Two months ago, Rohan had received a call from a man with a calm, polished voice. The man knew everything: Kavya’s school, Meera’s morning walk route, the exact model of their car. He said he was from a “recovery syndicate” that Rohan’s younger brother, Nikhil, had borrowed money from—gambling debts, six crore rupees. Nikhil had fled the country. Now Rohan had to pay.
He spun around, shock bleeding into guilt. “Meera? What are you—” call barring
That evening, at 7:15, Rohan stepped onto the balcony. He stared at his phone. It didn’t ring. He refreshed the screen. Nothing. For a full minute, he stood frozen, the setting sun casting long shadows across his face. Then he came back inside, pale and distracted. “Network issue,” he mumbled, kissing Kavya’s forehead absentmindedly. Two months ago, Rohan had received a call
“Who were you talking to? The calls at 7:15. I barred them.” Nikhil had fled the country
“Rohan.”
“They said they’d hurt Kavya—”
He led her to a bench under a flickering streetlight. Then he told her the truth.