I remember the day my family died. I came home from the hospital, still smiling from holding my newborn niece, only to find my house burned, my parents and sister slaughtered in the street. The riot had spread like wildfire—orchestrated, I’d later learn, by the man I now serve.

Now, I drink. I obey. I kill. Bapji calls, I answer. No questions. No remorse. Or so I tell myself.

Tonight, he summoned me again. 'Narsimha,' he said, lounging in his golden chair, 'Ravi must die. His family too. His sister Anita… teach her a lesson.' I nodded, already turning away.

But when I saw her—standing in the rubble of her brother’s home, clutching a photo of their parents, refusing to cry—I froze. Something cracked inside me. For the first time in years, I felt alive.

Now I stand in the shadows outside her window, not to harm her, but to protect her. Bapji doesn’t know I’ve changed. But he will.