Morning light cut through Bhopal's narrow streets, harsh and unforgiving. Rahul walked the same route as yesterday—past the paan shop with its red-stained corner, past the auto-rickshaw stand where drivers argued over fares, past the dog that never moved from its patch of shade. Today, everything felt sharper, louder, more real.
Yesterday's work had been published.
His shoulder ached with each step, the bandage under his shirt pressing like a secret wound. Physical pain felt distant compared to the gnawing hunger inside him. He needed to see it. The article. His work.
The tea stall stood at the junction where three lanes converged into chaos. Akash's Tea Corner—the faded sign said, though everyone just called it "Akash bhai's place." The old man poured chai like he'd been doing it for decades, hands permanently brown, face creased like crumpled newspaper.
Rahul approached casually, hands in pockets, trying to look like any other customer. His eyes locked onto the newspaper hanging from a string. Daily Truth. Today's edition.
The headline hit him like a gunshot:
"MURDER AT THE SAPPHIRE LOUNGE: BUSINESSMAN FOUND WITH THROAT SLIT"
Beneath it, smaller text: Police investigation continues. Witnesses report suspicious figure entering back rooms. Gambling debts suspected.
His heart hammered. That was his work. His investigation. Words transformed into print, permanent, read by thousands over morning chai.
His name wasn't on the byline—only Soma's—but he knew. He had been there, seen it all: the waiter, Raju selling information in the alley, the blood and smoke and desperation.
A cocktail of pride, jealousy, and dark ambition hit him.
"Bhaiya, ek chai," he said, voice steadier than he felt.
Akash poured without looking up. The amber liquid arced perfectly from kettle to glass. "Three rupees."
Rahul took the money and sipped, pretending to drink while his eyes devoured the article again. Every word. Every comma. Every paragraph building tension. The quotes, the implications, the hints at police negligence. Sharp. Real. Dangerous.
Two construction workers nearby spoke over their chai, cement dust clinging to their clothes.
"These reporters are doing real work now," one said, tapping the paper. "Police are sleeping. These people find truth."
"Sahi bola, yaar," the other nodded. "Someone has to hold the rich criminals accountable. Otherwise, they do whatever they want."
Rahul's chest tightened. Random strangers, ordinary people, praising work he had helped create. The dark voice whispered: If strangers discuss one story, what could ten stories do? What could you become?
The tea went cold. He barely noticed. One story had made the city murmur. What about a story so explosive, everyone would know his name—not Rajesh's, not Soma's—Rahul's name.
The thought terrified him. Thrilled him.
A bus rumbled past, black smoke trailing, an auto honked thrice. Life moved around him, normal and mundane, ignorant of the fugitive standing among them, drinking cold chai.
He set the glass down and continued toward the office.
The newsroom was louder today, or maybe Rahul just felt every sound too acutely: phones ringing like alarms, typewriter keys clacking like gunshots, voices overlapping in a cacophony pressing against his skull. Reporters hunched over desks, cigarettes dangling, fingers flying across typewriter keys. Someone argued into a phone; another cursed over spilled chai. Controlled chaos.
Rahul slipped toward his desk, head down, trying to blend in.
"Rajesh. Come inside."
Soma's voice cut through the noise. Rahul's heart thumped. He turned. Soma stood near Devaraj's cabin, face unreadable, gesturing him forward.
Did I do something wrong? Did someone notice me? Paranoia coiled tight.
Devaraj sat behind his desk like a general reviewing battle reports, Daily Truth spread open before him. Cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the stained ceiling. The mountain calendar on the wall seemed absurd in the concrete cage, marking time nobody cared about.
Without looking up: "Good job yesterday."
A thrill shot through Rahul. Praise from Devaraj Sen was rare, valuable—something reporters fought over like starving dogs. Soma's face betrayed a flicker of satisfaction he didn't hide.
Devaraj closed the newspaper, the pages rustling like dried leaves. "But this much is not enough."
The words landed heavy. Excitement cracked. Pressure pressed on his chest.
He stood, scraping his chair, and pulled two brown envelopes from a drawer. "Open them."
Soma tore his open easily. Rahul followed, clumsy fingers revealing thick bundles of notes—tens, twenties, fifties—more than he'd held in months. Two thousand rupees, maybe more. Enough to survive. But his mind wasn't on money.
But he thought "finally I am out of poverty for this month "
"Extra for yesterday," Devaraj said, lighting another cigarette. Shadows sharp on his face. "I expect the same work. Or better."
"Understood, sir."
"Truth sells newspapers. Newspapers sell ads. Safe stories don't sell. Politician inaugurates school—nobody cares. Businessman found with throat slit—everyone talks. Stories that make people stop at tea stalls, argue with neighbors, remember them before sleep. Give me those, I'll give you money, respect, power."
The words dripped into Rahul's mind like honey laced with poison.
"Good. Go."
They turned toward the door. Rahul's hand on the handle.
"Wait."
He froze. Soma looked back, curious.
Devaraj opened another drawer, slower, deliberate. He pulled out a thin pink file, its color ominous despite being just paper and ink. He placed it on the desk like radioactive material.
"Give this to Priya."
Soma frowned. "Which case, sir?"
"That girl's murder. The Puppet Case."
Time froze. Rahul's blood turned to ice water. His throat locked. The word puppet stabbed into his skull.
Soma didn't notice Rahul's panic. He nodded professionally and picked up the file. "I'll take it to her now."
Rahul walked mechanically, shoulder throbbing, heart hammering. Stay calm. Don't react. Don't let anyone see.
Soma flipped through the pink file like a machine, scanning pages efficiently.
"What's… what's in that file?" Rahul asked.
Soma's eyes calculated. "Information. From the police, in ways they can't officially talk about."
"That's sounds evertthing is illegal in this company ."
Soma smirked. "Yaar, truth is expensive. We beat illegal with illegal. That's journalism. That's survival."
Guilt and thrill twisted inside him like snakes. Everything was corrupt—police, reporters, criminals—and now, he was part of it.
"Who's Priya?"
"Senior crime reporter. Eight years experience. Handles big cases—murders, corruption, gangs. If Devaraj gives her this, it's going dark."
Dark. The word echoed in Rahul's skull.
At Priya's cabin, Soma knocked once, then entered. Rahul stayed outside.
She sat at her desk—around thirty, sharp eyes behind glasses, calm and unshakable. Files stacked with military precision. Family photo in the corner, the only human touch.
Soma handed her the file. She opened it without a word. Face impassive, processing death like data. Murder was just another deadline.
Rahul returned to his desk. The money in his drawer gleamed like a ticking bomb. Two thousand three hundred rupees. Enough to survive.
But his mind stayed on the pink file: Ananya's murder, the puppet doll, the lies and corruption buried in those pages.
He imagined headlines: "INNOCENT MAN FRAMED: THE REAL PUPPET DANCER REVEALED".
The fantasy intoxicated him. Danger whispered: one mistake, and he'd be dragged out in handcuffs.
You need that file, the dark voice hissed. Information is power. Survival.
But getting caught means death, the other countered. Stay invisible. Stay safe.
Safe was slow death. Die fighting instead.
Afternoon bled into the newsroom, buzzing with fluorescent light, cricket commentary, spinning fans that barely cooled. Rahul pretended to type, eyes drifting to Priya's cabin.
She read the pink file like sacred text. Rahul's jealousy burned. Fear knotted his stomach. Fascination pulled him forward.
She had what he needed—every report, every lead. And he was invisible. A ghost pretending to live.
Afternoon bled into the newsroom like old ink spreading across paper. The fluorescent lights buzzed. Someone's radio played a cricket match commentary. The ceiling fan spun lazy circles, moving hot air from one corner to another without actually cooling anything.
Soma appeared at Rahul's desk, beedi already lit.
"Come. Chai break."
Rahul followed gratefully, needing the distraction, needing to get away from his own thoughts.
Rahul sipped his chai, still staring at the newspaper, though the liquid had gone lukewarm. His thoughts were racing, tangled with pride, hunger, and that whispering dark ambition. Soma had been quiet, leaning against the counter, watching him.
Finally, Rahul broke the silence. "Can I ask you something?" His voice was low, cautious, like someone testing thin ice.
Soma exhaled smoke from his beedi, eyes narrowing. "Ask. But don't act like a child asking why the sky is blue."
Rahul hesitated, then plunged. "How do you get big cases? Like Priya… how do you get trusted with files like that pink one?"
Soma's gaze weighed him for a long moment, smoke curling around his fingers. For a second, Rahul thought he'd asked the wrong thing, revealed too much. Then Soma spoke, slow and deliberate:
"You make noise. Big noise. Not the annoying kind—the kind people cannot ignore. You give the public something they can't look away from."
Rahul felt the words sink like cold water into his chest. "Stories that matter," he murmured.
"Exactly," Soma said, flicking ash onto the ground. "Stories that make ministers sweat in their offices. Stories that put criminals behind bars. Stories that change things, even if just a little. You don't get there covering petty thefts or auto accidents. Every junior reporter does that. You get there by digging where others are too scared to dig."
"But it's dangerous," Rahul said, voice dropping. "The bigger the story, the more people want you stopped. Police, politicians, criminals… all three at once."
Soma gave a short, humorless laugh. "Exactly. That's why Priya's good. Fearless. Smart. She knows when to push, when to step back. When to publish, when to wait. When to fight, when to survive."
Rahul swallowed, heat climbing his neck. "I want to be like that."
Soma's eyes glinted. "Everyone says that. Very few survive long enough to become it. Journalism here, yaar… it's not a career. It's a war. And wars have casualties."
Rahul's hands tightened around his chai glass. The tea had gone cold hours ago, but he didn't notice. All he felt was the pull of the dark, the whisper in his skull: do whatever it takes. Take it. Own it.
Soma stubbed out his beedi, straightening. "So, decide. You want to play safe, or you want to leave a mark?"
Rahul's eyes hardened. "I'll leave a mark."
The darkness arrived it was finally night rahul laid on his bed and thoughts started move in his mind .
Ghosts move through walls. Ghosts go unseen. Ghosts reach places the living cannot.
I need that file. Whatever it takes. Not just for survival. Not just to clear his name. But to find the truth buried in lies, blood, and corruption.
Rahul stared at his reflection in the dark window—hollow eyes, sharp hunger, a face capable of anything.
Somewhere, the real killer moved freely. Niraj slept in luxury. Ananya's organs sat in an evidence locker. And Rahul decided: he would find the truth. No matter the cost. No matter the risk. No matter what he had to become.