The monsoon rains slash through Mumbai like knives. I stand in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp, my trench coat soaked, badge hidden beneath my shirt. They’re watching me—I can feel it. The file in my hand has names, dates, bank transfers. Proof that Shyamu didn’t just kill that journalist—he was ordered to.\n\nMy radio crackles. ‘Inspector, come in. Your wife’s at the station. She says it’s urgent.’\n\nI know what this is. A warning. A threat.\n\nI clutch the file tighter. This is it—the moment I either back down or answer my own lalkaar.\n\nDo I go to the station and play their game?\nDo I vanish into the night and fight from the shadows?\nOr do I walk straight into their trap and dare them to break me?