Sathyamoorthy's crusade was no longer just a mission—it had transformed into something sharper, colder, and far more dangerous than even he had first imagined. Every step forward was a step deeper into an abyss where morality twisted itself into strange, uncomfortable shapes.
The pattern he uncovered was horrifying in its simplicity: Justice had become a subscription service.
And only the rich could afford premium access.
It wasn't about truth. It wasn't about the suffering of victims. It was about who could pay for a trending hashtag, who could manufacture outrage like a product launch, who could buy the illusion of virtue with a marketing budget.
He infiltrated private WhatsApp groups and PR agency servers. Inside, he found detailed pricing sheets for activism packages. "Justice for Victims" posts were not spontaneous acts of solidarity—they were transactions.
• ₹2 lakh for a single tweet.
• ₹5 lakh for a carousel of thoughtful Instagram posts.
• ₹10 lakh for a personal video message of outrage.
And those prices weren't negotiable—they came with terms: post at peak hours, align with trending hashtags, tag other influencers to amplify the message.
It was cause marketing.
Worse, these same activists turned around and promoted products and events that directly contradicted their righteous image—fairness creams, betting apps, whiskey brands disguised as music festivals.
One face stood out: a National Award-winning actor lauded as the conscience of Indian cinema. His speech in a recent high-profile murder case had gone viral, earning him praise from politicians and the public alike.
Sathyamoorthy dug into his phone. What he found was nauseating.
Screenshots. DMs. Negotiations.
"₹2 lakh for a justice tweet. Advance payment only."
The very tears that had made the nation cry were priced into his PR sheet. The meeting was set in a vanity van, parked just behind a lavish film set. The actor was in costume—fake armor, fake wounds, fake heroism.
When Sathyamoorthy confronted him, the man didn't panic.
He smirked, leaned back, and spoke as if explaining a universal truth.
Actor: "That's how the system works. You want reach? You pay."
The silence between them was electric. Sathyamoorthy's eyes were calm, but there was an undercurrent of something primal.
The actor's smirk deepened.
Actor: "Then pay with your breath."
The blade slipped in like a whisper.
Quick. Efficient. Final.
It wasn't murder in his mind—it was balance.
But as he walked away from the blood-soaked vanity van, he felt something deeper unraveling inside him — not guilt, but clarity. He wasn't just avenging a father. He was delivering a message to himself. One born not out of hatred, but from years of suppressed truth.
Most people think Indians leave the country after graduation for better money, foreign jobs, a chance at luxury. But that's not it. Not for most. They leave because they're suffocating. Because the system—built on corruption, caste, and chaos—offers them no place unless they're already privileged. Engineering graduates work for delivery apps, toppers end up call center trainees, and government exams are a circus of leaked papers, postponed results, and hopeless queues. You show merit, they ask for recommendations. You prove skill, they ask for bribes. Degrees become decorative. Careers become compromises. And dreams rot quietly behind the polite smiles we wear at family gatherings. The real tragedy isn't unemployment. It's the silence we're trained to keep. You speak out, they ask, 'Why are you creating problems?' You show truth, they label you toxic. A single voice is useless here—unless it's trending. We've become a nation that grieves in comments, rages in hashtags, and forgets by dinner. And so, people leave. Not for greed, but for dignity. Not to escape India—but to escape the version of India that punishes you for being honest. And when no one listens to you for years, when justice mocks you in courtrooms and on television—what's left to do… except act?
The killings began in earnest after that.
One by one, the loudest, most corrupt voices in the business of performative justice were silenced. Found dead in luxury hotels, collapsed on film sets, lying lifeless in their gilded vanity vans.
No CCTV trails. No fingerprints.
Just a growing sense of fear in circles that once thought themselves untouchable.
First was a famous news anchor — a man who had screamed about justice on prime-time, but muted real victims off-camera while shaking hands with ministers behind closed doors. He was found slumped in his studio chair, mid-script, his face frozen mid-outrage. A USB drive had been left beside his teleprompter. It contained every deal he'd struck to bury real stories.
Next, a social media influencer—known for posting emotional reels about justice for girls, while secretly working with corporations that silenced harassment cases within their own companies. She was found unconscious in her apartment, her last Instagram story still playing on loop. A message had been scratched onto her mirror:
"Influence doesn't equal innocence."
The pattern was clear: Sathyamoorthy wasn't just targeting the powerful — he was exposing the profit behind their morality.
And then came the broadcast.
A video uploaded from an untraceable offshore server, spreading like wildfire within minutes. Screens across the country lit up — from chai stalls to five-star lounges, from school projectors to prison televisions.
A masked man stood in shadow, his voice disguised but unmistakably calm. Deliberate. Controlled.
📡 Ashok Chakravarthy's Message to India
"We say 'RIP' to the victims… but follow the criminals."
"We cry over rape cases, then cheer for music videos and movie scenes that treat women like objects."
"We boycott films for patriotism, but ignore real injustice in our streets."
"Celebrities demand justice only when their PR managers say it's trending."
"My father—an honest man—was burned alive while this country watched."
"Justice doesn't die in court. It dies in your silence."
"I begged for help. No one came. But the same society now claps for reel heroes."
"India doesn't want truth, achievers like Olympic winners, real researchers. It wants fame. Entertainment. Distraction. A fake persona bathed in glamour."
"Now I understand why every Indian who can leaves this country—because of corrupt politics and corrupt people."
"My name is Sathyanarayan. But I was born Ashok Chakravarthy."
"And I am the judgment that law forgot."
His words weren't hollow—they were anchored to real scars on the nation's conscience. He named no individuals, but the cases were well-known:
Case 1 – A brutal murder whose perpetrator had been sentenced, only for a higher court to reverse the punishment due to lack of compelling evidence. The killer walked free, leaving the victim's family shattered and public faith broken.
Case 2 – A metropolitan killing where a scapegoat was sentenced to life imprisonment. Years later, leaked internal memos and burnt forensic files revealed the true killers were politically connected. No one reopened the case.
Case 3 – A rural teenager, called to a police station for questioning. Found hanging within hours. The postmortem said suicide. The villagers said murder. The government said procedure.
They were not isolated tragedies. They were part of a design. A system engineered not to fail — but to protect those who made failure profitable.
India stood stunned.
The country split in two.
Half saw him as a murderer.
Half saw him as a messiah.
#JusticeOrTerror and #WhoIsAshokChakravarthy trended side by side.
Protests erupted. Students marched. Lawyers debated. Celebrities offered vague condolences, careful not to take a side. Newsrooms foamed with speculation. Some even started whispering that maybe he was dead. That the message was AI. A hoax.
But the bodies kept appearing.
So did the fear.
Political parties weaponized his words. Some called him a terrorist. Others praised him as a reflection of a broken generation. Think tanks wrote op-eds. Academics quoted him in lectures. School kids repeated his quotes like slogans.
The government announced the creation of a Special Task Force. Intelligence officers began surveillance operations on activists, whistleblowers, and independent journalists — anyone who might be the next Ashok.
And still, Ashok Chakravarthy was nowhere to be found.
Only one name remained on his list: The Minister of Andhra Pradesh — the man who had orchestrated his father's murder, fueled riots to seize land, and burned a social activist alive in public view, walking free behind the shield of elected power.
The minister had sealed himself inside a heavily fortified bungalow in the fog-draped hills of Araku Valley. CRPF commandos patrolled every corner. Heat sensors monitored movement. Bulletproof glass sealed every window. Drones hovered round-the-clock.
But none of it mattered.
Sathyamoorthy disguised himself as a delivery courier — a nameless, invisible face like millions across the country. He studied the perimeter for days. Memorized the blind spots. Scanned the patrol patterns. Injected a virus into the heat sensor feed, making the system register nothing but still air.
At 3:12 AM, he slipped inside.
The minister was in meditation, surrounded by silence, incense smoke, and lies.
The knife slid across his throat like a whisper.
No alarms. No shouting.
Just stillness—and a single handwritten note left behind:
"Your immunity was built on my father's ashes. Now, justice is done."
With his list complete, Sathyamoorthy vanished into shadow.
No one saw him leave.
No one ever would.
But the question lingered across India—on chai cups, WhatsApp groups, morning editorials, and midnight television panels:
"Was Ashok Chakravarthy truly gone or was this only the beginning?"