Amit walked out of the factory complex, covering his tracks meticulously. He walked back to Nalbari. He did not go to the police. He went to his small, silent quarter.
He still went to work every day, meticulously filling out forms, handling revenue records. He still paid the high EMI on the beautiful, silent house, the mortgage now a symbol of his irreversible, lonely commitment.
He was commended by S.I. Sengupta for his composure during the four murders that had crippled the local crime network. "A shame the goons killed each other off, Barua. You're a steady man, Amit. We need more like you."
Amit simply nodded. He was steady. He was precise. He had corrected the fatal fault in his life's circuitry.
He still sat on his porch in the evenings. His family was gone, and he was alone, carrying the terrible, cold weight of his self-administered justice. He had found justice, but he had lost himself entirely in the process. He was a simple family man who had become the final, unrecorded accountant of death, forever trapped in the rhythm of Nalbari's life, forever carrying the terrible truth in his silence.