Chapter 17 – "The Leak"
You ever have one of those dreams where you're standing in front of a crowd in your pajamas and suddenly realize you forgot how to speak?
Now imagine that crowd is a hall full of Apex Corporation executives, a bunch of sharp-jawed journalists, and an audience live-streaming you across the globe… and you're not even wearing pajamas — you're wearing a stolen press pass, a hoodie that smells like garlic naan, and a USB drive full of classified secrets in your bra.
Welcome to my Tuesday.
We were inside the Apex Innovation Summit, disguised as interns. Well, I was. Rohan had hacked a guest badge and made it look like he was an award-winning AI theorist from Iceland named "Dr. Bjorn something-something." I kept calling him Bjorn Baby until he started threatening to crash my Instagram.
I don't have Instagram. But I like that he thinks I'm cool enough to have one.
We had exactly 17 minutes until the keynote began. Isha was in position at the tech booth, posing as an assistant to a self-important audio engineer with a gluten allergy. I was already mentally planning her sainthood.
Rohan leaned close to me, his breath warm against my ear. "Final check. You sure you want to do this?"
I looked up at him. "Are you asking if I want to broadcast the fact that a billion-dollar tech company manipulated people's memories like they were TikTok filters? Yes. I want to do this."
He gave me a tight smile. "Okay. Just don't punch anyone important."
"No promises."
---
3... 2... Showtime
The moment the stage lights dimmed and the Apex CEO took the podium — a sleek man with serial killer cheekbones — Isha initiated the plan.
First, she overloaded the audio feed, forcing the host to stall. Then, Rohan injected the decryption key into the projection server.
And then... I stood up.
"Incoming viral moment," I whispered to myself.
I walked straight onto the stage.
Security looked confused — half of them blinking, half of them already reaching for radios.
I raised a hand. "Before you throw me out — or worse — hear me out."
Rohan's voice crackled in my earpiece. "You've got 60 seconds."
I turned to the audience. "Hi. My name's Aanya. I'm not a scientist. I'm not rich. I don't even know what half the words in this brochure mean."
Nervous laughter.
"But I am one of your experiments."
Silence.
Dead. Total. Utter silence.
I held up the USB drive.
"This contains the memory manipulation blueprints Apex used on dozens of civilians — including me. They didn't ask. They didn't warn us. They mapped our brains, stole our emotions, and engineered our relationships like we were sims in some twisted game."
A screen behind me flickered — then started playing footage: voice logs, code overlays, emotional graphs marked "Subject A" and "Subject R."
Me. And Rohan.
Gasps. Murmurs. Chaos.
I felt my hands shaking.
"I thought my feelings were real," I continued. "But then I found out someone else might've designed them. Do you know how terrifying that is? To look at the person you love and wonder if it was all fake?"
I turned slightly toward where I knew Rohan was watching.
"But then I realized something else. We choose who we fight for. Who we protect. Who we believe in. And those choices — they're ours. No matter who tried to write the script."
---
Truth Unleashed
Security lunged at me.
But by then, it was too late.
Isha had already uploaded the files to a public server. News outlets received real-time updates. The crowd erupted — some cheering, some panicking.
And Rohan?
He was already beside me, hand in mine, steady as ever.
We ran.
Down the back stairs. Out the service entrance. Into a waiting rickshaw that smelled like paan and wet socks.
As we drove away, the city spinning around us in lights and shouts, I looked at him.
"Do you think it worked?"
He smiled. "It's trending already. Hashtag: MemoryGate."
I laughed — shaky and loud and more emotional than I wanted to admit.
And then I did something insane.
I kissed him.
Right there, in a rickshaw, in traffic, after destroying the reputation of the most powerful tech company in the country.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't logical.
It was just real.
And for once, that was enough.
---
Fallout and Feelings
Over the next 48 hours, chaos reigned.
Apex stock plummeted. Government investigations launched. Victims came forward — students, employees, even a retired Bollywood actress who kept saying, "I knew I didn't love my third husband!"
But in the eye of the storm, I finally found calm.
Rohan and I holed up in a small guesthouse outside the city. We lived on chai and samosas. We binge-watched old sitcoms. We read the news coverage like we were watching a revolution unfold.
And somewhere in the middle of that mess, I found clarity.
I wasn't just someone they experimented on.
I was someone who fought back.
I was someone who chose.
---
A Different Kind of Delivery
One night, a week later, we were sitting on the roof, watching stars blink over smoggy skies.
I said, "You think we'll ever be normal?"
Rohan chuckled. "We hacked a corporation, exposed global corruption, and made out in a moving rickshaw. I think we blew past normal three exits ago."
I smiled. "Good. I never liked normal anyway."
Then, he reached into his hoodie and pulled out something small.
A delivery receipt.
From our first meeting.
"I kept it," he said softly. "Even when I didn't know why."
I stared at it. Torn edges. My handwriting. Chicken roll, extra sauce.
My throat tightened.
"Proof," he said, "that I wasn't programmed to care about you. I just... do."
I kissed him again.
Because sometimes, the best deliveries aren't food or data or secrets.
Sometimes, it's just love.
Messy. Unscheduled. Wildly inconvenient.
And completely, beautifully real.
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