I never thought the gavel would feel so heavy. Today, I sit not as Ravi Khanna, husband, brother, man—but as Justice Khanna, arbiter of fate. Below me, Sumit sits in the dock, his eyes hollow, his hands trembling. My wife Rama stands at the defense table, her gaze sharp, her voice steady. She doesn’t look at me. She can’t. The charges are monstrous: six murders, including Anju’s. The evidence? Circumstantial, planted, twisted. But the court doesn’t see that. The public doesn’t care. They want blood. And they want it from my family.

I glance at the prosecution. Inspector Khan presents the case with grim certainty. Sumit’s fingerprints. A witness who saw him near the last crime scene. A diary entry—‘I can’t live without her’—twisted into a confession of obsession.

But I know Sumit. He cried when a stray dog died outside our house. He carried Anju’s books every day, just to walk with her. Could grief turn him into a monster? Or is someone using his pain to hide their own?

Rama rises. ‘Your Honor,’ she says, her voice cutting through the silence, ‘the prosecution has no direct evidence. This is a witch hunt fueled by grief and power.’

I nod, but my heart pounds. I have to remain neutral. I have to.

But what if neutrality means condemning my own blood?