Nawaz didn't live in a house. He survived in a room.
One flickering tube light. A broken fan that made more noise than air. And a bed that had space for two, but only one ever came home. Even the lizard had left last week.
On Monday morning, Nawaz sat on the edge of his bed, staring at a black-and-white photo of his father and the Don — taken years ago. His father, in a cheap shirt, stood tall beside a man in gold rings and white kurta, arm around him like family. "Loyalty," his father once said, "is worth more than land."
Now both were buried in it.
Outside, the local slum was already awake — pressure cooker whistles, kids fighting over water buckets, and loudspeakers blaring bhajans next to a shop that sold cheap whisky.
Nawaz stepped into it like a ghost in his own lane.
Tuesday afternoon, a college boy from the "upper buildings" tried to record a slum fight on his phone — probably for Instagram. Three boys from Nawaz's lane slapped him, took his phone, and laughed. Nawaz didn't join them. He just watched.
Later, he visited the local barber — not for a cut, but for news.
In places like this, barbers and chaiwalas are better than police.
"Heard Shehzada's throwing another rally," the barber muttered, cleaning scissors. "Using your father's name again. Says you approved it."
Nawaz said nothing. Just nodded once.
Wednesday, Nawaz stood by the garbage corner behind the ration shop. A small boy — shirtless, belly swollen, eyes sharp — came and sat beside him. Said nothing. They stared at the flies together.
"Bhai," the boy said after five minutes, "when I grow up, I want to be you."
Nawaz looked at him.
"No you don't," he replied softly. "Grow up. Don't become me."
Thursday, he went to the masjid. Not to pray. He wasn't sure if he even knew how anymore. He just sat in the back while the imam gave a speech about sin, duty, and forgiveness. Nawaz didn't feel anything. But when the azaan echoed, something inside him cracked — not enough to change, just enough to notice the weight.
Friday night, a drunk inspector passed through the basti, asking where Nawaz was.
"I want to talk," he said, "peacefully."
The same man who once ignored his father's death.
By Saturday, Nawaz had decided — not to speak, not to fight, but to move.
He started collecting.
Not weapons. Not gang members.
Proof.
He snapped a photo of the MLA's brother with an underage girl. Recorded audio of a drug deal outside a school wall. Got the full name of the man who ran a fake job scam that looted poor villagers from Bihar.
He wasn't a hero.
But he could ruin monsters in silence.
Sunday evening, he met a maulana under the old bridge near Kurla station — a man who used to be close to the Don. Now he ran a madrasa and sold fake IDs to survive.
"You want guns?" the man asked.
Nawaz shook his head.
"I want files. Old ones. About my father. And your Don."
The man paused, squinted.
"Why now?"
Nawaz looked away.
"Because I'm tired of pretending I don't care."
That night, back in his room, Nawaz stared at the list again. Five names. One was crossed out.
Not because they were dead.
Because Nawaz had found out they weren't the villain he thought they were.
He didn't want blood. He wanted truth.
And the truth was dirtier than revenge.