Niyati rolled onto her side and stretched a hand toward the nightstand, fingers groping blindly for the water bottle. As she pushed herself upright, a sharp pain flared along her neck.

She hissed, instinctively clenching her fingers.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered.

Her gaze flicked to the nightstand. The bottle lay there, dry and useless.

“Great. Just great,” she added, irritation threading through the exhaustion.

With a tired sigh, she swung her legs off the bed and headed downstairs, her steps quiet against the sleeping house. In the kitchen, she filled a glass and drank deeply, the cool water easing the dryness in her throat.

Mid-sip, she froze.

A muffled voice drifted through the stillness.

Niyati lowered the glass slowly, listening. The sound came again, faint but unmistakable. She set the glass down and moved toward the hallway, her steps light, deliberate. With every pace, the voices sharpened, words separating themselves from the hush until she could finally make them out.

Srenik was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together.

“Surya. Aryahi,” he said evenly. “This case is big. Bigger than the ones you’ve handled so far.”

He let that sink in before continuing.

“You don’t have to agree to work on it just because someone told you to. You’re not part of a rigid organisation where orders are followed without question.” His gaze moved between them, steady and assessing. “You’re allowed to say no. And if you believe you’re not ready for something of this scale, there’s no shame in acknowledging your limits.”

Silence settled over the room, thick and watchful.

Behind him, Niyati’s hands curled into fists. She stepped forward, stopping just a pace behind Srenik. She didn’t speak, but her presence shifted the air, quiet and unmistakable.

“We may not have worked on cases as big as the ones you’re talking about, Srenik,” Surya said at last, his voice calm, “but we don’t follow anyone blindly.”

“He held Srenik’s gaze, unflinching.

“Samira could have said yes on her own. But she didn’t. She asked for our consent first. She agreed to work with you only after we said yes.”

His voice remained calm, but there was weight behind it now.

“She always asks us. Every time. If even one of us refuses, she doesn’t take the case. She never forces anyone. She asks once, and she respects the answer—even if it’s no. That’s who Samira is.”

A brief pause.

“You spoke about our capabilities,” Surya continued, firmer now. “You wouldn’t be standing here if you didn’t believe in them.”

Surya stepped forward, his tone sharpening just enough to cut.

“And I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re testing our teamwork, our trust, and the respect we have for one another.”

His eyes didn’t waver.

“But let me make one thing very clear, Srenik. I don’t tolerate anything against Samira, Aryahi, or Niyati.”

Srenik exhaled slowly.

“I understand,” he said after a moment. “And I’m sorry.”

Niyati slowly unclenched her fists.

“Wait,” she said sharply, stepping forward now, her presence cutting through the room. “A case? What case are you talking about?” Her gaze snapped to Srenik. “And you—what exactly are you doing here?”

“I’m here because I’m working on the case too, Niyati,” Srenik replied calmly. “In fact, we’re all working together. As a team.”

“You and I?” Niyati scoffed. “Working together? Impossible.”

Srenik’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “It’s very much possible.”

“Don’t push your luck, Srenik. Not after the stunt you pulled at the club.” She moved closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “How dare you knock me out?”

“Oh, come on,” he said lightly. “I saved your ass.”

“I could’ve handled it better than you,” she snapped.

“Really?” He leaned back in the armchair, far too relaxed, studying her. “By saying you lost your way? Or that you were drunk?”

Her jaw tightened.

“Because if those were your excuses,” he went on evenly, “you might want to rethink them. There was a digital lock on the door. How does a supposedly drunk, lost woman gain access to a secured control room?” He tilted his head slightly. “Meanwhile, I got you out without triggering a single alarm.”

Niyati let out an annoyed huff.

“Unasked help isn’t appreciated,” she said flatly. “And talking to you is pointless. I’ll speak to whoever I need to.”

She turned on her heel and walked away.

Srenik chuckled, entirely unbothered.

“You’re welcome, Niyati,” he called after her. “If that’s your way of saying thanks.”

He shook his head, a faint smile lingering as he watched her go.

“That’s exactly the Niyati I knew,” he murmured to himself. “Hasn’t changed one bit.”

“You speak like you know her well,” Aryahi said, her gaze sharp and assessing.

Srenik’s lips curved slightly, the expression more thoughtful than amused.

“Hm. It would be presumptuous of me to claim I know her well,” he replied. “Let’s just say I know her… a little.”

“A little, you say?” Aryahi remarked. “Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like the two of you get along very well either.”

Srenik let out a soft chuckle. “You got me,” he admitted, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

Aryahi studied him for a moment, curiosity sharpening her tone. “So what’s the story, Srenik?” she asked. “How exactly do the two of you even know each other?”

“Do you remember the senior citizens’ scam during the pandemic?” he asked.

Aryahi nodded. “Yes. It caused severe backlash—people were furious with the police and the judicial system for letting the criminals walk free.”

She paused, then looked at him more closely. “But why bring it up now?”

“I led that investigation,” he said. “Niyati was part of my team.”

That caught her attention.

“At first, it looked like a typical financial scam,” he continued. “Small amounts. Clean paperwork. No obvious trail. But once we dug deeper, a pattern started to emerge.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice steady but intent.

“The targets were always the same. Elderly people living alone. Physically challenged. No immediate family nearby. Vulnerable in ways that didn’t show up on a spreadsheet.”

Aryahi listened in silence.

“So we built a profile,” he went on. “Compiled a list of individuals who fit the criteria and put them under surveillance. Not because we suspected them—but because we knew someone would come for them.”

He paused.

“And when you strip it down, only two kinds of people had consistent, unquestioned access to those victims,” he said. “Social workers and caretakers.”

His eyes hardened just a fraction.

“That’s where we shifted our focus.”

“Two names kept surfacing,” he continued. “Again and again.”

The room had gone still.

“Every time we cross-checked the list of social workers and caretakers connected to the victims, the same two names appeared. Vinod, a caretaker. Sudheer, a social worker.”

He paused, letting the names settle.

“Then Niyati found the break we needed.” A faint shift in his tone gave it away. “Multiple insurance policies had been taken out in the names of elderly victims. Legal on paper. Cleanly filed.”

Aryahi’s brow furrowed.

“The nominee on every single policy,” he continued, “was Sudheer on some—and Vinod on the rest.”

He leaned back slightly.

“When we verified it with the victims themselves, none of them had any idea such policies even existed. They hadn’t signed anything knowingly. They hadn’t named any nominee.”

Silence stretched.

“On that basis, we took Vinod and Sudheer into custody,” he said. “At first, they said nothing. Not a word. Just denial and blank stares.”

His lips curved, humorless.

“So we increased our hospitality.”

That earned a flicker of understanding.

“They cracked,” he continued. “Eventually. But what they confessed to didn’t add up. The scale was too large. The coordination too precise.”

He leaned forward again, voice hardening.

“You don’t pull something like this off alone. So we asked the obvious question. Who were they working for?”

He exhaled slowly.

“That’s when the picture finally became clear.”

“What is it?” Surya asked.

Srenik let out a slow breath, as if the name itself tasted foul.

“Yogeshwar,” he said. “Manager at We Care For You Life Insurance.”

That landed hard.

“They were working on his orders. Vinod and Sudheer didn’t choose the victims on their own. Yogeshwar did.” His voice remained steady, but something colder edged in. “He instructed them to gather detailed information on specific elderly individuals. Living alone. No immediate family. Limited mobility. Medical dependencies.”

Aryahi felt a chill crawl up her spine.

“They collected everything. Habits. Health conditions. Financial details. Who visited. Who didn’t.” He paused. “All of it went straight to Yogeshwar.”

Surya frowned. “And then?”

“Then Yogeshwar gave them a list,” he continued. “Names already selected. Targets already marked. Vinod and Sudheer were ordered to get close to the people on that list. Build trust. Become indispensable.”

He leaned forward.

“Once that closeness was established, they convinced the victims to sign insurance policies. Not openly. Always under false pretenses. A government welfare scheme. A pension upgrade. Emergency benefits.”

Aryahi clenched her jaw.

“The nominee on every policy,” he said quietly, “was either Vinod or Sudheer.”

Silence pressed in.

“Then one case broke the illusion,” he went on. “An elderly man named Somanath Rao. Lived alone. No family. No one to ask questions.”

Surya’s voice was low. “He died.”

“Yes.” His eyes darkened. “And the insurance was claimed almost immediately. Vinod was listed as the nominee.”

The implication settled like ash.

“That’s when we realised this wasn’t just fraud,” he said. “They weren’t waiting for people to die.”

Aryahi swallowed.

“They killed the single elderly targets,” he said flatly. “And on Yogeshwar’s orders, the bodies were taken to electric crematoriums. Fast. Clean. Minimal scrutiny.”

Surya’s fists tightened.

“The deaths were reported as natural,” he continued. “Convincing enough. Old age. Existing conditions. No family to demand post-mortems. No one to object.”

He fell silent for a moment.

“That’s how they got away with it,” he finished. “By turning vulnerability into a business model.”

“But I don’t understand,” Aryahi said, her voice tightening. “How did the court let them walk free? This is serious. People died.”

Srenik exhaled slowly. “We produced Vinod, Sudheer, and Yogeshwar before the court,” he said. “When the judge asked them whether they pleaded guilty…”

“Don’t tell me they flipped the story,” Surya cut in.

Srenik nodded.

Surya shut his eyes, anger flashing across his face as he cursed under his breath.

“What did they say?” Aryahi asked quietly.

“They claimed their confessions were forced,” Srenik replied. “Police torture. Coercion. They said everything they confessed to was fabricated. According to them, they had done nothing.”

“What the hell?” Aryahi snapped.

“That wasn’t the worst of it,” Srenik said grimly. “The public prosecutor argued they were lying and submitted all the evidence we had collected. But their defence lawyer…”

He paused, jaw tightening.

“He asked the court how we could accuse his clients of murdering elderly people for insurance money when we couldn’t even establish a crime. No bodies. No direct proof of homicide. He argued that the deaths were natural and produced death certificates to support it.”

Silence hung heavy.

“We were at a serious disadvantage,” Srenik said. “We didn’t have conclusive proof that the insurance money had been claimed by them. The insurance company refused to cooperate without a warrant. And the court declined to issue one, stating there wasn’t sufficient evidence linking the insurance company to the accused.”

Aryahi clenched her fists. “So you were cornered.”

“We thought we’d lost it,” Srenik admitted.

Then his gaze shifted, almost reluctantly.

“That’s when Niyati stepped in.”

All eyes turned to her.

“She produced chat records. Conversations between Vinod, Sudheer, Yogeshwar, and another individual they referred to only as ‘Boss’. Instructions. Payments. Timelines. Enough to prove not just fraud—but murder.”

A murmur rippled through the courtroom in his recollection.

“The defence lawyer immediately pounced,” Srenik went on. “He asked her how she obtained the evidence.”

“She answered calmly. ‘The way we usually collect digital evidence, sir.’”

Srenik allowed a faint, bitter smile.

“The lawyer raised an eyebrow. ‘Let me rephrase. Did you hack the system to obtain this information?’”

He paused.

“The judge intervened. Ordered her to answer directly.”

“Yes,” Srenik said quietly. “She admitted it. She said she hacked the system.”

Aryahi sucked in a sharp breath.

“The defence immediately requested that the evidence be struck off,” Srenik continued. “Violation of protocol. Possibility of tampering.”

“But she had a forensic report,” Aryahi said.

“She did,” Srenik confirmed. “She submitted it, stating the evidence was authentic and unaltered.”

“And the defence?” Surya asked.

“He laughed,” Srenik said flatly. “Said if she was capable of hacking systems, fabricating reports wouldn’t be difficult either.”

The room darkened with silence.

“When Niyati requested custody,” he went on, “the defence raised concerns about their clients’ safety in police custody and prison.”

Aryahi’s voice dropped. “So the judge refused remand.”

“Yes,” Srenik said. “No custody. No remand. And in the end…”

He looked away.

“They were released. Every piece of evidence we presented collapsed under technicalities and persuasive legal argument.”

The judge fixed them with a hard, unyielding stare.

“They walked free because of you,” he said coldly. “A bunch of incompetent fools. You’re not even worthy of calling yourselves police officers. Just a waste of the taxpayers’ money.”

“Enough, sir.”

Niyati’s voice cut through the courtroom before anyone could stop her.

“They didn’t walk away because of us,” she said evenly. “They walked away because of you.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room.

“If you had done your job,” she continued, unflinching, “not perfectly, Your Honour, just competently, they would be in custody right now. So don’t blame us to save your face.”

Srenik leaned toward her, his voice a furious whisper. “Niyati—”

“We worked our asses off on this case,” she went on, ignoring him. “The least you could do is not disrespect our efforts.”

The judge’s jaw tightened.

“Mind your words, Officer Niyati,” he said, struggling to keep his anger in check. “Do you know who you are speaking to?”

“Of course I do, Your Honour,” she replied calmly. “The man who let criminals walk free despite having evidence pointing directly at them.”

“You hacked into private systems,” the judge snapped.

“I submitted a forensic report proving the evidence was authentic,” Niyati shot back. “The defence raised doubts, and instead of sending the material for verification, you excluded it outright. Is that how this court works, sir?”

The judge said nothing.

“You demand evidence,” she continued, her voice steady but edged with fury, “but when we ask for warrants to obtain that evidence, you deny them. Then you question how we got it.”

A bitter smile flickered across her face.

“That’s like asking fresh graduates for job experience.”

The courtroom went deathly still.

“I can suspend you with immediate effect for this insolence,” the judge said. “This is contempt of court.”

“Contempt of court is letting criminals go unpunished,” Niyati replied without hesitation. “And freedom of speech is a fundamental right. I’m exercising mine.”

Silence slammed down like a verdict.

“We have rules that must be followed, Officer Niyati,” the judge said curtly.

“Rules,” Niyati scoffed softly. “There won’t be justice for people as long as this system keeps hiding behind rigid laws and inflexible rules and procedures, sir.”

“And you’re hiding behind them,” Niyati added, her voice cutting clean and sharp, “like you always do.”

The judge’s patience finally snapped.

“You are suspended, Officer Niyati,” he said coldly. “With immediate effect.”

He signed the order, the scratch of the pen loud in the stunned silence, making it official.

Niyati didn’t flinch.

“Thank you, Your Honour,” she said, turning on her heel.

As she walked past the bench, she lifted her hand just enough for him to see, her middle finger raised without ceremony.

“This,” she added calmly, “is freedom of expression.”

Surya let out a low chuckle before he could stop himself.

Aryahi covered her mouth, eyes glinting. “That’s exactly Niyati.”