CHAPTER 19: "THE CELL"

  Tihar Jail, Central Prison Complex 3, smelled of urine, cheap disinfectant, and the accumulated despair of ten thousand men. Vikram sat on the hard concrete slab that served as a bed, staring at the barred window high above. A weak shaft of grey morning light filtered through, illuminating dust motes that danced like lost souls.

  He had been here for three weeks. Twenty-one days since Inspector Singh had read him his rights in the smoldering ruins of Khanna's warehouse. Twenty-one days since he had held Aanya.

  The charges were extensive: four counts of murder (Bunty, Salim, the warehouse guard, and Karan Malhotra—though the CBI had killed Karan, the public prosecutor was "reviewing" that detail), illegal possession of a firearm, breaking and entering, assault. The list went on.

  His cellmate, a forger named Pappu who had been in Tihar for six years, sat cross-legged on his own slab, shuffling a deck of worn cards.

  "You are that Khanna guy, haan?" Pappu said, his betel-stained teeth showing in a grin. "The software engineer who went full Bhagat Singh on the gang? Bhai, you are famous inside here. Respect."

  Vikram said nothing. Fame was worthless. He wanted to see his daughter. He wanted to smell Priya's hair. He wanted to rewind time to before he witnessed that murder, before Bunty knocked on his door, before his life became a crime thriller.

  But time, like innocence, moved in only one direction.

  The clanging of metal bars echoed through the corridor. A guard appeared. "Sharma. Visitor."

  Vikram stood, his heart leaping. Priya?

  But it wasn't Priya. In the dingy visitor room, separated by a scratched plexiglass partition, sat Arjun Mehra. The journalist looked older, more tired. He picked up the phone on his side. Vikram picked up his.

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  "How are you holding up?" Arjun asked.

  "I'm in jail," Vikram said flatly. "How do you think?"

  "I've hired a lawyer for you. Advocate Meera Kapoor. She's one of the best criminal defense attorneys in Delhi. Expensive, but I'm covering it. Call it... payment for bringing down Khanna."

  Vikram felt a strange mix of gratitude and numbness. "Thank you. But I killed people, Arjun. Four people. Self-defense only covers so much."

  "Meera is building a defense around duress, systemic failure of law enforcement, and extreme provocation. The fact that the CBI found evidence implicating Khanna in seventeen unsolved murders helps. You're a victim who fought back. That narrative matters."

  "How is... how is my family?"

  Arjun's face softened. "Priya and Aanya are staying with her parents in Chandigarh. She hasn't brought Aanya to visit because... Vikram, this place is traumatic for a child. But Priya sends letters. The guard will give them to you."

  Vikram closed his eyes. He imagined Aanya in Chandigarh, away from the violence, away from the nightmares. It was better this way. It had to be.

  "Rakesh Khanna?" he asked.

  "In custody. High-security wing, separate from general population. The trial is moving forward. He's facing MCOCA charges—organized crime, murder, extortion, corruption. The evidence you provided is ironclad. He's done."

  "Then why doesn't it feel like victory?"

  Arjun looked at him through the plexiglass, his eyes understanding. "Because victory costs, Vikram. It always does."

  After Arjun left, Vikram returned to his cell. The guard handed him a bundle of letters, tied with string. He sat on his bunk and opened the first one. It was from Priya.

  My dearest Vikram,

  I don't know where to start. I'm angry. I'm terrified. I'm heartbroken. You lied to me. You killed people. You became someone I don't recognize. But...

  But I understand why. I hate that I understand. They would have killed us. You did what you had to do. I just wish you had trusted me enough to tell me. We could have run. We could have found another way.

  Aanya asks about you every day. I tell her you're working on a big project. She's too young to understand jail. I don't know how long I can keep lying.

  The lawyer says you might get 10-15 years. Reduced sentence for cooperation. That's a lifetime, Vikram. Aanya will be 23 when you get out. I'll be... I'll be old.

  I don't know if i can wait that long. I don't know if it's fair to ask Aanya to grow up without a father who's present.

  But I also don't know how to stop loving you. I'm so tired, Vikram. So, so tired.

  Please write back. Tell me there's hope. Tell me we can survive this. Yours, always—Priya

  Vikram read the letter three times. Then he folded it carefully and held it against his chest. He lay back on the hard bunk, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time since his arrest, he wept.