I never wanted war. I just wanted to see Rani smile when she walked into the classroom, chalk dust on her sari, laughter in her eyes. I worked twelve-hour shifts welding pipes just to afford a single rose for her.

But then I found the files—buried in a contractor’s office. Photos of the collapsed factory. Names of the dead. Payments to politicians. All signed by Arjun Chaurasia.

I thought truth would be enough. I was wrong.

Last night, they came for me. My neighbor, Bhaiya, died in the fire meant for me. They called it an accident. I know better. Daaga doesn’t miss. He hasn’t failed in twenty years.

Now I’m hiding in the temple basement, Tulsi watching the alley. Rani doesn’t know. Anita slipped me a note: 'He knows you have it. Run.'

But running won’t bring Bhaiya back.

My hands shake. Not from fear. From rage.

What do I do?

Do I go public—risk everything, expose the truth now?

Or do I vanish—save myself, let the truth die?

Or do I fight—find Daaga before he finds me?