The junkyard sat at the edge of the city where streetlights gave up.
Rusted car frames stacked three high. Broken machinery half-buried in dirt. A single bulb hung from a crooked pole, swaying slightly in the night breeze, casting uneven shadows across the ground.
Kunal stood near a gutted truck chassis, hands in his pockets. Waiting.
The air smelled like oil and decay.
A car approached from the narrow access road. Headlights off. Engine quiet. It rolled to a stop thirty feet away.
The driver's door opened.
A man stepped out. Tall. Lean. Moved with the kind of deliberate calm that made silence feel heavier. He wore a dark jacket despite the humid night. Hands loose at his sides.
He walked toward Kunal. Stopped five feet away.
"I never thought you would fail, Kunal."
The voice was soft. Almost pleasant.
Kunal's jaw tightened. "It was complicated."
"Complicated." The man—Bandel—repeated the word like he was tasting it. Testing its weight. "You had one job. A simple job. And yet the reporters still breathe."
Kunal's stomach tightened at the plural. "They weren't alone. Others showed up. Got in the way."
"So you improvised."
"I did what I could."
Bandel was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed. Once. Soft. The sound didn't reach his eyes.
"What you could." He took a step closer. "Tell me, Kunal. If 'what you could' isn't enough, what use are you?"
Kunal didn't answer.
Didn't move.
Bandel circled him slowly. Not threatening. Just observing. Like a teacher disappointed in a promising student.
"The reporters are living," Bandel said quietly.
Kunal's pulse quickened. "Where?"
"That," Bandel said, "is what you're going to find out." He stopped in front of Kunal. Met his eyes directly. "You watch. You don't strike. Not yet. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Because next time you fail..." Bandel's tone didn't change. Still soft. Still pleasant. "There won't be a correction. Just replacement."
The words settled into the space between them.
Cold. Final.
Bandel turned and walked back to his car. Opened the door. Paused.
"They're looking for something," Bandel said without turning around. "Find out what. Report back."
The engine started—quiet, expensive. The headlights stayed off as it rolled back down the access road.
Gone.
Kunal stood alone in the junkyard.
The bulb overhead swayed.
He pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. The flame illuminated his face for half a second before dying.
He inhaled. Held it. Exhaled slowly.
The reporters had left Bhopal. Patterns broken. Someone was helping them.
Kunal crushed the cigarette under his heel.
He'd find them.
As fast as possible.
Morning light hurt.
Rahul stood outside the university gate, squinting against the brightness. Students flowed past him in clusters—laughing, rushing to classes, carrying chai cups from the vendor across the street.
Normal.
Aggressively, oppressively normal.
Manish stood beside him, scanning the crowd with quiet intensity.
Mohan was a few feet ahead, adjusting his messenger bag. He turned back, smiled. "You look terrified."
Rahul's throat was dry. "I'm fine."
"You're not." Mohan's tone was light. "But it's okay. Universities are scary."
Manish shot Mohan a look. "We should move."
Before they entered, Manish stopped them. "Listen carefully," he said quietly. "Mohan leads. You're the known face here. Former student."
Mohan nodded.
Manish turned to Rahul. "You stay slightly behind. Observer. Keep your body language neutral. Don't react to anything you see or hear."
"What if they ask questions?"
"They won't. But if they do, keep your answers short." Manish adjusted his glasses. "You're a junior reporter. You don't know much yet."
"Rajesh," Mohan said gently. "You're Rajesh. Not anyone else. Remember that."
Rahul nodded.
They moved through the gate. The main path was wide. Lined with trees that provided scattered shade. Buildings rose on either side—old colonial architecture mixed with newer concrete blocks.
Rahul kept his head down. His shoulder ached. The old wound reminding him it was still there.
Manish walked slightly ahead. Setting the pace.
Mohan walked beside Rahul, chatting casually about nothing—how the campus had changed, which professors had retired.
Normal conversation.
Cover noise.
The archives building appeared ahead—three stories, red brick, windows that hadn't been cleaned in years.
They climbed the steps.
The entrance was guarded by a single security desk. A guard sat behind it, middle-aged, uniform slightly too large. He looked up as they approached.
"Names and purpose," he said flatly.
Mohan stepped forward. Smiled. "Mohan Reddy. Former student, class of 2004. Here for archival consultation."
The guard flipped through a ledger. Nodded. "ID."
Mohan handed it over.
The guard studied it. Wrote something in the register. Handed it back.
"And them?"
"Professor Manish Kumar." Manish produced his faculty ID. "History department."
The guard took longer with Manish's card. Finally nodded and returned it.
Then his eyes moved to Rahul.
"ID."
Rahul's heart hammered.
He reached into his pocket. Pulled out the card. Rajesh Sharma. Junior reporter. Daily Truth, Bhopal.
Fake.
He handed it over.
The guard looked at the photo. Looked at Rahul's face. Back to the photo.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
Then his eyes narrowed. "Reporter?" He looked at Manish. "Why is a reporter here?"
Rahul's breath caught.
Manish stepped forward smoothly. "He's a former student. Lost his university ID years ago." His tone was calm. Professional. "We have departmental approval for the archival research. He's assisting with academic documentation."
The guard's eyes stayed on Rahul. Suspicious. "Former student of which department?"
"Journalism," Manish said without hesitation. "Graduated 2004."
The guard looked back at the ID card. At Rahul. At Manish.
Finally, he wrote something in the register. Handed the card back to Rahul.
"Purpose of visit?"
Mohan answered. "Academic consultation. Long-form journalism piece on institutional case studies."
The guard waved them through.
They moved past the desk. Down a narrow hallway.
Rahul's hands were shaking.
He shoved them into his pockets.
The archives building smelled like old paper and neglect.
Dust hung in the air. Shelves lined the walls—floor to ceiling, packed with file boxes, binders, documents that hadn't been touched in years. A single ceiling fan rotated overhead.
A clerk sat at a desk near the back. Woman in her fifties, gray hair pulled back, reading glasses perched on her nose. She looked up when they entered. Bored. Mildly annoyed.
"Yes?"
Manish stepped forward. "Good morning. I'm Professor Manish Kumar, history department. We're conducting research on student housing arrangements from 2000 to 2004. Specifically, final-year shared accommodations."
The clerk set down her pen. "What kind of research?"
"Sociological. Housing patterns, roommate dynamics, institutional support structures."
The clerk frowned. "Those are student records."
"We're not asking for personal details. Just housing assignments. Addresses. Roommate pairings."
"Still restricted."
"Under normal circumstances, yes." Manish leaned forward slightly. "But I have departmental authorization."
He pulled out a folded document. Set it on the desk. Then added a slip of paper with a university reference number written on it.
The clerk picked up the document first. Read slowly. Then looked at the reference number. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"This will take time."
"How long?"
"I'll need to pull the records. Cross-reference the years." She looked at them over her glasses. "Come back tomorrow."
"Tomorrow isn't possible," Manish said evenly.
Manish didn't argue. Just held her gaze.
Finally, she exhaled. Picked up the slip of paper with the reference number. "Wait here."
She stood. Disappeared into the maze of shelves at the back.
They sat on a wooden bench near the entrance.
Hard. Uncomfortable.
Students passed in the hallway outside. Voices echoing.
Rahul stared at the floor. Counted the cracks in the tile.
Mohan leaned back. His leg bounced slightly.
"This place hasn't changed," Mohan said quietly.
Manish checked his watch.
Rahul's breathing slowed. In. Out. Controlled.
Mohan glanced at him. "You okay?"
Rahul nodded.
Manish checked his watch again.
Twenty minutes had passed.
Footsteps approached.
The clerk returned carrying a thin folder. Manila. Worn at the edges.
She set it on the desk. Opened it. Flipped through a few pages.
"Final year, 200-2004 academic session," she said without looking up. "Shared accommodation records."
Manish stood. Moved to the desk. "Check for this unversity number"
Manish gave a slip of paper number written on it .
"There's this number listed." The clerk ran her finger down a page. "Off-campus flat. Two bedrooms. Lease signed in June 2001."
Rahul's pulse spiked.
He stood slowly. Moved closer.
The clerk glanced up. "I can give you the address. But the names are restricted without additional clearance."
"We only need confirmation that the roommate detailes," Manish said carefully.
The clerk hesitated.
Then she turned the page.
Stopped.
Her finger hovered over something. She frowned. Leaned closer. Reread the line.
Her expression changed. Something flickered across her face—confusion, maybe concern.
She looked up at Manish.
"The records show..." She paused. Looked back at the page. Ran her finger across the line again. "I need to verify the details of this reference number you provided."
"What's wrong?" Manish asked quietly.
The clerk closed the folder. Her grip on it tightened slightly. "There's a discrepancy. Between the housing record and the reference authorization. I need to check with administration."
She stood. Took the folder.
But she glanced back at the page once more before tucking it under her arm.
Like she'd seen something that didn't fit.
Something that worried her.
"Wait here," she said. Her voice was quieter now. Less bureaucratic. More cautious.
She disappeared into the back.
Manish turned to Rahul. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp.
"What just happened?" Mohan whispered.
"I don't know," Manish said quietly.
Rahul's hands were shaking again.
They waited.
The clock on the wall ticked.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
The clerk didn't return.
Manish glanced at the doorway where she'd disappeared. Then at his watch. "We should go."
"But—" Rahul started.
Quietly.
They stood. Walked toward the exit.
Rahul looked back once. The doorway to the back shelves was empty. Dark.
The clerk was still not appeared .
They descended the steps of the archives building. The campus was still busy. Students everywhere. Normal.
But Rahul's chest was tight.
Something had gone wrong.
The clerk had seen something in those records. Something that connected to the reference number Manish provided. Something that made her stop. Made her cautious.
Made her disappear.
They walked in silence back toward the university gate.
Rahul's mind raced.
Someone had erased the roommate's trail in the records.
And now someone knew they were looking.