I never wanted the empire. I just wanted my father to look at me like I mattered.

Now, standing in his study, the scent of old paper and camphor thick in the air, I hold the document that changes everything. The will—rewritten. My name erased. Dr. Prashant’s inked beside my father’s trembling signature.

Outside, the factory whistle screams. Workers chant. Lata’s voice cuts through the noise, amplified by a megaphone: 'We want justice!'

She doesn’t know. She still trusts him.

My phone buzzes—Meera: 'They’re moving the records tonight. If we don’t act, it’s over.'

I look at the portrait of my grandfather on the wall. His eyes seem to follow me.

Do I burn the will and start a war? Do I confront Lata before she’s used? Or do I disappear—and let the empire fall?