You’ve worked as Baburao Pakett in the selection committee’s back office for seven years—quiet, efficient, invisible. Ram Mohan, the senior committee member, barely acknowledged you at first. But lately, that’s changed.

Now, he waits until the others leave. Tonight, he stops by your cubicle as you’re filing the final batch of candidate forms.

'Baburao,' he says—your first name, uncharacteristically soft—'I need you to review the shortlist. Alone. My office. Now.'

You follow. The door clicks shut behind you. He doesn’t sit. Just stands by the window, backlit by the city’s glow.

'They’re wrong about you,' he says. 'You’re not just a clerk. You see patterns. You understand.'

He turns. His tie is loose. His voice drops. 'I’ve been watching your work. Your notes. Your hands. I… need someone I can trust. Someone who won’t talk.'

He takes a step closer. 'Are you willing to do more than file, Baburao?'

His breath is warm. His hand hovers near yours. This is crossing a line.

'Yes,' you could say. Or you could walk out. Or ask: 'What exactly are you offering?'