CHAPTER 5: THE AWAKENING

  He sent them away that evening. Priya’s sister lived in Chandigarh. Vikram packed their bags with robotic efficiency. He drove them to the railway station, not trusting the airport where names were tracked. He put them on the Shatabdi Express. Priya begged him to come with them.

  "I have to finish some work here," Vikram lied, his face a mask of calm. "I need to sell the car, close the accounts. I will come in two days. Go. Keep your phone off."

  As the train pulled away, taking his heart with it, Vikram stood on the platform until the red tail lights disappeared into the smog. He was alone.

  He drove back to the empty, wrecked apartment. He didn't clean up. He stepped over the broken glass and sat on the only remaining chair in the living room. It was dark. He didn't turn on the lights.

  He thought about the police. No. He thought about running. No. If he ran, they would find him eventually. Men like Rahul Khanna didn't forgive witnesses who fled; they took it as a challenge.

  He closed his eyes and saw the man with the scar. He saw the fear in Aanya’s eyes. He felt the phantom weight of the knife against his daughter’s throat.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Vikram stood up. He walked to the kitchen. He opened the drawer where he kept the household tools. He took out a heavy wrench. He weighed it in his hand. It felt inadequate.

  He went to his laptop. He didn't open his work email. He opened a browser and typed "Rahul Khanna Delhi". He began to dig. He was a software engineer; he knew how to find data. He trawled social media, tagged photos, check-ins. He found the profiles of the hangers-on, the low-level goons who posted photos with guns to look tough.

  It took him six hours. At 4:00 AM, he found a photo on Instagram. It was posted by a user named 'Desi_Badboy_07'. The photo was taken inside a car. In the background, visible through the window, was the entrance to Vikram’s apartment building. The caption read: "Easy work today. Scared the bird."

  Vikram zoomed in on the face. It was a young man, barely twenty-two, with dyed blonde hair. One of the men from the home invasion. Vikram recognized the tattoo on his neck—a scorpion.

  He scrolled through the feed. 'Desi_Badboy' had checked in at a bar in Munirka two hours ago. "Night is young."

  Vikram closed the laptop. He went to the bathroom and washed his face. He looked in the mirror. The man staring back wasn't the software engineer who worried about EMIs. That man had died when he saw his daughter’s terror.

  He went to the utility closet. He found a cricket bat—his old one from college, heavy English willow. He found a roll of duct tape. He put on a hoodie and a cap. He didn't take his phone.

  He walked out of the apartment, locking the door on his old life.