The same old basement.

  The same damp floor, stained with dried blood.

  The same air— heavy, rotten— clinging around.

  Yug, Rishabh, Kritika and Vivek enter together.

  But now, what once felt unbearable barely registered in their minds.

  None of them even reacted— no flinch, no halt, no hesitation.

  It wasn't bravery, but repetition.

  They've been there too many times.

  Each one carried exhaustion differently.

  Yug moved with stiffness, his body moving on habit rather than energy.

  Kritika's eyes were sharp and calculating, though dark circles sat beneath them like bruises.

  Vivek's focus slipped into and out, his walk uneven and shoulders slouched.

  Rishabh mumbled something incoherently, his eyelids threatening to close mid-walk.

  Sleep was optional for them— so was sanity.

  As they sat down, four of the chairs scraped loudly against the floor.

  But the fifth one remained still— empty.

  Kritika broke it first, speaking not because she wanted to, but because someone had to.

  Her voice was calm, but stripped of emotion.

  "The night Tarun entered the school, there was no one."

  Yug looked up slightly, Rishabh blinked, trying to process and Vivek frowned— all confused.

  Kritika noticed it too and, without changing her tone, clarified, "I mean… the guard. The one on duty. He has been missing since that night."

  Rishabh rubbed his face, forcing himself awake.

  He began the clue he found, his voice tired, rough and raspy.

  "He went to a hospital. No— a clinic."

  All eyes turned to him as he continued.

  "The same night, he was bought unconscious. They didn't treat him. Just stopped the bleeding."

  He looked down, then exhaled, "He had to be moved to a better hospital."

  Yug leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, "There was this old drunkard," he said. "He saw men enter Tarun's slum. I'm certain they would not have been locals."

  Vivek shook his head rapidly, as if pulling himself out of a trance. When he spoke, it seemed almost casual, like it didn't mean much.

  "He also went to his favorite snacks shop that night," he paused. "He just… cleared all debts."

  And as he uttered those last words, something changed in the air— Rishabh straightened immediately, the drowsiness disappearing from his face in one go.

  "Hold up," he said, louder than anyone. "He had debts to pay?"

  Vivek quietly nodded, but Rishabh's eyes narrowed further, his body rising from the chair like something inside him switched on.

  "And how did he pay for those?"

  "Cash, I guess." Vivek shrugged weakly.

  Rishabh stood upright, "He doesn't have a bank account." His eyes turned to Yug, as if he wanted Yug to complete what he thought.

  Yug replied almost instantly, like he also knew where the discussion was heading towards.

  "And he's always low on cash."

  Vivek looked towards Rishabh, and then Yug, clearly struggling to keep up with them.

  But quiet realisation settled between the two.

  Rishabh let out a quiet breath, smirking slightly— not out of humour, but clarity.

  "Exactly," he said. "Someone else paid for him."

  Vivek's eyes shifted towards Kritika, hoping that she would explain something to him.

  Instead, she stood up too, cutting through the discussion.

  "Let's go to the shop," she said, the sharpness of her eyes showing slight determination.

  All three looked at each other, hope growing again as they expected something from that place.

  "But I've been there multiple times—" Vivek interrupted, but just when he spoke, all six eyes turned to him, stopping him by their gaze.

  "But this time," Kritika spoke, already moving towards the exit with the three, "We will go together."

  ——————————————

  The shop had just opened.

  The shutters were halfway up, morning light spilling in through the narrow gap, adjusting the cash drawer and counting loose change with tired fingers.

  And just when he settled behind his counter, the bell above the door rang.

  He looked up automatically, beginning to speak his usual greetings.

  “Hello, how can I—”

  But his words died mid-sentence.

  Vivek stood there.

  The shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed slightly, recognition settling in faster than suspicion.

  “You’re the same boy,” he said slowly. “Tarun’s friend.”

  Vivek didn’t respond.

  The man’s gaze drifted past him — Yug, Kritika, Rishabh — standing quietly, watching.

  “I already told you everything I know,” the shopkeeper added, firmer now. “I don’t have anything else.”

  Yug stepped forward before anyone else could speak. His tone wasn’t aggressive, just steady.

  “I know,” he said. “And we’re not saying you’re hiding anything. But whatever you do know… we need it.”

  The shopkeeper hesitated, fingers tightening around the counter.

  “It was late,” he said finally. “Very late. He looked weak. And he paid all his debts—”

  “We know that, sir!”

  Rishabh cut in sharply, frustration slipping through his exhaustion. “That’s not enough. We need more, can't you understand?!"

  Kritika shot him a look instantly and stepped in before the tension could spike further, pulling Rishabh behind her.

  “Please,” she said, softer. “We know you don’t have much. But Tarun means a lot to us.”

  Her voice didn’t shake — but her eyes did.

  Vivek moved next, standing closer to the counter, almost pleading now.

  “You told me you wanted to help him,” he said quietly. “That he was a good kid. So please… if there’s anything you remember, we really need it.”

  The shopkeeper exhaled deeply, the sound long and heavy, like a man giving up a burden he didn’t want to carry.

  “Alright,” he muttered.

  He leaned back slightly, eyes drifting away from the present.

  “It was around eleven,” he said. “I was about to close. That’s when he came in…”

  His voice slowed. “…wearing a hoodie.”

  The shop around them dissolved, and led back to the past.

  ——————————————

  The shop door slammed open.

  Not a careless push — a forceful one, loud enough to echo off the shelves.

  The shopkeeper flinched, instinctively glancing at the clock.

  11:00 PM.

  Closing time.

  He looked up, ready to snap at whoever thought this was funny— and stopped.

  It was Tarun.

  A hoodie hung loose over him, swallowing his frame. He walked in slowly, like each step demanded effort. His face was pale — not sickly, but drained, as if something had already been taken from him.

  The shopkeeper’s expression softened instantly.

  “Tarun—” he began, concern slipping into his voice. But then he noticed it.

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  The way Tarun leaned slightly, favoring one side.

  The way his shoulders sagged unnaturally.

  The way his breathing wasn’t right.

  “You don’t look well,” the shopkeeper said carefully. “What happened?”

  Tarun’s eyes flicked up sharply.

  “What is it to you, old man?”

  The words landed harder than expected.

  The shopkeeper blinked, caught off guard — but he didn’t argue. He’d known Tarun long enough to recognize when silence was safer.

  Tarun’s gaze moved around the shop, sharp and restless.

  He checked the entrance. The street beyond. The corners.

  As if making sure he was alone.

  Or not.

  Then, without another word, Tarun reached into his hoodie and pulled out a thick bundle of cash.

  He placed it on the counter.

  The sound was of a dull thud.

  The shopkeeper picked it up instinctively and… paused.

  But the notes felt… different— fresh

  He held them a moment longer than necessary, fingers unconsciously pressing into the paper, as if trying to understand something without knowing what.

  By the time he looked up—

  Tarun was already at the gate.

  Hand on the latch.

  He didn’t turn around. Just lifted one hand slightly, a lazy wave over his shoulder.

  “All debt’s clear.”

  The shutter rattled softly as he stepped out.

  And just like that, he was gone.

  ——————————————

  The shopkeeper’s voice trailed off as he reached the end of his memory. He stood still behind the counter, fingers resting on the wood as if he could still feel the weight of those notes.

  “He handed me the money… warm,” he said quietly. “And then he left.”

  Vivek exhaled in frustration, rubbing his face. “So that’s it,” he muttered. “Nothing new.”

  Rishabh didn’t respond.

  His eyes were fixed on the shopkeeper’s hands.

  “Sir,” Rishabh said slowly, his tone unusually calm, “when you took the money… how did it feel?”

  The shopkeeper looked up, confused. “Feel?”

  “The notes,” Rishabh clarified. “What were they like? You just said it.”

  The man hesitated, searching in his memory. “I remember thinking it was strange,” he said. “Warm,” he said. “Not hot. Just… warm. Like they hadn’t been sitting anywhere.”

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then Rishabh’s eyes widened.

  He straightened so suddenly his chair scraped back. “That’s it,” he said under his breath.

  Yug looked at him sharply. “What is?”

  Rishabh turned to all of them, words spilling out faster than his thoughts. “Cash doesn’t stay warm,” he said. “Not unless it’s fresh. Straight out of a machine.”

  Kritika blinked. “You’re saying—”

  “An ATM,” Rishabh cut in. “Someone withdrew that money right before Tarun came here.”

  The realization hit like a switch flipping— all four of them looked at each other with glowing eyes, because they finally had another direction.

  The shopkeeper frowned, clearly unsettled by the realization. “Yeah… I never really thought about—”

  But he never finished the sentence.

  By the time he looked up, all four of them were already heading for the door, moving with sudden urgency.

  The bell rang sharply as they stepped out.

  The shopkeeper remained behind, finishing his thought to an empty room.

  “—about that possibility.”

  ——————————————

  The screens flickered under the harsh fluorescent light of their rented workspace. The group had been at it for hours—no, a full day had passed.

  Footage from every ATM in the area, every local corner where Tarun could have withdrawn money, scrolled endlessly on the monitors.

  They leaned closer, rubbed their eyes, squinted at blurry frames. Late-night hours replayed over and over: empty streets, shuttered shops, cars passing in the distance.

  Shadows shifted with each flicker of the camera, and the tiredness in their movements had grown into something heavier, almost physical.

  Kritika rubbed the bridge of her nose, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything… maybe the footage is gone. All of it. Erased.”

  Her words hung in the stale air, mixing with the faint hum of the monitors.

  Vivek leaned back, shoulders slumping. “Figures… just our luck. Hours of searching, and nothing. Nothing at all.” He let out a tired sigh, glancing at the clock.

  It read 2:37 AM.

  Rishabh didn’t speak. His eyes darted from screen to screen, his hand drumming against the table with a restless impatience.

  Yug, sitting across from him, rubbed his neck, stifling a yawn. Their minds were exhausted, but the tension never let them rest.

  Hours turned into a blur. They checked ATMs near slums, near markets, near the main roads.

  Each machine revealed nothing more than blank screens, empty lots, or people withdrawing unimportant sums.

  They argued quietly at times—whose lead to follow, which machine to check next—but mostly, they moved mechanically, driven by obsession more than strategy.

  By 5:42 AM, Yug's patience thinned. “We’ve been at this for… what? Fifteen hours?” His voice was sharp but edged with fatigue. “Maybe we need to accept that the trail’s cold.”

  “Not yet,” Rishabh muttered. His eyes, rimmed with red, scanned one last ATM—the one closest to the hospital.

  He squinted at the grainy footage, his body stiff with exhaustion. “Just… one more.”

  Minutes stretched like hours. Outside, the sky began to lighten—the first hints of dawn turning the streets pale orange.

  Inside, the monitors cast cold blue light across their worn faces. Then—movement.

  Rishabh froze. He leaned forward, pointing with a trembling finger.

  “There,” he said, voice sharp despite the exhaustion.

  On the screen, a long-haired man in a dark suit appeared.

  He approached the ATM cautiously, his movements deliberate.

  "This man," Rishabh said, calling everyone to see the footage. "I've heard from the receptionist. The man came with Tarun."

  Yug blinked, disbelief crossing his face. “You didn’t tell us before, idiot.”

  “I was asleep, jackass," Rishabh snapped, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Now let me think,”

  In the footage, the man withdrew cash, glanced around, then tore the receipt and tossed it into the trash like it meant nothing.

  And just as they looked at this, Yug and Vivek lunged at the dustbin on the monitor—their anticipation spilling into action even if it was only through observation.

  They sifted through the scraps— cigarette butts, old wrappers, papers scattered like forgotten lives.

  ——————————————

  Outside, the street was quiet, almost eerily, compared to the chaos inside.

  A small group of onlookers had gathered, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of the shop’s neon sign.

  One of the men, an older figure with a weathered face, squinted through the glass. His voice was low, cautious. “What… what’s going on in there?”

  The younger man next to him shrugged, his expression a mixture of curiosity and unease.

  “There must be some reason,” he said softly, as if speaking louder might summon danger.

  A woman standing slightly apart, her arms folded, tilted her head and sighed. “What does life make the poor do?”

  Her voice carried a quiet resignation, almost philosophical, as she watched the group inside scrambling, searching, upending dustbins.

  The people outside moved at a different rhythm than the chaos within— calm, observant, detached.

  The world continued its slow, indifferent pace.

  ——————————————

  But inside, the ATM was a storm of chaos.

  Receipts, crumpled papers, and trash were scattered everywhere—dust swirling in the dim light.

  The group had been at it for a while, rifling through every scrap, throwing aside anything that didn’t match, yelling dates to each other over the clutter.

  Each pile was a battlefield— some receipts torn beyond recognition, some smeared with dirt, others barely clinging together.

  “Not this one, too old!” Kritika snapped, tossing a handful of receipts across the room.

  “Check the dates, the month!” Rishabh barked, almost tripping over a pile of papers.

  Vivek was crouched over the dustbin, digging furiously, muttering, “It has to be here, it has to be…”

  Yug was flipping through another stack, scanning with sharp, bloodshot eyes.

  The chaos was total—papers fluttered like dead leaves, their movements frantic, desperate, disorganized, but somehow coordinated in the madness of their search.

  Finally, Yug froze mid-flip, holding up a small group of receipts—some torn, some intact. “Here. These are the ones,” he said, voice tight with relief.

  The room went quiet for a split second, just long enough for a sound from the door to cut through.

  The guard stepped in, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. Papers littered the floor, dustbins overturned, their exhausted, frantic faces staring back at him.

  “What are you guys doing…” he stammered, his voice almost swallowed by the disorder.

  A paper slid off a pile, scraping loudly across the floor. The guard froze.

  “Oh,” he finally whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.

  The group glanced at each other, awkward, exhausted, caught in the eye of their own storm, just looking at the guard blankly.

  ——————————————

  They were thrown out of the building like ragdolls, stumbling onto the street. Receipts scattered loosely in Vivek’s hands, fluttering slightly in the morning breeze.

  Dust clung to their clothes, sweat still slick on their foreheads, the chaos of the bank still echoing in their ears.

  For a moment, they just stood there, catching their breath, eyes scanning the empty street, the early sun cutting through the dim haze of the night before. Then Vivek spoke, voice hoarse but urgent.

  “These receipts… they can help us.” He held them up like a fragile key. “Each one has a record, or something else intact."

  Kritika stepped closer, her fingers brushing over the papers.

  “He’s right. If we track the transaction IDs," she spoke, pointing at one of the papers. "We might be able to trace the person who withdrew the money. The long-haired man… this could lead us to him.”

  Rishabh’s eyes narrowed, voice sharp despite exhaustion. “No. We need to go to the hospital first. The long-haired man—he was seen there. That’s where this leads.”

  Yug’s hands went to his pockets, his eyes darting between the two, calculating.

  “And the drunkard,” he said finally. “He saw something. He can guide us. Somewhere… somewhere it all connects.”

  Rishabh’s gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening. “Alright. We split. Fast, precise, no distractions.”

  He pointed at Kritika. “You and I will go to the hospital. We need the inside story, everything they saw.”

  He turned to Yug. “You take the drunkard. Lure him here, or to a safe spot. Make him talk.”

  Finally, he looked at Vivek. “Bank. Main branch. You demand the IDs are traced. No excuses, no delays.”

  They nodded, the plan settling into place like clockwork. Each one knew their part.

  The morning light touched their faces, pale and tired, but the fire in their eyes refused to fade.

  ——————————————

  The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal, sterile as ever, yet somehow quieter than before.

  The same monitors hummed in the background, their soft beeps punctuating the silence, a rhythm that had become part of the room’s identity.

  On the bed, the patient—still wrapped in the hospital cloth, torso bare—shifted slightly. It was the first motion of the day.

  His body, once a map of jagged wounds and careful sutures, now seemed almost whole, though the evidence of violence still lingered on his skin.

  Two doctors moved closer, gloved hands guiding him.

  Their movements were measured, almost ritualistic.

  No words passed between them.

  They didn’t speak. They only ensured that he could sit. Slowly, carefully, he rose from the table, legs dangling over the edge.

  The bandages around his abdomen caught his attention. He traced the lines with one hand, fingertips brushing over the folds as if testing reality itself.

  The monitors displayed a steady pulse now, fluctuating slightly but alive—no longer the thin, fragile rhythm of someone barely surviving.

  His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. He exhaled once, long and deliberate, then paused. A hand lifted, gloved fingers brushing over the stitched skin.

  For a moment, the room held its breath, waiting.

  Then, his own fingers moved. Just a small gesture—touching the bandage, curling slightly around the cloth—but it was enough.

  The monitors responded immediately, sharp spikes registering on the screens.

  The beeping intensified, quick and insistent, warning yet signaling life.

  The doctors didn’t flinch. They observed. One of them noted the pulse, adjusting a dial, their calmness unwavering.

  It was as if the body’s first small rebellion was expected, contained, and yet still remarkable.

  The patient remained silent, his eyes hidden from view, but the subtle movements—the twitching hand, the shift of weight, the careful breath—spoke volumes.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he touched his abdomen again, pressing lightly on the bandage, as if confirming that he was still himself, still present.

  ——————————————

  “Yes,” Rishabh said, tapping the desk once. “The boy with the bottle lodged in his abdomen. He was brought in unconscious.”

  The hospital lobby was bright in a way that felt artificial—white lights, polished floors, walls too clean to feel human.

  Rishabh leaned forward against the counter, already impatient.

  The receptionist barely looked up from her screen. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give out information about patients.”

  Rishabh inhaled sharply. Kritika stepped in, her tone firm but controlled, pressing for details—time, department, anything.

  The receptionist didn’t even look up.

  “I’ve already told you,” she said flatly, fingers tapping the keyboard, “we cannot disclose patient information.”

  Rishabh leaned forward. “You don’t understand—he was brought in bleeding out. Unconscious. Bottle in the abdomen.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” the receptionist snapped back. “Rules are rules.”

  Kritika stepped in, her voice overlapping, sharper. “We’re not asking for his medical history, we’re asking if he was here.”

  “I can’t confirm that.”

  “He could be dead,” Rishabh shot back.

  “You let someone walk out with him,” Kritika said at the same time.

  “I said I don’t know—”

  “You do know—”

  “I don’t—”

  “Stop lying—”

  Voices collided. The lobby turned.

  Rishabh slapped his palm against the counter. “We saw him on CCTV—”

  “Lower your voice!”

  “You lost him—”

  “That’s enough.”

  The receptionist slammed a button beneath the desk.

  Two security guards appeared almost immediately.

  “What’s the issue?” one of them asked.

  “They’re causing a disturbance,” the receptionist said, pointing. “Remove them.”

  Hands closed around Rishabh’s arms. Kritika protested, her words overlapping again—wait, listen, you can’t—

  They were dragged a few steps toward the exit.

  And then—

  “This is a matter of national security.”

  The sentence landed wrong.

  Too heavy. Too final.

  The guards froze mid-step.

  Rishabh pulled his arm free slowly, deliberately. He turned back to the lobby.

  Silence spread outward.

  “You have no idea,” he said, breathing hard, “what you’ve just inserted yourselves into.”

  He stepped forward, climbing onto the reception desk. Shoes squealed against polished wood.

  “He wasn’t any normal kid.”

  Kritika looked up at him sharply.

  “What?” she whispered under her breath.

  “He was a bridge,” Rishabh continued, louder now. “A controlled intermediary. Someone holding together multiple international treaties and connections.”

  Kritika’s eyes widened— she knew he’s lying.

  She saw it in his face, his body language.

  In the way he didn’t look at her.

  “And now,” Rishabh said, pacing the desk, “that bridge has been taken by the wrong side.”

  A murmur rippled through the lobby.

  Doctors stopped walking.

  Nurses paused mid-motion.

  “One man,” Rishabh went on, “long hair, suit—walked out of this building with him.”

  The guards exchanged looks.

  “And when an asset like that disappears,” Rishabh said, his voice lowering, “every location he was last seen at becomes a target.”

  His voice cracked.

  Just slightly.

  Kritika noticed it immediately.

  Rishabh swallowed, forcing the next words out. “That includes this clinic.”

  Fear began to settle.

  A nurse near the corridor slowly lifted her phone, pretending to check messages— camera aimed directly at him.

  Rishabh didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

  “By refusing to cooperate,” he said, pointing at the desk, “you’ve marked yourselves.”

  He gestured around the room.

  “Your names. Your families. Your children.”

  A receptionist’s hand trembled.

  Rishabh’s voice broke again—more obvious this time.

  “You want your kids,” he said, “who laugh all day… who sleep peacefully at night—”

  He stopped. Breathed.

  Then finished, cold and controlled.

  “—to sleep forever?”

  Someone gasped.

  “This is your choice,” Rishabh said, stepping down from the desk. “Help us.”

  Or wait.

  No one moved to stop them when they returned to the counter.

  Fear had already decided.

  ——————————————

  The chaos of the lobby faded behind them. Rishabh and Kritika now sat before the flickering CCTV monitor, eyes locked on the grainy footage of the hospital corridor.

  The receptionist lingered nearby, her expression taut with suspicion and unease, glancing nervously between them and the screens.

  On the footage, Tarun sat slumped in a wheelchair, his hoodie pulled low over his pale face. Beside him, a long-haired man in a dark suit leaned close, whispering something to him.

  The angle of the camera kept the man’s face hidden, every subtle gesture magnified, deliberate, controlled.

  Kritika’s voice cut through the quiet. “That’s… that’s the same person from the ATM.”

  Rishabh’s eyes narrowed. He leaned closer to the monitor, scrutinizing every movement, every shift in posture.

  The lines of the man’s shoulders, the tilt of his head—they were too deliberate to ignore.

  Just then, the doctor appeared at the doorway. Rishabh spoke first, urgency in his tone.

  “Doctor! What exactly happened here? What did the man do?”

  The doctor shook her head. “I… I can’t freely disclose patient information. And I also don't know much—”

  Kritika interjected sharply, almost pleading. “You don’t understand! Didn't you hear what the boy said? We need everything you saw, everything unusual!”

  The doctor exhaled, then spoke again, slower this time. “Actually… nothing much happened beyond what I already mentioned. I treated his wounds—made sure the bleeding stopped, cleaned him up. That’s it.”

  Rishabh frowned, leaning forward. “Their condition?”

  “Physique… far too good for a sixteen-year-old,” she said quietly. Her eyes drifted involuntarily toward the door.

  “And the man… long hair, always glaring at me while I worked. Never moved his eyes from him.”

  Kritika’s voice was soft but insistent. “Anything else? Something unusual? Anything at all?”

  The doctor hesitated, glancing between the two of them. “…There is one thing. I don’t know much about it. But while he was unconscious, the man whispered something. I didn’t hear it clearly.”

  Rishabh’s body stiffened. “What did he say? Tell me!”

  The doctor shook her head. “I… I couldn’t hear it properly. It was almost inaudible.”

  Disappointment settled over both kids like a heavy blanket. They exhaled in unison, ready to turn away, to leave empty-handed once again.

  Then, almost in a whisper, the doctor added, “…but one word—just one—was loud enough.”

  Rishabh froze mid-step. Kritika’s eyes snapped to her.

  The doctor leaned closer, lowering her voice to a tremor.

  “Delhi…”