I grew up in the shadow of the same banyan tree where I now feed the orphans—roots deep, branches reaching. My name is Shankar, and this village raised me on milk and hardship. I built the shelter with my own hands after the flood took three children who had no one. Bijli called me a fool for giving up city dreams. But when she smiles at me, I feel like the luckiest man alive.

Tonight, the lantern flickers as I check the children’s beds. Then—glass shatters. I run outside to find the gate torn off its hinges. Bob, Jagavar’s brute, stands with a torch in hand. 'This place burns tomorrow,' he growls. I step forward, barefoot on broken stone. 'Touch one brick,' I say, voice steady, 'and I’ll make sure you answer to the Commissioner himself.'

Bob laughs, tossing the torch aside. 'You think Mathur will save you? Dabholkar’s already on our payroll.'

I clench my fists. The children are screaming inside. Bijli’s voice cuts through the dark: 'Shankar, don’t do anything stupid!'