I remember the night Vijay Shrivastav took me in. I was twelve, covered in blood, standing over my father’s body. He arrived in a black sedan, umbrella raised against the rain, and said only: 'You’re coming with me. You’ll learn to win wars without firing a shot.'

Now, twenty years later, I sit across from him in his dimly lit study, the air thick with sandalwood and secrets. The TV plays footage of Arvind Malhotra—the firebrand leader threatening to expose everything. Files lie between us. One bears my name.

'You know what must be done,' he says, voice gravelly. 'Infiltrate his circle. Gain his trust. Then dismantle him from within.'

I hesitate. 'What if he’s right? What if the system is rotten?'

Vijay stands, walks to the window. 'The system is what we make it. I made it. And I’ll unmake it if I have to.' He turns, eyes burning 'But you… you could save it differently. If you’re willing to pay the price.'

He opens the file. Inside: a photo of Malhotra’s daughter. My next assignment?