¡°The victory goes to your stepmother ¨C who¡¯s as likely to name you the heir to her political legacy as her own daughter. What¡¯ve you got to lose either way, you lucky bastard?¡±


    I let the question hang for a beat.


    HNP ¨C the Hastinar Nationalist Party ¨C served as the primary opposition to the HPA at the federal level. At the state level, it currently governed four of Hastinar¡¯s seven states.


    Leena Sen, general secretary of the HNP, was indeed my stepmother.


    Well, one of my stepmothers.


    Not that I saw any reason to take the blame for my father¡¯s compulsive hypergamy. Or his chronic inability to hold on to wives.


    ¡°Is that jealousy I spy in your voice, Sai?¡± I drawled. And slipped a hand into my pocket, fingers grazing the flash drive nestled there. ¡°Leena¡¯s still single, last I checked. Want me to put in a good word for you? You¡¯re too old for her to adopt, but I daresay there are¡­other possibilities. No reason to lose hope, just yet.¡±


    A moment passed in stunned silence.


    Then, Sai burst out laughing. Sharp and sudden.


    After a brief pause, Shehak joined in, his guffaws loud and stilted.


    Even Rana covered her mouth, chuckling delicately.


    I forced a laugh past my own lips.


    Like a hot knife through butter, our combined mirth sliced through the palpable tension in the room.


    ¡°You¡¯re asking the wrong questions, Sai.¡± I drained my teacup. ¡°It¡¯s not about what I want from you. It¡¯s about what I can offer.¡± Reaching into my breast pocket, I pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Held it up for the three panelists to see. ¡°I have here a letter signed by the parents and guardians of five of the alleged ¡®victims¡¯ in the additives case. Admitting that their children hadn¡¯t consumed any Zintra products in the 48 hours before their symptoms started.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Rana gasped. ¡°But how did you¡ª¡±


    Shehak interrupted her. ¡°B-but that doesn¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Let me see that!¡± Sai snapped, leaning forward with his hand outstretched, beady eyes agleam.


    I leaned back, just enough to keep the letter beyond Sai¡¯s eager grasp. ¡°Not until I¡¯ve had a chance to look at Zintra¡¯s financials,¡± I said, a hint of reprimand in my voice. ¡°For the last two fiscal years, at least. I don¡¯t want all my hard work procuring this letter to go to waste¡­when the prosecution drops evidence of Zintra¡¯s financial misconduct.


    ¡°If the company¡¯s been cutting costs with cheap artificial sweeteners instead of the government-approved formulations, I need to know about it now. I need to understand the potential damage in court, so we can gather ¨C or create ¨C our own evidence to counter it.¡± I exhaled, meeting Sai¡¯s beady gaze. ¡°And if no defense is possible, I need to know ahead of time to plan an exit strategy. Not waste my time watering a dead plant.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not¡ª¡± Shehak began, indignant.


    I held up a hand to silence him, my eyes never leaving Sai¡¯s face. ¡°It¡¯s bad enough I¡¯m sitting here drinking tea with you, right now.¡± I let frustration creep into my voice. ¡°I was supposed to meet Palika and his CFO this morning to go over Zintra¡¯s financials. Make sure there are no red flags for the prosecution to exploit in court. But I get here, and some receptionist tells me to sit in the back and twiddle my thumbs. Because apparently, the whole management team is locked in an investor meeting for the next three hours.¡±


    A charged silence enveloped the room as we all sized each other up, gauging intentions and strategies.


    Finally, Sai nodded to the letter in my hand. ¡°Does your father know about this?¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you give him a call?¡± The corners of my lips twitched upward. ¡°Ask him for yourself what he knows. What he thinks,¡± I spread my hands in a wide, inviting gesture. ¡°About all of this.¡±


    A moment passed. And then, like air escaping a punctured balloon, the tension in the room dissipated.


    I had called Sai¡¯s bluff, and he knew it. They all knew it.


    ¡°The receptionist was mistaken,¡± Sai said at length. ¡°Lohar, the CFO, isn¡¯t at the investor meeting. He¡¯d be more than happy to see you. Come, I¡¯ll take you up to his office myself.¡± He made to rise from his chair.


    ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary,¡± I said quickly. That¡¯d be a disaster. ¡°I-I know the way to his office. But it¡¯s on the 14th floor, and I don¡¯t think I have access.¡± I stood abruptly, preempting any objections. ¡°Your time would be better spent reviewing this letter, anyway.¡± I held out the folded sheet of paper he¡¯d been so eager to grab only minutes ago. ¡°See if you can come up with ways to bring some of the other complainants over to our side. Further sweeten the deal ¨C no pun intended.¡± I grinned. ¡°Most are from middle- or working-class families; suddenly buried under a mountain of medical bills. Winning them over shouldn¡¯t be too hard, if we play our cards right.¡±


    After a moment¡¯s hesitation, Sai took the letter from me. Sliding on his glasses with one hand, he unfolded the paper with the other. ¡°I¡¯ll call the security director,¡± he said absently, eyes never leaving the letter. ¡°He¡¯ll make sure you aren¡¯t stopped on your way to the CFO¡¯s office.¡±


    He gestured to Shehak, who reached immediately for the intercom.


    Not bothering to wait, I stepped out of the cavernous office, breathing deeply to steady the pounding in my chest.


    After the dim confines of Sai¡¯s chamber, the bright lights in the lobby were almost blinding. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and expensive perfumes.


    I tapped my phone, shooting off a quick message.


    Trying to blend in with the stream of smartly dressed men and women, I started walking toward the elevators. Files and tablets in hand, industrious Zintra employees strode past me in every direction. Heels clicked against the marble floor, accompanied by snippets of hurried conversation. The hum of activity filled the air.


    A cluster of interns fumbled with the controls near the row of elevators. Close by, two uniformed security guards stood watch, their eyes scanning the group with practiced detachment.


    My pulse quickened as I neared the guards.


    One of the guards glanced my way. His gaze swept over me; a quick, nerve-wracking inspection.


    A couple of seconds ticked by. Then, he gave me a curt nod, shifting his gaze back to the interns.


    I stifled a sigh of relief, forcing myself to walk past with measured confidence. As though I had every reason, every right to be here. As though I belonged.


    The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside along with the interns, pressing the button for the 14th floor.


    It had worked. Sai had kept his word. I¡¯d reach my destination unmolested.

 Chapter 1.2

    Once on the 14<sup>th</sup> floor, I spent a few minutes wandering aimlessly around.


    Ensuring my presence ¨C and apparent disorientation ¨C was captured by the security cameras.


    As in the lobby, the two guards stationed by the elevators gave me no grief. The rest of the floor had no visible security personnel, though cameras were everywhere. Other employees bustled about, too preoccupied to spare me much attention.


    I strolled right past the CFO¡¯s office, the occupant¡¯s name and title prominently displayed on the glass door. As if I hadn¡¯t noticed it. As if I was still searching for my destination, somewhat lost and confused.


    Continuing down the hallway, I spotted a narrow black door labeled ¡®Staff Only¡¯. One of the few spots on this floor not monitored by any of the security cameras.


    I made myself walk past it. Feigning indifference. I couldn¡¯t linger here; not the first time around.


    I continued to meander, passing a procession of stylishly furnished offices, their glass and polished-wood doors gleaming under the bright overhead lights.


    Waiting areas came into view, their plush chairs adorned with intricate gold accents.


    The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted to my nostrils, from a small cafeteria tucked into a corner.


    Finally, having made a full circuit of the floor, I arrived back at the narrow black door marked ¡®Staff Only¡¯. The lone sanctuary from the pervasive, ever-watchful security cameras.


    I paused, positioning myself right outside the door, and knocked softly three times. The sound was swallowed by the ambient hum of the floor.


    I kept my guard up, careful not to draw the attention of the bustling workforce around me.


    A beat. The narrow black door creaked open a fraction, then widened slightly.


    No light emanated from within.


    Taking a deep breath, I slipped through the slight opening.


    The door clicked shut behind me with sepulchral finality, cutting off all light and sound from the outside world.


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± hissed a disembodied female voice. A low hum filled the air, the combined sounds of cooling fans and equipment at work.


    ¡°Only seven minutes.¡± I brandished my phone as evidence. ¡°And Sai held me up. He was being,¡± I paused, searching for a word that encapsulated his particular brand of insufferable. ¡°Well, Sai.¡±


    My companion flipped a switch.


    A weak bulb dangling from the cobweb-covered ceiling flickered to life, bathing the cramped space in a dim, yellowish glow.


    Dressed in a blue technician¡¯s uniform, the woman stood just a bit shorter than me. Her hair was gathered haphazardly into a loose bun. Naturally deep-set eyes, framed by dark circles, seemed to have sunken further into her skull. Her surprisingly long lashes clung together in clumps, as if she¡¯d been crying.


    ¡°Do you have it?¡± she demanded, voice gruff.


    Before responding, I scanned the cramped space. Metal racks ¨C crowded with blinking routers, switches, and patch panels ¨C lined the walls. Bundles of multi-colored cables snaked across the racks, loosely organized with zip ties and Velcro straps in some unfathomable arrangement.


    Dust had settled on some of the less-used equipment. Including what appeared to be a large backup UPS resting on the floor near the far end of the room.


    Amidst all the networking gear, a mop and bucket sat in the corner, oddly out of place.


    I reached into my back pocket, pulled out my wallet. ¡°How¡¯s the kid?¡± I asked, flipping through its contents.


    ¡°Alive,¡± she replied tonelessly.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Extricating the rectangular plastic card, I handed it to her. ¡°Everything on here is yours.¡± I slipped the wallet back where it belonged. ¡°There¡¯s nothing linking it back to me. Payments are routed through your last employer. They¡¯re no longer in business, but who¡¯s checking?¡± I raised my voice slightly, to carry over the background hum of the equipment. ¡°The point is, this should cover your son¡¯s surgery, and still leave some for medication and therapy, after.¡±


    Half a second later, a warm droplet hit the back of my hand. Startled, I looked up to see tears streaming down her pimple-scarred cheeks.


    Noticing my gaze, she shoved the card into her pocket, movements jerky. ¡°You want Palika¡¯s office, yes?¡± she asked, her voice thick. ¡°Only his? I could cut the feed for the entire floor.¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not,¡± I said, alarmed. ¡°The fewer people who notice something¡¯s off, the better. Only the CEO¡¯s office.¡± I held up a finger. ¡°And only for the next 45 minutes.¡± I held up another. ¡°I need the CCTV feed restored and fully functional within the hour. With luck, no one will realize anything¡¯s amiss. But if someone does check, we need to make sure it looks like a glitch, not deliberate sabotage.¡±


    She nodded silently. And made her way to the far end of the closet-sized room, stepping carefully to avoid the hardware scattered across the floor. I followed closely, mindful of my own footing.


    At the back, she reached for a switch tucked into the corner of the topmost rack, its ports jammed with a mess of cables. And began adjusting the connections with swift, practiced movements.


    Minutes later, she unplugged two of the cables, flicking a small lever on a nearby control panel.


    ¡°It¡¯s done.¡± She gave me a lopsided grin, cheeks still damp with tears.


    Soon, I was striding down the fifteenth-floor hallway, headed for the CEO¡¯s chamber. The 15th floor was quieter than the rest of the building, and I only encountered a handful of people in the hallway.


    Turning a corner, I spotted Tara, Palika¡¯s receptionist-cum-secretary. Typing away at her massive open-plan desk just outside the office.


    I let my footsteps fall heavier. Loud enough to draw her attention.


    Tara looked up, a slight frown creasing her otherwise flawless brow.


    Then, her eyes landed on me. And her lips curved into a radiant smile.


    ¡°Lekh!¡± she exclaimed, rising from her seat. ¡°What are you doing here? Reception didn¡¯t inform me you were heading up.¡± She shook her head. ¡°I didn¡¯t even know you¡¯re in the building.¡±


    Reaching her desk, I took her petite hands in mine. ¡°They¡¯re likely preoccupied with the protestors. You should¡¯ve seen the crowd outside.¡± I dipped my head. ¡°Well, I daresay you have. I can¡¯t blame the staff for being distracted, can you? Who wouldn¡¯t be, under the circumstances?¡±


    Tara chuckled. ¡°You¡¯re too softhearted.¡± She glanced away, tinkering briefly on her keyboard, before turning her attention back to me. ¡°But really, you¡¯ve picked the wrong time. Mr. Palika¡¯s in a meeting with the Rednes investors. Won¡¯t be back in the office for a couple of hours, at least.¡±


    ¡°Hours?!¡± I echoed, my voice rising slightly. ¡°Damn, Tara! And here I was, hoping to catch a plane to Mignir this evening.¡± I let the disappointment shine through me. ¡°I can¡¯t afford to reschedule. I won¡¯t be back to Darvika until next week.¡±


    ¡°The Solstice Concert?¡± Tara asked, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.


    I held my hands out in a gesture of surrender. ¡°You know me better than I know myself.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± she began, tucking a lock of hair absently behind her ear. ¡°I suppose you could wait. When¡¯s your flight?¡±


    ¡°Oh, eight in the evening. I¡¯ve got all the time in the world.¡± I rubbed the back of my neck. ¡°The problem is¡­uh,¡± I gestured to Palika¡¯s chamber. ¡°Do you mind if I wait inside?¡±


    She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. ¡°You what?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a recognizable face, Tara.¡± I pouted, a hint of a whine in my voice. ¡°And this is neither the time nor the place to be recognized. You wouldn¡¯t believe how uncomfortable it was in the lobby. Protestors have practically surrounded the building. And everyone knows who I am. I felt besieged.¡±


    I let out a heavy breath. ¡°And if that wasn¡¯t bad enough, I got jumped by Shehak. Did you know he¡¯s back? Anyway, he dragged me off to Sai. I¡¯ve spent the last twenty minutes cooped up in that gloomy cave he calls an office; both of them breathing down my neck.¡± I shuddered. ¡°I think I might have PTSD.¡±


    Tara giggled.


    ¡°You¡¯re laughing?¡± I looked up at her with wounded eyes. ¡°You can¡¯t send me back down there, Tara. I won¡¯t survive.¡±


    ¡°And I won¡¯t survive your whining if you did.¡± She rolled her eyes playfully. ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll send Mr. Palika a message. You can wait inside. But only because I¡¯d probably lose my job if Darpan Naag¡¯s son threw himself off this building, on my watch.¡±


    I masked my instinctive flinch with a laugh. ¡°And also because you¡¯re an angel. And you love me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d love you more if you took me to Mignir with you.¡± She smirked. ¡°Watching Solstice perform live has been my dream¡­since I was a teenager. Do you know how much those tickets cost?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a date.¡± I winked. ¡°Book yourself a round-trip. I¡¯m not covering transportation.¡±


    She pulled a face.


    I kept mine neutral, gazing expectantly at her.


    Her eyes widened in disbelief. ¡°You-you can¡¯t be serious.¡±


    ¡°I happen to have an extra ticket,¡± I shrugged. ¡°To the concert, I mean. And,¡± I propped a knee against her desk, leaning slightly forward. ¡°I can¡¯t ask for better company.¡±


    She blushed, her smile stretching ear to ear. ¡°I¡¯d never get the time off.¡±


    ¡°Call in sick. Tell Palika you ate some of Zintra¡¯s fruit bars.¡±


    Tara¡¯s eyes went even wider ¨C a mix of shock and amusement. She mimed taping my mouth shut.


    ¡°But in return,¡± I said, laughing as I batted her hand away. ¡°Promise me you won¡¯t tell Palika I¡¯m here. I don¡¯t want to hassle him during his meeting. It¡¯s a rough time for him, and the last thing I want is to add to his stress. Let him get here when he gets here. We¡¯ve got plenty of time before the flight, anyway.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get me fired,¡± she said, her smile lingering. ¡°And I¡¯m half convinced it¡¯ll be worth it.¡±

 Chapter 1.3

    Palika¡¯s office was bigger and brighter than Sai¡¯s, the walls painted in shades of peach and off-white.


    Beyond that, the two chambers were nearly identical. The furniture, upholstery, fixtures, and layout all seemed to have been designed from the same template.


    The only difference? In addition to the large picture windows, Palika¡¯s office featured a small balcony overflowing with potted plants and their colorful, fragrant flowers.


    Stepping further into the office, I carefully clicked the wood-and-glass door shut behind me. And shot a quick glance at the two security cameras on either side of the chamber. Hoping the technician had kept her word ¨C that they¡¯d both been properly disabled.


    Excitement and dread churned in my belly, tightening into a painful knot.


    I made myself breathe in, then out; again and again.


    No use stressing over it at this point. I was in too deep. I hadn¡¯t just dipped a toe in; I¡¯d dived in headfirst with no life jacket.


    Sink or swim, there was no getting out of the water now.


    I settled into one of the plush visitor chairs across from Palika¡¯s massive oak desk. It was surprisingly tidy. Aside from a small stack of files on one side, the desk held only a sleek silver computer and an ornate silver lamp, angled to illuminate the computer screen when needed.


    I sat in the chair, tapping my foot lightly against the polished marble floor. Just in case Tara decided to check in on me, offer to bring me a coffee or some such.


    I fiddled with the flash drive in my pocket to try and steady my nerves.


    Well, at least I didn¡¯t need to feign my impatience. It pulsed through every fiber of my being.


    Ten minutes ticked by, and still no Tara with a solicitous offer of caffeine. I muttered a quick thank-you to whatever deity had yet to abandon me. And forced myself to my feet, heart hammering.


    Moving cautiously around the big desk, I made my way over to Palika¡¯s side.


    My hand shook as I touched the sleek computer, bringing the screen to life. Zintra¡¯s unmistakable logo flickered on the display. Followed a moment later by the usual slideshow of their products, beautiful child models munching gleefully on Zintra¡¯s brightly-packaged treats.


    One of the largest conglomerates in Hastinar, Vance Industries produced everything from children¡¯s snacks to military gear, through its various subsidiaries.


    Yet Zintra, a modest division launched two decades ago to sell trail mix and chocolate-covered nuts, had somehow grown into their second-most profitable venture. Which made it a key revenue source not only for Vance, but also for the HPA.


    Because Vance had always been one of the staunchest supporters ¨C and financial backers ¨C of the Hastinar People¡¯s Alliance. Meaning that whatever made money for Vance, also funded the HPA and its election campaigns.


    I tapped the touchpad on Palika¡¯s computer once again. Immediately, the screen flashed a prompt: passcode or fingerprint required.


    Neither of which I possessed.


    I pulled the flash drive from my pocket. Willing my hands to be steady, I slid it into the appropriate port on Palika¡¯s sleek silver device.


    A soft beep. The screen flickered and went black.


    I stole a quick glance at the door. Still shut. No sign of movement. My heart threatened to claw its way up my throat and escape through my mouth.


    The display jolted back to life, rapid streams of indecipherable code flashing past too quickly for me to catch a single word.


    Not that I understood any of it.


    My domain was finance. Spreadsheets, balance sheets, income statements, and quarterly forecasts? Those I could make sense of.


    Computer code? It was less a foreign language to me, more an extraterrestrial one. The lines cascading down the screen couldn¡¯t have been more incomprehensible if written in an alien script.


    What rudimentary lessons I¡¯d received in high school had been promptly forgotten over the last seven years.


    It was my misspent college days paying dividends, now. The finance department had been right next to the computer science one. And I¡¯d made friends in high places.


    Well, they weren¡¯t in high places back then. They were broke students surviving on boiled khichdi and instant noodles.


    And me? Well, let¡¯s just say that what I lacked in charm, I made up for in deep pockets. Or rather, in my willingness to dip into my father¡¯s deep pockets, when the occasion called for it.


    And so it was that I¡¯d befriended a handful of computer prodigies. And occasionally used my connections to fast-track their climb up the corporate ladder. Or the academic one. Never let it be said that I¡¯m not flexible in my nepotism.


    Being friends with the son of the internal security minister (and stepson to a former governor of the reserve bank) had its perks, after all.


    Any favor I owed was repaid many times over ¨C nobody knew that better than my friends.


    Unsurprisingly, they were happy to lend me their expertise from time to time. So long as their names remained untarnished by the muck I chose to frolic in.


    The scrolling code was soon replaced by a stark blue screen, featuring a string of numbers and letters in a blocky, old-school font.


    A dialogue box popped up, issuing precise instructions for a file transfer in crisp white text.


    Pulse hammering in my ears, I scanned the steps. Then followed them carefully, keeping half an eye on the door. Still shut, still no sign of movement outside.


    A few keystrokes later, I¡¯d initiated the file transfer process. One by one, the files ¨C 987 in all ¨C started copying onto my flash drive. A progress bar crawled forward, agonizingly slow, each percentage point stretching into an eternity.


    A shadow flickered past my peripheral vision.


    My breath hitched, fingers clenching around the edge of Palika¡¯s desk. It was a miracle I didn¡¯t scream.


    My eyes darted to the door ¨C shut. No movement outside. No footsteps. No sound betraying any presence beyond. Everything was exactly as it had been moments ago.


    With deliberate effort, I wrestled my attention back to the screen.


    And no sooner had I managed to regain some fraction of my focus, when¡­


    Another shadow whipped past, too fast for my eyes to track.


    My body jolted, heart slamming against my ribs as I scanned the spacious office.


    Nothing.


    Yet, goosebumps prickled across my arms. Something felt off. Something¡­my gaze snapped to the open balcony door. Potted greenery and vibrant flowers crowded the space beyond, sunlight spilling through the leaves and into the office.


    I stared, frowning. My unease refused to fade.


    Seconds ticked by, and I forced myself to look away, back at the screen.


    36 of 987 files copied. The progress bar inched sluggishly forward.


    Reluctantly, I glanced back at the balcony.


    What could it be?


    Just the wind? A bird? Or something else? A hidden camera I¡¯d missed, perhaps?


    Someone watching from one of the nearby buildings?


    The thought chilled my blood.


    But I had to check. Had to know. Even in the worst-case scenario, it¡¯d be better to know than stew in uncertainty, flinching at every shifting shadow.


    My steps silent against the marble floor, I slowly rounded the large oak desk. Each footfall measured; I crept toward the balcony. Keeping half an eye on the office door the entire time.


    My nerves screamed at me to turn back, to sit down, to wait it out.


    I kept moving forward, the distance from the desk to the balcony stretching endlessly.


    I was being ridiculous. Paranoid.


    But something prickled at the base of my spine. Just one quick look. Just in case¡­


    I crossed the threshold onto the balcony, stepping into the sunlight.


    Glossy green leaves and ceramic pots surrounded me. The scent of rich, damp soil and fresh flowers overwhelmed my senses, so different from the smog and exhaust fumes of the city outside.


    Delicate vines curled around the railing, their bright red, yellow, and white blossoms nodding gently in the breeze.


    I exhaled, my body stiff with tension. Was I just spooking myself? My paranoia looping around to swallow its own tail? Had it all just been a trick of the light?


    A sudden rustle, quick and sharp.


    I spun, pulse skidding, as my hand shot out instinctively to grip the railing for support. My gaze darted frantically, searching for the source of the noise.


    A sharp sting sliced through my palm.


    Paying it no heed, I scanned the buildings beyond, their windows glinting in the sunlight. The street below was teeming with traffic, a blur of rushing vehicles. Tiny figures weaved along the footpaths, pausing now and then at one of the shops that lined the street. The few trees that dotted the sidewalk swayed gently in the breeze. A dog barked at a passing car. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Nothing. Or at least, nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. Searching was no easy task when I didn¡¯t know what I was looking for.


    At last, I tore my gaze away. Fingers loosening around the railing, I glanced down to examine the source of the sudden pain.


    Blood pooled in my palm, welling slowly from a fresh cut. What the¡ª


    The sting had dulled, settling into a steady throb. But how had it¡­


    It called to me. That familiar blend of terror and pain and despair ¨C a combination I hadn¡¯t tasted in over a decade.


    A vision.


    It beckoned to me, eager to sink its claws deep. I shouldn¡¯t let it. I knew better.


    Leena would be so upset. Ammi would worry.


    But¡­


    A drop trembled at the edge of my palm. The blood sliding along the creases until it had gathered into a perfect bead.


    I watched, transfixed, as it clung stubbornly to my skin ¨C suspended, resisting defiantly the pull of gravity.


    Until it lost.


    And fell.


    The crimson liquid flooded my vision, smearing the edges. Staining the world red.


    Something buzzed in my ears. Buzzed? No, more like¡­babbled.


    Babbled like a brook. Isn¡¯t that what they say? A babbling brook. A blood-red brook, babbling incoherently in my ear.


    And I-I wanted to listen. I wanted to know what it was saying to me. I had to know.


    Tearing my gaze away from the bloody brook, I looked up at the sky.


    The sky was black as ink. Midnight black.


    I-I can¡¯t be here. Not now. I¡¯ve got a meeting early in the morning. A shareholder meeting.


    The entire board. Waiting. Watching.


    I need to go home. Need to get some sleep.


    I choked back a laugh.


    Sleep. As if I could sleep. As if I¡¯d managed to sleep through the night ¨C a full night, just one ¨C since the¡­the leak.


    But I had to. I had to. For the meeting. The entire board will be there. What will they say? What will I say?


    I had to show up. Speak. Defend myself. Defend Zintra.


    But how? What could I say? That I¡¯d driven the company into the ground? Sent share prices plummeting to a ten-year low?


    That I¡¯d reduced one of the most profitable companies in the country to a charred shell of itself, in under six months? Scorched it to the bone, leaving behind nothing but a hollow, decaying carcass?


    Would they fire me?


    They would fire me.


    It¡¯d almost be a relief. Almost.


    But then what?


    I reached out, gripped the vine-covered railing with trembling fingers. The sweet scent of freshly bloomed bougainvilleas drifted to my nose, a fleeting comfort.


    The leaves obscured my view, but I knew they were down there.


    The protestors. Still here. Always here. There was no escape, not even in the middle of the night.


    Candles flickered in the dark, waiting. Waiting for me.


    They weren¡¯t leaving. They would never leave. Not until they had their pound of flesh.


    My flesh.


    They¡¯d claw at my skin and tear out my flesh. Shred me to bits until there was nothing left. Not a body. Not a soul. Not even a memory. They wouldn¡¯t even spare that.


    I squeezed my eyes shut.


    The company was my only shield. The only thing keeping them at bay. The title of CEO ¨C Zintra¡¯s CEO ¨C was the fragile, cracking wall between me and them. The rabid, vengeful masses slamming repeatedly at my door with their battering rams.


    And when that title was gone?


    I knew what would happen.


    I couldn¡¯t see their signs, their placards, from up here. But I knew what they said. Had the words carved into my brain with the sharp edge of a knife.


    ¡°Down with Zintra.¡±


    ¡°Death to Palika ¨C Children¡¯s Killer.¡±


    ¡°We Want Justice ¨C Hang the Perpetrators.¡±


    ¡°Death to Those Who Poisoned Our Children.¡±


    And they meant it. They meant every word. They would kill me. Even if I was arrested. Even in prison. There was nowhere in this country I would be safe. Not now. Not ever again.


    I knew it as surely as I knew the sun would rise in the east, come morning.


    Hot tears streamed down my face, searing my skin.


    I could tell them.


    The thought snaked in, unbidden. I could tell them everything. The truth.


    Another laugh clawed at my throat, rising, manic, desperate. What a joke. Who would believe me?


    And what if they did believe me?


    It would end the same for me. Perhaps worse.


    Being torn apart by an angry mob might actually be preferable to¡­whatever sadistic punishment they¡¯d dream up for me. For betraying them. For tattling.


    They were patient, after all. Unlike the mob, they¡¯d take their time.


    No, I couldn¡¯t say anything. I couldn¡¯t speak. I couldn¡¯t breathe.


    But if I didn¡¯t ¨C I gasped, hand gripping the railing tighter. There was no escape. Not that I deserved an escape.


    This was my fault.


    I¡¯d agreed. I¡¯d signed the papers. I¡¯d let them talk me into it. The new aspartame-alternative. Cheaper. More cost-effective. Would improve our margins by 8% year-on-year.


    Poisonous too, as it turned out. Deadly. But I hadn¡¯t known it back then.


    And the leak. I shouldn¡¯t have¡ª


    Shouldn¡¯t have what?


    How did that¡ª


    Well, it didn¡¯t matter. What was done was done. Nothing mattered now but what would happen tomorrow.


    Tomorrow, the board will fire me. And I¡¯d deserve it. I¡¯d deserve everything that came after, too. The arrest. The cameras flashing. The trial. The humiliation. The verdict.


    Maybe even the mob. Their wrath. I¡¯d deserve it all.


    But would I be able to take it? I shuddered. No. I know myself, know what I am. And I¡¯m a coward. Deep down, at my core. A selfish, reckless coward who agreed to experiment with an untested artificial sweetener¡­and for what? To save a few pennies per unit of candy?


    God, what had I been thinking? Why¡¯d I let myself be talked into¡ª


    It didn¡¯t matter. A life for a life. It was only fair.


    I laughed, tears streaming down my face.


    A life for a few dozen, more like. How many of them had died already? How many were on the way there, hanging on only by the wires of their life support equipment?


    But if I was going to die ¨C if there really was no way out ¨C why let them do it?


    Why let them stretch it out? Enjoy it? Enjoy taking me apart bit by bit, as I screamed and bled and begged. First, the media frenzy, the smear campaigns. Then the trial, the sentencing, the public disgrace. The shame, the fear. The suffering of prison. And all this for what?


    Just counting down the days, waiting for the noose to end it all?


    Why not just¡ª


    I peered over the railing at the crowd below. A tide of candle-holding protesters spilling from the footpath into the street, their placards waving.


    Tearing my gaze from them, I looked down at the unforgiving concrete ¨C of the path stretching from the building to the street.


    It was oddly inviting. Comforting, even.


    Fifteen stories should be enough, shouldn¡¯t it? Enough to finish it, once and for all. Enough for one final escape.


    On shaky legs, I hauled myself onto the narrow ledge of the balcony railing.


    Strange. It felt almost liberating. I was weightless, a leaf caught in the wind, teetering on the edge, ready to fall. Ready to drift away.


    The protestors below couldn¡¯t see me. My office was pitch dark. As was most of the building.


    But I could see them.


    Waiting. Always waiting. Like ravenous hyenas circling their prey; biding their time.


    Well, they wouldn¡¯t get the satisfaction.


    I smiled.


    This prey would slip through their fingers. Disappear right before their eyes, right before they could sink their claws in.


    I wiped the moisture from my face. Then, with one trembling foot, I stepped out into the empty air.


    And let myself fall.


    ¡°Maa! Maa, don¡¯t!¡± A child''s voice rang out, shrill with panic. ¡°Please, Maa, don¡¯t leave me! Don¡¯t leave me alone with him!¡±


    A child? Here? On Palika¡¯s office balcony?


    A jolt, intense and disorienting.


    More voices ¨C louder, sharper. ¡°You should¡¯ve informed me immediately! Is this what I pay you for?¡± A man¡¯s voice, harsh and demanding.


    My eyes snapped open.


    The late-morning sun lit the sky above me, once more. My fingers gripped the railing, vice-like; my lips parted in a silent scream.


    ¡°He said he didn¡¯t want to disturb you.¡± A woman¡¯s voice, calm and coaxing. ¡°Didn¡¯t want to interrupt your meeting. He was being harassed by the protestors downstairs. What was I supposed to do? He¡¯s Darpan Naag¡¯s son.¡±


    That was Tara¡¯s voice. The realization of what that meant hit me like a punch to the gut.


    Palika was back.


    Forcefully shaking off the lingering haze of the vision, I dashed back to the desk, moving as silently as I could.


    I glanced down at Palika¡¯s computer screen.


    ¡°Transfer complete,¡± it said in blocky white font.


    Heavy footsteps approached the closed office door.


    ¡°987 of 987 files copied.¡± The progress bar stretched fully, glowing green.


    Fighting back nausea, I yanked the flash drive from the port, jamming it into my pocket with one hand as I shut down the computer with the other.


    The doorknob clicked softly, began to turn.


    Without waiting for the screen to go black, I flew back to the other side of the desk. And dropped into the visitor chair I¡¯d occupied less than half an hour ago, though it felt like a lifetime had passed.


    I pulled out my phone. Trying desperately to steady my breath, still the tremor in my hands.


    The door swung open.


    Sumedh Palika stepped into his office, his footsteps stretching unbearably between the frantic beats of my pulse.


    I forced myself to stand, to turn around. Meet Palika with what I hoped was a normal smile ¨C pleasant, mildly interested. Anything but the manic mix of terror and triumph coursing through me.


    And as if that weren¡¯t enough, the aftereffects of the vision were starting to take hold. My head ached as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. A high-pitched ringing in my ears. Nausea churned in my gut, growing more intense with every passing second.


    I shoved it all down. There¡¯d be time to deal with all that later.


    Not here. Not now.


    Through my blurred vision, I saw Palika¡¯s lips move.


    I blinked, forcing myself to focus on his words through the dull roaring in my head.


    ¡°Lekh, what¡¯s the matter with you?¡± He was closer now. His gaze flicked over me, assessing. ¡°You look terrible. And what happened to your hand?¡± he asked, one eyebrow arched.


    The faint scent of sandalwood and vetiver clung to him. Expensive cologne. I¡¯d have to ask him for the brand before¡­ Before. My brain stuttered to a stop.


    I couldn¡¯t help but take a closer look at him.


    Palika stood half a head taller than me, and significantly broader. Sharp features, a receding hairline. His thick, expressive eyebrows could have housed a small family of squirrels.


    He seemed a little tense. A little stiffer than the last time I¡¯d seen him. A few new lines creased his brow. But nothing that hinted at¡­


    It was hard to imagine this man ¨C self-assured, even slightly arrogant ¨C teetering on that balcony ledge. Hollow with fear, despair. Making the decision to¡­


    He made an inquisitive sound, snapping me back to the present moment.


    I followed his gaze to my palm, slick with blood. Oh. That.


    ¡°I was admiring your flowers,¡± I said, glancing over at the balcony. ¡°The way you¡¯ve set it all up. It¡¯s stunning.¡±


    Palika preened. ¡°Impressed? You should see my garden.¡± He waved me back to my seat, circling his desk. ¡°I must say, this is a surprise. Should I have someone bring you some ointment? Bandages, perhaps?¡± His eyes lingered on my hand.


    ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary. It¡¯s a shallow cut.¡±


    He leaned back in his chair, studying me down the length of his patrician nose. ¡°So what brings you here? What¡¯s so urgent that you couldn¡¯t give me a call?¡±


    Now this, I was prepared for.


    ¡°The SEZ in Fagrihi is all but approved. But these recent¡­ allegations have thrown a bit of a wrench in our plans.¡± I dipped my head, pretending I didn¡¯t see Palika flinch. ¡°Papa thinks we should ease up, let the dust settle. The news cycle is fickle; and the people will lose interest eventually. Find something more interesting to protest about. A murder, maybe. Or a rape. Perhaps both. Those kinds of things always grab headlines. Chemical imbalances in mass-produced confectionary can only hold public attention for so long.¡±


    As I spoke, my vision swam; breakfast threatening to claw its way back up my throat. My head pounded, ready to split apart.


    The vision exacting its price; pulverizing my body from the inside out.


    ¡°But the loans for the factory in Fagrihi have already been secured,¡± Palika protested. ¡°The materials bought; contractors already paid their advances. Every day we drag our feet, the company loses more money.¡±


    We went back and forth for a few minutes, but we both knew it was all for show.


    The real power lay with my father, as it always had. The factory would be built only when he wanted it built.


    And with Zintra¡¯s reputation in the gutter, Palika had no leverage to force Papa¡¯s hand. On this issue or any other.


    A few minutes later, I made my excuses and rose from the chair. My lacerated palm, loosely bandaged with my own handkerchief, was useful in this regard. It made for an easy exit.


    Stepping out of the CEO¡¯s chamber, I said my goodbyes to Tara. Promising to meet her at the airport later that evening.


    Then, I headed back down to the lobby. Completely numb; the sights, sounds and smells around me barely registering. As my brain compulsively replayed the last moments of my vision¡ª


    Palika stepping off the ledge. Falling to his death. Over and over and over again.


    I took the stairs on my way down. Fifteen floors was a lot, but the thought of cramming into an elevator with half a dozen strangers made me want to puke.


    As I strode through Zintra¡¯s brightly lit corridors, I pulled out my phone. And scrolled through my recent contacts until I found the name I was looking for.


    Ex-Snake Charmer.


    Despite the pounding in my head, the nausea and the confusion, I smiled. Brushing my fingers against the smooth, cool surface of the flash drive in my pocket, I pressed call.


    She picked up on the third ring. ¡°Where are you? Moyna says you¡¯re ignoring her calls. How many times do I have to tell you¡ª¡±


    ¡°Leena,¡± I cut in, my voice raw, unsteady. ¡°Open a short position on Zintra, ASAP.¡± I dragged in a deep breath. ¡°Sumedh Palika¡¯s about to throw himself off his balcony.¡±

 Chapter 1.4

    The various reds bled into each other like an open wound. Searingly bright at the center, before darkening into a sickly rust color at the outer edges. Against the stark white canvas, it was the final, gurgling scream of a man drowning in his own blood. Captured in pigment and a swirling mix of acrylics.


    All the paintings along this wall were in a similar vein. Didn¡¯t depict any recognizable subject, at least to my eyes. But something about them provoked a visceral, almost violent reaction.


    At the bottom, the name ¡®Dilnaz¡¯ was scrawled in jagged strokes. As if the artist had been forced, under duress, to claim responsibility for his work.


    Couldn¡¯t blame him. I was no art connoisseur, but had I created such visual atrocities, I wouldn¡¯t willingly put my name on them, either.


    Behind me, the door clicked open.


    ¡°Don¡¯t recall seeing this one before,¡± I said without turning my head. ¡°New addition? I still don¡¯t get your fascination with his work.¡± I rapped a knuckle against the painting¡¯s frame. ¡°Easily one of the most unsettling things I¡¯ve had the misfortune to gaze upon. And from me, that¡¯s saying something.¡±


    ¡°They remind me of you,¡± Leena said, footsteps soft as she came up to stand behind me. ¡°A constant reminder of what happens to those who stubbornly walk his path. Deaf to the pleas of those who love them, blind to the tears they leave in their wake.¡±


    ¡°Very dramatic.¡±


    ¡°Say that to your guards when you¡¯re raving alone in a padded cell,¡± she snapped. ¡°Keep this up, and you¡¯ll die like Dilnaz. Alone and forgotten in some suburban psych ward.¡± Her slim fingers clamped onto my shoulder, turning me around to face her. ¡°You look halfway there already. Like three-day-old roadkill.¡±


    There was irritation in her voice, but beneath it, something closer to fear. ¡°If life weighs that heavily on you, there are simpler ways to end it. Surely you know that.¡± She released me. ¡°Go wash your face. I¡¯ll get your pills.¡±


    Obediently, I made my way to the washroom.


    Leena¡¯s office, at the headquarters of the Hastinar Nationalist Party, was spacious but had none of the sleek, corporate polish of the Zintra offices I¡¯d just left.


    The walls were a dull, utilitarian beige. The furniture, though solid wood, was old and uninspired. A sturdy desk sat at the center, holding a laptop and a pen-stand affixed with a Hastinari flag.


    The only striking feature of the room was the back wall, where seven framed paintings by Dilnaz hung in a neat row. You could tell they were all his because each one left the same hollow, gnawing sensation in the pit of your stomach. As if a black hole were expanding inside you.


    For all Leena claimed Dilnaz¡¯s work reminded her of me, he¡¯d been her favorite artist for decades before I was born. And for good reason. She had more in common with him than I did.


    There were, of course, the obvious similarities between us. Me and Dilnaz. The first being that he had died on my birthday, forty years before I was born. And true to character, he¡¯d made his exit with dramatic flair. Swallowing a burning piece of coal from the fireplace, at the asylum nestled in the mountains of Hilya where he spent his last days.


    The second? We were both seers.


    But that¡¯s where the similarities ended. In my twenty-five years, I¡¯d had a grand total of three visions. Two of them decidedly against my will.


    Dilnaz¡¯s name, on the other hand, had become pretty much a euphemism for seers who overextended their abilities. Pushed their limits too far, spiraling into madness or death. Typically both, and in quick succession.


    One of the most prolific seers in recorded history, Dilnaz had had 18 known visions over the course of his life. Second only to Soni Vardi.


    He turned his visions into art ¨C haunting, visceral.


    Disturbing, if you asked me. Or any other sane citizen of Hastinar.


    And no wonder, since each piece captured the raw violence, terror and despair of one of his visions.


    For Dilnaz, art and visions had become a cycle. He needed the visions to create.


    But most seers have two to five visions in their lifetime ¨C not nearly enough to sustain a career.


    So he forced it. Frequenting hospitals and prisons to deliberately trigger visions. People died painful deaths in the hospital every day, and many experienced terrible violence in prison. So of course, conjuring a vision was easier in those places than anywhere else.


    And the more visions he had, the more they ate away at his mind and body.


    To nobody¡¯s surprise, he began unraveling by his late-thirties. Descended into self-destruction and eventually took his own life at 43.


    The last, unfinished piece he was working on before his death became one of the most famous artworks in the world. It sold for millions multiple times, until finally landing in the national gallery half a decade ago.


    And it was Leena who shared Dilnaz¡¯s love for the dramatic and the macabre. As well as his single-minded obsession with his work.


    Not me.


    I was sometimes cynical, but never morbid.


    Dilnaz¡¯s brand of gruesome, in-your-face morbidity, which Leena found so appealing, simply made me uncomfortable. It always had.


    I braced myself against the ceramic washbasin in Leena¡¯s bathroom, fingers curling around its smooth edges. The water ran pleasantly hot, the pressure just right.


    I stared into the mirror above the basin, trying to gauge the accuracy of Leena¡¯s assessment.


    Three-day-old roadkill.


    Quite the exaggeration. But I couldn¡¯t deny she had some basis for it. I looked wrecked.


    And no wonder.


    Not sleeping, barely eating. Too wired to rest in the days leading up to ¨C why not just call it what it was?


    Theft in broad daylight.


    Corporate espionage sounded too polished, too subtle and refined for what I¡¯d just pulled off at Zintra.


    And then the vision.


    Just thinking about it made my stomach roil, bile climbing my throat. I splashed water on my face, forcing it back down.


    Would be less-than-polite to clog Leena¡¯s pipes with half-digested vada pav, after barging into her office uninvited.


    A gaunt face with hollowed cheeks ¨C bones jutting sharper than usual ¨C stared back at me from the mirror. My already large eyes practically bulged against the sharp angles of my face, bloodshot veins creeping through the whites like cracked porcelain. My lips were ashen. And shadows clung to the bags under my eyes.


    I looked like one of those tragic youths from an old arthouse film, fading away in the throes of some unnamed, wasting disease.


    At least they always had the grace to die young and pretty. Beauty untarnished by whatever conveniently-vague illness claimed their life.


    Unfortunately, real life wasn¡¯t filmed in elegant black and white. And my complexion was a distinct shade of green that made it clear I was one wrong move away from losing my breakfast.


    I spared a moment to thank my guardian deity that Ammi wasn¡¯t here now. She might try to seize the opportunity for a spring collection photoshoot. Because apparently, half-starved and at death¡¯s door was the trending aesthetic at the moment.


    And with Ammi, it was always a coin toss ¨C whether her maternal instincts would prevail over her mercantile ones, or vice versa.


    Patting my face dry, I quickly cleaned and bandaged my hand. The last thing I needed was for Leena to catch a proper look at the gash, freaking out even more than she already had.


    The adrenaline that had kept me upright thus far was slipping away, leaving me only half-aware of my surroundings. Time dragged as I tried to pull myself back together. Well, as together as I currently felt capable of being pulled, which wasn¡¯t much.


    Soon, I sat at Leena¡¯s desk, swallowing the multicolored pills she handed me and trying to brush off her questions about my bandaged hand.


    ¡°We¡¯re shorting Zintra,¡± I cut in, as much to deflect her queries as from my own sense of urgency. ¡°And we¡¯re doing it yesterday. Palika¡¯s going to throw himself off that balcony, but I don¡¯t know when. Could be any day ¨C between tomorrow and April. We need to act fast.¡±


    Leena studied me, fingers drumming lightly on her wooden desk. ¡°You didn¡¯t sense the weather? During the¡­¡± she sighed. ¡°During your vision?¡±


    ¡°I could only sense what he sensed. What he felt. And he felt a lot.¡± I stifled a shudder, the chaos of Palika¡¯s mind in his final moments still too vivid. ¡°The weather was the last thing on his mind, so it was the last thing on mine. I just remember it was nighttime. And-and it wasn¡¯t raining; I¡¯d have noticed that.¡±


    ¡°Well, that doesn¡¯t narrow it down at all,¡± Leena said. ¡°Three months. That¡¯s a long time. So much could happen between now and April¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you something that will happen between now and April,¡± I interrupted, impatient. ¡°Sumedh Palika will jump from his fifteenth-floor office. Providing us with the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to cash in on Zintra¡¯s inevitable free fall ¨C sure to be one of the biggest market shocks of the decade.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯ll be allegations of conflict-of-interest,¡± Leena countered. ¡°Zintra¡¯s backing of the HPA is hardly a secret.¡±


    ¡°Use your people.¡± It took everything in me not to roll my eyes. ¡°Have your minions handle it. Who says it has to be done under your name? As long as I get my cut, I don¡¯t care if it¡¯s Sugar Pixie¡¯s name on the transaction.¡±Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    ¡°Who¡¯s Sugar Pixie?¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t you like to know.¡± I pulled out the flash drive, set it on the table in front of her. ¡°987 files worth of evidence, Leena. Of gross negligence, if not deliberate adulteration. Need I remind you there are dead children involved? Once this hits the press, nobody¡¯s going to care who profited from Zintra¡¯s well-earned downfall. Hell, they¡¯d cheer you on.¡±


    ¡°And how¡¯s it going to ¡®hit the press¡¯?¡± Picking up the flash drive between her index and middle fingers, she examined it skeptically. ¡°Besides, this ¡®evidence¡¯ won¡¯t hold up in court.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll hold up in the court of public opinion. For our purposes, that¡¯s more than sufficient.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t answer my first question.¡± Her sharp gaze pinned me in place.


    Leena was barely five-four. But what she lacked in height, she more than made up for in presence ¨C an aura of authority she wore like a cloak at all times.


    Shoulder-length black hair, streaked with silver, framed her oval face. The fine lines around her eyes and mouth only accentuated her delicate features.


    From a purely objective viewpoint, Leena was pretty. But she¡¯d been born with the visage of a perpetually disappointed headmistress. And that disappointment only grew more intense with every successive year she spent on this planet.


    ¡°I¡¯ll leak it myself.¡± I met her gaze as I answered. ¡°Make sure it lands in the inbox of every major news editor and channel executive in the country. A few international ones too, if I can swing it.¡±


    ¡°Let me see if I understand you correctly, Lekh.¡± Leena¡¯s voice was icy. ¡°You plan to leak evidence of adulteration in Zintra¡¯s products. Evidence you stole from Palika''s secure system, let¡¯s not sugarcoat it. Driving Palika to suicide and sending Zintra¡¯s stock into free fall. So you can then cash in on the collapse?¡±


    ¡°The suicide wasn¡¯t part of the plan,¡± I assured her. ¡°That was the vision. But it only confirmed what I was already 90% sure of, anyway. As for the rest of it,¡± I shrugged. ¡°Yes. Exactly what you said, pretty much.¡±


    ¡°And this doesn¡¯t strike you as unethical, perhaps? Vicious and bloodthirsty, to be more precise?¡±


    ¡°No?¡± I spread my hands. ¡°It was a vision, Leena. It¡¯s going to happen. Whether I leak the files or sit in the corner sucking my thumb, Palika will throw himself off that balcony sometime in the next three months. It¡¯s inevitable. And since we know that, we might as well put the knowledge to good use.


    ¡°Me feeling sorry for Palika ¨C and sitting on the evidence ¨C won¡¯t save him. So why bother?¡±


    Leena¡¯s eyes bored into me. ¡°Was it inevitable if you played a role in making it happen?¡±


    ¡°Are you responsible for the role you played,¡± I countered, lips twitching. ¡°If what happened as a result was inevitable anyway?¡± I let my gaze slip past Leena to the paintings lining the wall behind her. ¡°That¡¯s the kind of circular thinking that drove Dilnaz over the edge, I¡¯ll bet. You can be a seer, or you can be a philosopher. Never both.¡±


    Every fiber of Leena¡¯s petite frame bristled against the idea. I could see it on her face.


    But I could also see the calculation in her eyes. She hadn¡¯t become the general secretary of Hastinar¡¯s second-largest party by letting abstract ethics outweigh concrete practical considerations.


    She understood perfectly the implications of the plan I¡¯d laid out for her.


    If Zintra went under, Vance Industries would take a serious hit. Forcing them to halt political donations, at least temporarily.


    At least until the Fadani elections were over.


    Cutting off the HPA¡¯s biggest funding source on the eve of the election. Right when they could least afford such a loss.


    All but guaranteeing their defeat, and clearing the path for the HNP to reclaim power in Fadan.


    For all her ethical hand-wringing, Leena understood the basics of Foresight as well as the next person. No matter what we did or didn¡¯t do, there was no stopping Palika¡¯s suicide.


    A vision, once seen, couldn¡¯t be prevented. It would unfold exactly as witnessed, between 24 hours and three months after. Throughout history, every attempt to prevent a vision from coming true had failed. Only making the situation worse; amplifying the scale of the disaster.


    We couldn¡¯t prevent the inevitable, but there was something we could do to turn the aftermath in our favor. Make some money, form a government, block Vance¡¯s expansion in Fadan.


    And most importantly, take whatever small shot we could at Darpan Naag ¨C my dearest Papa.


    ¡°Very well,¡± Leena said heavily. ¡°We¡¯ll short Zintra. But I need you to give me your word, Lekh. Promise me you won¡¯t try to conjure a vision again this year. No matter what¡¯s at stake, no matter how tempting it is. Promise me you won¡¯t do it, no matter how Darpan tries to strong-arm you.¡±


    ¡°Strongarm me?¡± I chuckled. ¡°He hasn¡¯t tried that in years. Hasn¡¯t pulled it off in nearly twenty. Beating a vision out of a seven-year-old is one thing, but I haven¡¯t been seven in a very long time.¡± A thought struck me. ¡°Funny you bring that up, though. Shehak said something similar, earlier today. That people might say Papa¡¯s turning me into a modern Soni Vardi, for his own political ends¡­ I wonder what he meant by that.¡±


    ¡°I hope he remembers how Soni Vardi¡¯s story ended,¡± Leena quipped.


    How it ended?


    Soni Vardi ¨C the most prolific seer in history. Twenty recorded visions over the course of his life. Some say the real number was closer to twenty-five.


    The King¡¯s Seer. Tasked with foreseeing the outcomes of wars, raids, and assassination attempts.


    It drove him half mad, by the end.


    His last vision was the one that changed everything ¨C the one that was wrong. It led to the king¡¯s brutal death, the complete destruction of the dynasty.


    Was it a mistake? A hallucination conjured by his exhausted mind that Soni Vardi mistook for a vision?


    Or did he deliberately lead the king to his death? To the massacre of all his heirs, the annihilation of his bloodline?


    Sources varied.


    And even 500 years after his death, people couldn¡¯t stop speculating. Couldn¡¯t stop coming up with conspiracy theories; writing stories and songs and movies about Soni Vardi¡¯s final vision. About what really happened. What the King¡¯s Seer had really wanted, and why.


    The only thing that remained undisputed was the outcome.


    The king was dead, his dynasty wiped out.


    And Soni Vardi was hanged for treason in the town square; scorned by the very people he¡¯d helped protect from countless raids and disasters.


    I was spared from delving further into this analogy of me as Papa¡¯s Soni Vardi¡­by the door swinging open again, this time with a resounding bang.


    ¡°Why have you been ignoring my calls?¡± demanded a sharp female voice.


    I barely had time to turn in my chair before Moyna had stormed in, grabbed me by the collar, and yanked me to my feet.


    ¡°Do you know how worried I¡¯ve been? I just spoke to Tara.¡± She thrust her phone in my face. ¡°She said you left Palika¡¯s office looking like you were on the verge of throwing up or passing out ¨C likely both.¡± Her eyes flicked over me, scanning every inch. ¡°And I can see exactly what she meant.¡± Her gaze drifted downward. ¡°What the hell happened to your hand?¡± She let go of me, expression twisting in irritation. ¡°I''ve called you at least a dozen times since last night, and you couldn¡¯t be bothered to pick up? Or call me back? Not even once?¡±


    Moyna had inherited Leena¡¯s natural air of domineering authority, along with Papa¡¯s build and stature. Not a combination to be trifled with.


    At five-foot-nine, she stood as tall as me, just a couple inches shy of Papa. She also had the build of a kickboxing champion, a title she¡¯d held throughout her time in college.


    Eight years older than me, she took that seniority very seriously, fully convinced it was her duty to guide and protect. And to generally meddle in every aspect of my life; letting pass no opportunity to be an overbearing (if occasionally helpful) nuisance.


    ¡°I-I was busy.¡± I shot Leena a reproachful glance for telling Moyna I was here. She remained placid. ¡°I would¡¯ve called once I got home.¡± I shifted my focus back to my sister. ¡°And what¡¯re you doing lurking here on a Tuesday afternoon, anyway? Don¡¯t you have work? I thought you lot would be drowning in deadlines, with budget season right around the corner.¡±


    Moyna worked at the Reserve Bank of Hastinar, following in her mother¡¯s footsteps.


    Leena came from a family of bankers. She¡¯d had an illustrious career in the field herself, capping it off as governor of the reserve bank before retiring seven years ago. After that, she threw herself fully into politics, soon rising to become the general secretary of the HNP.


    Both Moyna and I had Leena to thank for our education (and interest) in finance. She¡¯d mentored us. Shaping our knowledge and nudging us, subtly yet persistently, toward her own field.


    The difference was, Moyna used that training to carve out a respectable career, securing a position at the reserve bank, like her mother before her.


    Whereas I¡¯d never held a steady job in my life. Instead, I used my skills exclusively to raise hell and cause chaos. Picking up one-off projects here and there when my bank account started looking malnourished.


    Moyna frowned. ¡°I was in the area. Will be meeting with the Textile Trade Council¡ª¡± She narrowed her eyes, reaching out to tug at a strand of my hair. ¡°You need a haircut. Maa told me you just crawled in from Zintra.¡± Her gaze flicked to Leena, then back. ¡°And what were you doing there, may I ask? Killing time on a Tuesday morning, flirting with unsuspecting receptionists? Have some shame, Lekh.¡±


    I blinked. ¡°Receptionists?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t play dumb with me. Tara told me all about your plans for the week.¡± Her lips quirked slightly. ¡°The Solstice Concert in Mignir, hmm? Not a bad idea for a first date. That is, if I believed for a second you were actually serious about her. Which we both know you are not.¡±


    I had no idea how to respond to this, so I stayed silent. Moyna took this as an invitation to continue her rant. And continue she did.


    ¡°How many times has Papa tried to set you up with a job at one of his friends¡¯ firms? You could even take the reserve bank exams this year. They¡¯re still six months away. I¡¯d help you study.¡± She regarded me almost pityingly. ¡°Papa is so worried about you. We all are. And the most frustrating part is that you¡¯ve got the talent, everyone knows that. You just need to put your mind to it. Apply yourself. Sit down and study, for once in your life. It¡¯s just a matter of dedication and effort.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want a job,¡± I insisted, shooting Leena a beseeching glance. ¡°I¡¯m not cut out for the nine-to-five grind. How many times have you said that yourself?¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t know what you¡¯re cut out for until you try it. That¡¯s all we want you to do. That¡¯s all Papa wants.¡± Moyna laid a hand on my shoulder. ¡°I know you think he only cares about the family¡¯s reputation. That you not having a ¡®respectable¡¯ job reflects badly on the Naag surname.¡± Her mouth tightened in a slight grimace. ¡°And I won¡¯t deny that Papa can be¡­image conscious. But it¡¯s more than that.


    ¡°He worries about you, Lekh. About your future. You¡¯re so talented; you have so much to offer the world. Papa just wants you to reach your potential. It¡¯s what he wants for all three of us. He may not always say it the right way, but in the end, he just wants what¡¯s best for his children. Like any parent.¡±


    I met Leena¡¯s gaze, but neither of us said a word. What was there to be said? Neither she nor I had the heart to shatter Moyna¡¯s sweet illusions about Papa.


    Even at 33, she still looked up to him with an almost childish devotion.


    Part of it was because she¡¯d only been six when Papa divorced Leena to marry my mother. So, most of Moyna¡¯s memories of living under the same roof with him were from that time. And she¡¯d spent all her years, since then, trying to recapture that idyll.


    The other part was that Moyna was, after all, Leena Sen¡¯s daughter. She¡¯d always had her mother as a shield, a buffer between her and Papa.


    She never felt the full force of his¡­ let¡¯s call them personality flaws.


    For all his roaring bluster, he¡¯d never dare treat Leena¡¯s daughter the same way he treated the child of a bar dancer. A dead one, at that.


    A while later, Moyna left, hugging her mother and planting a forceful kiss on my cheek. ¡°Don¡¯t pester him about jobs anymore today, Maa. That¡¯s my responsibility, and I¡¯ve got it covered. You and Papa just leave him be, okay?¡± She smacked me on the back. ¡°He¡¯ll come around. You¡¯ll see.¡±


    After a solid five minutes recovering from the whirlwind of Moyna¡¯s visit, Leena turned to me. ¡°She does have a point, you know.¡±


    I groaned. ¡°You think spending forty hours a week under the watchful eye of one of Papa¡¯s friends,¡± I stressed the word, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. ¡°Or spies ¨C will somehow improve my life?¡±


    ¡°Not that. I mean¡­¡± she gazed speculatively at me. ¡°Is there a reason you¡¯re doing all this?¡± She raised the flash drive, still pinched loosely between her index and middle fingers. ¡°All this risk you¡¯re taking.¡± Her eyes flicked to my bandaged hand. ¡°What¡¯s the payoff you¡¯re expecting at the end of it all? Do you have a long-term plan for moving against your father?¡±


    I looked at Leena. At the concern in her eyes, barely concealed behind a thin veneer of wry indifference.


    Why had I always called her that? Just Leena.


    My biological mother, Raya, had been Maa. For as long as she was alive.


    And Farida had been Ammi from the moment she married my father, less than a year after Maa leapt to her death in the mountains of Hilya.


    But of my father¡¯s three wives, Leena had played the biggest role in raising me. Mostly because Farida hadn¡¯t been in the picture for the first six years of my existence. My own mother had spent those years lost in a haze of alcohol. And Papa had been¡­well, Papa. A cactus would¡¯ve been hard-pressed to survive in his tender care, let alone a child.


    So, Leena was left to handle the practical nitty-gritty of raising me. Albeit she and Papa had been long divorced by the time I was born.


    Yet, she never insisted I call her any version of ¡®mother.¡¯


    Always content to simply be ¡®Leena¡¯. Never questioning what the word meant to me. If it meant anything at all.


    ¡°No,¡± I said eventually, lowering my gaze. ¡°There¡¯s no plan. I just enjoy being a thorn in his side. Annoying him, exacting a bit of petty revenge.¡± I offered her a wry smile. ¡°And you can pretend you don¡¯t enjoy it just as much. But I won¡¯t believe you. If you really didn¡¯t, you¡¯d have kicked me out of this office and into a cubicle at the Reserve Bank before I could get a word in edgewise. The fact I¡¯m still sitting here is proof¡­that this is where you want me.¡±


    ¡°I do want you here, Lekh.¡± She confessed. ¡°But I can¡¯t keep you here. Not forever. You¡¯ll need to outgrow this coop, eventually. Find your own purpose, your own place in the world.¡±


    ¡°Not if I can find a way to make the coop bigger,¡± I smirked. ¡°Put you in the prime minister¡¯s chair. Wouldn¡¯t that be the perfect revenge? Insult and injury all rolled into one neat package. His life¡¯s biggest goal, ripped right out from under him. And handed to the very person he cast aside to chase it.¡±

 Chapter 2.1

    The April sun burned overhead, sweat prickling at my temples and sliding down the back of my neck.


    Ahead, a pair of massive iron gates. Beyond which a cluster of short, blocky buildings sat nestled within a walled garden overflowing with late-spring flowers.


    I strode up the tarmac path, the heavy bag of containers swinging in my hand. My footsteps were muted against the sunbaked ground. The warm air carried the fragrance of jasmine and marigolds. Hidden from sight, birds chirped in nearby trees.


    It was in this idyllic milieu that I was ambushed.


    A sudden rush of bodies. A swarm of reporters closed in, their voices buzzing like angry wasps.


    Microphones thrust toward me in a tangle of black cords and outstretched arms. Cameras clicked in unison, a sharp and relentless firing squad.


    A young woman, her lips a disconcerting shade of charcoal, practically jabbed her mic into my mouth. A lifetime of dealing with overzealous media professionals was all that kept me from flinching away.


    ¡°How do you respond to claims that HNP functionaries leaked the evidence against Zintra,¡± she demanded. ¡°In an act of political sabotage?¡±


    ¡°Would you consider Sumedh Palika¡¯s suicide a fitting punishment for his role in the adulteration scandal?¡± barked a bespectacled youth, press card swinging against his chest.


    A large, green-clad man lifted his camera, the flash blinding me for a second.


    My chest tightened, heartbeat quickening.


    ¡°Do you truly believe Palika took his own life?¡± The black-lipped woman cut in sharply, eyes gleaming with excitement. ¡°Or might there be reason to suspect foul play?¡±


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°Any truth to the rumors that your father might¡¯ve had a vested interest in silencing Palika?¡± screeched a middle-aged woman in red, her massive topknot bobbing as she jostled forward.


    ¡°Or could it have been a conspiracy by Leena Sen to sway the outcome of the Fadani elections,¡± the bespectacled man shouted over her. ¡°By cutting off the HPA¡¯s funding at a critical moment?¡±


    I called on every bit of training I¡¯d absorbed over a lifetime spent in the public eye. First, as the newly-motherless seer son of Zilan¡¯s chief minister. Then, as Farida Naag¡¯s prized mannequin ¨C her favored model for every wild, outrageous experiment she dreamed up in the world of children¡¯s fashion.


    Fifteen years of her endless fashion shows, each more eccentric than the last. It¡¯d taught me the art of composure under a barrage of camera flashes and press interrogation.


    Smile for the photographers. Pose. Turn left, then right ¨C make sure they get every angle.


    Eyes open. Smile bright. Mouth shut.


    If pressed, never say more than five words at a time.


    Albeit, the reporters who haunted Ammi¡¯s exhibitions were more gossip columnists than investigative journalists. But how different could two pieces cut from the same cloth be, no matter the designer label you stitched onto one or the other?


    ¡°Hard-hitting questions. All very important, I¡¯m sure. But you¡¯re asking the wrong member of the Naag clan.¡± I flashed the cameras my best grin and lifted the bag in my hand. ¡°I¡¯m just the delivery boy ¨C here to bring Papa his lunch. Politics, as you know, isn¡¯t my forte.¡±


    ¡°Another protestor in Zilan has set himself on fire over the construction of the Minjal Stadium.¡± The black-lipped woman fired back, unfazed. ¡°Could the timing be deliberate ¨C meant to hit alongside the Zintra leaks? Cripple the HPA with back-to-back blows, clearing the way for HNP and its allies to dominate elections for the next few years?¡±


    Not to be outdone, the red-clad woman with the topknot jumped in. ¡°Word is you turned a tidy profit, short-selling Zintra stocks weeks in advance.¡± She leaned in, thrusting the microphone forward like a sword. ¡°With your father¡¯s party faltering, would it be fair to say you¡¯ve switched sides? Joined your stepmother¡¯s camp?¡±


    I waved a dismissive hand. ¡°No wonder our media couldn¡¯t uncover proof of Zintra¡¯s adulteration.¡± A brief, deliberate pause. ¡°If cooking up such baseless gossip is how they spend their time.¡±


    This triggered an outburst of agitated protests and counter-questions, derailing the original line of inquiry.


    Just enough of a distraction for me to inch my way through the crowd of reporters and slip past the iron gates. Safely out of the press¡¯s reach.

 Chapter 2.2

    At first glance, the Ministry of Internal Security didn¡¯t look all that secure.


    Four squat, three-story buildings sat ensconced within a massive garden, bursting with flowers shaded by towering trees. Birds chirped nonstop, and squirrels darted across the grounds.


    It felt more like an enchanted forest than the center of national security.


    I walked along a narrow red-brick path toward the easternmost building. Concealed among the flower beds, security cameras tracked my every move.


    As I approached the main doors of the building, two armed guards in crisp uniforms stepped forward. One gestured to a sleek security kiosk just outside the entrance.


    Obediently, I pressed my palm to the biometric scanner. A strip of light swept over it, moments before a soft beep signaled approval.


    The guards at my heels, I stepped through the glass doors.


    Inside, the air was crisp, cool. Carrying a faint scent of polished wood and something sterile, like disinfectant. Well-groomed officials, their expressions serious, moved about with confident purpose.


    Here, a full-body scanner awaited me.


    Handing my heavy cloth bag to one of the guards, I stepped into position. A soft pulse of light swept over me.


    As the scan ran its course, the other guard spoke in a low, rapid murmur into a handheld device.


    Five minutes later, my bag was returned and I was cleared to proceed.


    Papa¡¯s office was on the first floor, so I took the stairs. Nodding at the few familiar faces I passed; I maintained a steady pace ¨C my presence acknowledged but never lingering.


    In no time, I reached the heavy wooden door at the far end of the first-floor hallway. Twisting the knob, I stepped into the hushed antechamber. He had an entire suite to himself ¨C this sizeable reception area leading into his main office on one side, and a balcony on the other.


    A long table sat against one wall, usually occupied by his aides. At the moment, it was deserted.


    The office door was shut. Locked, I suspected. But the double doors to the balcony stood open, the sharp bite of cigarette smoke drifting through.


    I moved slightly closer, craning my neck to see.


    Papa stood with his back to me, his tall frame rigid as he gazed over the flourishing garden. A cigarette glowed between his fingers.


    Taking a step back, I dropped the heavy cloth bag onto the table with a deliberate thud. ¡°Ammi sent lunch,¡± I said, striving for nonchalance.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take your word it isn¡¯t poisoned.¡± Papa savored a slow drag of his cigarette. ¡°For all her faults, at least Farida is straightforward. A quicker way to clear your path than whatever tangled maze Leena¡¯s drawing you into. But then, you always did have a taste for the convoluted.¡± He turned, unhurried. His eyes were unreadable, lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. ¡°The straight path never suited you, did it?¡±


    A couple of inches taller than me, Papa had broad, big-boned features and a high forehead. His eyes ¨C one of the only traits I¡¯d inherited from him ¨C were strikingly large, even on his heavy-set face. Aside from the faint wrinkles around them, his face showed little evidence of aging.


    A short beard framed the lower half of his face, concealing the jagged scar on his chin. A souvenir from the time Maa, in a drunken rage, had slashed at him with a broken plate.


    That was twenty years ago, less than six months before she died.


    In all the years since, few had laid eyes on the lower half of Papa¡¯s face. Obscured as it always was by his beard.


    Refusing to take his bait, I said: ¡°You¡¯re planning to send Moyna to Zilan.¡± It was more an accusation than a question.


    ¡°You leaked classified intel about the changes to Zintra¡¯s ingredient composition,¡± he retorted, tone a perfect mirror of mine. ¡°Knowingly choked our funding. Undermined us.¡± His voice dropped, each word a quiet, deliberate warning. ¡°Undermined me. Less than two months before the Fadani election.¡± He leaned ever so slightly forward. ¡°And to what end? Betraying your own father, your own flesh and blood, at your stepmother¡¯s behest?¡±


    We both knew which of my stepmothers he meant, though the name remained unspoken.


    Farida was a thorn in his side, but a thorn he could pluck out if it became necessary. Only Leena cast a shadow long enough to truly darken his path. She wasn¡¯t just a threat. She was the threat. The only person who could dismantle everything he¡¯d built, piece by careful piece.


    ¡°You give me too much credit. I took Tara to Mignir for the concert, yes.¡± I fought to suppress the tremor in my voice. ¡°A poorly-timed crush ¨C that¡¯s the worst you can accuse me of. But she knew nothing about any changes to Zintra¡¯s formulations. Even Palika wasn¡¯t stupid enough to discuss that kind of thing with his secretary.¡±


    ¡°He wouldn¡¯t have needed to. If someone had put her in a position to pick up on his conversations, access his¡ª¡±


    ¡°And even if he had,¡± I interrupted. ¡°She was too drunk, and too busy drooling over the lead guitarist, to orchestrate any leaks. It¡¯s all on video.¡± I joined him on the balcony, leaving ample room between us, and turned my attention to the garden. ¡°Feel free to check her socials if you don¡¯t believe me.¡±


    ¡°Spare me the spectacle of your shameless philandering,¡± he spat. ¡°I could not be less interested to see¡ª¡±


    ¡°Besides,¡± I continued, resisting the urge to point out the hypocrisy of this criticism, coming from a man who¡¯d sired three children with three different women. ¡°The leak originated in Binhai. Or have you conveniently forgotten that? What¡¯s next? Are you going to accuse me of treason now? Conspiring with a foreign government to influence elections at home?¡±


    Everything in his demeanor told me he¡¯d like to do just that. But for the fact that having a known traitor for a son would obliterate any chance he had of becoming prime minister.


    ¡°Not a new trick for you, is it?¡± Something shifted in Papa¡¯s voice, setting me on edge. ¡°You think I¡¯ve forgotten your little stunt with LMK? Manipulating those dim-witted kids online to pump up a dying steel company¡¯s stock? Don¡¯t try to tell me you cared about LMK and its moth-eaten factories. You were playing puppet-master, punishing the two private funds that¡¯d shorted it. Punishing them for backing the HPA in the Zilani election.¡±


    ¡°Paranoid as ever, Papa.¡± I kept my tone light, almost amused. ¡°Why¡¯d I bother punishing anyone for backing the losing side? I didn¡¯t need to lift a finger to ensure the HPA¡¯s defeat in Zilan. Your own policies guaranteed it. Didn¡¯t another protestor just torch himself outside that prized stadium of yours?¡±


    Fury radiated from Papa in scorching waves, so intense I could almost feel the heat.


    My body tensed instinctively, muscles coiling in anticipation of a blow that never came. It wouldn¡¯t, of course. Not here, not in public, under the ever-watchful eyes of the security cameras.


    But it never hurt to try.


    To push him a little further; needle him just enough to provoke a reaction. To shatter that carefully-curated fa?ade and give me the leverage I needed.


    No such luck this time, though. Raising the cigarette to his lips, Papa took a slow, deliberate drag. Then, he extinguished it on the balcony railing, the burning tip inches from my fingers.


    ¡°Come.¡± He turned slightly, voice tranquil, and gestured to the table inside. ¡°Let¡¯s have lunch.¡±


    We exited the balcony, Papa closing the doors behind us.


    I set the table, unpacking the tiered lunchboxes and laying out the disposable cutlery. Two plates took center stage, surrounded by an assortment of small bowls for the side dishes. Piping hot parathas went on the plates, the bowls forming a vibrant semicircle of aromatic curries, stir-fries, pickles, and curd. Sweet, syrupy gulab jamuns for dessert.


    Papa watched my every move, eyes never leaving me for a single second.


    Ignoring him, I set down two sealed bottles of water and took my seat. He followed, settling into the other chair.


    And stared.


    I stared back, uncomprehending.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Dear God. Did he seriously think I was trying to poison him?


    Here, in his own office at the ministry of internal security?


    I might as well be tying the noose around my own neck. Signing off on my own execution.


    I was almost offended. More on his behalf than mine. I was his son, after all. His own flesh and blood. From a purely genetic standpoint, how stupid could I be?


    This wasn¡¯t a battle worth fighting, however.


    Pulling my plate closer, I tore off a piece of paratha and used it to scoop up some creamy cauliflower curry ¨C my favorite of the lot.


    I slid the bite into my mouth, chewed, swallowed. My gaze locked on Papa the entire time.


    A moment later, he followed suit. Mirroring my every move, tasting each dish only after I had.


    It took everything in me not to burst out laughing.


    A few minutes later, once I¡¯d sampled every item (including dessert), Papa spoke. ¡°You¡¯ve been offered a position at Nys Corp. You know my old rowing teammate was recently appointed head of their Asset Management division. This is a significant opportunity for you to¡ª¡±


    To sign away every last scrap of autonomy I¡¯d clawed together in my 25 years of existence. In return for what? A gilded chain of respectability; a lanyard around my neck for my father to yank on whenever he saw fit?


    Hardly.


    ¡°I¡¯d love to, really.¡± I held up a hand. ¡°It¡¯s an honor. But I can¡¯t. I promised Dwipin I¡¯d help with his company¡¯s internal audit this month. You remember Dwipin ¨C my roommate? Leena invested in his quant trading startup right after we graduated.¡±


    Papa frowned, clearly irritated. I could all but see the gears grinding in his head, working to get ahead of me. Predict where this was going.


    ¡°Well, his firm¡¯s grown by leaps and bounds, these last couple years. But they¡¯ve hit a slight snag with compliance.¡± I lifted a spoonful of curd to my mouth. ¡°Some discrepancies in their trading algorithms, flagged by regulators. You know how it is. There¡¯ll be hell to pay if they don¡¯t sort it out, and quickly.¡±


    Papa looked poised to interrupt. But with a mouthful of paratha, pickles, and stir-fried green onions, he couldn¡¯t.


    Seizing the opportunity, I barreled ahead.


    ¡°And I can¡¯t turn down a friend in need, can I? Especially one in such a¡­useful position. Well-connected, too. You¡¯re the one who always told me to cultivate the right relationships.¡± I popped another piece of gravy-drenched paratha into my mouth. ¡°Well, that¡¯s what I¡¯m doing. Cultivating.¡±


    The next few minutes passed with Papa pushing me to take the reserve bank entrance exams. Shifting seamlessly between persuasion and outright coercion.


    And me dodging each attempt with increasingly creative ¨C often downright absurd ¨C excuses.


    ¡°You refuse to accept a position at a reputed investment firm. Handed to you on a silver platter. A job that hundreds of ambitious young men in this country would kill for.¡± Papa¡¯s voice was soft, but the undercurrent of threat was palpable. ¡°Because what? You¡¯re too busy playing accountant for your friend¡¯s little startup?¡± He let out a sharp, scornful laugh.


    ¡°You have no respect for the position you¡¯re in. No appreciation for the privileges you take for granted.¡± As he spoke, his words quickened. ¡°Meanwhile, in this city alone there are far more talented, far more hardworking and deserving people who¡¯ll never get the opportunities you squander without a second thought. And worst of all?¡± He sneered. ¡°You don¡¯t even pretend to take any of it seriously.


    ¡°Because deep down, you¡¯re afraid. Afraid to test yourself. To stand on equal footing with your peers ¨C take the national banking exams and see what you¡¯re really made of. Because you already know what you¡¯ll find, don¡¯t you?¡± Disgust laced his voice. ¡°That you¡¯re nothing. That all your so-called brilliance is a sham. Propped up not by talent or skill but by the simple, inescapable fact that you are my son.¡±


    After twenty-five years of this, my first, instinctive reaction was still defiant outrage. The sharp sting of indignation jabbed at my chest, years of buried resentment clawing its way to the surface.


    The primal urge to fight back. To prove him wrong. To tear out the barbs of his words; lodged deep under my skin after two decades of relentless repetition. By any means necessary.


    I tamped down on it. Hard.


    I¡¯d have better luck bleeding a rock than making Papa see me as anything more than the dirt beneath his heel.


    To try would be to walk into his trap ¨C one he¡¯d laid a hundred times before. And one I¡¯d fallen into, willingly, too many times to pretend I didn¡¯t know better. To fool myself into thinking this time would be any different.


    He wanted me to lash out, to push back. To hurl myself into the ring and wear myself down ¨C bleed ¨C fighting for a prize that would be permanently out of my reach.


    Well, I wouldn¡¯t give him the satisfaction. Not today. I had a job to do, and I forced myself to remember exactly why I was here. ¡°Why would you transfer Moyna to Zilan?¡± I asked once again, my voice calm but insistent. ¡°At a time like this. When the separatists are more popular than they¡¯ve been in a decade, thanks to Shaukat Awan¡¯s arrest.


    ¡°Every major separatist leader with even a shred of influence is crawling out of the woodwork, rallying their supporters to defy the government. To actively attack government institutions and functionaries.¡±


    Finishing the last bite of his paratha with a piece of creamy cauliflower, Papa scoffed. ¡°Reports of separatist activity in Zilan are wildly exaggerated. What else can you expect from today¡¯s drama-hungry media? If the wind picks up, they call it a tornado,¡± he spat. ¡°If they get dizzy, they swear it¡¯s an earthquake. Cowardly paper-pushers, the lot of them!¡±


    ¡°What¡¯re you talking about?¡± I shot back, unable to hide my irritation. ¡°Mahrang¡¯s husband and son have both been caught on video, calling on their followers to avenge her murder¡ª¡±


    I held up a hand, cutting off the interruption burning on his tongue. ¡°I¡¯m not saying she was murdered. They are. And they¡¯re out for blood. Not just to avenge Mahrang, but now Shaukat Awan too. Though at least he¡¯s still alive, last I checked.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re all bark, no bite.¡± Papa sank his teeth into a gulab jamun. ¡°If they dare make a move, try anything, they¡¯ll be tossed into a dark cell and left to rot. Never to see the sun again. They know it better than anyone. They saw with their own eyes what happened to Mahrang, after all.¡±


    ¡°Be that as it may, Zilan¡¯s a powder keg and you know it.¡± I spoke through gritted teeth. ¡°The last thing it needs is a member of the Naag family thrown into the mix. They hate us. And for good reason. If Mahrang¡¯s relatives get their hands on Moyna, there won¡¯t be anything left to ransom. Why would you cast your eldest daughter into that death trap?¡±


    Papa motioned for another piece of gulab jamun. I obliged.


    ¡°Moyna works for the reserve bank. I have no authority to transfer her on a whim.¡± He replied after taking another bite of dessert. ¡°But the fact remains¡­allegations of financial mismanagement in the construction of the Minjal Stadium are only getting louder, especially since the Zilani elections.


    ¡°Budget overruns, material smuggling ¨C someone needs to look into it.¡± He raised an eyebrow, expression oozing disdain. ¡°And since you refuse to shed this reputation of a brainless peacock coasting on borrowed status, I have no choice but to rely on your sisters to help advance the family¡¯s interests. To shoulder the responsibilities that you should¡¯ve been handling.¡±


    ¡°So that¡¯s what this is about. Moyna¡¯s just the decoy. I¡¯m the lamb you want to serve up to the separatist wolves.¡± I swirled the last gulab jamun in its syrup, then let it crumble on my tongue, warm and sweet. ¡°What is this? Punishment for the Zintra leaks? I told you I had nothing to do with that.¡±


    I glanced at him. Suddenly, everything snapped into place. ¡°This is damage control, isn¡¯t it? Banking on my tragic demise to erase the stain of the Zintra debacle? Maybe even propel you to the prime minister¡¯s seat?¡± I chuckled. ¡°You think throwing me to Mahrang¡¯s vengeful kin will earn you some sympathy votes. Your only son, slaughtered by the Zilani separatists. Reason enough for a crackdown on Zilan, maybe even a temporary central takeover. And as a bonus, a wave of public sympathy. Two birds, one stone. Truly impressive, even by your exalted standards.¡±


    Papa¡¯s expression didn¡¯t waver. ¡°You think I won¡¯t follow through? That I won¡¯t send Moyna to Zilan if you refuse to go?¡±


    ¡°I thought you wanted me to join your friend¡¯s investment firm.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing I want more,¡± Papa conceded. ¡°But we both know you won¡¯t take it seriously. You¡¯ll squander the opportunity ¨C because you don¡¯t value it. Like you don¡¯t value any of the privileges handed to you on a silver platter. Simply for being my son, for being an heir to the Naag legacy.


    ¡°And that¡¯s if you don¡¯t actively sabotage it, just to spite me. When have you ever passed up an opportunity to embarrass me?¡± He gave me a slow, dismissive once-over. ¡°Isn¡¯t that why you refuse to cut your damn hair? Because you know it infuriates me. You revel in every petty act of defiance ¨C in anything that provokes me ¨C like a petulant child throwing an endless tantrum.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s a bit of an exagger¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d show up to your own wedding dressed as a frog,¡± he cut me off. ¡°If you thought it¡¯d give me an aneurysm.¡± He exhaled sharply, then leaned back in his chair. ¡°I¡¯m not risking my reputation on you. Not again. Not when you¡¯ll only use the opportunity to humiliate yourself, and me, in front of my friend.¡±


    There were a thousand little ways he was twisting the truth; distorting events to paint himself as the victim, the one who¡¯d been wronged.


    But from a purely objective standpoint, he wasn¡¯t lying.


    The fingers of his left hand tapped a restless beat against the table. ¡°You¡¯ll go to Zilan. You¡¯ll find out what¡¯s happening at the Minjal Stadium construction site. Whether the management is siphoning funds; or whether the workers are smuggling materials across the border. And whatever it is, you won¡¯t return to the capital until you¡¯ve sorted it out.¡±


    ¡°And if I refuse?¡± I asked. Already knowing the answer, but unable to keep myself from thrashing against the tide that threatened to drown me.


    His tone matter-of-fact, Papa said: ¡°Then I¡¯ll have to rely on Moyna to do what you won¡¯t.¡±


    Credit where it was due ¨C this was the perfect blackmail. Because we both knew, without the slightest doubt, that it would work.


    To Papa, we were all pieces on a board. And like any skilled player, he knew his pieces well.


    This round, Moyna was the one he¡¯d play. Because of the three of us, she was the only one who still loved Papa, still trusted him.


    Nasreen tolerated him well enough. But even at just eighteen, she wouldn¡¯t lift a finger at his bidding. Ammi had trained her well, in that regard.


    And me? He wasn¡¯t wrong about me. I¡¯d waltz into my own wedding in a frog costume, if there was the faintest hope the mortification might send him into cardiac arrest.


    But Moyna loved Papa. Still believed there was some achievement grand enough, some impossible standard she could meet¡­to finally earn his approval.


    She¡¯d go to Zilan if he asked her to. Would convince herself he had a good reason for asking. That at the end of the day, he had her ¨C and the country¡¯s ¨C best interests at heart.


    She¡¯d build her own funeral pyre ¨C stack the wood, pour the fuel, and light the match herself ¨C just to hear him say he was proud of her.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I snapped. ¡°I¡¯ll go. Just send me the details.¡±


    Because I couldn¡¯t let Moyna pay for my sins.


    Well, insofar as a terrified seven-year-old could be said to have sinned.


    But even under coercion, my actions were still my own. I bore more responsibility for them than Moyna, who had nothing to do with it and probably still didn¡¯t know all the details of what had happened.


    Papa had ordered Mahrang¡¯s execution. But it was my testimony that¡¯d tightened the noose around her neck.


    Yet, if Moyna went to Zilan, she¡¯d be targeted simply for being Darpan Naag¡¯s daughter.


    Papa couldn¡¯t care less whether any of us lived or died. But Mahrang¡¯s family didn¡¯t know that. Her husband and sons couldn¡¯t be faulted for assuming that killing Darpan Naag¡¯s firstborn child would wound him. Would serve as vengeance, punishment for what he¡¯d done to Mahrang.


    And Moyna shouldn¡¯t have to suffer for something she never had a hand in.


    If someone had to pay for Mahrang¡¯s death, it should be me. Well, ideally it should be Papa. But sometimes, second best is all you get. And the Zilani separatists might just have to make their peace with that, in the coming months.

 Chapter 3.1

    The airport walls were stained, the once-bright paint dulled by time and countless passing hands. They stood beneath ceiling panels yellowed with age.


    Compared to even the smallest of the three airports in Darvika, the Zhyn airport looked like a forgotten relic. Worn down not so much by age as a lack of adequate maintenance. And funds.


    Stepping off its tarmac after twelve years, memories assaulted me with the ferocity of rabid dogs. Relentless, impossible to shake. Because every inch of it looked exactly the same, except perhaps for the dull patina of neglect.


    It was hard to believe this was the primary airport of Zilan, the country¡¯s second-largest state. In land area, if not in terms of population or wealth.


    The air, overchilled to counter the parched heat outside, stung my nostrils and scraped my throat like sandpaper. Fluorescent lights pulsed overhead. They cast uneven shadows on scuffed tiles, and on the peeling posters of local politicians and celebrities.


    A few flickering signs struggled to stay on, their letters glitching in and out as they directed travelers towards baggage claim.


    Shouldering my bag, I wove through the sluggish crowd, past rows of metal chairs with fraying upholstery. In one corner, a vending machine drew its final wheezing breaths.


    Every so often, a grim-faced officer in uniform ¨C bearing the distinctive FF insignia of the Frontline Force ¨C would yank someone aside. To scrutinize their documents or rifle through their luggage with practiced efficiency.


    Frustrated travelers muttered expletives in every language of the federation. Too low for the officers to hear, or too frequent for them to bother reacting.


    I kept walking, scanning the faces beyond the glass partition where people waited for the arriving passengers.


    A man sporting a well-groomed mustache held up a card with my name on it.


    As I stepped through the partition door, he smiled brightly at me, reaching out to take my bag. His gray-green kurta bore a name tag: Adhirath Alai.


    Though a couple inches shorter than me, he had broad shoulders and a deep tan. Not atypical in this region, where the sun burned fiercer than in the capital.


    ¡°Come now, brother. Don¡¯t be shy.¡± He admonished with a thick Zilani accent, when I motioned for him to lead the way without handing over my bag. ¡°If there¡¯s one thing we do right around here, it¡¯s hospitality.¡± He turned slowly, taking a moment to glance around before making his way to the exit. ¡°You must be exhausted. I had a table booked at the Parkside Grill, but you¡¯re almost two hours late. Guess we¡¯ll have to settle for something more modest today.¡±


    The Parkside Grill? And on whose dime?


    I was all for being wined and dined. But I wanted to see the under-construction stadium for myself, before indulging in luxuries potentially bankrolled by misappropriated government funds.


    Allegedly.


    Not that I put it past Papa to fabricate rumors of financial mismanagement in his own party¡¯s development project. Just for an excuse to thrust me into the pit of vipers that was Zilan.


    But on the off chance there was a sliver of truth to the allegations, I needed a head start. Before every stakeholder and their dog caught wind that I was here to audit the Minjal Stadium. Albeit unofficially.


    Humming along to his friendly chatter, I followed Alai out of the airport ¨C leaping straight from the freezer into the furnace. The mid-April sun seemed intent on roasting us alive.


    At the edge of the airport grounds, a series of short queues had formed. Officers from the Frontline Force, their sweat-drenched uniforms instantly noticeable for the stylized FF insignia, meticulously checked the documents of each person leaving the premises.


    Similar queues of malcontent travelers stretched at the entrance as well.


    Trapped in the sweltering midday heat, none of us made the slightest attempt to hide our annoyance. The Frontline Force wasn¡¯t winning any popularity contests around here. But as a central paramilitary unit operating under the strict mandate of the internal security ministry ¨C tasked with maintaining order in the restive border states ¨C they were at least efficient.


    In less than fifteen minutes, we were at the short-term parking lot, where a massive SUV awaited us. All thick metal and dark-tinted windows, it was clearly built to withstand more than just weather and potholes.


    Alai unlocked the car with a click.


    ¡°Nice ride.¡± I tossed my bag in the back, sliding into the front passenger seat.


    He took the wheel and fired up the engine. ¡°We do what we must. You¡¯ve lived in Zilan before. You know what we have to deal with, around here.¡± He eased the car into reverse and backed smoothly out of the parking spot. ¡°And things have only gotten worse, since your father¡¯s time.¡±


    I stayed quiet, projecting just enough curiosity. Careful not to seem too eager for information; not to contaminate his thoughts with my own.


    ¡°The separatists have been restless ever since Shaukat Awan¡¯s arrest.¡± Leaving the lot, we merged onto the main road traffic. His voice dropped. ¡°They say he was framed.¡±


    ¡°Do you believe them?¡± I asked.


    Alai twitched, visibly uneasy. ¡°He¡¯s got a lot of support. Even Aranyak¡¯s backing him. Openly.¡± He shifted lanes, overtaking a slower car with effortless precision. ¡°That family¡¯s always been deep in the separatist cause. But they haven¡¯t taken a public stand in years. And now? Mahrang¡¯s eldest son just resigned from the ZDC in protest. Claims the cops brutalized Awan, tried to force a confession.¡±


    His tone made it clear he wouldn¡¯t put it past the police to do such a thing. Nor put it past the separatists to fabricate such a story to garner public sympathy.


    ¡°If this keeps up,¡± he grunted, eyes on the side mirror. ¡°We¡¯d be lucky to avoid another full-blown insurgency.¡±


    I turned my head just enough to stare out the window, praying Alai hadn¡¯t seen my face. Each word he spoke was a dull knife digging into my ribs.


    Mahrang. Aranyak.


    Names I¡¯d hoped never to hear again in my life.


    But here I was. In Zilan.


    I wanted to punch my past self in the throat. What had I been thinking? Why did I agree to this? Surely there was another way to placate Papa. Surely, he wouldn¡¯t really have sent Moyna in my place.


    The demons of my past clawed at me. God, what nightmare had I just walked into?


    ¡°It¡¯s bad enough they scrapped the nuclear power plant project. They claim it¡¯s just on hold, but everyone knows all the money is flowing into Minjal, now.¡± Alai scoffed. ¡°Awan was raising hell over it. But at the end of the day, it was just talk. Made the public happy; made them feel heard. No wonder he had support. Arresting him was just stupid. Just what the separatists needed to get their wheels turning. Even Aranyak couldn¡¯t let an opportunity like that slip through his fingers.¡±


    Lost in thought, I made a small noise of agreement.


    Aranyak, as Alai said, was Mahrang¡¯s eldest son. Like his mother, he was known mononymously by only his first name.


    An engineer by training, he¡¯d graduated from a top regional college, cracked the civil service exams, and spent the last decade at the ZDC. The Zhyn Development Corporation.


    That didn¡¯t keep him from being suspected of all kinds of separatist activity. His name kept surfacing in countless operations, but nothing could ever be proven. And the state government didn¡¯t want to poke a sleeping bear. So they looked the other way ¨C for now. Hoping the comforts of civilian life and a steady salary would tame him eventually.


    As the car jolted over a rough stretch of road, I fought to keep my breathing even.


    I was here. There was no turning back now. If luck was on my side, I¡¯d be in and out of Zilan before any of this became my problem. But I couldn¡¯t let the mere mention of these names send me into a spiral. That¡¯d only make my job harder; drag this out longer than necessary.


    I said lightly: ¡°So, you don¡¯t believe Awan was really planning a bomb blast at the airport?¡±


    Alai rumbled with laughter. ¡°At the airport? You¡¯ve seen the security there. Hundreds of FF agents, armed to the teeth. Even if Awan was dumb enough to try, he¡¯d have as much chance of pulling it off as I would of staging a coup for the PM¡¯s seat.¡±


    The back and forth continued, the rhythm of our conversation ebbing and flowing as we settled into the journey.


    Zhyn, the capital of Zilan, stretched before us under the brutal afternoon sun ¨C a jagged blend of sleek new buildings and aging, discolored structures.


    The roads and highways hummed with activity. Cars, buses, and motorcycles weaved in and out of lanes, their horns blaring.


    People bustled along the sidewalks ¨C office workers in formal outfits, street vendors calling out their wares, and schoolchildren in sweat-drenched uniforms, making their way home on foot or packed into bright yellow buses.


    The street signs displayed a tangle of languages. Outside schools or in the more residential areas, hawkers set up makeshift stalls, their vibrant umbrellas adding a splash of color against the muted concrete backdrop.


    Glass-and-metal high-rises shimmered in the sunlight, towering above landscaped parks with trimmed hedges and sculpted fountains. Not a few hundred meters from tightly packed slum dwellings with tin roofs and crumbling walls. Skinny, half-naked children dashed through their narrow alleys, barely wide enough for two adults to pass side by side.


    We drove through this mismatched terrain for a little over an hour.


    Eventually, in one of the more prosperous parts of the city, we arrived at a fork in the road. One path continued straight ahead, flanked by rows of glittering shops and residential complexes. The other veered sharply to the left, the junction dominated by a towering, unmissable billboard.


    The massive display featured a digital illustration of the Minjal Stadium. A marvel of modern architecture, its curved outer shell was to be made of adaptive nanoglass panels that shifted transparency and color. Bright floodlights would line the upper edges, overlooking tiered seating that stretched in sweeping arcs around the field.


    Two large statues stood guard at the entryway. An intricate network of support beams bestowed the design with an almost skeletal elegance.


    At the bottom of the billboard, the words ¡®Minjal Stadium¡¯ glowed in both Central and Zilani script. Just above it, a large image of the prime minister¡¯s smiling face. Surrounded by logos of the various corporate sponsors, including Vance Industries, that¡¯d poured money into the project.


    Alai cruised down the road, chattering as he drove. Confident in his direction.


    ¡°Take the left,¡± I said abruptly.


    He shot me a sharp look. ¡°Why? The stadium¡¯s not going anywhere.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to drag this out longer than I must,¡± I answered, honest.


    ¡°You¡¯ve had a long trip. You must be tired. And hungry.¡± His smile had a nervous edge to it. ¡°Let¡¯s get you to the hotel. Get some rest; a good meal. I¡¯ll drive you to the construction site first thing tomorrow morning.¡±


    I shook my head.


    If the materials smuggling rumors were true, I had to get to the stadium now. When the workers weren¡¯t expecting me. By tomorrow, they¡¯d be ready. They¡¯d have time to prepare, to hide any evidence of their activities.


    I needed to take them by surprise, catch the site unprepared.


    Not that I could say any of this to Alai. He was, after all, a junior employee at JalVayu Construction, the company that had secured the contract to build Minjal Stadium.


    So instead, I met his gaze and spoke the plain, unvarnished truth: ¡°I don¡¯t have much time. It¡¯s like you said. At the moment, this city ¨C the whole of Zilan ¨C is sitting on a ticking timebomb. And being Darpan Naag¡¯s son,¡± I gave him a wan smile. ¡°I¡¯d rather not be standing here when it blows. I don¡¯t intend to find out firsthand what kind of creative vengeance Mahrang¡¯s sons have been plotting. After all, they¡¯ve had more than a decade to rig the charges, light the fuse.¡±


    I let my voice carry the full weight of my anxieties. Every word I spoke was the truth, if not the whole truth.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    With obvious reluctance, Alai warned, ¡°It¡¯s quite a drive. Well beyond the city limits. By the time we get to the stadium, it¡¯ll be evening. We won¡¯t make it back to the hotel until midnight.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± I grinned. ¡°I¡¯ll sleep in tomorrow.¡±


    His jaw tensed, and for a moment, it seemed like he might argue. But after a brief pause, Alai exhaled slowly. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Knuckles pale against the leather, he signaled left and eased the car onto my chosen path.


    After that, the mood in the car shifted, grew heavier. Conversation died off, leaving behind an almost frosty silence. I didn¡¯t mind. With the heat and noise outside, the cool silence inside was oddly comforting. I settled back in my seat, gazing out the window.


    As we left the heart of Zhyn behind, the signs of Zilan¡¯s lingering backwardness became impossible to ignore.


    The roads, rutted and uneven, were riddled with potholes that jolted the car every few minutes. High-rises became scarce, replaced by squat, weathered buildings ¨C some half-built and abandoned, others barely holding together, their walls cracked and paint peeling.


    Every few hundred meters, piles of garbage accumulated by the side of the street. Scrawny stray dogs rummaged through the waste in hopes of scraps.


    The people changed, too.


    The professional men and women in ironed shirts and neatly pleated sarees grew slowly scarcer. Replaced more and more by shirtless men with bony frames, their ribs jutting outward. And emaciated women wrapped in faded, fraying sarees.


    Many of the women had pulled one end of their saree over their faces, creating a veil. A ghunghat. Concealing their face from the eyes of strangers ¨C a tradition that had faded into obscurity in nearly all other parts of the country.


    In short, Zilan hadn¡¯t just stagnated in the twelve years since I was last here. It had almost visibly regressed.


    A depressing panorama.


    Or it would¡¯ve been, if I wasn¡¯t too busy wallowing in my own bitter anxieties to spare much gloom for my unfortunate countrymen.


    By the time we stopped for food, I wasn¡¯t sure whether to call it lunch or supper.


    Didn¡¯t really matter. The rich aroma of slow-simmering dal and freshly-buttered rotis ¨C wafting from the tiny roadside eatery ¨C was too tempting for either me or my companion to ignore.


    An unspoken agreement between us, Alai eased the car into a spot behind the eatery. We hopped out, an almost involuntary spring in our steps. Both of us drawn in by the smell of fresh, hot food.


    The place looked like a half-finished warehouse that¡¯d been hastily converted into a restaurant. Well, might be too generous to call it a restaurant. The walls were complete, but the door and window openings remained exposed, void of panels. Only a pair of thin, tattered curtains fluttered weakly in the window spaces, while the two doorways stood bare.


    A fat stray dog dozed by the front door opening.


    At some point in the distant past, the walls had been a bright pink color. This I could discern only from the few patches near the ceiling that retained the original hue, untouched by the layers of grime that coated every other surface.


    There was, needless to say, no air-conditioning. Four ceiling fans spun sluggishly in each corner of the dining area, lit by a stark tubelight and two flickering bulbs. Six plastic tables dotted the space, each surrounded by a set of mismatched chairs.


    Two of them were already occupied ¨C families chitchatting between bites of food.


    The kitchen was little more than a crude extension at the back. A tin roof slapped over a bit of open space, teetering on shaky wooden pillars. It pulsed with the sounds and smells of cooking, the metallic clang of utensils blending seamlessly with the hiss of oil hitting a hot pan, and the mouthwatering aroma of spices being tempered.


    We walked in, occupying the table closest to the front doorway. The other diners turned to look. And kept looking. Their gazes lingering far longer than strictly necessary.


    A few moments later, a teenage boy in an oversized tank top emerged from the kitchen, trotting over to our table. As he drew closer, he stopped short, eyes locking onto me with open curiosity.


    Alai rapped his knuckles against the table. The boy ignored him.


    Meeting the latter¡¯s gaze, I raised an eyebrow.


    That seemed to snap him out of it, at least momentarily. He blinked, darted a quick look around the dingy room. Sharp and skittish.


    But his beady black eyes inevitably snapped back to me, as if drawn by some unseen force.


    I stared back. Hoping my expression revealed no more than mild curiosity.


    Seconds passed. Then, shaking off whatever had so enthralled him, he finally spoke: ¡°Brother, what can I get you?¡±


    No preamble. No menu in hand.


    I turned to Alai for help.


    Something about the boy¡¯s tone unsettled me. In Zilan, any man within a ten-year age range was a brother. A woman could be a sister or a sister-in-law, depending on her marital status. Anyone twenty years older was automatically an uncle or an aunt.


    These interactions were digging up childhood memories I¡¯d rather leave forever buried.


    ¡°Roti and dal makhani for two,¡± Alai said offhandedly.


    The boy hesitated, his gaze shifting back to me, lingering.


    I gave a slight nod. I hadn¡¯t had a morsel since breakfast. Right now, I¡¯d gnaw through a brick if it was set in front of me.


    With one last look my way, he spun on his heel and darted back to the kitchen.


    ¡°Well, that was awkward,¡± I said, once he was out of earshot.


    ¡°He¡¯s just curious. You don¡¯t exactly blend in, do you? Not every day someone like you strolls through here.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you blend in too well yourself.¡± I nodded to Alai¡¯s wrist, where his hand rested on the table. Sleeves rolled up in anticipation of the meal. ¡°I had the ¡®19 model a few years back ¨C micro-rotor movement, double-axis tourbillon. Solid piece.¡± I tilted my head, studying his watch. ¡°Heard this version was a significant upgrade. They weren¡¯t wrong. That blue dial captures the light like nothing else.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a hobby.¡± He slipped his hand under the table. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were a watch enthusiast.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t, particularly. But Ammi was enthusiastic about anything remotely to do with fashion. And always generous with her gifts. Which was how I had, by now, built a decent collection of high-end watches.


    It was impossible to be around her and not absorb some of her interest ¨C and insight ¨C in these things. A blessing, really. Because it allowed me to continue the conversation with Alai, rebuild some of our old rapport.


    Soon, the food arrived. And the rich, buttery aroma of dal makhani drove all other thoughts from my head.


    The trouble was, right behind the food came the dog.


    Ambling drowsily in, it slipped under our table. The next moment, something cool and damp pressed insistently against my thigh.


    I jerked, nearly upsetting the glass of water set in front of me.


    A soft huff of breath followed. Then the slight weight of a muzzle resting against my knee, expectant.


    Alai let out a deep, rumbling laugh.


    Tearing off a piece of roti, he offered it to the dog, who devoured it instantly.


    I considered the situation for a moment, then reached down to give it a scratch behind the ear. A tactical error. As it only encouraged the dog to plop its massive rear down on my feet, settling in.


    I sighed. At least someone thought these shoes were comfortable.


    For the next few minutes, we ate in silence. Tearing off pieces of roti to scoop up the warm, spiced dal. Then chasing it with a sharp bite of raw onion or green chili.


    ¡°Our dogs are like our citizenry,¡± Alai rumbled, as I passed another piece of roti to our canine companion underneath the table. ¡°The fat ones keep getting fatter. And the ones that¡¯re starving?¡± He took a sip of water. ¡°We¡¯re all too happy to pretend they don¡¯t exist.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t entirely sure where that metaphor was going. But I wouldn¡¯t look a gift horse in the mouth. If Alai wanted to talk, I had one job ¨C keep him talking. ¡°You don¡¯t think the federal government is doing enough for Zilan?¡±


    His fingers tightened around the bite of food he was about to eat, before letting it fall back onto his plate. ¡°For Zilan? What have they ever done for any of the border states? To them, Zilan, Hilya, and Sitaur exist for one purpose only. To be stripped for resources so the four central states can grow fat and comfortable. Drown in milk and honey.¡±


    ¡°And why do you think that is?¡±


    ¡°You tell me.¡± His smile was all teeth when he met my gaze. ¡°You¡¯re not as stupid as you pretend to be.¡±


    I bit back a pleased chuckle. Well, this was getting to be interesting.


    ¡°It¡¯s hardly a secret¡­¡± I began with a slight shrug.


    In terms of land area, the three border states were significantly larger than the four central ones. But the terrain was harsher, and they were more sparsely populated.


    Every federal government in Darvika, no matter the party, had the same incentives. Prioritize the development of the central states. It was simple electoral math. Why pour resources into a vast, remote region when a single infrastructure project in one of the densely-populated central towns could yield just as many votes?


    I said as much to Alai, having no particular interest in defending the ridiculous quirks of Hastinar¡¯s electoral system. ¡°It¡¯s a vicious circle. But not so much malice as simple survival. No politician is going to risk his re-election prospects by prioritizing the border states over the central ones. And anyone who does won¡¯t be re-elected for a second term, because the border states simply don¡¯t have a large enough voter base. Smarter people than me have said that redrawing the state borders is the only solution. But Zilan isn¡¯t too keen on that, is it?¡±


    ¡°Why should we be? So you can devour our culture and language as you¡¯ve devoured our economy?¡±


    The dog whimpered underneath. I slipped it another bite of food.


    ¡°Hardly me, personally.¡± I bit into the green chili, regretted it instantly, and blinked hard to ward off the tears that sprang to my eyes. ¡°But you¡¯re right in that it¡¯s a systemic issue. And must be solved through systemic reform. No one politician is going to fix it ¨C no matter how righteous or noble, no matter if they hail from the center or the peripheries.¡±


    Alai snorted, loaded a large piece of roti with dal, and shoved it into his mouth. ¡°You¡¯d think so, wouldn¡¯t you?¡± He chewed, swallowed. ¡°You¡¯re not the one on the chopping block. It¡¯s greed, plain and simple. They don¡¯t invest in the border states because there aren¡¯t enough votes in it. That keeps us poor while ramping up development in the central states. Widening the gap between us.


    ¡°And so, central businesses have more money to donate to the parties, to fund their election campaigns.¡± He leaned slightly forward. ¡°You¡¯re damn right it¡¯s a vicious circle. Our businesses can¡¯t compete with their political donations. So when these politicians take office, those central businesses get all the federal contracts. Keeping us locked in poverty, generation after generation. Our youth have no choice but to migrate, chase opportunities in the central states. And every time they do? Our population shrinks further, our voter base weakens, and the cycle tightens its grip.¡±


    ¡°And the Zilani elite have played no role in Zilan¡¯s stagnation?¡± I asked mildly. ¡°They¡¯re innocent babes, are they?¡± I had no horse in this race, but I wanted to probe. To gauge if Alai was just venting or if he had genuine separatist sympathies. ¡°It¡¯s not central politicians skimming funds off the Minjal stadium project. Neither is JalVayu a central company. That¡¯s your very own homegrown corruption.¡±


    Alai¡¯s expression shuttered. ¡°There¡¯s no corruption in the Minjal project.¡± His tone flattened, as if reciting lines from a script. ¡°All the accounts are in perfect order, transparent. As you¡¯ll see for yourself once we get to the office.¡±


    I said nothing, letting him wrestle with his own unspoken thoughts. I knew from experience the sting of swallowing words that you were desperate to spit out.


    ¡°Unless you count the government axing the nuclear powerplant project,¡± he spat, eventually. ¡°In favor of a useless high-tech stadium¡­with seating capacity higher than the population of most Zilani towns. Anyone with half a brain would call that what it is ¨C blatant corruption. But of course, it¡¯s all perfectly legal.¡±


    As if to prove his point, the tubelight above sputtered once, then died. The ceiling fans ground to a halt with a strangled whirr, and both bulbs blinked out almost simultaneously.


    A power cut.


    Weary groans swept through the room, more resigned than outraged.


    In the kitchen, the clatter of cooking ceased, replaced by a chorus of annoyed voices. Under our table, the dog chimed in with a long, mournful woof.


    The teenager in the oversized tank top rushed in, setting an electric lantern on each of the three occupied tables.


    I glanced out the window. The sun had set almost completely, leaving behind a faint orange glow in the sky.


    Minutes later, the clanking of pots and pans hesitantly resumed.


    ¡°And they tell us a futuristic stadium is what we really need.¡± Alai let out a dry, mirthless laugh. ¡°It¡¯ll attract foreign investment, boost tourism, don¡¯t you know? It¡¯s the interests of the Zilani people the government is promoting, don¡¯t you know?¡±


    I studied him, squinting in the bluish glow of the electric lantern. ¡°You¡¯re sure it won¡¯t do all that?¡±


    ¡°No. It¡¯ll serve the interests of the central businesses that want to exploit our resources. Buy our timber and copper for next to nothing for their factories. While we¡¯re left with gutted mines, barren land, and a stadium we never asked for. If Zilan were to secede, where do you think they¡¯d get those raw materials so cheap? Their bottom lines would¡ª¡±


    The distant roar of struggling engines cut him short.


    Springing from its comfortable perch on my shoes, the dog started barking. Its sudden movement rattled the table, sending the electric lantern into a precarious wobble.


    The teenager¡¯s head appeared in the kitchen doorway. A beat later, he dashed across the room, skidding to a stop right outside the front entrance.


    Just as two battered sedans lurched down the pothole-ridden road, their headlights slicing through the semi-darkness as they rolled to a halt.


    Alai sprang to his feet. Tipping his glass, he poured water over his right hand, before rubbing it clean on a hastily-withdrawn handkerchief. ¡°Come on. We need to go. Now.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I looked around, confused. ¡°Why?¡±


    Muffled voices drifted in from outside. I recognized one of them as the boy who¡¯d served us. But from my seat, I couldn¡¯t see who he was speaking to.


    Likely the people who¡¯d arrived in those beaten-up cars.


    Before I could try for a better look, thick fingers clamped around my arm. Grabbing me just above the elbow, Alai yanked me to my feet with a force that nearly sent me stumbling.


    ¡°Move,¡± he hissed, already dragging me toward the back door.


    By now, the dog¡¯s barking had turned frantic. Likely fueled by Alai¡¯s palpable anxiety.


    ¡°Wait¡ªwhat! You can¡¯t just¡ª¡± I staggered, wrenching myself free barely long enough to pull out my wallet and slap a wad of notes onto the table. Probably enough to pay for our meal many times over, but he didn¡¯t give me a chance to count.


    The voices outside grew sharper, urgent.


    Alai hauled me forward again. My feet fumbled to keep up as he pulled me across the dimly lit room and out the back door.


    My phone buzzed in my pocket. I had no choice but to ignore it.


    Out in the kitchen area, the two cooks looked up from a massive wok of simmering gravy, startled. Alai didn¡¯t pause, navigating the cluttered kitchen floor at a near run.


    By the time we reached our SUV, we were both gasping for breath.


    Only then did he release my arm. And that only to yank the car door open and shove me inside.


    For the next several minutes, he drove us in silence. Not speeding, thankfully. But his gaze shifted constantly between the road and the rearview mirror, never resting easy. Never wavering from whatever destination he¡¯d settled on.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I said, feeling I¡¯d given him enough time to pull himself together. ¡°What was that about?¡±


    Alai shot me a quick glance. Then flicked his eyes back to the road, the rearview mirror, and finally back to me. ¡°Let me take you to the hotel.¡± His voice was gruff. ¡°Please. I¡¯ll drive you to the stadium at dawn, if you want. Just, not now. It¡¯s not a good time. Just¡­just stay in your hotel for tonight.¡±


    ¡°But why not?¡± I asked, struggling to keep my voice light. ¡°What is it you¡¯re afraid of? What is it you want me to be afraid of?¡±


    A minute passed. There was no reply.


    The truth was, I didn¡¯t know Alai. I liked him well enough. He was sharp, engaging. A good conversationalist. But as for where his loyalties lay? I had no idea.


    He was clearly on edge. But nothing objectively alarming had happened.


    We¡¯d been eating at a diner when the power went out. A couple of beat-up cars pulled up outside, and our server stepped out to talk to them. A heated discussion followed. And the dog barked its head off, likely as much from Alai¡¯s outburst as the arrival of the cars.


    None of that was cause for concern. Not unless Alai explained why he¡¯d reacted the way he had.


    For all I knew, this was an elaborate charade. A carefully staged act to throw me off, keep me away from the stadium until they¡¯d had the time to sweep away all evidence.


    I said as much to Alai. Well, as much as could be said without outright accusing him of being a liar and a separatist sympathizer.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he growled, jerking the car onto a rough, unpaved road. ¡°You¡¯re so desperate to see the stadium? Be my guest. But don¡¯t blame me when¡ª¡±


    ¡°When what?¡± I asked again. ¡°What do you think will happen?¡±


    Just as I¡¯d resigned myself to another bout of the silent treatment, he finally spoke. ¡°Listen. There¡¯s a passage. A hidden back exit built into the stadium. On the first floor.¡± He licked his lips, keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead, lit starkly by the SUV¡¯s headlights. ¡°It opens up in the woods, nearly half a kilometer away. Even the workers don¡¯t know about it. It was one of the first things they constructed. The crew that worked on it has long since been reassigned to other projects. The ones working there now, they¡¯ve no idea it exists.¡±


    I leaned in slightly, eager not to miss a word.


    ¡°I-I¡¯ll park the car near the exit point in the woods. Then we¡¯ll walk back to the construction site, use the main entrance. Draw as little attention as possible. You¡¯ll do your inspection. Once you get to the first floor, I¡¯ll show you the opening to the passage.¡± He exhaled sharply. ¡°If everything goes well, we¡¯ll leave the way we came, then loop back to the car.


    ¡°But if-if something goes wrong¡­¡± Taking one hand from the steering wheel, he touched his forehead, then his chest. Thrice, in quick succession. ¡°You¡¯ll have a way out. A way to get to the car that even the workers don¡¯t know of. So they won¡¯t be able to chase you down.¡±

 Chapter 3.2

    Alai parked the SUV deep in the woods ¨C brittle, sunbaked leaves and twigs crunching under the tires. The sun had set nearly an hour ago, but the ground still radiated heat from the day¡¯s relentless glare.


    The trees loomed tall and skeletal in the dim glow of our phone flashlights. As we hopped out of the car and started toward our destination on foot, the undergrowth rustled with unseen movement.


    Each snap of a twig sent a prickle up my spine.


    ¡°Stay close,¡± Alai cautioned, stepping slightly ahead to lead the way.


    I didn¡¯t need to be told twice.


    Stumbling through the tangle of undergrowth, I tried to keep my eyes fixed on Alai¡¯s gray-green kurta. Good for camouflage, I supposed. Not so great as a beacon in the dark.


    My shirt, loose and breezy for the weather, kept snagging on branches that reached out like grasping fingers in the dark. Beneath my feet, the ground was parched, uneven.


    Treading carefully along narrow, barely-there trails, we finally wound our way toward the Minjal Stadium construction site.


    We had been walking for a little over twenty minutes when the stadium¡¯s front entrance emerged. Stark against the dim evening sky. A towering marble arch with copper accents, its once-pristine surface was streaked with dust and grime from the ongoing construction.


    The copper accents glinted sporadically under distant floodlights, stationed deeper inside the site.


    Flanking the arch, two unfinished statues loomed. Each set to stand at least five meters tall once completed. The one on my left, which was closer to completion, was vaguely recognizable as Ilapati, Hastinar¡¯s first prime minister. The statue to my right was in a more rudimentary state. But I¡¯d seen the blueprints. Once completed, it¡¯d depict the first premier of neighboring Binhai.


    A joint infrastructure project with our larger, more prosperous neighbor. A symbol of mutual trust and goodwill. The first of (hopefully) many, paving the way for deeper economic ties and increased foreign investment.


    A tightness in my stomach eased.


    I exhaled, casting a relieved smile up at Ilapati¡¯s statue. Never thought I¡¯d be so glad to see the familiar, weathered face that¡¯d haunted my textbooks for twelve long years. But trudging through that eerie forest had almost made me regret coming here after sundown.


    Maybe that was the reason Alai had insisted on parking there, deep in the woods. On taking this convoluted path to the stadium. One last attempt to unnerve me? Make me scurry back to the hotel, tail between my legs?


    If so, it wasn¡¯t going to work.


    Quickening my pace, I brushed past Alai and stepped through the arched entryway, crossing into the stadium construction site.


    The scene before me stopped me in my tracks.


    The workday had ended with sundown. So despite Alai¡¯s earlier tirade, I¡¯d expected an empty construction site. Maybe a few security guards to keep watch over the materials and equipment.


    Instead, the stadium¡¯s front yard was packed with makeshift tarpaulin tents, sagging under their own weight. Wooden poles barely held up the faded plastic sheets. Fraying clotheslines crisscrossed between them, weighed down by discolored pieces of clothing, full of holes, already coated in the fine layer of construction dust that clung to everything else.


    Close to some of the tent openings, rusted tin-can stoves smoldered. Cooking smoke curled into the thick evening air. Old, pitted aluminum pots ¨C their surfaces blackened with years of use ¨C sat atop the makeshift stoves, their contents simmering. A few haggard-looking women crouched beside them, stirring the pots with practiced efficiency.


    Between the tents, emaciated stray dogs slunk through the dirt, begging for scraps.


    Alai stepped through the arch behind me. A group of men lounging near the entrance turned to look at us, cigarettes glowing between their fingers or hanging from their lips.


    As their eyes fell on me, they frowned, suspicion darkening their features.


    Some were shirtless, their lean frames stark under the distant floodlights, while others wore threadbare undershirts, stained and stretched from use. A few rose to their feet, watching the two of us warily.


    The largest of the group stepped forward, while still maintaining a cautious distance from me. His eyes were on Alai. ¡°Who¡¯s this?¡± He jerked his chin in my direction, tone edged with hostility. ¡°Who¡¯ve you brought here now? The day¡¯s work is finished. Can¡¯t you leave us in peace even after dark?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s here from Darvika. For an inspection.¡± Alai took a small step forward, his voice laced with warning as he positioned himself between me and the man. ¡°This has nothing to do with you, so back off. He¡¯ll take a look around, and then we¡¯re gone. Unless you¡¯ve got something to hide, I don¡¯t see why you¡¯re getting all riled up.¡±


    The man let out a sharp, biting laugh. ¡°Me? Hiding something? There¡¯s a good one ¨C pot callin¡¯ the kettle black.¡± Behind him, his companions erupted in raucous laughter. ¡°What, you think pointing your grubby fingers at me is gonna keep him from suspecting you,¡± he spat onto the ground. ¡°When he figures out what¡¯s really going on here?¡±


    ¡°What are you lot still doing here?¡± I cut in, frowning, before Alai could answer. ¡°Does this look like a picnic spot? Pack up and go home, the lot of you. It¡¯s past sunset.¡±


    The man turned slightly, gaze raking over me in cold scrutiny. ¡°You really that na?ve? Or is this another act?¡± His eyes flicked over my shoulder. ¡°Got the media trailing behind you?¡±


    I arched an eyebrow but stayed silent, waiting for him to explain himself.


    ¡°Go where?¡± After a long, uneasy pause, he gestured lazily at the tents, at the grimy pots bubbling over makeshift stoves. ¡°This is home. Or the closest thing to it we¡¯re allowed to have.¡± He shot a glance at Alai. ¡°We¡¯ve been here since construction started on Minjal Stadium. Got families here. So tell me ¨C where exactly do you want us to pack up and go?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± I shifted my gaze past his carefully blank expression to the group of men behind him. ¡°Where did you lot come from? You must have homes, must live somewhere.¡±


    Refusing to respond, the big man simply fixed me with a hard stare.


    I glanced past him to focus on the others. They exchanged looks, muttering under their breaths. Eyes darting from me to Alai to the man we¡¯d so far been speaking with, presumably their leader.


    Finally, the youngest of the group ¨C he couldn¡¯t have been older than eighteen ¨C shifted uneasily. ¡°Jumli,¡± he murmured, barely audible. ¡°My home is in Jumli.¡±


    A pause.


    Then one of the others, a balding middle-aged man, spoke up. ¡°Rakin Town. North Zilan.¡±


    One by one, the others followed.


    ¡°Raizi.¡±


    ¡°Gersa.¡±


    ¡°Dhumri.¡±


    Their voices wove together, words colliding and spilling over one another.


    Finally, the big man relented. ¡°Shohra village,¡± he said with a sigh. ¡°My family¡¯s been there five generations. But there¡¯s no way to make a living there anymore. Not that there¡¯s much of one to be made anywhere in Zilan.¡± His jaw tightened. ¡°But there, things got so bad that if we¡¯d stayed, my kids would¡¯ve starved to death.¡±


    His gaze flicked to a moss green tent off to the side, where a small stove smoldered near the entrance. Tended by a woman with long hair woven into two thick braids.


    I waited for him to continue.


    When he didn¡¯t, I asked impatiently: ¡°So, where are you lot staying while you work here? Where¡¯s the company housing you?¡±


    ¡°Company housing?¡± The man threw his head back and laughed. ¡°This is company housing.¡± He swept a hand over the sea of dust-covered tents. ¡°Well, sort of. JalVayu didn¡¯t give us the tarps or the poles for the tents. Nor the wood for our stoves. That¡¯s all ours. But they did give us the ground we¡¯re standing on. Though ¡®give¡¯ might be too generous a word for it. But it¡¯s the closest thing to ¡®company housing¡¯ you¡¯ll find here. A patch of dirt to pitch our tents on.¡±


    I blinked at him, uncomprehending.


    Was he telling the truth? If so, this situation was so far beyond anything I¡¯d expected that I had no idea how to respond.


    How could JalVayu ¨C the company awarded the central contract for construction of the Minjal Stadium ¨C not provide housing for its own workers? How could this have flown under the radar of local authorities for so long?


    Or was it the other way around?


    Were these people squatting on government land illegally? Had the local regulators turned a blind eye ¨C not to shield the company but at the behest of the workers themselves? So as not to antagonize the local voter base?


    If the workers were involved in materials smuggling, living on the stadium premises would provide them with the perfect cover. Allow them to guard their inventory, oversee transportation and monitor shipments at all hours of the day and night. Control the flow of construction materials in and out of the site without drawing suspicion.


    I glanced around. If that was it, they were certainly committed to the act.


    Because this place didn¡¯t look like a smuggler¡¯s den. Women crouching over makeshift stoves. Bony children darting between the tents. And if the distant wails were anything to go by, what sounded alarmingly like a crying baby.


    If anything, it reminded me of the old refugee camps that used to crop up along our more volatile borders ¨C before the government cracked down and finally streamlined the system.


    Only, these people weren¡¯t refugees. They were Zilani workers, hired by JalVayu to work on an important infrastructure project in their own state. There was no earthly reason for them to be living like this.


    Well, there was only one way to get to the truth. No amount of talking could replace the clarity of seeing it with my own eyes.


    I stepped forward, intent on moving deeper into the site.


    The big man blocked my path. ¡°Where do you think you¡¯re going?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to inspect the construction site.¡± I met his glare with an unimpressed look. ¡°Hard to do that, standing at the entryway.¡±


    He scoffed. ¡°It¡¯s too dark for an inspection. You can barely see two steps ahead. You¡¯ll only injure yourself stumbling around, and bring trouble down on the rest of us.¡± He waved a hand. ¡°Come back in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Not an option,¡± I said flatly. ¡°I didn¡¯t come all this way just to turn back empty-handed.¡± I took another step forward. ¡°Move aside, please.¡±


    His eyes narrowed. ¡°You have no right to come here and disturb us this late. The workday is over.¡± His gaze flicked to Alai, radiating even more hostility than he aimed at me. ¡°Can¡¯t we have dinner in peace with our families, after breaking our backs for you all day? If you want an inspection, do it in the morning ¨C when we¡¯ll be getting paid for the time you¡¯re wasting.¡±


    There were countless things I could say to justify my presence, to try and coax him. But this was not a crowd that¡¯d respond to reasoning or persuasion. Only to an unyielding show of dominance. It was what they were used to.


    We stood there, locked in a silent confrontation.


    My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. Now was not the time.


    I didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t blink. Just quietly held his dark, seething gaze. Fighting to keep my own apprehension in check.


    After a long moment, he spat on the ground at my feet. And stepped aside.


    I smiled brightly at him and walked past, Alai close behind me.


    As I navigated the maze of tents, stoves, and gaunt faces, the gathered crowd of adults and children parted to let me through.


    While also trying to edge subtly closer for a better look.


    All in all, it took me a solid ten minutes just to get past the front yard.


    The structure that loomed ahead was oddly skeletal ¨C concrete pillars stretching skyward, their surfaces rough and unfinished. Piles of rebar jutted out at odd angles, some bent, others rusted and aimless. Metal scaffolds clung to the fa?ade, swaying slightly, their bolts and joints looking anything but secure. As if a single misstep would send them crashing down.


    I picked my way carefully between two mounds of sand, before sidestepping a stack of unused steel beams.


    One of the overhead lights sputtered. Then the rest flickered erratically, before dimming.


    A voltage fluctuation? Whatever it was, the effect was disorienting.


    Shadows leapt across the skeletal beams, creating shifting pockets of stark light and encroaching darkness.


    My foot caught on something hard.


    I pitched forward, arms flailing, my panicked shriek aborted mid-breath as a sharp tug on my collar yanked me back to solid ground. Callused fingers clenched the fabric at the nape of my neck, keeping me from slamming headfirst into¡ª


    Heart hammering, I looked down.


    A length of rebar jutted from the dirt, right where I would have fallen. Where it would have speared right through me.


    ¡°Be careful,¡± Alai said drily, releasing his grip on my collar.


    A faint ¡°Mmm¡± was all I could manage, my throat too dry from fading panic to properly voice the gratitude I felt with all my being.


    I took a moment to steady myself, then pressed on, weaving around pallets of marble tiles still wrapped in plastic. A wooden wheelbarrow creaked under the weight of cement bags. Nearby stood a row of cement mixers, their drums streaked with dried residue.


    This didn¡¯t feel like a modern construction site backed by central funding. The equipment was outdated, crude; the materials visibly subpar.


    And the workers? The less said about their condition, the better.


    We climbed a section of rough-cut, uneven stairs. The irregular concrete steps, bare and without handrails, were throwing off my balance.


    I stumbled again, cursing under my breath, but caught myself against the wall on one side. Only for its coarse surface to tear into my palm, leaving in its wake a raw, burning sting.


    Swallowing hard, I continued upward.


    The first floor opened into a vast, unfinished space. Concrete beams crisscrossed overhead, cables snaking between them, some left exposed and others haphazardly taped together.


    To one side was an unfinished seating section. Fiberglass benches, still unpolished and unfastened, jutted out in uneven tiers. The steps leading up to the seating area were incomplete, with patches of wet cement in some spots and gaping gaps in others.


    Above the seating, a manually operated pulley system dangled from an overhead beam. A large wooden platform, presumably meant for hoisting materials, was tied haphazardly to the pulley. The entire contraption groaned occasionally, as if in exhaustion.


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    At the far end of the floor, the lighting was even worse. A couple of ceiling bulbs flickered erratically, buzzing with intermittent power surges. The shadows they cast stretched and shrank with every pulse of electricity.


    Alai motioned for me to follow. ¡°This way.¡±


    His footsteps deliberately silent, he led me to the dimmest corner of the floor.


    Between two thick, load-bearing concrete columns, he pointed to a faint irregularity in the rough surface. An almost imperceptible seam hidden within the weathered, grainy texture. A stack of warped plywood sheets leaned haphazardly against the columns, partially obscuring their bases.


    I stepped closer, tracing my fingers along the seam.


    Up close, I could see that one of the columns, though solid-looking, had been carefully hollowed out. Faint tool marks lined its surface, the concrete smoothed just enough to blend in, to not draw undue attention.


    I moved the plywood aside, out of my way.


    At the base of the hollow column was a narrow, roughly carved opening. The edges were jagged, as if the concrete had been broken away rather than cleanly cut, reinforcing the illusion of accidental damage for anyone who cared to look closely.


    The opening was barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through, its rough edges framing a passage that sloped downward. Beyond it, the darkness gaped like an unnatural void, deeper than the surrounding gloom. Hinting at a concealed descent from the first floor.


    I stared, dumbfounded. My gaze flicked to Alai, who knelt just behind me, then back to the tunnel entrance. Back and forth, trying to make sense of it all.


    ¡°You weren¡¯t lying,¡± I muttered, more to myself than him.


    But why¡­ what was it for? And why show it to me?


    As if sensing my thoughts, Alai said quietly, ¡°A way out. In case we¡¯re raided again.¡±


    Raided? By whom? And why?


    Who would dare raid a government-backed, centrally funded construction site?


    And more importantly ¨C again? When had it happened before? Why hadn¡¯t I heard about it?


    Questions bombarded my mind, thoughts teetering on the edge of mania. Did Papa know about this? About what was going on here? Was that why he¡¯d insisted I come to Zilan?


    To do what?


    If he was aware of the problem and wanted me to solve it, why keep me in the dark about what the problem actually was? What was he trying to accomplish, and where did I fit into his plan?


    My phone buzzed once more, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts.


    I shot to my feet.


    I couldn¡¯t let myself get distracted. Not now, not here. There would be time for questions and explanations later. Right now, I had to stay focused on my first priority: figuring out whether or not materials were being smuggled out of this godforsaken site.


    Everything else could wait until we were out of here.


    I replaced the plywood, masking the tunnel¡¯s entrance once more, and turned to Alai. ¡°Show me where the construction materials are stored.¡±


    Alai was reluctant, and reprised some of the old arguments both he and the big man at the entrance had used. To try and dissuade me from exploring the site tonight.


    That it was too dark. That it wasn¡¯t safe. That I wouldn¡¯t find anything worthwhile at this hour.


    But he must have realized by now that I wasn¡¯t easily deterred. With a resigned sigh, he eventually relented, and we resumed our exploration of the first floor.


    Less than half an hour later, we went back down the rough-hewn stairs to the ground floor. This time, Alai led me deeper inside, to where the turf pitch would eventually be. For now, it was nothing more than an expanse of uneven, half-excavated earth.


    At the far edge, he guided me into a narrow passageway partially concealed behind stacks of discarded scaffolding. Which opened into a large, enclosed storage area.


    Inside, row upon row of construction materials crowded the dimly lit space ¨C pallets of marble tiles, stacks of steel rods, cement bags, and wooden planks. Bundles of rebar and coils of electrical wiring, all piled haphazardly along the walls, leaving only a narrow path through the center.


    I moved deeper into the space.


    The sharp, powdery scent of cement dust filling my nose, I gestured for Alai to turn on all the lights.


    Then, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. An inventory list Papa had emailed me late last night. It wasn¡¯t exhaustive, but it contained a detailed record of the approved suppliers and brands contracted for the stadium construction.


    Unfolding the list, I began scanning the stacks of materials, checking the brand names stamped on the packaging against those listed in the official records. If nothing else, I needed to confirm whether the materials on-site even matched what had been approved.


    The packaging could easily have been forged. And the names and logos of reputed brands could be slapped onto substandard materials, to pass them off as legitimate.


    But before I went looking for such elaborate corruption, I needed to rule out the possibility of discrepancies far more obvious, easier to spot.


    Barely twenty minutes into the inspection, however, the roar of distant engines startled us.


    I turned, just in time to see Alai go rigid, his face draining of color.


    ¡°Who can that be?¡± Voice tinged with confusion, I began moving toward the passageway. ¡°Who¡¯d come here at this time of night?¡±


    My collar tightened against my throat, warm fingers brushing the back of my neck. The next moment, I was being yanked backward by the fabric at my nape.


    ¡°Don¡¯t go out,¡± Alai hissed, dragging me further into the storage space. ¡°They mustn¡¯t see you.¡±


    With an irritated huff, I shook myself free. ¡°Who mustn¡¯t? What are you¡ª¡±


    A thunderous clang interrupted me ¨C metal striking metal ¨C followed by frantic shouts, heavy thuds, and the piercing wails of a baby crying.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± I demanded, trying to bolt for the exit.


    Alai caught me again, this time by the shoulder, his fingernails biting through my shirt. ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± He warned, voice a low growl. ¡°It¡¯s not safe.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the point,¡± I snapped, prying his hand off me. ¡°There are children out there. Tell me what the hell is going on, dammit!¡±


    ¡°This-this is exactly what I¡¯d feared. Another raid. Listen,¡± Alai turned to face me directly, his eyes wide, voice shaky. ¡°There¡¯s a ladder at the back of this storage area. I¡¯d rather not use it in the dark...but what¡¯s the alternative? It¡¯s safer than going back out front. We can climb up to the first floor. From there, it won¡¯t be hard to get to the tunnel opening. You go first. I¡¯ll stay back a few more minutes to make sure¡ª¡±


    ¡°What the hell are you on about?¡± I bellowed, my frustration boiling over. ¡°What raid? Who¡¯s raiding us? I¡¯m not moving an inch until you tell me exactly what¡¯s going on here.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have time,¡± Alai nearly shouted, striding over to the passageway. ¡°We have to get out of here before they find us.¡±


    ¡°Who are they?¡±


    He clenched his jaw so tightly I could hear his teeth grind from several steps away. ¡°The separatists. This is a separatist raid. And you,¡± he spun around, jabbing a finger at me. ¡°You¡¯re the one they¡¯re here for. If they find you¡ª¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± I repeated, my brain grinding to a halt. ¡°But why¡ªhow would they even know¡ª¡±


    A sharp cry rang out in the distance, cut off by a series of heavy thuds. The baby¡¯s wails resumed, louder, more frantic.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious?¡± Alai snapped, once the ruckus had subsided slightly. ¡°One of those bastards we spoke to at the gate must¡¯ve tipped them off. Or one of the other workers. Who knows? That whole damn colony of rats saw you enter the site. It could¡¯ve been any of them. The point is, the separatists know you¡¯re here. And they won¡¯t rest until they¡¯ve gotten their hands on you.¡±


    I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.


    It made sense, in a way, that the separatists would want to capture me. As hostages went, it didn¡¯t get much better than the only son of the internal security minister. On paper, at least. The separatists had no way of knowing the minister in question couldn¡¯t care less if his only son lived or died.


    What didn¡¯t make sense was the idea that these destitute workers had conspired with the separatists to¡­ what? What could their end goal possibly be?


    If I were killed ¨C or even taken from here ¨C it¡¯d only paint a target on their backs. The separatist fighters could disappear into the night; but these people had families, children. They¡¯d be the ones left here to face the wrath of the authorities. And if they really were involved in smuggling activities, it made even less sense that they¡¯d go out of their way to draw the attention of the police.


    Moreover, if they were working with the separatists, then what was all that ruckus outside? The shouting, the crashing ¨C as if heavy equipment was being hurled around. If the workers were on the side of the intruders, why did it sound like a war zone out there?


    I began making my way out of the storage area.


    ¡°Where the hell are you¡ª¡± Alai¡¯s rough hand landed on my shoulder, pressing down hard.


    Tired of being manhandled, I grabbed his forearm and tore his hand off me in one swift move. ¡°That¡¯s enough! I¡¯m going to go see what¡¯s happening.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get yourself killed,¡± he snarled, voice shrill with panic. ¡°You¡¯ll get us both killed.¡±


    I forced myself to keep my voice steady, refusing to let my own terror show. ¡°There are children out there, Alai. There¡¯s a baby in those tents.¡± Maybe more than one. Not like I could tell them apart from their cries. ¡°We can¡¯t just leave them to their fate.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± he retorted. ¡°Their parents were the ones who sold you out, who brought the separatists down on us. Those children will be fine.¡±


    Another loud thud reverberated through the air, followed by more shouting.


    I glanced in the direction of the noise, then back at Alai. ¡°That¡¯s just speculation. And even if they¡¯re working with the separatists¡ª¡±


    ¡°They are working with the separatists! No other way they could¡¯ve known you were here tonight. Somebody tipped them off.¡±


    ¡°Maybe some of them. And if we find out which ones¡­¡± I shook my head. ¡°But clearly, something¡¯s happening. It sounds like a fight has broken out. Maybe we can use that to our advantage. Whatever the case, we can¡¯t just leave the rest to die. Not with children involved.¡±


    ¡°Not your children,¡± he snapped. ¡°Not your problem. You need to focus on saving yourself.¡±


    A loud bang echoed from the direction of the front yard. Ignoring Alai, I sprinted toward the sound. He gave chase, cursing loudly.


    I slowed as I neared my destination, the sounds of a struggle growing louder. Despite what Alai thought, I wasn¡¯t suicidal. I hunched in on myself, trying to make myself as small as possible. All but trembling with the effort to quiet my heavy panting, keep my footsteps silent.


    The closer I got, the lower I crouched, until I was practically crawling. My injured palm scraped against the dirt, sending sharp, stinging pain through my hand.


    After what felt like an eternity, I got as close to the front yard as I dared. And hid myself under the concrete staircase we¡¯d descended less than an hour ago.


    Carefully, I peeked out at the tents beyond the makeshift structure of the Minjal Stadium.


    The camp was in chaos.


    Several tents had collapsed, their flimsy tarpaulin frames crumpled like discarded paper. Tin-can stoves lay on their sides, embers scattered dangerously across the ground. The wooden wheelbarrow we¡¯d passed earlier lay upside down. Some of the cookware had been overturned, their aromatic contents spilling onto the dirt.


    Most of the women and children ¨C some of the men, too ¨C had backed away. Watching from the edges, trying not to get caught up in the fray.


    I could hardly blame them, seeing as I was doing the exact same thing.


    At the center stood a cluster of men, led by the burly one who had confronted us at the entrance. Had tried to stop us. The woman with the long braids, presumably his wife, was at his side.


    They were shouting at two tall figures dressed head to toe in black, their faces concealed by black cloth that left only small openings for their eyes and nostrils. Even their mouths were covered, though their voices carried clearly enough. ¡°Just tell us where they are, and we¡¯ll be out of here,¡± the shorter one snapped, voice brimming with frustration. ¡°Why the hell are you risking your own necks for those central monkeys¡ª¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not!¡± the big man growled, just as furious. ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯ve been trying to tell you! Why would we stick our necks out for some central spy? There¡¯s no one here! We¡¯ve been smoking, playing cards at the arch since work wrapped up. If some strange man from Darvika had wandered in, don¡¯t you think one of us would¡¯ve noticed?¡±


    ¡°Then why not let us search the site?¡± the taller one demanded.


    ¡°Because you¡¯ll ransack the place,¡± retorted a balding, middle-aged man. The one who¡¯d said he was from Rakin Town, I suddenly recalled. ¡°More than you already have.¡± He glanced around, as if to prove his point. ¡°And when the supervisor comes in the morning, who do you think will pay for it? Not you. You¡¯ll be long gone. But we¡¯ll have to stay right here, face the music. Pay the price for the wreckage you caused.¡±


    I stiffened, feeling a movement at my back.


    A quick look back told me it was only Alai, crawling up behind me to crouch under the stairwell.


    ¡°We¡¯re not leaving until we find who we came for,¡± the taller of the two intruders growled. ¡°Even if it means tearing this place apart.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d like to see you try,¡± cried the woman with the twin braids. ¡°This is our home. Where we live, where our children live. If you think we¡¯ll just stand by and watch you destroy everything we¡¯ve built¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stop! I said stop!¡± someone yelled.


    A child¡¯s voice rang out, cutting through the chaos. ¡°Maa! Maa!¡±


    A scrawny boy ¨C no older than seven or eight ¨C came barreling through the maze of tents, his wide eyes locked on something I couldn¡¯t see. ¡°Maa! I¡¯m here! Maa¡ª¡±


    My breath caught as another figure emerged from the wreckage of gutted tents and overturned equipment. Another man in black, face covered completely except for his eyes and nose. ¡°Stop! Listen to me, right now!¡±


    Paying him no heed, the boy kept running. ¡°Maa! Maa!¡±


    I watched frozen in horror as the man chasing him grabbed something from his belt. ¡°I said stop!¡± he yelled, whipping out a gun. ¡°If you don¡¯t stop¡ª¡±


    The two black-clad fighters arguing with the workers spun around. ¡°What the hell¡ª¡± the taller one snarled, before lunging forward.


    A shot rang out.


    I didn¡¯t think. Just reached out with both hands, snatching the boy up as he ran past the staircase.


    His small body slammed into me. One bony knee jamming into my stomach so hard, I saw stars.


    ¡°Are you hurt?¡± I rasped, pressing him to my chest to stop his flailing. ¡°Did he hit you?¡±


    The little boy shook his head, his snotty, tear-streaked face twisted in panic. ¡°Maa! Maa!¡± His eyes were fixed on something behind me.


    I turned.


    Sure enough, a petite woman stood frozen behind a pillar, clutching a baby to her chest.


    I pressed a finger to my lips, signaling the boy to be quiet. No time to waste. Keeping him pressed tight against me, I half-crawled, half-tiptoed over to her. Sticking to the shadows as much as possible.


    Alai hissed something behind me, but I ignored him.


    The woman¡¯s red-rimmed eyes widened as I approached. She twisted her body slightly, as if to shield the baby in her arms.


    I gestured to the child in my arms and motioned for silence, trying to communicate that I wasn¡¯t a threat, that I wasn¡¯t going to hurt her or her children. That I was trying to help, to get them out.


    All I had to do was get them up the stairs and to that damn tunnel on the first floor.


    Another gunshot rang out in the distance.


    The baby whimpered. But the shouting in the front yard was ramping up once again. So, as long as it didn¡¯t start wailing, I was reasonably confident we wouldn¡¯t be heard.


    I moved quickly, instructing the woman to stay behind me at all times as we crept toward the stairs.


    Once we were close enough, enveloped by the shadows of the stairwell, I heaved the boy up and set him directly on the fifth step. Taking advantage of the open side where the handrail should have been.


    As if reading my intent, Alai gestured for the woman to hand him her baby. She hesitated, her fear palpable.


    Then, another metallic clang echoed in the distance. Followed by a pained scream.


    That seemed to make the decision for her.


    She handed him the baby. And allowed me to help her clamber onto the fifth step after her son, bypassing the well-lit landing at the front.


    Once she was secure, Alai lifted the baby up to her. Crouching, she took her child with trembling hands, her bloodless lips curving into a faint, watery smile.


    He gestured for her to keep moving. Without a word, she and her son obeyed, climbing the stairs with light, soundless steps.


    I turned to Alai, unsure how to convey my gratitude.


    He waved a hand, urging me to follow them.


    I nodded, not wanting to argue, and hauled myself onto the fifth step. Staying in the shadows by avoiding the brightly lit landing, where we might have been spotted from the front yard.


    Once I was steady on my feet, I turned back and extended my hand to Alai. He grasped it, using the support to clamber up the rough side of the concrete stairs, until he stood beside me.


    Wordlessly, I resumed climbing, careful to make as little noise as possible. Alai followed close behind, bringing up the rear.


    The shouting in the front yard intensified. ¡°Stop!¡± someone yelled, their voice sharp with fury.


    I didn¡¯t look back. Every second was crucial. I had to reach the first floor. Had to find the tunnel and get out.


    And then I heard it, moments after I¡¯d reached the next landing.


    Another gunshot.


    Behind me, Alai let out a hoarse cry of pain. I spun around, just in time to see him stagger. Half a second later, he lost his footing and tumbled down the stairs.


    ¡°Alai!¡± I cried out, unable to stop myself. Fighting every instinct not to rush down the stairs after him. ¡°Alai, answer me! Say something.¡±


    Soon, he was surrounded by the black-clad intruders. Three of them.


    I shrank deeper into the shadows, my pulse pounding. But I couldn¡¯t make myself go up the next flight of stairs; couldn¡¯t abandon him to the separatist fighters.


    One of them nudged Alai with his foot, barking something at him.


    After a few seconds, I was stunned to see Alai clamber back to his feet. With some help from those around him.


    Hadn¡¯t he been shot? Could the bullet have only grazed him?


    Was he not seriously injured? Gods, please let that be the case!


    Alai swayed on his feet, but didn¡¯t fall back down.


    Then his gaze lifted ¨C straight to where I stood in the shadows. But his eyes didn¡¯t lock on me. Instead, they flicked slightly to the left. Unfocused, searching. ¡°Go! Get out of here! Now!¡± he shouted.


    The shortest of the three black-clad intruders punched him in the stomach.


    Alai doubled over, groaning in pain.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare!¡± the man snarled, looking up in my direction. But his eyes ¨C oddly big and expressive ¨C didn¡¯t quite focus on me. His gaze swept over my hiding place, searching. But the shadows were too deep for him to spot me. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare move a damn inch until we say so.¡± He pointed at Alai, who was still hunched over, clutching his stomach. ¡°Or we¡¯ll kill him.¡±


    I didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t breathe. Just held myself still in the shadows, not daring to make a single sound.


    My only consolation was that the woman and her kids were safe upstairs, hidden. But they didn¡¯t know about the tunnel. Didn¡¯t know where to find the opening. Without me or Alai to help them, they wouldn¡¯t make it out of here.


    ¡°If you want him to live,¡± said the man who¡¯d just punched Alai. ¡°Tell us your name. And tell the truth. If you lie,¡± he clapped Alai roughly on the back, making him cough. ¡°He dies.¡±


    For a few seconds, I held my tongue. Until I saw one of them reach for something at his belt. ¡°Lekh Na-Naag,¡± I stammered, panic tightening my throat. ¡°My name is Lekh Naag.¡± Uncharacteristically, it didn¡¯t occur to me to try and lie my way out of this.


    The three separatists exchanged glances, their postures relaxing visibly. One of them even wrapped an arm around Alai, helping him straighten up, while another rubbed his back soothingly.


    ¡°Hello, Lekh Naag,¡± said the one who¡¯d just reached for his gun, voice congenial. ¡°It¡¯s wonderful to finally meet you. Why don¡¯t you come with us for a little trip? Been so long since you were last in Zilan. We¡¯d love to show you around, catch you up on everything you¡¯ve missed.¡±


    ¡°If you want to kill me, you-you¡¯ll have to do it right here.¡± I cursed the tremor in my voice. ¡°I¡¯m not making it easier for you by accompanying you to some deserted dumping ground.¡±


    ¡°Kill you?¡± the man sounded genuinely surprised. ¡°Why would we kill you? What a waste would that be!¡±


    ¡°We just want to talk,¡± said the tallest of the three. ¡°No fighting. No killing. Just a conversation.¡±


    ¡°Well then, you can t-talk to me right here.¡±


    The tall man shook his black-covered head. ¡°That won¡¯t do, I¡¯m afraid. Because it¡¯s not just us. There are others waiting eagerly to meet you. Talk to you. We have to bring you to them; make introductions. They¡¯d be very disappointed if they don¡¯t get a chance to see you in person.¡±


    ¡°And if I refuse?¡±


    The shortest one grinned and gestured to Alai. ¡°Then he dies.¡±


    I swallowed, my throat parched. ¡°What guarantee do I have that he won¡¯t die anyway? Even if I agree, you could still kill him. Your friend already shot him. Even if you did nothing else, he might die of his injuries before the night is over.¡±


    The man with the gun barked out a laugh, casually pulling the weapon from his belt.


    I flinched. As did Alai.


    ¡°Oh, this?¡± He waved it in the air with a theatrical flourish. ¡°It¡¯s a pellet gun, you silly goose. It won¡¯t kill anyone.¡± He glanced at Alai. ¡°He¡¯ll have a nasty bruise on his back, come morning. But nothing worse.¡±


    A knot in my stomach loosened, my shoulders sagging with relief.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s your decision?¡± the tallest one asked, after half a minute of silence. ¡°Will you come with us?¡±


    A vehement refusal burned on the tip of my tongue. Every muscle in my body tensed, ready to bolt. I could still make a run for it ¨C race up the stairs to the first floor; find the tunnel and make my escape.


    But I couldn¡¯t deny the cold hard facts. There really was no good reason to refuse.


    Between the two of us, I was the more valuable hostage. Alai was just a junior employee at JalVayu Construction. The separatists would have little incentive to keep him alive, after tonight.


    I, on the other hand, had the family connections to command a hefty ransom. Maybe even a prisoner exchange. Papa might not care enough to bargain with separatists, but Leena and Ammi wouldn¡¯t leave me to die without a struggle.


    And even Papa had an image to uphold. He couldn¡¯t just abandon his only son to be killed by separatists, without at least making a show of trying to save me.


    And my would-be captors knew all that.


    If nothing else, they understood that my death in separatist custody would only bring the central security forces down on Zilan. Making their situation worse than it already was.


    I exhaled slowly. ¡°Fine,¡± I said, stepping out of the shadows. ¡°Let Alai go. Leave these people alone.¡± I gestured to the small group of construction workers who¡¯d gathered close. ¡°And I¡¯ll go with you.¡±