Maya stared at me, her half-eaten dosa forgotten, a perfect crescent of golden-brown crispiness abandoned on her plate. The chaotic energy of Chutneys, the clatter of steel plates, the high-pitched shouts of waiters calling out orders, the boisterous laughter of a family at the next table—it all faded into a dull, distant roar, like listening to a storm from inside a submarine. In her eyes, I saw the journalist's inherent skepticism warring with a primal, human fear. And I, the analyst, watched the journalist win in real-time.
"A body count," she repeated, her voice a low, dangerous whisper that cut through the noise. "You beautiful, crazy man. You didn't just find a leak in the plumbing. You found the monster that lives in the sewer."
My charismatic shield, the one I had polished for years with wit and arrogance, was cracked and useless. The carefully constructed persona of Ravi Kiran, the untouchable king of numbers, had crumbled. For the first time, I was just a man looking at a woman, my terror laid bare for her to see. "They killed him, Maya," I said, my voice hoarse. "They killed an analyst just like me, a man who found a similar pattern. And then they killed a shipping magnate halfway across the world just to balance the books."
She took a slow, deliberate sip of water, her eyes never leaving mine. It wasn't a gesture of thirst; it was a tactical pause, a moment for her mind to process, to categorize, to plan. "Okay," she said, her voice suddenly crisp, all business. The soft-edged concern was gone, replaced by the sharp, calculating focus of a predator who had just caught the scent of the story of a lifetime. "Rule number one: We do not panic. Panic is a luxury we cannot afford. Panic is sloppy. Panic leaves a trail. Panic gets you killed."
"I am not panicking," I insisted, my voice steadier than I felt. "I am processing a series of high-threat data points that have fundamentally altered my operational parameters."
"Right," she said with a wry smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Rule number two: My world, my rules. Your world is numbers, logic, and perfectly aligned keyboards. My world is secrets, lies, and knowing which greasy palm to slip a 500-rupee note into. When it comes to the 'people problem', I am in charge. You are the supercomputer. I am the driver. Got it?"
I bristled at the thought of relinquishing control. It went against every fibre of my being. But her logic was, annoyingly, sound. It was an efficient allocation of resources based on core competencies. I gave a single, sharp nod. "The division of labor is acceptable."
"Good." She leaned forward, her voice dropping even lower, forcing me to lean in as well, creating a tiny bubble of conspiracy amidst the chaos. "This 'Gupta' file. It's the key. It's the first domino. We need it. Not a picture of it. Not a summary from your Iron Lady. The physical file. Paper doesn't have a digital trail."
"Mrs. Iyer has it," I said. "She won't give it to me. She showed it to me as a warning."
"Of course she won't," Maya shot back, her mind already three steps ahead. "The Iron Lady didn't survive three decades of corporate snakes by being sentimental. She wasn't warning you, Ravi. She was testing you. She was telling you to run, to see if you were a coward. You didn't run. Now she knows you're a player."
"I don't run," I said, a spark of my old fire returning. "I solve the problem."
"Then we'll have to steal it," she said simply, as if suggesting we order another plate of idli. "Not from her office. That's a fortress. Too risky. We need to find out where the old records are archived. Every company has one. A dusty, forgotten godown. The place they send files to die." She stood up abruptly, a sudden, decisive movement. "Go home, Ravi. Lock your doors. Don't touch your work laptop. Don't do anything clever. Your apartment, your phone, your life—they are all compromised. You are a bug on their screen. Lie low until I find you."
I returned to my apartment, my fortress of solitude. But the sterile order that once brought me comfort now felt like the pristine, chilling layout of a mausoleum. My mausoleum. I walked through the rooms, my senses on high alert, scanning for imperfections. The books on the shelf, arranged by spine colour. The knives on their magnetic rack, aligned by descending blade length. Everything was exactly as it should be. Too exactly. A perfection that now felt menacing.
My personal server hummed quietly in my study. It was my real sanctum. A custom-built beast, firewalled from the world, protected by three layers of encryption of my own design. It was the one part of my life I knew was truly secure. My digital soul.
I ran a hand along its smooth, brushed-metal casing, a familiar, grounding gesture. And then I felt it.
A microscopic imperfection. A betrayal.
A single screw on the side panel, one of the sixteen that held it in place, was turned a fraction of a degree more than the others. Its groove, a perfect horizontal line on every other screw, was not perfectly aligned. It was off by maybe two, three degrees. It was a detail so infinitesimal, so utterly meaningless, that no one else on the planet would have noticed. But to me, it was a scream.
My blood turned to ice. They hadn't just been in my kitchen. They had been in my study. They had touched my server.
With trembling hands, I retrieved my precision toolkit. I powered down the machine, unplugged every cable in a specific, memorized sequence, and laid it on an anti-static mat. I carefully, methodically, removed the screws, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I lifted the side panel.
Inside, my beautiful, ordered world of pristine cables and perfectly seated components was desecrated. A tiny device, no bigger than a thumbnail, had been clumsily attached to my primary data cable with a glob of what looked like hot glue. It was a hardware keylogger. An ugly, brutish piece of tech, a club in a world of scalpels. It was an insult. The work of a common thug, not a master assassin. They hadn't just violated my home; they had offended my professional sensibilities.
But the message was clear. They weren't just watching me from afar anymore. They were inside my head, reading my every thought, my every keystroke.
Rage, pure and cold, washed over me, extinguishing the fear with the force of a tidal wave. The king had been insulted in his own throne room. The time for defence was over. It was time to attack.
I left the keylogger where it was. Let them listen. Let them watch. Let them think they had me. I walked out of my study, out of my apartment, and into the Hyderabad night. I didn't take my phone. I didn't take my wallet. I took only a single, crisp 2000-rupee note from my emergency stash.
I hailed an auto, the roar of its two-stroke engine a welcome noise, a call to arms. "Charminar," I told the driver, my voice hard as steel.
In the crowded, chaotic lanes of the Old City, a world away from the glass towers of my daily life, I bought a cheap, featureless phone and a new SIM card with cash. No registration, no questions asked. I walked to the Mecca Masjid, the great mosque standing silent and majestic under the moonlight. I found a quiet corner, the ghosts of centuries watching over me, and I felt a strange sense of calm.
I sent a single text to Maya. No name. No greeting.
They touched my server. The rules have changed. I'm coming for them. All of them.
The reply was almost instantaneous, a beacon in the darkness.
Welcome to the war, Ravi. I've been waiting for you