The street outside the liquor shop looked like it was about to collapse into itself.

  Men crowded around the rusted shutters, fists slamming against metal, voices overlapping into a single, desperate roar.

  Some shouted for alcohol, others for money, others for nothing at all—just noise, hunger, frustration spilling into the open.

  From a distance, it could have passed as a riot. From closer up, it was worse. It was need.

  Most of them weren't purely addicted.

  They were just people who ran out of better habits.

  A few metres away from the chaos, Yug stood still— leaning against a cracked wall, his posture loose but alert.

  One hand rested inside his pocket. The other held his crutch, angled slightly into the ground. He looked out of place there— too quiet, too observant— like someone waiting for the exact wrong moment.

  His eyes never left the centre of the crowd.

  He didn't judge them. He just counted how close he already was.

  There, louder than everyone else, was the drunk man— the same man Yug had seen in the slum.

  His hair was matted, his clothes stained, his voice hoarse as he shoved and cursed his way forward.

  He screamed at the shopkeeper, at the men beside him, at the air itself.

  The crowd pressed tighter, tempers flaring, bodies colliding.

  And then, someone shoved him hard from behind.

  The man stumbled, lost his balance, and was thrown out of the mass like discarded trash.

  He crashed onto the pavement near Yug, coughing, laughing, swearing all at once.

  As he pushed himself up, still muttering incoherent abuse, something cold touched his vision.

  A bottle.

  Fresh. Sealed. Full.

  The man froze.

  He lifted his head slowly.

  Yug stood in front of him, holding the bottle out at eye level.

  “Looks like you need it,” Yug said quietly.

  The man stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing.

  He snatched the bottle like it could disappear at any moment, uncorked it with shaking hands, and chugged it in one long, greedy pull.

  Yug knew it would work— he knew desperation would listen better than joy or pleasure.

  Liquor spilled down his chin, soaking into his shirt, but he did not stop until the bottle was empty.

  When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Yug again.

  The drink didn't calm him down, but rather gave his panic something to hold on.

  There was nothing in his eyes now but want.

  Yug smiled faintly.

  “Come,” he said. “I’ve got more.”

  That was all it took.

  The man thanked him over and over again, words tumbling over each other, and followed Yug without hesitation.

  Yug turned and walked, guiding him away from the shop, away from the noise, towards quieter streets— towards the Sector 17 Police Station.

  The alley narrowed as they moved closer.

  Just then, a police officer stepped out of the station entrance, adjusted his helmet, got onto his scooter, and rode off down the road.

  The drunk man’s steps slowed. His laughter faded. Finally, the man stopped walking.

  Understanding hit him like a slap.

  His face twisted, suspicion snapping into rage. He shoved Yug hard in the chest, nearly knocking him off balance.

  “What is this?” he slurred.

  The alley was too tight for distance.

  There were no clean punches— only desperate, ugly movement. Hands grabbed at clothes. Bodies slammed into walls.

  Yug was shoved, pulled, dragged forward as he tried to calm the man, his voice firm but restrained.

  In the struggle, Yug’s crutch was knocked from his grip. It clattered against the concrete.

  For a moment, Yug didn’t reach for it.

  He moved on instinct instead—sidestepping, ducking, enduring—his leg aching but holding.

  The drunk man lunged wildly, breath reeking of alcohol, swinging with no rhythm, no control— until spotted a loose brick near the wall.

  The next thing the man did was choosing carelessness over rage.

  He grabbed it.

  He raised it over his head.

  And it was in the air the following moment.

  Yug barely dodged as it came crashing down where his skull had been a second earlier.

  The impact shattered the brick, fragments skidding across the alley floor.

  That was it.

  There was no other option remaining.

  Yug reached down, grabbed his fallen crutch, and swung it with everything he had.

  The impact landed clean.

  The man dropped instantly.

  Silence swallowed the alley.

  Yug stood there, chest rising and falling heavily, staring down at the unconscious body.

  His grip tightened around the crutch as the adrenaline drained from his limbs.

  For a few seconds, he did nothing— just stood there, breathing, thinking.

  He just looked up.

  ——————————————

  The main branch of 'Jindal Banks and Services' moved like a living machine.

  Keyboards clicked in uneven rhythms. Printers hummed. A queue formed and dissolved at the counters.

  Somewhere, a counting machine rattled endlessly, swallowing stacks of notes and spitting them back out with mechanical indifference.

  And in the middle of it all, Vivek sat at one of the desks like a body that hadn’t caught up with its own survival.

  His shoulders sagged forward. His elbows rested on the table, fingers loosely interlocked. Dark circles clung beneath his eyes like stains that wouldn’t wash off.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He stared at the surface of the desk without really seeing it, breathing slowly, shallow— running on fumes.

  A bank employee stood a few feet away, holding a tablet.

  “Sir,” the man said quietly. “We managed to trace one of the transaction IDs.”

  Vivek lifted his eyes with effort.

  “It routed through a regional authorization server,” the employee continued. “Lucknow.”

  Vivek nodded once.

  Not because he understood— but because nodding was easier than asking again.

  The words passed through him without settling.

  At that moment, the glass doors slid open.

  And Rishabh walked in.

  His steps were slower than usual, posture slightly slouched, the sharpness in his eyes dulled by exhaustion— but still present.

  He scanned the room once before spotting Vivek and moving toward him.

  Rishabh dropped into the chair opposite him like a collapsing body.

  “How did you even convince them?” he asked, voice low, tired. “Banks don’t do favors.”

  Vivek let out a weak, breathless chuckle. “A lot of pleading,” he said. “A lot of explaining. And… promising that we’re not asking for anything illegal.”

  He paused, rubbing his eyes.

  “They agreed to check only what’s allowed. Stuff that can guide us. Nothing more.”

  Rishabh nodded slowly. “And?”

  Vivek hesitated. “…I don’t actually understand what they’re doing.”

  The employee returned, having overheard the last line.

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” he asked— not mockingly, just matter-of-fact.

  Vivek looked up at him awkwardly, almost embarrassed. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  So the man pulled a chair and sat.

  “When someone withdraws money from an ATM,” he began, calm and procedural, “the machine doesn’t just hand it out. First, it sends an authorization request to a server.”

  Rishabh leaned back slightly. “Yeah, I know that part.”

  “I don’t,” Vivek cut in immediately, sharper than intended.

  Rishabh sighed, lifting a hand. “Go on, please.”

  The employee nodded.

  “That authorization request carries a transaction ID. Think of it like a fingerprint. Every step the transaction takes gets logged under that ID.”

  He tapped the tablet, pointing at the currently tracked transaction ID.

  “Now, depending on the bank and load, the request goes to a server. We can’t see who withdrew the money, or why— but we can see where the authorization came from.”

  Vivek frowned. “And the receipt? We're not sure if it's from the same person.”

  “If the receipt exists,” the man said carefully, “it makes matching easier. If not, we still have logs but it will take a really long time. Cross-verification, you know.”

  Vivek nodded slowly now, understanding just enough to feel the weight of it.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “A week,” the employee replied. “For all of them.”

  A week felt generous only to people who weren't missing anyone.

  Vivek exhaled.

  “Thank you,” he said, sincere, drained.

  The employee smiled, stood and walked away, disappearing back into the rhythm of the bank.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then Rishabh leaned forward.

  “We found something,” he said. “Might be important.”

  Vivek looked up.

  “The doctor,” Rishabh continued. “The one who treated Tarun. She heard the man who brought him say one word.”

  He paused.

  “Delhi.”

  Vivek didn’t react.

  No widened eyes. No spark.

  He just nodded again, slower this time, like his body was cataloging information for later— if later ever came.

  Silence stretched between them, unreasonable and heavy.

  Then Vivek finally spoke, voice barely above a murmur.

  “Kritika was with you… right?”

  Rishabh looked at him.

  “Where is she?”

  ——————————————

  Kritika stood in front of a small house.

  It didn’t look abandoned, but it didn’t feel lived in either— as if life had paused midway and forgotten to return.

  She knocked.

  Once.

  Then again.

  The sound echoed hollowly through the narrow lane. No footsteps. No reply.

  Just the knock answering itself.

  She knocked harder this time.

  Nothing.

  She had been waiting for a long time— so much that her patience had given up.

  After a moment of hesitation, she pushed the door.

  It opened.

  Slowly.

  The house smelled stale— not of neglect, but of waiting. Inside, a woman sat curled into herself in the corner of the room, her face buried in her palms, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

  Beside her, in a small wooden crib, a baby girl slept peacefully— unaware of the weight hanging in the air.

  Kritika’s chest tightened.

  She wasn't afraid of what she would hear.

  She was afraid of what she already knew.

  She had seen the guard’s name in the records. His address. His duty logs.

  And now she was here— standing inside his house.

  With his wife.

  With his daughter.

  But without him.

  Kritika cleared her throat softly, careful not to wake the child. Her voice came out hesitant, restrained.

  “I… I know this may not be the right time,” she said, “but where is he—”

  She didn’t get to finish.

  “My husband,” the woman said suddenly, lifting her face. Her eyes were swollen, red, hollow.

  “He’s been missing for days.”

  Her voice cracked. “The police filed an FIR. They said they’re searching. But nothing— nothing is helping.”

  Kritika swallowed.

  “Did he have duty at Silver Oak Academy?” she asked quietly.

  If she was wrong of what she thought, she would just apologise.

  But if she was right, none of the apologies would matter anymore.

  The woman’s head snapped up.

  “Yes,” she said instantly— hope flickering like a dying bulb. “That was his last shift. That night… he didn't come back.”

  She stood up halfway, desperation spilling into her voice.

  “Do you know something? Do you know where he is?”

  Kritika couldn’t meet her eyes.

  She looked down instead.

  Her silence stretched— tense, unbearable.

  Because she knew.

  She knew that some answers didn’t come with closure.

  That some men didn’t return.

  That some disappearances weren’t accidents.

  A daughter might have already lost her father.

  A wife might have already lost the man she waited for every night.

  Because Tarun hadn’t been taken randomly.

  It had been planned.

  Planned carefully.

  Planned quietly.

  Planned to the point where even a security guard— a man whose only mistake was being on duty— was erased.

  Somewhere no one would ever think to look.

  ——————————————

  The television flickered, casting a dim, chaotic light across the room.

  Looney Tunes ran their frantic loops of slipping, crashing, and squealing, a world laughing itself.

  The sound was ridiculous, exaggerated—but it did nothing to disturb him.

  He sat on the sofa, bare-chested, pants loosely hanging, bandages still wrapping his torso. Muscles tensed and relaxed like steel springs, yet his eyes were hollow, scanning nothing and everything at once.

  The chaos on screen was irrelevant.

  A bottle sat on the side table.

  Without any hesitation, he grabbed it, shaking out pills that tumbled like small stones.

  He put handful after handful into his mouth, chewing as if the pills were candy, as if life itself had no meaning and nothing could touch him.

  Just then, a soft click from the doorway broke the silence.

  A man in a crisp suit entered, the sound of polished shoes sharp against the floor.

  He leaned against the frame, arms folded, voice measured but not cold.

  "It’s not meant to be eaten like that. Too much… it can harm you."

  The patient didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at him.

  "Doesn’t matter," he said, voice flat, indifferent.

  The suited man exhaled, a slow, deliberate release of tension, and placed a crisp, neatly folded suit on the table nearby.

  He spoke again, softer now, like laying down a law instead of a request.

  "Wear it when you come out. We need to go."

  Without another word, the man left.

  The door’s click echoed faintly, a punctuation mark on the quiet.

  The person remained silent, still chewing, still distant, the folded suit waiting silently on the table— an unspoken tether to the outside world he used to be a part of.

  ——————————————

  The drunkard’s eyelids fluttered open, the dim light of the basement slicing across his bloodshot eyes. The smell of stale alcohol and damp concrete hit him first, then the sight of Yug, slumped in a chair across the room, dozing lightly, the crutch leaning forgotten against the wall.

  His lips trembled. “Wha… what’s… happening?” he slurred, voice thick and unsteady.

  Yug stirred immediately at the sound, eyes snapping open. He pushed a fresh bottle of liquor toward the man. The drunkard lunged eagerly— but froze as he realized his hands and legs were tightly tied to the chair.

  Yug smiled faintly, calm and calculating. “Before you touch that, we need your help.”

  For a moment, the man just stared, disbelief mingling with defiance. Then he laughed— a harsh, broken sound. “Help? I… I don’t need help! Gimme the bottle first!”

  And so began the waiting game.

  ——————————————

  Day One

  Gimme… gimme the… the bottle! I… I’ll… I’ll… I’ll talk, I swear! Swear!”

  He slurred, leaning forward with all his drunken bravado.

  Yug ignored him, watching quietly. The silence in the basement stretched, oppressive, like a weight pressing down.

  Day Two

  “I… I… I dunno… nuthin’! Leave… leave me… leave me alone, you… cheaters!”

  His voice bounced off the walls, and he kicked against the chair in frustration.

  Vivek watched from the corner, silent, the growing irritation flickering in his eyes.

  Day Three

  “Why… why… I should… should I… tell? You… you kidnapped me! I… I ain’t… I ain’t sayin’ nuthin’!”

  The words came out sharp— the man’s pride puffing up to cover the cracks of fear he hadn’t even admitted to himself.

  Yug stayed motionless, eyes following every twitch of the drunkard’s expression. He leaned over the wall rather than the crutch— he didn't notice how it slid out of need.

  Day Four

  “I… I dunno… nuthin’! Nothin’… I… I ain’t seen nuthin’! I swear… swear!”

  His defiance was fading, replaced by confusion and exhaustion.

  Kritika’s jaw clenched slightly. The monotonous repetition, the waste of time, the disrespect in every slurred word— they were mounting.

  Day Five

  “Eh… eh… bottle first! Gimme… gimme… somethin’… just… jus’ a sip… I’ll… I’ll talk, I promise… I swear!”

  He laughed, a weak, bitter sound. The basement felt smaller now, the air thick with tension, alcohol, and stale sweat.

  Rishabh shifted, pacing slightly, his patience thinning and drowsiness faltering.

  Day Six

  “Go… go… go away! I… I don’t care… you… do… what you… you do! Leave me… alone!”

  His voice cracked, but still carried defiance— a thin, irritating line he held onto.

  Kritika’s eyes flared. She could feel the anger bubbling up, the need to snap— he had to be shaken out of himself.

  ——————————————

  By the seventh day, the drunkard had become almost part of the basement itself— stumbling, muttering, laughing, and cursing at invisible enemies.

  Outside, the city of Lucknow moved like nothing ever happened.

  But inside, the group was tired of doing the same thing for a week.

  Every day had been the same question.

  “Who were the people you saw that night?”

  And every day, the same cowardly, pathetic response.

  Kritika moved forward, her steps slow, deliberate, almost theatrical.

  She stopped in front of the chair by the door to the second basement.

  For a moment, she didn't feel anything.

  She took a step back, breathing too fast, like the room started to shrink.

  “There’s a lot of bottles beyond this door,” she said softly, with a surprising smile on her face.

  The drunkard’s eyes lit up, a foolish smile spreading across his face too. He leaned forward, greed and drunken hope blurring his vision. Kritika unlocked the door and allowed his hand to slip through, freedom seemingly granted.

  Then— slam.

  Her hand crushed his wrist against the doorframe, hard.

  Repeatedly. Red bloomed across his skin, the pain breaking through the haze of alcohol.

  The drunkard gasped, eyes wide with shock, trying to pull back.

  “Wha… hey… stop it!” he slurred, helpless.

  Yug stirred from his doze instantly, leaning back, eyes wide at what he saw— he wasn't even able to interrupt.

  Kritika’s voice rose, sharp and controlled, slicing through his drunken bravado.

  “You think you’re untouchable, huh? You think you can lie, cheat, laugh at everyone, and nothing will happen?”

  Her tone softened only to hit harder, more personal. “Your family. Your kids. Your wife. Do you even hear yourself? Every day you’ve laughed, every day you’ve mocked… and they’ve been at risk!”

  The man’s chest heaved.

  His eyes glistened, the haze of alcohol finally receding under the weight of harsh reality.

  He could not lie, could not run. His ego, inflated and fragile, shattered under her words.

  Kritika struck him again, each hit precise, not too brutal, but enough to make him feel, to make the pain real.

  The man shouted for his life— until he finally went silent, trembling, his ego shattered, his drunken veil stripped away.

  “You… shouldn’t hang out with Rishabh this much,” Yug muttered, a mixture of disbelief and quiet admiration threading his words.

  The basement hung in uneasy silence.

  The drunkard’s sobs were soft, but of real fear.

  Crying stopped being a weakness for him.

  It turned out to be the last thing he had left.

  Kritika stood above him, breath steady, the quiet storm after days of tension.

  She wiped her hand on her pants.

  It was still shaking.

  Finally, he was awake— not just from the alcohol, but from the cowardice, from the false reality he’d wrapped himself in.

  ——————————————

  The basement felt heavy, air thick with the lingering smell of alcohol and sweat.

  All four— Yug, Kritika, Rishabh, and Vivek— stood in front of the drunkard, bodies tense, eyes fixed on him.

  The man, still cradling his reddened hand, flinched under their gaze, his pride long gone, fear now taking its place.

  “I… I’m ready,” he muttered finally, voice shaky, hesitant. His eyes darted nervously toward Kritika before lowering again. “I’ll… I’ll tell you everything I saw.”

  He coughed, groaning from the pain, but began anyway. “That night… I was carrying some bottles… heading home. Just… just then… a big black car… came right at me. Almost hit me.”

  His hands shook as he gestured, though tied, and his voice quivered. “I shouted… shouted at it… but… no one… no one responded.”

  Yug’s jaw tightened. Rishabh leaned in, silently urging him forward.

  The drunkard’s voice cracked as he continued. “Some… some men… they got out… went into a house.” He paused, swallowing hard.

  The group’s eyes followed every twitch of his face, the silence in the basement almost deafening.

  Rishabh asked carefully, “The person… who did they take?”

  The man’s lips curled into a weak, involuntary smile, and he slurred, “Bottle first.”

  Vivek passed him a new bottle. Instantly, the man chugged it down, greed and habit intertwined, like air itself depended on it.

  Between gulps, he spat out, “The boy… he was wearing a hoodie… covering his face… walking slowly.”

  The group exchanged glances.

  Tension thickened, the basement closing in on them.

  The drunkard’s hand twitched, still throbbing from the earlier punishment, yet he didn’t flinch from continuing.

  He drank the few last drops of the bottle, swallowing furiously, then muttered, almost as an afterthought, “And… did I mention… the men… wore suits?”

  The detail changed everything.

  Suits— that meant permission.

  Black cars. Men in suits. Delhi.

  It was no longer a mystery anymore— it was a warning knocking into each one of their souls.