CHAPTER 3: THE WARNING

  Monday morning dawned grey and heavy with smog. Vikram hadn't slept. He had sat in the living room all night, a kitchen knife on the coffee table, watching the door. Every creak of the elevator, every barking dog made him jump. But nothing happened.

  By morning, the rational part of his brain began to argue with the fear. Maybe they didn't see the license plate. It was dark. Maybe they won't bother chasing a nobody. He had to go to work. If he didn't go, it would look suspicious. Normality was his best camouflage.

  He took a different route to the office, changing metros three times. He reached his cubicle in Noida, his eyes red-rimmed, his body vibrating with caffeine and anxiety. The fluorescent lights of the office felt exposing.

  At 11:30 AM, his internal phone rang. "Vikram, there are some visitors for you at the reception," the receptionist said. "They say they are from the insurance company."

  Vikram froze. He hadn't called any insurance company. "Tell them I'm busy."

  "They are insisting, sir. They say it's about your car... the hatchback. DL 3C AB

  4921."

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  They had the number. They had found him.

  Vikram felt the blood drain from his face. If he ran, they would hunt him. If he went down... maybe he could talk his way out. He walked to the elevator, his legs

  feeling like lead.

  In the lobby, two men sat on the plush leather sofa. They didn't look like gangsters from a movie. They wore crisp shirts and trousers, looking like mid-level managers. But when the older one stood up, Vikram saw the callousness in his eyes. It was the man with the scar—the one who had banged on his window.

  "Vikram ji," the man said, smiling. It was a shark's smile. "We need to discuss your policy."

  He guided Vikram outside, toward the smoking area, away from the guards. The second man moved behind Vikram, close enough that Vikram could feel the heat of his body.

  "You saw something yesterday," the scarred man said softly, lighting a cigarette. "Something that wasn't for your eyes."

  "I didn't see anything," Vikram stammered. "I swear. I just... I heard a noise and got scared. I didn't see anyone's face."

  The man blew smoke into Vikram's face. "Smart man. Keep it that way. Rahul bhai is very upset. He doesn't like loose ends. But I told him, Vikram ji is a family man. He lives in Lajpat Nagar, flat 302. His daughter Aanya goes to St. Mary's School, bus route number 4."

  The world tilted on its axis. Vikram grabbed the man’s arm. "Please. Leave my family out of this. I won't speak. I'll die before I say a word."

  The man flicked the ash off his cigarette onto Vikram's shoe. "We know you won't speak. Because if you do... if you even think about going to the police... accidents happen. Buses lose brakes. Schools catch fire. Little girls disappear."

  He stepped closer, patting Vikram’s cheek. "Forget Sunday happened. Go back to your computer. Be a good citizen."

  They walked away, merging into the office crowd. Vikram stood there, shivering in the heat. He wanted to go to the police station across the road. He looked at it—the crumbling yellow building. He saw a constable outside, laughing, taking a bribe from a truck driver. He remembered the stories. The Khannas owned half the police force.

  Going to the police wasn't a solution. It was a death sentence. He was alone.