Morning arrived weak and gray, leaking through the dust-coated window of Room 304 like a blessing meant for someone else. Light brushed Rahul's face and pulled him back into himself piece by piece—first the fog of awareness, then the throb of his shoulder, and finally the heavy weight of memory settling over his chest.
Alive. Somehow still alive.
His shoulder no longer screamed with infection, but the dull ache felt like a nail pressed permanently into bone. The fever had broken in the night, leaving him hollow and wrung out, like wet cloth abandoned to dry on a line.
He pushed himself upright, the thin mattress groaning under his weight. In daylight the room looked even smaller, sadder. Peeling paint curled like old scabs. Water stains mottled the ceiling. The cupboard slouched on one hinge as if it had given up decades ago. Someone's forgotten life, now his borrowed tomb.
Rahul stepped into the bathroom and forced himself to look at the mirror.
A stranger stared back—hollow cheeks, bloodshot eyes, stubble thick across his jaw. His lips were cracked. His hair stood in wild angles. The bandage on his shoulder showed a faint yellow seep through the gauze.
Rajesh, he reminded himself. Your name is Rajesh. Forget everything else.
But the mirror only reflected a ghost.
He splashed cold water onto his face. The tap coughed like an old man, sputtering before it obeyed. The chill cut through the haze, but hunger slammed him immediately afterward. His stomach cramped hard.
He opened his wallet, counted the crumpled notes twice.
Fifty rupees.
Fifty rupees between him and starvation. Between him and the streets.
How long can I survive like this?
The question hung in the bathroom like stale cigarette smoke.
Not long, the inner voice whispered. Not unless you learn to kill the person you were.
He shut the wallet and stepped outside.
The newsroom swallowed him whole the moment he entered.
Phones rang endlessly. Typewriters clacked like distant gunfire. Someone argued about a minister's affair. Someone else cursed over a missed deadline. The air smelled of stale chai, cigarette ash, sweat, and the sourness of too many bodies crammed together.
Rahul kept his head low, moving toward his small desk like a mouse slipping across a kitchen floor.
Invisible. Stay invisible.
He almost made it.
"Rajesh!"
Devaraj's voice cut through the noise like a knife. Rahul's stomach dropped.
He turned. Devaraj stood in the cabin doorway, cigarette dangling from his lips, shirt wrinkled despite the early hour. His sharp eyes pinned Rahul in place.
"My cabin. Now."
The walk across the newsroom felt like an execution march. Faces glanced up—some curious, some indifferent. Soma looked up, gave a small nod.
Devaraj's cabin reeked of smoke and strong tea . Files covered every inch of every surface. A mountain landscape calendar hung on the wall, absurd in this concrete cage.
"Sit."
Rahul sat.
Devaraj took a long drag, exhaled toward the ceiling. "You look less like death today. Good."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet." He rummaged through files, pulled out a thin folder. "You're going out today. First assignment."
Rahul's pulse jumped—fear mixed with something sharp and hungry.
"Murder last night at The Sapphire Lounge," Devaraj said. "Pub in the nightlife district. Throat slit in the back rooms. Police sealed it in the morning, but witnesses are still around. We need statements before they vanish or get paid to forget."
He looked up, eyes narrowing. "You'll go with Soma. Watch, learn, don't act smart."
"Yes, sir."
"The police won't like you. The witnesses will like you even less. And the pub owner? He'll hate you." Devaraj leaned back. Smoke curled around his face. "Smile, listen, remember everything. And don't try to be a hero. Clear?"
"Crystal."
But maybe, Rahul thought, if I learn how to investigate, I can use it. Find Ananya's real killer. Clear my name. Make someone bleed for what they did.
The thought seared through him like a brand.
"Good." Devaraj waved him off. "Go. Try not to embarrass me."
Soma waited outside, leaning against the building with the ease of someone who belonged everywhere.
"Ready for your education, Rajesh?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
Soma grinned. "Good. Bus stop's two streets away."
They moved through Bhopal's morning chaos. Vendors unfolded tarpaulin stalls. Schoolchildren rushed past, swinging lunchboxes. The smell of hot jalebis mixed with diesel. Auto-rickshaws honked in broken rhythm. A cow sat in the middle of an intersection, causing a traffic jam that no one even questioned.
The bus arrived—crowded, rattling, smelling of sweat and cheap perfume. They squeezed inside, Soma by the window, Rahul pressed to the wall.
As the bus lurched forward, Soma leaned closer.
"Listen carefully, yaar. Crime reporting isn't about justice. Definitely not truth. It's survival. With a pen."
Rahul stayed silent, absorbing the words.
"Police lie. Witnesses lie. Criminals lie. Everyone lies because they can." Another pothole threw passengers forward. "So how do you find truth? You don't always. You find the story people will believe."
"And when real truth matters?" Rahul asked quietly.
"Then you pay for it." Soma lit a beedi. "Buy the cleaner a chai. Slip a constable fifty. Everyone talks for a price."
Rahul stared ahead. This is the real world. A world where truth bleeds slowly.
The bus halted suddenly. A constable boarded, eyes sweeping lazily over the passengers. Rahul's breath hitched. His pulse spiked.
He'll see me. He'll know. He'll drag me out, ask my name—
But the constable barely glanced at him. Collected a bribe from a man without a ticket. Stepped off at the next stop.
Soma laughed. "You looked ready to jump out of the window. Relax. That cop doesn't care who you are. You're invisible unless you make noise."
Invisible. I need to stay invisible.
But the inner voice whispered: Invisible doesn't mean safe. One mistake, and they'll see the killer they think you are.
The Sapphire Lounge sat in Bhopal's nightlife district like a neon-soaked tumor. In daylight, the place looked washed out—faded walls, peeling posters, trash in corners—but even in the dull afternoon light, the night inside felt alive, coiled like a predator waiting for dusk.
The pub's neon gemstone flickered weakly. Bouncers in black stood at the entrance, sunglasses pointless in the dim hallway.
Music leaked from inside—a remixed Hindi track with a bass that thumped like a heartbeat.
Soma strutted up to the bouncers and flashed his press card. "Crime desk. Dainik Bhopal. We need the back rooms."
"Press not allowed," the bouncer said. "Police orders."
"They aren't here yet." Soma smiled. "And your boss doesn't want tomorrow's paper saying you blocked us. Your call, bhai."
The bouncer hesitated. Then stepped aside.
Rahul followed Soma into the darkness.
Inside, the air hit him—smoke, sweat, cheap cologne, something chemical underneath. Flashing red and blue lights painted faces like masks. Men in designer jeans pretended to be rich. Girls in glittering outfits pretended to be wanted. Everyone pretended the outside world didn't exist.
Rahul had never been inside a place like this.
While he ran for his life, bleeding in deserted alleys, these people were dancing for fun under neon lights.
Soma cut through the crowd with practiced ease. Rahul followed like a shadow.
They slipped past a velvet curtain. The music dulled behind them.
The back hallway was a different world. Bare bulbs flickered. Cigarette stains smeared the walls. The carpet squelched ominously under their feet. Doors lined the corridor.
A constable stood outside one—clearly the murder room—yawning, bored, barely awake.
"Context first," Soma said. "Come."
He opened a door.
Three girls in sequined dresses sat on a torn couch. Makeup cracked under sweat. A man in a leather jacket counted a thick wad of cash. On the table: plastic packets of white powder.
The man looked up, eyes sharp. "Who the—"
"Press," Soma said calmly. "Relax. We're just checking for witnesses. You didn't see anything, right?"
The man stared. Then shook his head once.
"Thought so." Soma pulled Rahul out.
Rahul breathed hard. "That was—"
"Drugs, girls, money," Soma said. "Same setup everywhere. And don't ask if we should tell the police—half the time they're the ones running the show."
He opened another door.
This one was worse.
A man sat tied to a chair, nose bleeding, eyes swollen. Two policemen stood over him. One swung a lathi. The crack echoed in the small room.
"Tell us where the money is, bhenchod—"
The constable looked up, saw Soma, and grinned. "Press? Want a quote? 'Suspect resisted arrest.'"
The bound man whimpered.
Rahul's fists clenched. Every instinct screamed to stop it. But if he spoke, if they asked for his ID—
He'd be the one tied to the chair.
Soma closed the door silently.
"That's interrogation," he said. "Sometimes they get answers. Sometimes they enjoy the beating."
Rahul's voice came rough. "And we do nothing?"
"We stay alive." Soma's eyes softened. "Heroes get killed. Writers live long enough to tell the story."
They continued down the hallway. The smell of blood, alcohol, and stale cigarettes clung to the air.
Rahul's stomach twisted.
So this is journalism.
Not truth. Not justice. Just survival.
"So this is journalism," he whispered, bitterness seeping into the words.
Soma glanced at him. "Now you're learning."
[END CHAPTER 16 — PART 1]