I stand in the ruins of a bakery in a Mumbai slum, the air thick with ash and silence. Peter D’Souza was more than a cadet—he was the son I never had, forged in fire and discipline. Now he’s dead. Murdered by thugs for refusing to bow.

The neighbors whisper, but no one will speak. Not to the police. Not to the press. Fear has eaten their souls.

I found his letter just yesterday—inviting me to his wedding. He wanted me to witness his happiness. Instead, I’m standing at his grave, staring at the bloodstains on the pavement.

Kiran, his neighbor, finally told me everything. How he fought until the end. How no one helped.

I tried the law. I went to the station. I called the media. They asked for proof. For witnesses. As if a man’s life is only worth something when others are brave enough to see it.

But I’ve seen enough.

Tonight, I find the men who did this. And I make them remember what fear feels like.

The system wants rules. I want justice.

What do I do next?