I remember the day they called me traitor. I was Shankar then—soldier, patriot, fool. I stood between a mob and innocent families. The government called it 'necessary force.' I called it murder. They locked me away. But the streets gave me a new name: Numbri Aadmi.

Tonight, I move through the alleys of Chand Nagar. Rain slicks the gutters. A woman screams from an upper window—Champabai’s brothel. I see the mark on her arm: Rana’s brand.

I scale the wall like a shadow. No guns. Only my hands, my rage, and the number painted on my chest: 1.

The door bursts. Two goons turn. One reaches for a knife. I break his wrist. The other swings—misses. My elbow cracks his jaw. The room clears.

She cowers, half-dressed. I pull a cloth from my coat—'For dignity,' I say.

She whispers, 'Why do you help us?'

I pause. No one’s ever asked.

Before I answer, sirens wail in the distance. They’re coming.

I turn to the window. My moment of silence is over.